Inharmonic (The Music Maker Series Book 1) Read online

  They approached the back entrance and Pax held open the door, ushering his companions into the conservatory and out of the cold.

  “May I help you carry your bags, or has your escort already taken care of that?” Petrin asked Helaine as they filed in.

  “Oh, no. Nadja and I still have Music History to attend before we’re finished with classes,” said Helaine.

  “That’s right . . .” replied Petrin.

  “But I need to drop off the violoma in my room before heading that way.” Helaine gestured to the instrument tucked under Petrin’s arm.

  “No problem. I can carry it up for you.” Petrin smiled, obviously glad to have an excuse to spend a few more minutes in Helaine’s company. He said a brief farewell to Nadja and Pax and followed Helaine.

  “And you need to take this,” said Nadja, handing Pax the gale harp.

  Pax opened his mouth to protest, but Nadja cut him off. “I know you are on your way to Wood Craft, and I think Grandmaster Drake would like to see what you’ve been working on.” Pax’s skill was inarguable. She wanted someone else to affirm that before he left to spend two weeks with a father and brother who discouraged his passion.

  Pax took the gale harp without further protest.

  “I don’t like you being here alone for the holiday,” he said, dropping the corners of his mouth into a frown.

  “I’ll be fine,” replied Nadja. “Other than visiting my uncle, I have no reason to leave the grounds.” Except for when I go down to the wharf for training. “Grandmaster Kero has assigned me extra reading over the break, so I’ll probably spend most of my time in the Archives. There’s not much trouble I can get into down there.”

  “But you’ll be traveling to and from your uncle’s home. There won’t be anyone around to accompany you.” Then, as if struck with an idea, he said, “I’ll stick around here. I promise not to be in your way, but if you need to go anywhere, I can make sure you get there safely.”

  “Oh, no you don’t,” snapped Nadja. “You’re going home to spend time with your family. Don’t try to use me as an excuse to get out of it.”

  Pax’s eyes grew stormy, so she softened her tone before continuing. “You need to see them. Whatever disagreement you may have with your father and brother, this may be the perfect time to work through it.” She placed a hand lightly on his chest. “Go home, Pax. I’ll be fine. I promise.”

  He reached up and placed his hand on top of hers, giving her fingers a squeeze. Nadja felt his heartbeat under her palm, and for a moment they stood in silence, locked in one another’s gaze.

  When Nadja realized her own heartbeat was vying for her attention, she shook her head, breaking the trance, and slipped her hand away from his.

  “All right,” Pax sighed, defeated. He turned and strode down the hallway towards the wood shop.

  Nadja watched his back. As he turned and disappeared from sight, she felt a tight, tugging sensation in her chest. She was surprised to realize how much she was going to miss him.

  Chapter 22

  The conservatory was eerily quiet as Nadja wound her way up and down the infinite stacks of books, scores, and sheet music which stretched from floor to ceiling in the underground labyrinth that was the Archives. The vast information repository, though much warmer than the weather outside, retained a slight chill, even in the summer months. She’d been told the constant temperature aided in the preservation of the texts and was one of the main reasons the Archives had been constructed underneath the conservatory.

  About a week had passed since classes had ended, and the Candlefire Celebration was in full swing. Even the Archives, though tucked out of sight from most of the population, did its part to embrace the festivities. Though food and drink were strictly forbidden among the shelves, a small table of treats was set up in the entryway. Nadja could still taste the deliciously sweet walnut tart she’d gobbled up on her way in.

  The fireplaces dotting the perimeter of the room blazed brightly, inviting visitors to enjoy the reading nooks which were arranged in front of them. These fireplaces were only in the sections which housed the newer books and music. Some of the older materials were too fragile to handle the warmer temperatures. In the older sections, hundreds of tiny candles arrayed the tables, creating an inviting feeling without the heat. Each candle wore a small glass shade, should some engrossed researcher get his ancient manuscript too close to the flames.

  In the days following the break in classes, Nadja read her way through Pantomaria: Our Neighbor to the East. It wasn’t the most interesting read, but it gave her insight into the culture and musical foundations of the country lying just beyond the Waste. She hoped the other two books would be more interesting.

  Nadja slowed her pace and faced one of the shelves, running her finger along the book spines.

  Fe . . . Fi . . . Fl . . . Fo. Folk. There it was, Folk Tunes of the Northern Realms. She lifted the heavy tome from the shelf. It contained not only histories and descriptions of folk tunes from Pantomaria, Grenyan, and Amrantir, but the latter half held a collection of every song mentioned in the first half.

