For Love of the Lady

[Carillon]

Augra 23, 1444

I wake just before the sun's first rays lighten the sky. It is not yet dawn, and already I can feel that the day will be warm. A sea breeze stirs the willow outside my window, the air cool and welcoming. The sea is beckoning to me, calling me to come down to it. I can do nothing but answer.

I slip from the bed. My bare feet hit the polished wood of the floor and I revel in the simple sensuality of the cool wood on my skin. The house is quiet and still; everyone is asleep except me. I tiptoe across the room, knowing more through experience than intuition which boards will creak and betray my presence. I avoid these boards. I feel like a stowaway on a ship, or a spy in a foreign country. There is something deliciously illicit about being awake when the rest of the house, the rest of the town is still abed.

I move quietly past the hearth with its embers banked for the night. I steal into the kitchen, searching for breakfast. The pull of the sea is insistent and I am impatient. I heat the water with magic rather than the kitchen fire, pouring it over the crushed and roasted pits of a berry from Alibor. The scent that wafts up reminds me of the place, and of the trader I bought these from. While the water pulls the essence from the roasted seeds I find a bowl and fill it with fresh wild blueberries. I gathered these with the children yesterday. We came home with fingertips and tongues stained purple, laughing. I find the pitcher of fresh cream and pour a little over the berries. They taste like sunshine and summer, sweet enough I don't even contemplate reaching for the sugar.

I strain the dark, hot liquid that smells of the roasted berry pits through fine cloth into a mug and add a touch of cream to that as well. The dark liquid is bitter but not unpleasant. It tastes a little like roasted chicory roots. Cradling the mug in my hands, I steal into where the children sleep, careful not to wake them. Aislin is sleeping on her tummy, her cheek turned sideways on the pillow, her face partially obscured by a wisp of dark hair. Daughter, something in me says insistently, blood calling to blood. In the other bed, Lissa's golden curls are as much a contrast with Aislin's hair as day is to night. Daughter, I think again, though this time the feeling is different. I have no memory of carrying this child within me. It is not forgetfulness; this child is not of my blood.

Something deeper within me stirs, as if to make a liar of me. Sister, the part of me that is Rhiannon whispers. Beyond the girls is another pair of beds, and I move through the doorway to these. Finn's larger form, coltish and awkward as he moves toward manhood. Liam's face turned sideways on the pillow, the scar and the missing eye on the other side obscured by the profile view. Brothers, the child part of me whispers. Family, I offer in return. Yes, the other part of me agrees. Together, as one, we slip from the room.

The rosy hues of dawn are lightening the sky now. The call of the sea has not abated. I cannot resist it any longer. I choose simple black silk, cool and smooth against my skin. I pull my hair up, pinning it in place with silver combs. Come, the sea is calling to me, singing to me. They tell stories of ships lured onto the rocks by unseen siren voices. I am as unable to resist the call as those sailors were. The Curvaceous Lady's case is on my dresser. I touch it gently, as if the violin too had been sleeping. Come, I call silently to her, as the sea has been calling to me. Come ...

A rooster crows as the pebbles of the beach path dig into my bare feet. The smell of fresh salt air surrounds me as the ocean breeze greets me, bringing stories from far out at sea. I find a large log of driftwood, bleached nearly white by sun and salt, and sit down while I open the violin case. The sight of her still takes my breath away. Dark red mahogany gleams in the dawn light, reflecting the promise of the brilliance of the day back up at the sky. I take the violin from the case, cradling the instrument in my hands. I check the bridge and the strings, then pick up the bow. The smell of the rosin on the horsehair is a familiar caress as I hold the frog between my fingertips, tightening the hair.

I stand. Behind me, the sun is rising and the village is waking, but I pay them no mind. Down, down to the sea, the wet sand between my toes and the waves lapping at my feet. My magic protects the Lady from salt and spray. I rest her against my shoulder, cradle her against my neck. We are lovers who have stolen away from the world for a spell. All around us the day is breaking; light reflects off the water like diamond dust cast into a scrying pool. The sky is rose and gold, the waters sapphire. The mahogany gleams in my hand as I lift the bow and we begin to sing.

