Grendul Rising, Chapter One: A Deadly Night Music
By popular demand (okay, a couple posts on social media), I'm beginning a new book today.
The MadStones Tetralogy, the Second Tond Series, takes place 25 years after the events of the first series. New, strange trouble is brewing in Tond. "Grendul" is, of course, named after the villain in Beowulf (spelled differently), though at this point we know nothing about him. And, there's a moon-horse on the cover, and we know nothing about that either. In fact we know very little about anything except that there may have been a murder.
Note on the text: ahíinor = loremaster. It says so elsewhere in the book.
MadStones Tetralogy, Book One: Grendul Rising
Chapter One
Nocturne
Tulann spoke what Arnul was thinking, “The problem in
locating most of the ancient’s mechanas is that they are well-hidden in
plain sight; fire crystals and glowballs, for obvious examples.”
A glowball illuminated Tulann’s hut, sitting on the
corner of a darkwood table and appearing like equipment for playing ten-ball.
Its gentle light seemed to come from all directions. Arnul also fingered the
fire crystal in his pocket; it too seemed unremarkable, like nothing more than
a cheap gemstone on a ring.
“There are no other ahíinor in Len,” Tulann
said, confirming Arnul’s suspicions, “But a mechana was opened here two
nights ago. When my four-pointed star nudged me and indicated that a mechana
was in use, I thought it was odd, but I couldn’t find anything.”
Arnul had felt the same nudge. The twisting of the
four-pointed star amulet in his side pocket had interrupted his conversation
with a young Sherványa woman who had been telling him what her grandmother knew
about one of the legends that the ahíinor had been trying to track down.
When Arnul had excused himself from the talk and gotten a moment alone to check
the messages on the amulet — about twenty minutes later — it was still flexing
its four arms and flashing. “Powerful mechana in use. Purpose: unknown. Location:
Len, Upper Sherványa Lands. All ahíinor within three day’s journey, find
Tulann Kun-Teliskar in Len.”
“What did your amulet say?” Arnul asked Tulann.
“Nothing out of the ordinary, if there had been
another ahíinor in this town. Something like, ‘Powerful mechana
in use. Purpose: unknown. This town, exact location uncertain. Investigate.’ I
wandered a bit in the streets and I asked a couple of people, but didn’t find
anything. I stopped by the town center and listened; they were playing the
Nocturnal Music, the same as tonight. But nothing seemed to be happening there
either. I came home, thinking that the mechana, whatever it was, hadn’t
done any harm, and maybe I could find it later. Nobody seemed to have seen or
heard anything yesterday either. All anyone could tell me was that they played
the Nocturnal Music in a different mode. The only odd thing is that Sren —
that’s my friend, who’s been telling me some of the Sherványa and Drenn lore
that he knows — wouldn’t talk to me much. It’s as if he’s suddenly grown afraid
of me. …He could be hiding something, but I can’t imagine what.”
Tulann leaned back in his puffy padded chair for a
moment, and twiddled his fingers in his scruffy white beard. He tilted his head
to the left and one of his eyes unfocused as if looking inward; he seemed to be
thinking intently. The quiet of the night was punctuated by the hushed bells
and gongs, now joined by flutes, and by the sound of crickets.
Tulann leaned forward again with shadows under his
dark eyes. “The Nocturnal Music, and a different mode,” he mused, “Could it be
any kind of clue?” Then he chuckled and answered his own question, “Really, I
can’t imagine what. I can’t hear the modes either. I think I have socks stuffed
in my ears when it comes to music. I can’t even hear the notes right in Fyorian
music.”
They could come to no conclusions. “I’m going to go
hear some of the Nocturnal Music up close,” Arnul said to change the subject.
Tulann agreed to follow.
As the two of them wandered through the dirt streets,
Arnul mused about what he knew of the Sherványa. Certainly, their blonde or
sandy hair and tan faces were like his own people, the Fyorians, and their
language was similar too — but at first Arnul had regarded them like weird
stepbrothers. They smelled strange from the scented oils they applied to their
skin and hair. Their clothes were white drapery that either looked like
bandages or wrapped around the body in comical, tubular shapes.
