Inharmonic (The Music Maker Series Book 1) Page 11

This seemed to give Helaine the confidence she needed.

  “I have a condition of sorts. It’s something which has come down through generations of my family, popping up from time to time. My mother doesn’t have it, but her mother did.”

  “What kind of condition?”

  Helaine took a deep breath. “I can smell sound.”

  Nadja’s eyebrows crept towards her hairline as Helaine’s words hung in the air.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head, trying to collect her thoughts. “What do you mean, ‘smell sound’?”

  “Just that. I can smell sound . . . well music, mostly. Something about music triggers the part of my mind linked to my sense of smell. When I play my violin, for example, I get the distinct scent of rain. For my grandmother, it was her sense of sight. She could see colors in the music. But for me, it’s smell. Violin music smells like rain, and your flute smells like—”

  “Cinnamon apples,” finished Nadja, nodding her head with understanding. “But that’s amazing!”

  “Sometimes. But imagine the rain and cinnamon apple smells mixing with mint, sweet jasmine, smoke, and mushrooms. It can make enjoying certain ensembles, much less playing in them, difficult.”

  “I see what you mean.”

  “I’m just glad your flute has such a nice scent,” said Helaine, smiling once again at Nadja. “I mean, if you had been, say, a trombone player, I would have requested a roommate change.”

  “Why? What do trombones smell like?”

  Helaine’s nose wrinkled. “You don’t want to know.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Nadja, snapping her fingers. “How do you get through the day? I mean, sound is everywhere. Even when you’re alone, there is still the sound of the breeze, or your heartbeat, or even the sound of your clothes rubbing together as you move.”

  “That’s not too much of a problem. Let me think of how to explain this,” Helaine rubbed an index finger back and forth in the space between her lower lip and chin. “Have you ever noticed how some places have particular smells? Like, the copper mine smelled different than our home or even the conservatory.”

  Nadja nodded in understanding.

  “But you stop noticing the smell once you have been there for a while,” continued Helaine. “It’s kind of like that. The smells I get from all the background noise is faint already. And even when they blend into something unpleasant, unless something dramatically changes, I stop noticing it after a while.”

  “That has to be a relief.”

  “It is. And Grandmaster Westbrook has found some resources in the archives which he thinks may help me better manage my condition. We’ll be meeting once a week for what he’s calling ‘personal development.’”

  At that moment, a low rumbling interrupted their conversation.

  Nadja raised an eyebrow and crooked half of a smile as Helaine giggled and squeezed her pillow tighter against her middle.

  “I guess all that talk of cinnamon apples has made my stomach realize how late it’s getting,” Helaine confessed.

  “And all that talk has me wondering what exactly that smelled like,” teased Nadja.

  Helen gasped and hurled the pillow she had been hugging towards Nadja. It limped through the air before landing, rather anticlimactically, on the floor between the two beds. The two of them burst into laughter.

  “Come on,” said Nadja, rising from her bed and heading for the door. “Let’s go see what they’re serving in the dining hall tonight.”

  Chapter 13

  “I overheard one of the expert-level students saying it’s the same every year,” said Helaine.

  Nadja and Helaine made their way down the long hall of doors which marked the living quarters of the conservatory students. On this first day of classes, they, along with every other student, were going back to the Concert Hall for a half-day class conducted by Grandmaster Westbrook. As the dean of the school, most of his duties were outside of teaching. However, his Harmony in Permaculture lecture and workshop was a once-a-year requirement for every student.

  “No wonder they all look so sullen this morning,” replied Nadja.

  “You’d think Grandmaster Westbrook would consider changing things up a bit to keep people interested.”

  “I guess there are only so many ways to say, ‘use your talent wisely.’”

  Helaine glanced at Nadja’s empty hands. “You don’t plan on taking notes?”

  “No. Do you think I should? I thought this was mostly group problem solving and thought experiments.”