Each time is a first with this. No matter that I have loved this violin for nine years, that we have sung of storms and rain and sleep, of birth and death, of grief and joy and rage and love. Each time my bow and my fingers find the strings and the first notes fill the air it is at once like coming home and like entering a foreign land. In some ways the music is as unexpected as the first flash of lightning in a storm. I still wonder at the feeling that fills me as I play. In others, it is as familiar as the sensation of my own magic, and as blissful.

I wonder at this violin. I wish again that I knew her story. What luthier birthed her and when? What tree gave up its wood for this sound? I know nothing of this violin before I found it on a giant's firewood pile, miraculously undamaged, and restored it. I remember the first time I held it in my hands, the first time I played it with a borrowed bow, notes shaky after so many years. I learned how to play again while I carried my daughter within me. I still remember how the music seemed to soothe her, and how her kicks seemed to answer each strain of melody. I remember naming this violin with Acacea, laughing at the joke--my new lover, with her beautiful curves. But before that ... she is a mystery, and I have never managed to part her from her secrets. We are kindred spirits in that neither of our histories are known.

The Lady and I are adrift together now, the sea and the music calling to us both. The desire to play fills my blood, giving my fingers life, guiding my bow on the strings. I ask with each note, as she answers in those glorious, melodious tones. I am her voice, and she is mine. Together, we sing of the aurora and welcome the dawn.

[Carillon]

Seplar 14, 1444

I had a strange dream last night--strange not only because of the dream itself, but because I dreamed at all. Almost always in reverie it is memory of the past that finds me, but if this was a memory it was not mine.

I woke--or thought I woke--with my heart pounding. Each crash of blood seemed to echo the rhythm of the breaking waves outside. I was in my childhood home, moonlight streaming in through the cracks in the rotting wood. I could feel the hardened earth beneath my bare feet, but when I pushed open the door on its rope hinges it was not the salt marsh I saw but the sea itself and when I took a step, my feet touched wet sand.

I stepped forward, out onto the sand, but when I looked down I saw that I left no footprints. I looked behind me, and the hut was gone, replaced by the cabin where Rhiannon died. I could see every detail of the place, could see the spot where Iona spilled my blood to feed the ritual ... but behind it there was no sign of the Brechs. Past the cabin was nothing but gathering storm clouds, rolling in. No matter what direction I turned, the storm was coming toward me. I was at the center--the eye of the storm.

Turning back to the sea, I saw the harp on the sand. In form it looked almost exactly like the one I bought myself last month, but in substance there was no comparison at all. Instead of polished wood, the harp was made of driftwood and strung with fishing line.

As puzzled as I was by this strange instrument I yearned to play it. As if responding to my desire, I suddenly noticed the stone beside the harp--though I could have sworn it was not there when first I spied the instrument! Nonetheless, I crouched down on the stone and drew the harp to me, resting the body on my shoulder. The instrument balanced so perfectly with me that I could barely feel its weight on my shoulder as I moved my arms around it to reach the strings.

Learning my own harp has been pure hell. My fingertips still have no calluses since they were healed in the Kaima Caves by Meadow, and so often after I finish practicing they are raw and sore. I find I am at war with my hands, torn between protecting them and letting the calluses build. I have thought of getting a wire-strung harp so I can pluck the strings with my fingernails, but I am not yet willing to sacrifice the sound of the one I have found. When I played the sea harp, though, I felt nothing. It was as if the fishing line strings were not there at all, and it was only an illusion. And yet when I reached for them, they responded and the music flowed forth.

And what music it was. I knew, dreaming, that it was not real for I cannot yet play like that. The melodies that came from the harp as I played still haunt my waking hours. No matter how fast or slow I played, the surf kept time for me and the winds seemed to harmonize with the notes. As I played, I felt the storm rolling in all around me, and the air seemed to crackle and take on a charge like magic building. I started to see flashes of movement at the edge of my vision: ghostly shapes. I tried to get a better look but no matter how quickly I turned my head they remained  just out of view, save one. A dark shape glided in out of the sky and I felt my magic cry out to it like something that had been lost--Nida!--but then a gust of wind drove the dark shape closer, and I realized that it was no longer a bat but a raven. Or perhaps it had always been a raven, and I had only seen what I wanted to see. I do not know.