Arnul had made those observations five years ago. In
the intervening time, he had grown to understand them. He could speak their
idiom. He was also beginning to find their music fascinating; he, at least,
knew a little about music and was interested in learning more even though it
was much more complex than the Fyorian music.
The street had ended abruptly at a large grassy space,
sloped downward towards a pavilion at the far end. There were a number of
torches here and there on the lawn, burning high up on poles so that their
rather dim illumination spread out. Several wooden booths, tables, and chairs
sat haphazardly around, made of the same light wood as the pavilion, but few
people sat there. Two children were at a ten-ball table. Otherwise, most people
were scattered about on the grass, sitting and listening to the music, though
some appeared to be sleeping and a few small groups were talking among
themselves. An elderly woman was seated by herself on a mat a few steps away,
watching Arnul and Tulann though half-lidded eyes.
Arnul’s gaze followed the edge of the lawn down to the
pavilion. It was large enough to hold at least thirty people, sitting
comfortably apart, with their instruments. He couldn’t see well that far away,
but recognized the sounds of the harp-like kitáls, sulu flutes,
metallic ketatangs, bells, and gongs.
Tulann motioned towards a small table with two chairs
beside it, and they seated themselves. Arnul listened to the music, halfway
drawn in by its spell, while Tulann looked about, seeming to focus on every
detail though again with one unfocused eye.
“That’s odd,” Tulann commented abruptly, “None of the
Gleph seem to be here.” Arnul followed his gaze to a rickety booth by the edge
of the square.
“Gleph?” Arnul asked. “Here, in the Sherványa Lands?”
“Would you expect them to remain in the Imperium?”
Arnul winced. That question had shattered the
tranquility. He ran through some of the savage history in his mind. The Gleph
had been one of the five peoples enslaved by the Karjans, the rulers of the
Imperium and ancient enemies of the Fyorians. One Gleph uprising, in which
three Karjans were killed, had set off a campaign of butchery; surviving Gleph
scattered to the far corners of Tond. Subsequent centuries had mellowed the
Karjans, though rumors occasionally spread about Karjans hunting Gleph here or
there (as well as members of the other four enslaved peoples who had escaped
during Fyorian raids to free them.) Most of these were just rumors, Arnul told
himself; the Imperium no longer kept slaves and their “official” policy had
softened due to infiltration by Fyorian ahíinor.
Presently, a man approached, carrying a musical
instrument. Though he wore the typical bulky off-white clothes, he was not a
Sherványa. His face was a grayish color (notable even in the dim light) and his
silvery hair held remains of ruddy red. His stubbly beard was entirely white,
and wrinkles marched across his face to gather at his eyes. Arnul immediately
found those dark eyes unfriendly, holding a fierceness or a veil of unpleasant
secrets.
“Arnul,” Tulann said, “I’d like you to meet my friend
Sren. He’s been playing in the Nocturnal Music. Sren, this is Arnul, ahíinor
from the Fyorian Lands.”
“Denhári,” Arnul gave the Fyorian formal
greeting, followed by the Sherványa, “Tanarúyasei. Pleased to meet you.”
He stood and bowed in both the Fyorian and then the similar Sherványa manner.
Sren replied with a greeting in an unknown language.
Then, “I-I-I saw you (sitting (here)) (with Tulann), so (I thought (maybe))
y-y-you’d come to hear the music.” His speech was a cluster of pauses,
stutters, and parenthetical statements; the words were Fyorian with an accent
that Arnul could not identify. “(I thought) m-m-maybe I’d give you a (little)
tutorial, since (I figured) you might not know what to listen f-f-for.”
He set his instrument on the table: metal slats
arranged in a wooden frame.
Sren called it a metal kitál; Arnul knew of the
stringed kitál from the Fyorian lands. “The first row (in (the) front),
th-th-those are the sheyándol mode, (the first mode (to play)). The
raised rods (behind them) are attendant tones (we call them that); play them,
you’ll see (what I mean). Play the m-m-main ones (first).” He handed Arnul a
padded hammer.
