Chapter Five: A Matter of Academic Interest

The fifth chapter of Other-Song, my serialized novel-in-progress

Other-Song is a serialized fantasy novel-in-progress. It’s a tale of disenchantment, of abusive technology, of heresy, and of a world hidden in plain sight. Most weekends, I’ll publish a new chapter until it is complete, along with a constantly-updated master page of chapter summaries.

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This is the fifth chapter.

In the first chapter, “The Last Party, The Last Song,” Lurian, bastard son of the Hornynal family, serves as a party hosted in honor of his brother, Trendal, attended by the Queen’s nephew, along with many other nobles. The Fel’lal musician he hired for the evening, his friend Tri’aln, plays “the last song” on the instrument, which destroys it. Just before it is destroyed, the lights in the hall suddenly flash brightly and every glass in each guests hand shatters as Lurian looks at them. He is then ushered out by the queen’s nephew through the darkness, who speaks cryptically of a heretic.

In the second chapter, “A Bastard and a Heretic,” Lurian waits outside until all the guests have gone, and then sneaks back into the house to gather things in order to leave. Details of his life unfold: her mother had seduced her husband’s brother and then framed him for rape — a plot to gain control of Horynal manse. While packing for the journey, his mother yells at Lurian from the other side of the door, and then curses him as a “heretic.”

In the third chapter, “The Question of the Wells,” Lurian, traveling without light, becomes lost on the paths near his childhood home and twists his ankle. Stumbling about in pain, he passes out for a short time before continuing on and encountering a strange well. In a series of remembrances, significant parts of his childhood related to questions about the nature of such wells unfold. His older brother, Trendal, claimed the Fel’lal sacrificed children there. The drunken house cook, on the other hand, claimed the Fel’lal made insignificant offerings to them. Later, Erol, a nervous tutor, just before being fired, cryptically confirmed their were offerings at the wells but not of children. Thirsty, and recalling Tri’aln’s dismissive assurance that the wells were just full of water, Lurian drinks from it.

In the fourth chapter, “The Herb-Merchant’s Guests,” Lurian awakens in a strange house with no memory of the previous two weeks. He learns from the other guests — Rylan, Katrin, and Rhi — that he was “prophesying” on the paths after drinking from the well. Tri’aln had found Lurian and brought him to the house of a local herb-merchant, who then drugged him so he could sleep off the effects of the well. The other guests in the house are all friends of each other; Rylan, the son of the herb-merchant, is particularly insistent that Lurian returns with them because of what he believes Lurian can do: “will.” Despite the strange circumstances and their evasion of his questions, Lurian agrees to join them on their return journey to the city of Thalyrest.

Chapter Five: A Matter of Academic Interest

Tri’aln waited in the dimly-lit corridor, her hair still wet from the rain, and strained to understand the sounds and smells from his room. Nyra smoke drifted under the door, too much to be just from one person.

There was another voice, loud, drunk. He wasn't alone tonight.

Tri’aln shrugged, then patted herself to make sure the broadsheet was still there. She then smiled to herself, and knocked.

“Oh, then, come in already.” Not his voice.

“Oh, it must be locked, sorry.” Same voice, steps coming closer, towards the door. “It must be Aryd, then. Hold on, old man.”

Tri'aln stepped away from the door as the man fumbled with the lock, the noise of the slow and stuck mechanisms echoing against the stone of the corridor’s walls. He opened it, then tilted slightly as she met his eyes.

“Aryd, you — Oh. You're not — who the fuck are you?”

She heard Terrance’s voice finally, calling from behind this man standing between her and the room. “Who is it, man?”

“It's a Fal-Fal, if you'd believe it.” Then, to her, the man at the door said, slowly, “You-la speak-la Thalish?”

“La-la fuck you,” she replied, and pushed past him. The room was thick with the haze of nyra smoke and the reek of sour wine. Lit dimly, but by candle and oil-lamp, not by wyrdlight. This would be easy, then.

S rubbed her nose against the reek of the room, and spoke. “No song-stone-light?” She then grabbed an open wine bottle, and swigged.

Terrance pretended not to know her. “Excuse me — you can't just...”

“Anything I can do, I can do, and just stop that, Ter-rance. I am needing this drinking. Who are your new men friends?”

Her familiarity and the scandalous suggestion trapped him, as she had hoped. She gulped more of the acrid Corylan wine, and watched.

“Terrance, you know the Fal-Fal?”

Tri’aln glared at the man again, under-fed, pale, sickly like Terrance. There was a third man, slumped in a chair, snoring.

“It's Fel’lal, you idiot, and no, I don't know her.”

Tri’aln laughed, pleased to see him squirm for a few seconds longer.

“You do, you liar. And don’t let her drink any of that — it's poison for them.” The man reached for the bottle, which she had just emptied. She handed it to him anyway.

“Poison for him,” she said, gesturing to the unconscious man.

“Tri, you can't just come in here —”

“You do know her, Terrance! You just said her name!”