Lightning flashed on the edge of my vision again, and thunder shook the skies. All around me the winds swirled ... but my gown, which was no more than diaphanous white, didn't even flutter in the storm, and my hair lay still against my neck. The storm pressed in closer, but I remained in the eye.

The strike, when it came, was direct. The bolt of lightning hit the pillar of the harp and all at once those insubstantial, ghostly strings became as hard and unyielding as mithril wire. There was pain now when my fingers met them. My fingertips began to bleed, coating the strings, and each touch was an electric shock ... but the music, that music, was the most beautiful harp music I'd ever heard.

I played on until I could bear it no more and the pain overwhelmed me, then tried to pull away. I tried to pull back from the sea harp, to stop the music, but I could not. No matter how hard I tried to cease plucking the strings I was unable to do so. The wires cut through my fingers until they met bone; I could hear it in the sound of the harp.

I do not remember counting the strings before I sat down to play, but I suddenly knew without looking that there were fifteen of them. They shone in the moonlight that filtered through the storm clouds like living things, pulsing with life. When the first one broke, I thought I would die from the pain that shot through me. It literally stole my breath. I tried to be gentle with them, but suddenly the music was filled with dissonant twangs as they snapped, one by one. The music continued, my fingers plucking at strings that didn't exists at all when they failed to find one of the shining wires.

Finally there was only one string left. The raven circled around me, its cries a mournful accompaniment. Still, even then, I could not pull away. And even then, that haunting music filled my mind. I thought I heard the echo of my mother's voice calling me home--my mother, who never spoke a word while I lived. I saw my hands reach for the next note, knew it would happen before it did ... and felt an indescribable pain rip through me as the last string snapped.

I awoke in my bedroom, my skin and hair damp with sweat. Outside, surely enough, a storm was rattling the windowpanes. I lay panting on the bed, hopelessly entangled in the sheets, staring at the silhouette of my harp across the room. The polished wood reflected dimly in the half light, and my fingertips were whole and uninjured ... but the melodies of the sea harp still echoed in my mind.

[Carillon]

Oclar 28, 1444

Aislin turned eight two days ago. We had such a perfect day in Krandor. My beautiful storm child is growing up, albeit more slowly than people seem to expect. She's walking now, though still unsteadily at times, but she has yet to start speaking. I've given up worrying about it--well, mostly. She understands what's said to her, and sometimes I can coax her into signing back to me. She understands language, and as far as anyone can tell there's nothing wrong with her voice, which means it isn't that she can't speak but that she's choosing not to speak. Why, I have no idea, but I'll give her the time she needs.

It's odd to think how much more family my daughter has than I do now. Even more, now that Alatriel's daughter has been born. They named her Meralae. A pretty name, and a pretty baby in her own way. She has her father's eyes, like Aislin does. Gold from birth, I believe. Aislin's took over a year to turn, as if she was trying to make up her mind who she would be. But then, Aislin has always walked her own path through the world from the moment she was born.

It is becoming more obvious now that she is older. The differences between my daughter and other children her age are becoming more pronounced. She is less interested in other children than she might be, preferring to explore what catches her interest. Her brothers and sister she will play with, but with strange children she will either ignore them or hide in my skirts. She has incredible patience--she can sit for hours trying to figure something out. I am almost certain she is very bright, though because she does not yet speak it is hard to tell just how much. She's usually sweet tempered, but she can fly into a rage. (I suppose in fairness she gets that from me!) She's sensitive to mood, and always has been, even as a baby. Oh, and if one of my instruments or the piano goes out of tune she cries like someone is pulling out her fingernails when it's played.

Speaking of pianos, I had a chance to play the most incredible grand piano a few weeks ago. It was in Hempstead, at the city house of a rich merchant, at a rather dull party that I allowed myself to be dragged along to by an eager young man. Over the years I've learned to endure these kinds of functions. They are a necessary evil in cultivating a social network, but gods above! Sometimes I would rather play with a balor than smile at strangers from the arm of another near-stranger. I have no interest in discussing the latest tariff policy, or where the best market for Hempstead cotton is, but I do know how to play the game. In all honesty, I cannot even remember the name of the young man who escorted me, though I believe it might have been Sebastian. He caught up to me in a scribe's shop in the city and twisted my arm into accompanying him. Well, alright, he looked at me with pleading dark eyes and I said yes because I knew it was easier than saying no a dozen times, and because the part of me that is Rhiannon wanted to go and thought he was sweet.