  “Oh. Probably not then. I’m always overly prepared for everything, anyway.” Helaine’s notebook was clutched tightly to her chest.

  They paused at the top of the open staircase and gazed at the crowd below. A mass of people funneled into the Concert Hall. One in particular caught Nadja’s eye.

  Unlike the rest of the students who were heading into the hall, Pax leaned against the wall near the entrance door, surveying the crowd as it passed. He appeared to be looking for something, or someone.

  “You know, on second thought,” said Nadja, backing away from the stairs, “it’s better to be overly prepared than under prepared. I’m going back to the room to get my notebook. I’ll catch up with you in a few minutes.”

  “I’ll save you a seat.”

  Nadja retraced their steps and grabbed her notebook. Avoiding Pax wasn’t convenient, but the less contact they had the better. By the time she made it back to the Concert Hall, the entrance was empty, and Pax was nowhere to be found.

  She cracked the door and peered into the hall. The faculty were arranged on the stage much as they had been during the Apprentice Assembly. She scanned the room, looking for Helaine, and spotted the pretty blonde on the opposite side. An empty seat was next to her as promised.

  Nadja slipped through the door and took a few steps towards Helaine before she recognized the man seated behind that empty seat. Pax. Nadja’s hands clenched. That man was relentless.

  She knew her shy roommate would miss her bolstering presence during the class. Sending Helaine a mental apology, Nadja sank into a seat near the door just as Grandmaster Westbrook’s calming voice silenced the hum of the crowd.

  “For over a thousand years, growth, development, and change in Amrantir have all been driven by the way we as a people interact with and utilize music. While our neighbors in Grenyan to the west of us, and our neighbors in Pantomaria to the east of us have developed along a different path, music is the constant around which we define ourselves as a society.

  “But, this was not always the case. There was a time, long before even your great-great-great-grandparents took their first breaths, that the music of man resided exclusively in the realm of art. It wasn’t until an ancient race known as the Mevocali befriended Man, and taught him how the properties of music and sound can interact with nature to great effect, that the destiny of our people began to change.

  “The Mevocali had the ability to alter the world around them through the means of song. Like us, Mevocali could manipulate the natural world. But, their talent reached deeper than that. They could also heal physical wounds as well as mental ones. This vocal talent was passed through bloodlines, and therefore, not something which could be taught. And though every Mevocali carried the seed of that talent within themselves, that seed did not sprout and bloom in each offspring. Those whose gift did not manifest often applied their knowledge of the science of music to playing instruments. Eventually, the Mevocali instrumentalists saw fit to share their skills and knowledge of instrumental music-making with Man.

  “There is a stained glass panel which hangs in the ceiling above the atrium. You apprentices may have noticed it upon your arrival, and some of you older students may pass beneath it every day, hardly seeing it at all anymore. The next time any of you chances to enter the atrium, I encourage you to look up. For in that scene you will see depicted the moment the destiny of Amrantir changed. You will see a Mevocali and a Man, palm to palm, a symbol of the sharing
of knowledge and skill. The beginning of a mutually beneficial and supportive relationship.

  “Master musicians, as the instrumentalists are now called, concentrated their efforts in the stewardship of natural resources. They focused on things like farming, fishing, and mining. They manipulated the weather, diverted insect plagues, and broke ground. At the same time, the Mevocali, whose blood right was made manifest, utilized their skills as healers and counselors. They tended to wounds, counseled the hurt and grieving, and presented a calming influence in times of trial.

  “For hundreds of years, Man and Mevocali coexisted peacefully using their combined talents to improve the world around them. But, little more than two hundred years ago, their relationship crumbled.

  “The Mevocali’s abilities started to grow and change. A new generation emerged who had the talent to do more than influence the mood of those around them. Some were soon able to alter perception and even insert concrete thoughts into the consciousness of individuals.