“Oh, come off it, Beryl,” Terrance said to him. And then to Tri’aln: “Tri, get out.”

“No,” she replied. “No-wheres’ else yet. You are getting me to Arenhall. A boat.”

“No!” Terrance shouted, briefly rousing the drunk-sleeping man. “You can't just come in here whenever you want! I told you.”

“I knew you knew her, Terrance! I knew it!”

“You're an idiot, Beryl. Shut up.”

“You slept with her?” Beryl taunted. Tri'aln went to the door, shut it, and turned back into the room.

“I have song-stones. Gift me a boat to Aren.”

She stared into the sudden dead quiet of the room, all its noise swept away by her words. Two sets of eyes stared as if to kill, but she smiled back, and burped.

Terrance finally spoke. “How many?”

“One-two-three-five. Enough for you three. Boat at storm-break. You should be being drinking better wine.”

Beryl sat down, confused, while Terrance stepped closer to her and demanded, “show me.”

She shook her head. “At the dock. Five in a box. You’re being sponsor-with-letter.”

The edge of anger in Terrance’s voice subsided into submission. “For what? Why don't you just take your little trails?”

She sighed, cleared her throat of the wine-bile, and reached for the rain-dampened broadsheet. “How are you saying it?” she asked, unfolding the paper. “I am thinking ‘enemy’ but I am also thinking that is not being the word. Here,” she said, pointing to the word she pretended not to know. “Terranc-ist.”

He took the paper from her and flushed, reading. “It’s terrorist. That wasn’t you, Tri?”

“Not being with a sponsor-with-letter, it was not. You write that, I gift you stones, we are all being happy.”

Beryl tried to take the paper from Terrance. “What's she on about? What's the paper say?”

“Nothing," he snapped back. “Just let me be.”

“It is saying I am terrance-ist who insulted the Queen and exploded glass,” Tri’aln answered, feigning ignorance.

“What?” Beryl’s excitement unbalanced him “She’s the Fal-fal from Trendal's house?”

Terrance turned to quiet him, but Tri’aln pushed him out of the way. “Yes and no and thank-you.”

“No, thank you!” Beryl shouted, tottering on his feet. “That was just gorgeous! Trendal shown up by a work-born!”

“Shut up!” Terrance bellowed back, sending the sleep-drunk man on the chair into shocked reveille. “Just get out, Tri, before someone finds you.”

“Yes,” Tri'aln said, nodding solemnly at Beryl. “Go and tell all-the-world, Terrance-ist friend.”

From the chair, the drunk man sputtered: “What's going on? Who’s the Fel’lal?”

“Stop it!” Terrance pleaded, drowned out by Beryl's effusions of delight still pouring from his drink-loosed tongue.

“You've got wyrd-stones, you say? Did you steal them from the house?”

Tri’aln slid behind Beryl, taking his still-warm seat. She folded her legs under her before answering him, choosing her tone carefully. “Yes, song-stones. Maybe being from the house, but I am thinking you do not care where, am I saying right?”

The woken drunk had had enough. “I'm not kidding, guys. Who’s the Fel’lal?’

Terrance started to answer, but Beryl cut him off. “Remember the Horynal manse, Ryke? The Queen’s nephew and the exploded glass and all that? This is the one they’re looking for.”

“But what happened to Tren’s half-brother? I thought it was him they were really looking for. A Fel’lal couldn’t have done that.”

All three faces turned upon Tri’aln, waiting suddenly for some revelation or wisdom she couldn’t provide. She gulped, looked about for another bottle of wine, more to giver herself space to think than to drink any more of the foul stuff.

No. She could not have done any of that. But Lurian? She didn’t think he could, either. None of it had sense, and Lurian’s other had helped not one bit. She would not tell them this, but she did not yet have another story.

They would need to make one with her. “How you saying the sellers, all-together-like, not liking the Council and the Queen and stuff?”

Beryl was incredulous: “The Alliance Merchants? What did they … ?”

Tri’aln nodded sagely, directing all of her attention to him. “Yes, Alliance and Merchants. Now, how you saying money but not gift, that getting back someone you have to be giving?”

“Wait—they're demanding a ransom from the Queen? That doesn't make sense, though. Why would — you’re kidding, right?

She shook her head, slowly. “I am not being a goat. Not being kidding.”

Terrance had finally calmed down enough to speak something other than a command. “Blackmail, then? Tren's brother must know something, maybe. Are you sure, Tri?”

They’d made up the story for her, as she’d needed. “You are being sponsor-with-letter, then?”

Ryke was still struggling to catch up. “What does she need sponsoring for?"

“We'll do it," Beryl answered. “You've got five stones?”

“No, we will not!” Terrance grabbed Tri’aln by the arm and was pulling her up from the chair when Beryl punched him in the back, a blow neither skillful nor all that effective.

“Let her be, Ter. Ryke and I will do it, then. More wyrd for the both of us.”

Ryke sputtered. “What are we doing, man?”

The question sobered Beryl for a moment. “Oh, right. So where do you need to go?”