Sometimes seeing the world through the eyes of a ten year old girl can get one into trouble. This time it only really got me into boredom. The rich merchant in question turned out to be a man in his late years who was throwing a party for other men in their late years to talk about city politics and council matters and shipping rules and such. My date had to be the youngest one there by at least a decade and the other women were not particularly welcoming, so after the mandatory circuit of introductions I stole a glass of wine and escaped to the rest of the house.

Exploring other people's houses is one of the best parts of being invited to parties, and the only sensible thing to do if the function is dull enough you're in danger of hanging yourself or causing a bit of trouble just to see what will happen. That tends to be expensive, socially, whereas there is always a plausible explanation as to why you got so terribly lost on the way to powder your nose. The fact that most people assume beauty and brains are mutually exclusive never fails to make it almost disappointingly easy to convince the host or one of his servants that you are a vapid, senseless, silly woman who really cannot find her way down a well-lit corridor.

This particular house was a treasure trove of the eclectic and the expensive. Paintings and tapestries, rich furnishings, statues, crystal ... it seemed the master or perhaps the mistress of the house--an unattractive woman of middle years with a crooked nose and eyes like a goshawk--had decided to forego style altogether and just amass the most expensive possessions that could be found. The only saving grace was the beautiful piano in the center of one of the rooms, dark and silent.

From the moment I saw it, I wanted to play it. I glanced guiltily back at the party, then went to it like a woman to her lover when her husband is away. The lacquered wood gleamed in the candlelit room. I took off my gloves (which everyone had assumed were fashion rather than function) and caressed the keys. I love the pattern of black and white they make and the feel of them under my fingers, even though my hands are too small to span more than an octave. I pushed back the chair that had been shoved against the piano and sat down on the bench. A quick glance at the door and a spelled breeze to shut it, then I began to play.

I love the violin, but the piano is more versatile in many ways, simply because of the incredible number of voices it has. The melodies and intricate harmonies can become so complex with a piano that it isn't so much like coaxing the Lady to sing for me, but rather like conducting a choir or a symphony of sound. I remember the woman who conducted the last concert I saw in Huangjin while visiting Oriana. I know Oriana told me her name, but it was during the applause and I didn't quite catch it ... or at least not well enough to remember.

I think I must have played for an hour. Poor Sebastian or whatever his name was must have thought I'd abandoned him. I didn't care--just kept going, piece after piece. Like when I'm casting, the world seems to melt away when I'm playing, as if I could do it indefinitely. I stayed there like that long after I was certain my absence had been noted, fingers finding the keys, notes filling the air. Like Laa'ra, I have finally learned yet another way to make time stand still.

[Carillon]

Novlar 11, 1444

Winter is coming to the land again. In Leringard, the snows already cover the ground. Here in Krandor, we are merely enjoying the wet and wild weather that follows autumn but precedes the real winter chill. Now when I take the children for walks on the beach we all come back soaked to the bone. I don't care--clothes dry, and the fire is quick to warm us again. A little rain will not keep me indoors. In fact, the more it storms outside, the more I want to be outside. It is like weather that makes a cage of the house for everyone else has just the opposite effect on me. The more cruel Mist's weather and the more foolish it would be to go out in it, the less I can abide staying inside.

Riding the Darksoul has provided a wonderful excuse for me to be outside in all manner of weather, but unfortunately not one I can share with Connor or Anna. Neither of them know of my demon horse, nor do I intend to tell them. I hide the horseshoe shaped bruises and make up excuses for broken ribs and dislocated shoulders. It isn't that he means to do it--he's just a lot of horse for me and we're learning together. Still, when everything comes together and we go tearing through the woods near Krandor, jumping fallen logs and ravines ... the rush is simply indescribable. These days he hardly feels like the same horse I started with, though he's still almost unmanageable for most other people. He and I have worked so hard and so long together that we've formed a bond, though. Or at least I think we have--he's better behaved with me than anyone else, and most of the time he tosses me it's my own fault or no one's fault at all.

I bought myself another instrument. I was at a luthier's shop in Huangjin, and was too curious to resist. I was only there to have a bow looked at, and also to inquire about the Lady. I've still been curious about her history, though so far none of my inquiries have yielded any solid leads. In any case, I didn't intend to stay long, and I certainly didn't intend to return to Mistone bearing an instrument that was bigger than I am.