  “As the new Mevocali skills emerged, so too did their new malcontent. No longer happy living in peace with the rest of Amrantir, they sought to dominate it. Since the uniqueness of the Mevocali’s talent rested in their ability to heal, dozens of deaths from illness and injury were linked to Mevocali apathy and the desire to subdue Man.

  “Man was not without fault, however. Across the land, Mevocali mind control became the most claimed defense in crimes ranging from petty theft to murder. It was impossible for Man to know whom amongst themselves to trust. Everyone was at equal risk of falling under Mevocali influence.

  “The people viewed this mind manipulation as an act of war. Under the leadership of the Venerable Siris Cullen, Man carried out a preemptive strike against the Mevocali. Complete and utter annihilation of all Mevocali was deemed the only definitive solution. All other options led only to the eventual subjugation, enslavement, and the possible end of Man.

  “The initial strike was well coordinated and perfectly timed. The Mevocali were neither great in number, nor skilled in fighting. Most died during the first strike. However, a small group managed to escape and fled for the eastern border of Amrantir.

  “Siris Cullen and his army caught up with them in the Gardens of Annuay. It was on that spot where a great battle ensued. Cullen commanded his master musicians to attack the Mevocali with full force, without regard for the land around them. Through the din of battle, plants and animals alike fell victim to the conflict. The natural passage of seasons increased at an alarming rate, causing full cycles to repeat in a matter of moments. Some master musicians attacked with floodwaters pulled from the earth and sky, while others upturned the ground in an attempt to bury their foe.

  “In the end, the Mevocali were defeated—their existence extinguished forever. Man had won the day and our continued survival but at great price to the land. The once lush and thriving Gardens of Annuay lay in chaos and ruin. The delicate balance which was once the foundation of a thriving ecosystem was destroyed along with the enemy, never to be restored.

  “Today the land upon which the Gardens of Annuay once flourished is known as Cullen’s Waste. Let it stand as the prime example of what can happen when our skills are used in a free and reckless manner. Regardless of the grim state of our circumstances, we must maintain a balance between what needs to be done to solve our problems, and the effect those changes will have on the natural world.

  “Perhaps Siris Cullen could have accomplished his goal with a more tactical solution. Perhaps not. But never let it be said that you do not understand how your future actions may impact our world. The stronger you grow in your abilities, the more responsibility you have as a steward of them.

  “Are there questions?” he asked, his eyes sweeping over the crowd.

  “Some say the Mevocali weren’t totally defeated. That some survived,” a man called out from the middle of the room.

  Grandmaster Westbrook chuckled. “There are also some who say Siris Cullen rode into battle on the back of a great winged beast with three heads and eyes blazing with fire. I am afraid neither is true.” His eyes softened. “Whether for good or ill, the last of the Mevocali were destroyed that day.”

  When no further questions were offered, Grandmaster Westbrook began rearranging the papers on his podium, and the crowd resumed its low murmur.

  The story told by the dean was as familiar to Nadja as her own reflection, but it wasn’t the whole story. A niggling worm of irritation began in her belly and wriggled upward. The consequences of that battle stretched beyond the land of Cullen’s Waste, consequences which were of a personal nature to Nadja, yet Grandmaster Westbrook had neglected to mention them. The annoyed little worm worked its way into her throat, and before Nadja could swallow it down, she opened her mouth and released it.

  “What of the other people?” she called out.

  The crowd hushed, and a hundred heads turned to face her. Nadja’s own face grew hot as she immediately regretted calling attention to herself.

  Grandmaster Westbrook’s eyes searched the crowd for the source of the question. “To which people are you referring?”

  Nadja chose her words carefully. “If the Gardens of Annuay were once as fertile as you say, there must have been people living there. What happened to them?”

  The dean’s eyes found hers at that moment, and his understanding nod was accompanied by a sad smile. “Ahh. An excellent question. Your assumption that the region was once populated is correct.”

  He turned his attention back to the crowd. “In the months following the Battle at Annuay, as the once green and abundant gardens gave way to the barren and desolate Waste, most of the inhabitants moved west and settled in other regions of Amrantir. All except for one group.

