“Fair enough.” Divad leaned back against his workbench. “I teach music. And for some—those who have the gift—I teach intentional music. Most likely you call these folks Lieholan. It’s as good a name as any, I guess.”
“And these Lieholan, their job is singing a song that you would have us believe keeps us safe from mythical races, yeah?”
“A rather cynical way to describe it.” Divad again wiped his hands of the sweat that had begun to rise in his palms. “If I look ahead of your questions, I suppose I’d say that what we believe on that score is ours to believe. And it doesn’t cause a wit of harm to the League, or the people for that matter. May even lend some hope to weary—”
“Ah, see, that’s the arrogance I expected.” The Leagueman crossed to a near bench—the one where the glued viola rested beside a mostly reconstructed new one.
The stranger’s nearness to the instrument made Divad panicky. “Does the regent know you’re here? Or is this less…official?”
Something changed subtly in the man’s face. And it surprised Divad. The Leagueman’s demeanor actually became less guarded, less scrutinizing, as he began to run his fingers along the unfinished viola. “Let me start over,” the man said. It was a masterful change in manner. One Divad would have fallen for if he hadn’t been changing the tone of his own voice to color vocal performance for the better part of thirty years.
Divad played along. “I’d like that. I’ll admit to being a mite weary. So, truly, how can I help you?”
“I think maybe there’s too much mystery around what Descant does these days,” the man said. His tone was almost apologetic, as though he were on a forced errand. “I’ve been asked to invite several of your singers of Suffering back to help explain it to us.” He smiled magnanimously. “I’ll tell you something else. I’ll wager when it’s done, we find ourselves more kin than kessel.”
Divad kept from smiling. Kessel was an Ebonian word that meant ‘separated,’ but most folks used it to mean ‘enemy.’
“I’ll be glad to accompany—”
“Not you,” the man said abruptly, then raised his hands as though to revise his own terseness. “That’s not how I meant that. I’d imagine you have a good handle on your purpose. It’s those you teach that we need to talk to.”
Divad began to lose patience. “Is this a trial of some kind? Because if it is, I’ll want a letter with the regent’s seal.”
The man’s stare narrowed, though his grin did not falter. “No. Not yet. But mind you, a man might wonder about the person who frets over being invited to explain himself.”
“No,” Divad said flatly. “You have no authority to insist. And none of us is freely going with you. We can talk here, if you’d like. Beyond that, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
The man’s genial manner fell away entirely. He stood glaring at Divad with calculating eyes. Then he turned to look back at the unfinished viola. He picked it up in both hands with a delicate kind of grace. The room fell silent and taut with expectation.
“It’s fine work,” the man said. “My father was a fair hand with a knife. Though he used his skill to gut sea trout and coalfish, and mend nets and loose deck planks.”
“Sounds like a decent fellow,” Divad offered.
The Leagueman nodded. “He was. Up until I was nine,” he replied cryptically. He then began to wave the viola by its neck, his agitation slightly more manic. “Your students. They’re free to choose whether to go, yes?”
“Of course,” Divad said, tracking the instrument worriedly as the Leagueman began to use it to point around the room.
“What about you,” he said, jabbing the viola toward the Lyren near the doorway. “Nothing preventing you from leaving, is there?”
The Lyren shook their heads rather emphatically.
He turned back to Divad, being sure their eyes locked. Then he raised his arm, and began to swing the viola down toward the workbench. Divad felt that sinking feeling again. His first thought was a random one: that instrument bows were historically a weapon, and how he wished just now he had the former kind. On the heels of that thought, song welled up inside him. It had nearly burst forth when the Leagueman stopped his swing and rolled the viola onto the tabletop. It fell harshly but remained unbroken.
The room hung in a stunned silence at the Leagueman’s forbearance. After a moment he stepped close to Divad, an obvious attempt at intimidation. The smell of rain-soaked wool was strong.
“You don’t recognize me, do you,” the Leagueman said, his voice deep and soft and accusatory.
Divad shook his head. “You have my apology if I should.”
The man leaned in so that his lips were near his ear. Softly, he began to hum a chromatic scale. When he reached the upper end of his middle register, his voice broke over the passagio—the natural transition point in the vocal chord between middle and upper registers. It was a difficult transition to master. But absolutely necessary for advancement at Descant.