Alright, that's hyperbole, but though the violoncello looks like a violin the comparison in playing the instrument ends there. Whereas the violin is cradled against the neck and held in the hand, the violoncello is played between the thighs. At first I was skeptical, but the instrument has such a warm, rich, resonant tone that I've become a convert. I'll never abandon my violin, but the cello is providing a new challenge for me. Much of the technique can be transferred but there are so many differences that it really is like learning a new instrument rather than simply playing a larger upright violin. Oh, on the surface one may bow similarly and use the same fingerings on the strings, but to really make the instrument sing requires a slightly different touch. It is hard work, but I'm reveling in the challenge.

Three days ago we had the most wonderful wind storm. I snuck out to the cliffs for it. The winds came whipping in off the sea, bending the trees over and playing havoc with my hair. I closed my eyes and just let it all flow over me and around me. Standing there on the cliffs with the wind in my face, I suddenly wanted to play but I didn't have my violin with me. So instead I sang, not trying to put words to the melody I found waiting but just letting it rise up out of me and into the air, and letting the winds carry it away ...

[Carillon]

Decilar 28, 1444

It is the last night of the year. Outside, dusk is already falling and the year draws to a close. We are surrounded by darkness most of each day in this heart of winter, but for one who lived through the Dark Ages even these few hours of sunlight each day are more than we knew for so many years.

Snow is falling lightly outside the window, and it reminds me of my husband's clan and the north. I wonder whether my husband's family is huddled inside as well, warming themselves by a fire and telling stories. Love of Mist, but they know the best stories! That was my favourite part of my last visit there ... listening to their tales and boasts and brags. Why do these strange, rough people resonate with me so much? I think it is because they live in a hard place. Perhaps truth be told, they remind me a little of my past.

They have music as well--something that I did not expect, though I do not know why not. Their songs of battle and of home and hearth are different than any I have ever known, but no less lovely in their own way. I wish I had some way to record their songs as they sing them, and bring them back with me. I did not expect to fall in love with any part of the clan, or feel at home there. When Gomo put the wooden bracelet around my wrist it weighed upon me like a shackle. Had I not been in danger of starting a war, I would have killed Momo and anyone who stood between me and Raven's Watch and the crossing to Leringard. Now ... I do not know. They are not what I expected.

Caerwyn should be here in a few hours, I hope. I bought his flowers two days ago--two crimson roses for our New Year's tradition. They are sitting beside me on the piano even as I write this. When the moons are high, we'll send our messages out into the night along with the flowers. One word, as always. I wish I knew what word to choose to adequately describe this past year. I have no idea what I will write upon that paper before tossing my message into the sea.

[Carillon]

Janra 14, 1445

The night air is literally freezing, but I've left my cloak inside, down in a little study in the temple of Lucinda where I was doing some research on scrying. I'd been there for hours, and the words were beginning to blur to my tired eyes in the dim candlelight. I read the same page thrice over and could not recall what was written, so I pushed the heavy tome away and stole up to the rooftop of the castle.

It is one of those cold, clear winter nights when the world is crystalline and still. My footsteps echoed on the curving stone staircase as I ascended, and the shock of the cold air was exactly like jumping into the ocean in midwinter. The rooftop is deserted. It is dark up here, but the moons and stars give enough light that I can make out the shapes of the houses in the village below. Most of them are dim too—my eyes pick out only the occasional flicker of a candle against a window, or perhaps the swinging lamp of someone going outside to a privy to relieve themselves. The world is asleep, and I am awake.

I love the night, and the stillness of it. A century of insomnia has forced me to make my peace with the wee hours of the morning. This is the time of lovers, of dreams, of quiet reflection. Aislin was born at this time of night as well—took her first breath and her first cry as I reached for her and held her in my arms. There is a magic to the solitude of this time, as well. Some of my best spells and rituals have been done in these hours, alone in my office or elsewhere. Magic towers and halls are deserted, and there is nothing to interrupt me as I scribe rune after complex rune on parchment and blot them with sparkling gem dust.