  “The small border village of Dunnan was the site of the Battle at Annuay. The few hundred villagers who lived there bore witness to the battle itself and saw firsthand the effects of music used as warfare. Escaping to a place of safety before the battle ensued, they watched their homes and lands destroyed in a matter of minutes. In the end, the Dunnans abandoned all music-making and fled Cullen’s Waste in search of a new home.

  “But, choosing to turn their backs on the foundation of the Amrantirian way of life made them outliers. Unable to reintegrate comfortably into a society with whom they held fundamentally opposing core beliefs, the Dunnans adopted a nomadic lifestyle, always moving from place to place, and never staying long in any one location. And now, over two hundred years later, they are still moving, though they have long since lost the Dunnan moniker. Today, they are known as the Wanderers.

  “So you see, the price of the abuse of the master musicians’ talents has a long-lasting effect on not only the land, but the people as well.”

  The grandmaster looked back at Nadja with kindness in his eyes. “I hope that answers your question.”

  Nadja nodded dumbly, and the dean resumed shuffling his papers.

  The crowd’s attention having mercifully turned away from her, Nadja sunk into her seat. She lowered her head and pretended to write in her notebook. Only when Grandmaster Westbrook began the next part of his lecture did she lift her eyes. A tingling on the right side of her face and neck pulled her chin in the same direction. She turned her head and her muscles stiffened.

  On the opposite side of the room, a pair of narrowed, stormy-blue eyes gazed back at her, probing, studying. Pax’s brow was furrowed as if working through a puzzle. Then, in an instant, his face relaxed and his tight lips melted into a crooked smile. Nadja sucked in her breath when he winked at her before turning his face and attention back to the lecture.

  After watching him for a moment to ensure he wasn’t going to resume his unwanted study of her, Nadja let out the breath she’d been holding. If she wasn’t more careful, Pax would be an even bigger problem than she’d anticipated.

  Chapter 14

  The ethereal tone floated over the class, leaving a hint of melancholy in its wake. Nadja shifted in the uncomfortable wooden chair,
craning her neck to get a better view of the glass. The movement caused her face to prickle with warmth. The crisp autumn air had led her to choose a seat on the left side of the building near the forge’s hearth, which glowed red with coals ready to spring to life with a touch of the bellows. But, that position made it difficult to see her instructor.

  Grandmaster Rafe Gilmoren, the conservatory’s metal craftsman in residence, was, by all accounts, a short man. His ebony skin, already smudged with soot in some places, only seemed to camouflage him more in the early-morning shadows. His stocky frame, made thick and hard by decades of metalwork, hunched over a dainty stemmed glass. He extended one beefy finger. His hands looked like they could snap a man’s neck in a matter of seconds. But instead, that one finger drew a delicate circle around the rim of the glass producing the sad sound.

  “Resonant frequency.” Grandmaster Gilmoren’s deep and sandpapery voice interrupted the movement of his finger. His long braided beard, which matched the color of his skin, bobbed up and down as he spoke. “Everything has one. Resonant frequency is an object’s natural frequency, or vibration. It’s based on the object’s physical attributes. And what is sound?” He looked out over the forge floor, surveying the apprentices who were seated in pairs at tables arranged in a sort of ordered chaos.

  As his gaze passed over the table claimed by Nadja and Helaine, Nadja was startled to see a pair of emerald-green eyes shining out from under his heavy, dark brows. They were identical to her own. Until that moment, she had never seen anyone with eyes like hers. Of course, she’d spent most of her life in the relative exclusivity of the Wanderers, so there were probably others. But something about this shared trait piqued her curiosity.

  “Come on. Anyone?” bellowed the grandmaster, jerking Nadja from her thoughts and back to the task at hand.

  A voice piped up from somewhere to her right. “Sound is . . . one or many tones which we sense with our ears.”

  “No.”