Arnul struck one of the rods on the first row. The
sound was high and pure, a singing bell-tone. He struck a few of the others,
from left to right. They made a scale, with some notes missing, he thought,
though it was very harmonious. He tried one of the attendant tones; a slightly
flat version of one of the others.
“Try it w-w-with this one.” said the Sren, pointing to
another.
Arnul played the two of them quickly together. The
result was a blending and a shimmer; a beautiful sound more like audible light
than anything.
“The main notes are the (notes of) the mode; the
‘attendant’ tones are eighth-tones. They are (as pitches go) very close
together (but too close (to clash)); so they make that sh-sh-shimmer.” Then his
stutter disappeared. “We call the shimmer the sound of the stars singing; even
if there aren’t any stars in the night, we like to keep their light shining.”
He repeated a looping melody on the instrument and
sang a few notes. The sounds leapt into the air and continued their sparkle,
mingling with his voice. He introduced a tone from the second row and its
‘attendant’ tones. At first the new sound clashed, but Sren dropped a note from
the first row as well, and then moved entirely over to the second row. The
feeling of the music had shifted; somewhat darker yet paradoxically more
harmonious, and the shimmers were more penetrating. “Avalinkáalei. The
Wandering of the Moon; the second mode,” he explained. “That’s how we change
modes; the first note from the new mode is the ‘Enemy Tone’, but soon they make
peace and it becomes a friend. If you listen closely…”
Arnul interrupted. “How many modes are there?”
Sren’s stammer returned. “F-f-five,” he choked out,
too quickly. Then, immediately authoritative again, he listed their
polysyllabic names. Arnul commented that the Sherványa words were melodious to
the ear, and mumbled, intentionally as if an afterthought, “I heard something
about another mode…”
Sren shot him a quick glance under his bushy eyebrows,
and the muscles around his jaw tightened. “There are n-n-no (other modes).”
Abruptly he tucked the instrument and the mallet under his arm. “I should
rejoin (the others (for the music)).” He left.
Tulann watched him walk back to the pavilion, “Now,
why would he leave so abruptly?” He leaned back and answered his own question,
“Because he’s scared. I’m sure of it. I think he wants to alleviate some kind
of suspicion on himself. Obviously, he knows that you’re here to investigate
something strange, so he told you about the music to get our minds to go
somewhere else. He should know about that other mode.”
Much later that night, though the Nocturnal Music was
still playing, the elderly woman they had seen sitting on the lawn came and
gently struck the door-gong to Tulann’s hut. She said her name was Elanna, and
she had some information for them. Tulann motioned for her to come in, and got
her a mug of relaxing némurath tea.
As she began her story, her expression became
distraught. “…It was horrible, horrible… It was during the Nocturnal Music, the
other night… The Gleph were there, as usual; they’d brought two carts of fruits
and vegetables to sell…” She paused.
“How many Gleph live here?” Arnul interrupted.
“Oh, they don’t really live here — there are two
families; let me see… nine, ten, no, eleven people in all. They have farms, a
few miles up the road, and they come here to sell their goods every day or so.
They’ve been there for, oh, probably fifty years. Some years back, the people
of this town built the shed and the booths for them to use when they were here.
Anyway, all of them were here. They’d sold everything they had brought with
them. Old Rendakh — he’s the grandfather
of one of the families — he thought they should stay and enjoy the Nocturnal
Music for an hour or so before heading back.”
“The music had already started?”
“Yes, somewhat early, I think — that’s probably why
the Gleph families stayed. Usually, they pack up everything and leave before
sundown. But anyway, they were all there; my grandson had played a game of
ten-ball with Lakhmar, that’s Rendakh’s youngest grandson, but they’d finished
the game. The rest of us were just enjoying the music on a summer night. That’s
when it started…”
Her face tightened. “Sren went up to the other
musicians with his metal kitál, and sat down with them. Some of those
near him gave him a couple of suspicious glances, but he joined in and pretty
soon they seemed to forget about him. They just kept playing.”