  She lugged it over to a long wooden table and set it down. Having just plodded her way through one boring book, she debated starting another one so soon. After eyeballing the volume before her, she decided to seek out Musica Antiqua and Other Lost Arts and compare the two. She left the book on the table and followed the signs towards the M’s.

  The smell of paper permeated the air, and Nadja sniffed the pleasant aroma. Cheery lanterns placed at regular intervals made up for the lack of windows. And, though the Archives was spotless, each beam of light revealed a ballet of fiber and dust motes leaping and twirling through the air.

  Before long, she found herself strolling along shelf after shelf of M books. This section was much bigger than the F’s, but it wasn’t difficult to locate the specific book she was after. She slipped Musica Antiqua from its place on the shelf and returned to the table to compare it with her other option.

  A quick skim of each book easily determined her choice. While Folk Tunes was formatted as a reference book, Musica Antiqua was more of a narrative. Musica Antiqua it was. She hefted the weighty Folk Tunes and replaced it in the F section, then made her way to one of the reading nooks.

  At once she was swept away into a tale of the ancient civilizations of the northern realms. She read about how the music of Grenyan and Pantomaria developed independently of each other, from unsophisticated, yet intentional tribal tunes into more structured systems, with rules and constants. She was surprised to learn the ancient peoples of Amrantir were Grenyan immigrants who crossed the Viridian Mountains thousands of years ago before the mountain range became impassable. But it was the stories of the Mevocali which truly captured her attention.

  “The Mevocali, Amrantir’s original inhabitants, were well settled when the first Grenyans arrived. They lived in the northern part of the Seven Steppes, and went undiscovered by Amrantir’s newest inhabitants for hundreds of years until population growth and expansion forced the two societies into acquaintance. After a brief period of unrest and distrust between the two groups, an era of peace blossomed.

  “Naturally, intermarriage between the two people groups began to occur. However, if a Mevocali and a Grenyan native joined, their union came at a cost. Any offspring produced from such a match had as much potential of manifesting the vocal abilities inherent to the Mevocali people as any pure-blooded child. Thus, the Grenyan parent and all children which followed were bound to the Mevocali for the rest of their lives, living as they did and adopting their culture and tradition.

  “Since their vocal abilities could emerge at any age, it was important for Mevocali children to be surrounded by other members of their race. Children and young adults in whom the vocal gift manifested trained to control and properly use their gifts. Failure to gain control had the potential to carry with it devastating results. Infant and very early developers were sequestered from the rest of the population and ha
ndled by specially trained Singers until such a time as they were deemed mature enough to begin training.”

  Nadja continued reading about how the Grenyan and Mevocali approaches to music gradually melded to form the music of modern-day Amrantir. She read in detail about the early master musicians, and how the skill passed from the Mevocali instrumentalists to the men and women of the new Amrantir. Her mood darkened as she read about the emergence of new Mevocali skills and the uprising of Man against them. She could hear Grandmaster Westbrook’s low tenor reading the words aloud in her head. It was just as he described.

  “And so the Mevocali disappeared from existence. But, can it really be so? Can a civilization once as mighty and flourishing as theirs truly be gone? As with all ancient stories, rumors and fantastical tales have been woven among and around the truth, picking and choosing what to remember and what to discard. Herein I have presented the facts as I know them. Any further suppositions are of your own doing.”

  Nadja rubbed her eyes. Looking back down at the pages before her, she was surprised to see she had already read through half of the book. She stood up from the deep and cushiony chair and stretched. She needed a break, and if her stomach was any indication, a meal as well. She tucked the book under her arm and left the Archives, pausing just long enough to grab another walnut tart on her way out.

  She stopped by the dining hall and picked up a plate of food to carry back to her room. Boiled chicken and potatoes, a roll, and a chunk of cheese. With most of the students away, and the conservatory minimally staffed during the holiday, the food and service reflected the temporary downgrade in circumstances.

  Nadja munched on her roll and cheese as she made her way back upstairs. She had taken a few steps into her room when her boot crunched over something. She looked down and found a letter under foot. It must have been slipped under her door while she was in the Archives. She set her plate and book on the small table and then bent to retrieve the paper.

  “Miss Machinal,

  Many happy wishes of the season to you. I have it on good authority you are in town for this year’s Candlefire Celebration, and I have something of importance to discuss with you. Please stop by and see me at your earliest convenience.

  Warmth and light,

  Morris Alrhen”

  It was disarming how that funny little man always seemed to know her business. Still, he had been nothing but kind to her, and the letter piqued her curiosity. She glanced at the table. She would pay him a visit that very afternoon. The rest of her reading could wait until later. Her food, however, could not.