“Dock for boats just before stormrise, but curfew not doing without sponsor and boat not doing without letter from sponsor. So someone sponsoring and writing letter and walking to the docks.”

“Done!” Beryl proclaimed, clapping his hands in triumph before noticing Terrance had dragged Tri’aln to the door. “Don't be a idiot, man! We’re not getting any more stones ‘till next quarter, and you owe me two anyway. Let her be.” Despite Beryl’s protest, Terrance pushed Tri’aln out the door, into the hallway, and slammed it behind her.

Tri’aln turned, stared at the door, then bellowed in a tone she was sure would resound throughout the corridor, “but then why are you not paying me for what I just did, and my hands still smelling of your leaving place?”

The door swung back open before she could finish. “You monster" he muttered, pulling her back inside. “I should turn you in.”

“And you and your friends being sick and weak without stones now?”

“Okay,” Terrance said, after a pained pause. “What do you want me to say?”

Tri’aln walked with the three in silence, wet again from the chill rain. The men felt to her tragic, sad, but she tried to kill off this sadness. She considered instead the rain, the wet cobbles, the ale waiting for her later, with people she knew would still trust her after this.

They passed the other set-stone apartments of the Academy-Quarter, walking in reverse the same route Tri’aln had used to get there. She’d taken this path before, on other rainy nights, when it would be too cold or miserable to sleep in the usual places, when Anisia didn't have an extra place for her.

Regret played in her mind, and she let herself look at it directly, before putting it to death. She could always trust Terrance a little, but never very much. Enough for a dry place to sleep sometimes, safer at least than in the streets. And the longer he used the stones, the less she trusted him even for that.

There'd been many she trusted a little, a few she trusted even more than others, one she trusted completely. And there was Terrance. He’d been a friend, or a half-friend, but never the sort she’d insinuated him to be down the corridors of his fellows. He middled, she always knew, but he insisted he was “not one of those.” And he was a little like Lurian. She’d thought once to make them meet, if only to make the two a little less unhappy.

She trusted Terrence less now that he’d taken the stones. Always the same effect, though they never understood it themselves. Maybe they sensed it? She’d thought it unlikely they couldn’t see the change themselves, when they looked back at their own eyes.

Bit of shadow, a blackness that wasn’t night or even really darkness. Not the darkness of a room when the lights were out, or the darkness of the forests without moon or stars. Darkness wasn’t the word, but neither was blackness. Black looked beautiful, though it was too hard to dye into clothes. There was never enough indigo, and mixing only made brown.

No, it was an ugly black, like mold on food that too far gone to eat, though even that mold was seen in the light. The eyes stopped reflecting, stopped sparking, stopped shining. Something dull, grasping, an emptiness that couldn’t be filled.

Terrance had that darkness, now. He had it now for two years. He’d taken the stones, and they'd eaten him in return. Still, he’d written the letter for her, because the other two men had been too drunk to hold a pen. And he was here with her, a sponsor to speak for her to the guard at the Southgate and through it, out of the city to the docks, into the familiar, full-and-not-starving darkness of the night.

The guard looked bored when he challenged them, but Tri’aln could see Terrence didn’t notice. He was shaking. “Mum's servant. Lent her to me for finals. Can’t make tea and dinner for myself with all that going on, you understand.”

The guard’s interest sparked a moment. Tri’aln held her breath, hoping Terrance would find his words.

“Huh? Nah. Unless she was in two places at once, she isn’t. Ask my mates here.”

Ryke, just at that point remembering how to stand, nodded his head in agreement. Beryl muttered quick re-assurances. Tri’aln could feel how eager they were for the night to be over, eager for the drought inside them to be washed away, the bleeding hunger to be forgotten for a little while.

She shrugged when the guard looked at her, careful not to respond to his insults, careful not to know Thalish. He let them through. She kept her silence as they walked through the gate, over the cobbled river-side road, to the docks lit dimly by gas-lamps.

“Here,” Tri’aln said, pointing in the dark distance beyond her. “That is being the boat.” Then, she called out the signal to Ruvenne, whom she could see already watching them.

“And the stones?” Beryl asked, suddenly less friendly.

Tri’aln smiled. “There was being no stones, just the Arital standing there looking at you like criminal murdering person. And her friends.”

“What?” Terrance shouted, suddenly understanding his foolishness. “You fucking bitch!”

Tri’aln swallowed the last bit of guilt at her betrayal as she watched Ruvenne approach. “See? She is walking over here now. I am being sorry but not being sorry. No more song-stones. Go home, Terrance and Terrance-friends.”

Terrance and Beryl turned and fled. Neither seemed to notice without even Ryke’s lethargic confusion and drunken attempts to follow after them.

Tri’aln called out, “you are leaving your friend.”

Ruvenne was now next to her, and Tri’aln hugged her. Then, she pointed to the men. “Not needing to hurt them. They will be saying nothing.”

Ruvenne laughed. “You have the strangest friends.”

Tri’aln sighed, and turned towards the boat. “All being too am’erl, yes. But I am still being sad for them.”