“Why would they be suspicious?” Tulann asked, “The
Nocturnal Music is for anyone who wants to play or listen.”
“Yes — but maybe some didn’t think he’d know how to
play. The modes are quite subtle, as are the melodies — and we say that only
Sherványa know them well enough to join in. …Anyway, after a couple of minutes
it didn’t seem odd that he was there. Everyone listening started to get sleepy,
which is the effect of the Nocturnal Music. I was just about to go home, when I
heard the first jarring note. Now, I’ve played in the Nocturnal Music for
years, and I know the modes. There was an odd note in there — not the usual
‘Enemy Tone’ signaling the shift into the next mode — but really a strange
note. Some of the others were glaring at Sren — obviously he’d brought in the
strange note — I thought he might have made a mistake at first but he kept
playing it. Pretty soon some of the others, the younger players, started
playing along. It was almost like they’d started another mode, different from
the others. It was very discordant, and to tell you the truth, I didn’t like it
at all.
“I was about to leave in disgust. I’ve heard that
younger players have no respect for tradition, and this proved it. I stood up,
but then turned around, ready to go down and give them a piece of my mind!
That’s when I saw the Gleph — or where they had been…”
She paused, glanced around her nervously, and began to
tremble. She continued her story, but in fragments. “The Gleph weren’t there…
There was nothing there… I don’t mean that the Gleph had left... I mean
there was nothing there. There was blackness… or a mist… like the
moonlight couldn’t penetrate. I was confused at first, but not really alarmed…
Then I saw the outline of one of the Gleph — I think it was Old Rendakh —
standing in the mist. What I saw… What I saw… It was horrible…”
She shuddered and put her head down in her hands.
Arnul watched her, then glanced at Tulann. The bells continued outside.
At last the old woman raised her head and continued.
“Old Rendakh was standing there, just standing — he didn’t seem to be doing
anything, just standing — but his face… I’ve never seen one more frightened...
His eyes met mine, and his mouth opened, in a scream — but there was no sound
at all… He seemed to be bleeding. Then more of that mist hid him. I started to
cry out, but I could not move. Something was binding me, holding me still… like
a vice covering all my joints… I stared at that blackness, and saw him again,
and he was melting, like a candle too near a flame. He still seemed to be
screaming, and his… his… his face and chest caved in…
“The darkness covered him again, and I didn’t see him
again for several minutes. I still couldn’t move. After another minute, the
darkness faded and I could see the booth and the two carts too. But there was
no sign of any of the Gleph. They simply weren’t there. I heard a voice,
telling me that I was not to speak of what I had seen, to anyone, or the same
would happen to me.
“I found that I could move again, and I noticed at the
same time that the music had returned to its usual mode. I don’t know why I
noticed that… It seems that no one else had paid any attention to it or seen
what had happened, either.”
Her speech trailed off, and she sat there for a
second, rocking back and forth and staring at the floor. Then she fixed her
steely gaze on Tulann. “It was murder,” she rasped. “Cold-blooded murder. Sren
did it. Oh, don’t look at me like I’m crazy. What I saw means that the Gleph
families didn’t just walk away, and I know enough about the ahíinor to
know that you people have some powers…”
No one said anything for a long moment.
Tulann spoke first. “Let’s say that you are right, and
it was a murder — of one or all of the family of Gleph — and right in plain
sight, though obscured. It would appear to be the use of an ahíinor
power.” He glanced at Arnul, then continued. “But how do you know Sren did it?
He is not an ahíinor. Why don’t you suspect one of us?”
She answered, “You’ve been here for years, Tulann, and
there is no malice in you. We in this town were suspicious of you at first —
but you are like the Enemy Tone in the music. We have made peace with you. And
Arnul, you showed up after the murder. You’re investigating. Sren was the one
who introduced the strange note into the music. That has something to do with
it, though of course I don’t know what, or how.”