Tonight I have something else in mind, though. The Curvaceous Lady is in my hands, and I am facing the cliffs. The Lady doesn't like the cold, but my magic protects her. I pluck a string and tighten a peg, tuning. I draw the bow across the strings, and pierce the stillness of the night. The sound is clear and full, and somehow reminds me of a chiming bell.

My hands move almost by instinct now. Muscle memory guides my bow and my fingers on the strings. My left hand moves slightly on the strings as I use vibrato, enriching the sound. My right hand guides my bow in a horizontal figure of eight: head to frog, frog to head, back and forth ... I close my eyes, to better hear the change in sound as I slow down. My bow glides across a pair of strings, eliciting a two-note chord. My music disappears into the night, floating down to haunt the dreams of those sleeping below. I wonder whether they will remember my nocturne when they wake, or whether like the stillness of the night, this will fade with the dawn.
 

[Carillon]

Mar 23, 1445

It is still early enough in spring that there is frost on the ground in Leringard, but here the air is so much warmer! The nights are beautiful, too, full of the sounds of unfamiliar insects and strange little birds who wake me in the morning with their trills and whistles. They are so cheerful that I almost want to whistle back. It has been a good week here at the lake, and though I will always love my rainy city and its frozen winters, neither any of the children nor I am in a hurry to return home--save perhaps to see Connor and Anna again.

The lake we are staying on is called Sunset Lake. We are south of Huangjin but west of Valianto at the moment, still in northern Tilmar. It was Oriana's idea to go south for a week or two after staying with her in Huangjin while the violoncello was at the shop, and once again I must say that my couturier and friend has perfect taste. The cottage she found for us on the lake is very quaint, and it is nice to be away from the bustle of city life for a while. The children spend much of the day swimming in the lake and I have had lots of time to write and to practice my magic and my music. Dinners are an informal affair, eaten whenever we all decide we feel hungry, and picnics on the shore have become our favourite part of the night. True to its name, the sunsets over the lake are spectacular as well, and will not soon be forgotten.

As to the purpose of this visit to the island, my luthier kept his word and my violoncello is as good as new. He also replaced one of my pegs for me, and I spent some time admiring a handsome little violin in his shop, though I think the Lady would be jealous if I brought him home! Jonas scolded me terribly of course, though he knows I'd never see harm come to an instrument on purpose. Gods only know how many instruments I've rescued and brought him over the years, to nurse back to health! Nonetheless, he has advised me on a few simple spells that will hopefully keep the cold of Leringard from so afflicting my poor instrument again, and in the meantime I am making amends to it by taking it down to the dock every night to practice as I watch the sunset, which is just what I did tonight. I played my new adagio and watched as the sun's last rays lit up the sky and the water like fire. All my life has been a deception, for until tonight I did not truly believe that water could burn, but this sunset made a lie of what I knew to be true and ignited the lake with fiery orange and red flames, and set my soul ablaze with it.

Watching the sun go down over the water and listening to the laughter of the children playing just down the shore, I do feel a moment of sadness when I see Aislin's dark head and think of another dark-haired girl who was once part of that foursome. I can feel Rhiannon within me, like a swirl of warm memories or a dream, or my second soul. She is always there, in my mind and my spirit, watching these children grow with me, even though her soul has long since gone from this place. A dozen times a day I catch myself with thoughts that would not otherwise have been mine. I wonder where she is in the Heavens, or whether she is merely waiting somewhere for these other three, so they can all come back together to be born into new lives with fresh chances, to experience all the things they did not have time for in this life. In quiet moments like these I thank my goddess and Iona for this gift of sharing and remembrance, as bittersweet as it may be.

There are too many moments of loss in the world to ignore evenings with sunsets like this one. The horror and the grief is enough to turn anyone to madness, and I know of too many ugly places in the world. I could play nothing but music that fueled my grief and rage and gave voice to my sorrow and remorse, but that would not honor the memory of the child within me whom I love so dearly. Instead, for her, I listen to the sound of her--our, really--brothers and sister laughing as they play with our daughter, and I enjoy the feel of the smooth, polished wood between my thighs, the scent of rosin on my bow, and the deep, rich voice of my cello as it sings each sweet, arching note of the adagio. After I am done, while the children are drying off but before we go up to the cottage to make our supper, I watch the sparks of light on the water and dream of memories of other days exactly like today.