I sang the lament, gathering quiet strength with each phrase.
I lent it a measure of absolute value.
And I wondered if in so doing, somewhere ma and sa felt my song, though like Shoarden men, they would never hear it.
NINE
THE STREETS OF the Cathedral quarter were just beginning to come alive with the night arts. Confidence men sized up marks; sheet women angled for lonely men with spare coin; performance taverns were opening their windows, using music as a lure to drink and be entertained. More than a few packs of bearded men stood wearing hard looks, spoiling for fights. Through all this, Divad lead his four Lieholan.
For the better part of two straight days, he and Regent Helaina had argued with League leadership, clarifying the Rule of Impartiality, describing the workings of Descant Cathedral, growing angry. They’d had to involve the Court of Judicature, which helped but also delayed his students’ release. By the time the League set them free, the thuggish treatment they’d received was visible on their faces in dark and purpled spots. They were exhausted, but alive.
Divad hadn’t had time to put the ordeal into any kind of rational context yet. After a hot bath, warm meal, and night of uninterrupted sleep, he’d need to do that. They turned onto the quarter road that lead to the cathedral’s main entrance. No sooner had they come in direct sight of Descant, than the door was opened and three Lyren began gesturing urgently for them to hurry.
He broke into a run, his cloak seeming suddenly overlarge and cumbersome. Behind him, the slap of Lieholan shoes on paving stones followed close. He darted through crowds, around wagons and carriages and riders. He climbed the cathedral steps two at a time. One of the Lyren, Waalt, grabbed his arm and began to run with him, guiding him, pulling him along.
“What is it?” Divad asked, breathless.
“Luumen fell ill with autumn fever a day ago.” Waalt pulled him faster.
Divad understood immediately. “How long?”
“Almost three entire cycles.” Waalt’s voice cracked with desperate worry.
“Dear merciful gods.”
Luumen was the more experienced and stronger of the two Lieholan he’d left behind. Ill with fever, she would not have entered the Chamber of Anthems to sing Suffering. Which meant Amilee had been singing Suffering by herself.
“My last sky,” Divad whispered, and pushed his legs to go faster.
It took nearly nine hours to sing Suffering’s nine movements. After singing the cycle, the Lieholan was spent, and needed two days’ rest to fully recover. There’d been occasions when one vocalist sang part of a second cycle. But it was rare, and always came at great personal cost to the singer. Amilee had been at it for not just two full turns, but nearly three . . .
Casting a look backward, he called commands. “Pren, prepare yourself.” Pren’s bruises were the worst, but he was also the strongest Lieholan Descant had since Belamae’s departure. The young man stripped off his robe mid-stride, and began to run vocal scales as he maneuvered up beside Divad. “Asa, fetch a Levate.” Divad didn’t hold much hope that a physic healer could help, but he’d be prepared in any case.
The sound of their racing feet filled the cathedral halls. The flames of wall lamps fluttered with their passage. Lyren watched them go by with grave looks in their eyes.
Moments later, Divad pushed open the heavy oak doors to the Chamber of Anthems. Amilee was on her hands and knees, unable to hold her head up, singing toward the floor. Her voice sounded like corn husks brushed together by summer storm winds. She had almost no volume left. But the perfect acoustics of the rounded chamber lifted the delicate song she could still make, and gave Suffering life.
Pren picked up the melody line just a pace or two inside the door. When Amilee heard it, she did not look up at them, but simply ceased singing and collapsed on the stone floor.
Divad swept the girl up and carried her straight through the chamber and out the opposite door. He cut left to the nearest bedchamber and went in. He laid her gently on the coverlet, while Harnel fetched a pillow for her head.
Amilee’s eyes fluttered open. “Maesteri,” she said with a bruised voice.
“Save your words,” he admonished. “Gods, I’m sorry, my girl.”
He had to hold at bay renewed anger at the League, who had put them in this situation. His growing hatred for them would not help this courageous young woman.
She shook her head in a weak motion. “I didn’t lag,” she whispered.
Divad’s pride in the girl swelled, tightening his throat with emotion. But he managed a low sweet tone, to course gently through her. Help him see, or rather, feel. So that even then, he knew she would not live. If her wound were of the flesh, he could render a song of well-being. But Suffering drew on a different part of a Lieholan’s life. And of that, she had expended too much. It was remarkable that she had anything left. But it was not enough for him to resonate with.
Oh child.
As she lay dying, Divad found strength enough to put away his ill feelings for the League. He sat beside her and took her hand and sang a song of contentment. Slow and low, he poured out his love and admiration for the girl. He watched as the pain in her eyes and brow slowly relaxed.
And before she let go, he leaned in close, so that no one would hear the question he asked of her. When she nodded, she looked grateful and at peace.
Divad resumed his melody and sang until her hand grew cold. It was a dreadful thing to feel the song go out of