She finished her tea. “I’m afraid I don’t know any
more,” she said, “The voice I heard sounded like Sren, and I’m sure anyone else
that happened to see the killing heard him too. And I’m also sure that he’ll
follow up on his threats. I’m old, but not old enough to leave here unless I’m
called away — so if Sren asks either of you about me, I wasn’t here.” She
shuffled out the door and into the gloom. The music continued outside.
Tulann leaned forward in his fluffy chair, the way he
had when they first discussed the unknown mechana. “What do you think?”
“It sounds unbelievable — and ghastly — but why would
she lie about it?”
“Exactly what I was wondering.” Tulann sat back with
his head tilted again, “…and… why would Sren be involved? He is not an ahíinor;
he is not even a Fyorian. Why would he have a mechana? He’s never told
me about one. And why would he, or anyone, want to kill those Gleph families
with it? None of it makes sense. I would think that Elanna there were making it
up, but, do you remember Sren’s reaction when you asked about the ‘other mode’ in
the music?”
“Certainly. He was hiding something.”
“The question is, why the murder, and why Sren…?”
There was something in the back of Arnul’s mind, a
half-remembered thought that was trying to surface. Something about someone in
a certain land, using mechanas.
“Help me think,” he said. “Where exactly does Sren
come from?”
“I thought you knew your geography. You saw him —
grayish skin, reddish hair; he’s a Drenn.”
That was the fact Arnul was looking for. The Drennic
Islands had a complicated history. “There are Karjans living in the Drennlands,
aren’t there?”
“Yes — though they have no allegiance to the Imperium.
They don’t hate the Gleph, like those in the Imperium do, or did.”
“Are there ahíinor there?”
“Not that I know of, except for an occasional
wanderer, collecting legends like we all do, and looking for any signs of mechanas…
and…” His voice trailed off, and his eyes grew wide. “That’s it! The Tower of
the Star!”
Yes, that was what Arnul had been trying to recall.
The Tower of the Star — known by its names in the various Karjan languages, all
complicated names meaning something like “Tower of the midnight starlight” —
and its simpler Fyorian name, the Star Tower. The Karjans of the Islands had
built it, centuries ago, in imitation of the larger towers in the Imperium,
though unlike them it had never served as a military base. The Drenn had
overrun it, ousted the Karjans, and used it as a ceremonial center for their shaman/loremaster,
the Chelloi — and then, after a long series of wars with both the Karjans and
the Drellyans, another of the Island Peoples, the Drenn had moved their entire
civilization southwestward and abandoned the Tower. It had apparently been destroyed
in the War of Mechanas, but recent rumors were spreading that someone had
rebuilt it; and it was inhabited again, by an unknown person who was rather
mysterious and sinister.
“Do you know who the renegade ahíinor is, who
is said to live in the Tower?” Arnul asked.
“I don’t know, though there are rumors it is someone
who sided with the Karjans in some kind of dispute. I’ve always doubted the
rumor. But if it is true, and judging from what Elanna said, then he might be a
renegade who has a mechana of sound; something that strengthens sound
vibrations in one small place only, strong enough to vibrate a thing — or a
person — apart… If he exists, he must have somehow kept it, or found it, after
being turned out of the Order.”
“…And someone who sided with the Karjans might want to
kill Gleph people.” Arnul completed Tulann’s thought.
Tulann stood. “Well, nothing to do but find out.
Tomorrow, in the daylight when no one is playing the music, I’m going to have a
look at the instruments.”
“Shouldn’t we find out if the Gleph families really
have disappeared first?”
“I don’t know exactly where they live or where to find
them. I’ll have to do some looking around, but Sren may provide us with the
answers whether he wants to or not. If he has such a mechana, he
certainly didn’t leave it with the instruments, but I have a feeling he’ll show
up if we start investigating them. Take the usual precautions if you come
along. A fire crystal might come in handy.”
So, what is really going on here? Has a hideous hate crime been commited? To join our Fyorian loremaster/sleuths: Grendul Rising: Book One of the MadStones Tetralogy: Scribner, Steven E.: 9798837346774: Amazon.com: Books
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