Ollie had nearly finished drying the bar, when Divad caught his rag-hand. He tapped the bar. “What’s this made of, my friend?”
Ollie’s brow furrowed. He then produced a paring knife from his apron, bent down behind the bar, and a moment later stood up. In his fingers he held a thick curl of wood, presumably carved from the underside of the bar. He handed it to Divad, while continuing to stare at it with newfound interest.
Divad turned the shaving over in his fingers twice, inspecting the grain. He gave Ollie a quick glance, then put the curl of wood to his nose and breathed in deeply. He knew that scent like he knew the sound of his own voice. He turned his attention back to Ollie, grinning widely in spite of himself.
“I have a proposition for you, my friend.”
I shivered, and sweat dripped from my nose. I sat alone in a tent, huddled under three layers of rough wool blankets. The fire in the middle of the space leapt higher than was probably safe, but I kept adding more wood. I couldn’t seem to get warm. The cold emanated from somewhere inside me. It felt as if I’d drunk a pitcher of iced water too fast, and was now experiencing the chill of it in the pit of my stomach. I’d downed several mugs of hot tea that hadn’t helped a jot.
There wasn’t really any mystery in it, either. I’d tried to repurpose Suffering. It had been an arrogant thing to do. And I was feeling the effects. The worst of it might be that I hadn’t done much good. A few moments of song, a few dead Sellari, and then they’d carried me back from the line. It was embarrassing, really. They’d sent for me at Descant, like some bright hope. And I’d managed only a few passages of song for them.
I was able to let the failure go, though. Selfish to worry about my failing. I needed to figure out what I’d done wrong.
Suffering had nine passages:
Quietus
The Bourne
The Placing
Inveterae
War
Self-Destruction
Vengeance
Quiet Song
Reclamation
My first thought was that I’d chosen the wrong passage to sing. Aligning the right song to the right singer for the right encounter had been a Tilatian art of war since they’d escaped the Bourne. Perhaps I should have asked Baylet to assign me one of the songs I’d reviewed last evening.
But I quickly let go of that argument. I’d sensed that War had been the right air. In truth, there might be many right songs for any one moment on the line. Much of the choice of song had to do with the confidence a Lieholan had in the music. That hadn’t been the problem for me, though. Something else, then.
Maybe it’s as simple as the fact that I’ve never sung with this intention before.
That made sense. But it was also a depressing thought. It could mean I’d be no use to Baylet or our people. Or it could mean I’d wreak no vengeance for my da. The very thought of it brought a new wave of shivers. And in shivering, I happened on a new, entirely unpleasant idea. Maybe in turning Suffering into a song to suit my own need, a need to harm, I’d opened up a darker part of myself. An untested part. Like an unused muscle that, when overworked, tires quickly, making a man sweat and retch.
Could also be that the rough-throat technique itself had been my failing. Twice as hard as pure vocalization if it’s done correctly. But I’d thought it would be second nature to me. Besides toying with it now and again back at Descant, I’d grown up hearing it a fair bit.
Whatever the reason, I’d failed to make Suffering the right kind of song to take to battle. And as I sat shivering, what worried me most of all was that I just wasn’t cut out for this. I took another sip of strong sage tea, and was bending nearer the fire when Baylet ducked into my tent.
“Not a good day,” he said right off.
I swallowed my tea and said nothing.
He sat across the fire from me, knitting his hands together. The scar on his neck caught the firelight in flickers of orange and shadow. “What did you sing?”
“Something from Suffering,” I replied, looking down into my mug. “I thought the power of it would transfer…”
“Suffering?! Dear Lords of Song, you’re crazier than your father.” There was a soft chuckle. “I’m going to assume your Maesteri wouldn’t approve.”
“He might laugh, given how well it went.” I wiped the sweat off my face. “And you might wind up disappointed you brought me here.”
Baylet stared at me through the flames. “I already told you. I brought you back as much for you as I did for me.”
“Ah, right. For my da. I imagine he’d be proud, too,” I said with no small measure of sarcasm.
“You have a gift, Belamae, no question about that. But so do a hundred others just like you. I’ve no delusion that one voice will tip the scales in our favor. And you letting your failure color your sense of your father’s pride is foolish. It’s not honest either.” He paused a long moment. “You probably failed because you’re still looking at things for what they are.”