  The streets of Cantio were decorated with the warmth and welcome inherent in the Candlefire Celebration. Smoke billowed from every chimney top. Flickering candle flames in every single window of buildings both public and private watched passersby like friendly sprites. Swaths of evergreen bundles draped over doorways and rails, along rooftops and footpath borders, accented with ribbons of purple and gold.

  Those decorations which were exposed would soon be covered in more than a dusting of white, if Nadja was reading the sky correctly. The clouds hung dark and low with the promise, or threat, depending on who you were asking, of Cantio’s first snow of the season. She hoped she would make it to The Broken Chord and back before it started.

  For all of her layers, she still felt naked as she walked through the market district. She was thankful her uncle had insisted on including several pairs of pants in her wardrobe. Circumstances now necessitated their use, at least outside the safety of the conservatory. And she knew she wasn’t actually naked. A quick peek down confirmed that. The tightly woven wool pants did well keeping her warm, tucked into the tops of her boots. But there was something about them which made her feel both liberated and vulnerable at the same time.

  She made her way along the busy market streets, leaning against her blowpipe. At her most recent training session, Wheedler noted the blowpipe, much like a staff, could easily be hidden in plain sight if used as a walking stick. Unlike the staff, her blowpipe could be broken down and stored in a small pack. But, since it had only been a few weeks since her escape from the Wanderer scouts, she felt it best to keep her weapon at the ready.

  She reached Morris’s shop without incident and let herself in. The now familiar and quirky interior was a welcoming sight. The tinkle of the little brass bell did its best to proclaim her entrance, but it was lost to the conversation Nadja heard coming from the general direction of the workbench. With no desire to interrupt the other customers, Nadja chose the left path this time, leisurely investigating a section of the shop which, until now, had remained unexplored.

  As she wound her way along the path, a man’s voice morphed from a muddled murmur into something intelligible.

  “There have always been stories of them popping up from time to time further south, you know. But now people are saying they may already be all over Cantio, and we just haven’t realized it.”

  “Stories, stories. People do love a good story. Keeps things interesting.” Nadja recognized Morris’s voice.

  “But what if they ain’t just stories?” asked a woman, lowering her voice excitedly. “What if it’s all true?”

  Nadja stilled behind a giant pile of reeds and strained to listen as the woman continued.

  “Just last week Finley Doveshill was arrested for stealing five hundred gold pieces from Shep’s Pawn. Claims he didn’t do it, but they have witnesses who say they saw him creeping out of the shop in the wee hours of the morning. And no one has seen bit nor bauble of that gold.”

  “He’s probably hidden it away somewhere,” said the man.

  “Naw,” said the woman. “He’s as law-abiding as they come. Stealing’s not in his nature.”

  “Perhaps not. Gambling is, if other stories are true,” said Morris.

  “I say gambling and stealing are two different things,” proclaimed the woman. “As sure as I’m alive and standing here, ol’ Finny wouldn’t steal unless he was under the influence of some evil persons.”

  “Even if he was ‘under the influence,’ there’s nothing we can do about it,” said the man.

  “And why not?” asked the woman, her voice rising in pitch and volume. “I say we root them out. All of them. Have every person in Amrantir pass a test or something. Any true citizen would be proud to prove they are a real Amrantirian.”

  “What kind of test would you propose?” asked Morris.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said the woman. “Some say they all carry a special mark on their bodies. If we could learn what that mark is, finding them would be easy.”

  “Still just more stories and hearsay,” said Morris.

  “What if we could identify them,” said the man. “Then what? What would we do?”

  “I say we lay them to rest with their ancestors!” exclaimed the woman. “There’s no telling what damage they’ve already done with their mind manipulation.”

  “You would have them all killed?” asked the man. “Not exiled, or something less brutal?”

  The woman’s voice lowered once more. “There were good reasons they were eliminated in the first place, and Amrantir has been better for it these past few hundred years. What would you do, Master Alrhen, if one of them came into your shop?”

  “Considering I’m just an old man who specializes in repairing instruments, I don’t see my services being sought out to fix a broken voice box.” Morris chuckled. “And speaking of repairing instruments, here is your dulcimer, pegs intact and freshly strung.”

  “Beautiful,” gushed the woman.

  “A job well done, as always,” said the man. “There’s no one else who does as high quality work as you.”

  Nadja heard the chink of coins being placed on the counter.

  “My pleasure,” replied Morris. “Just be sure to use a proper mount if you insist on hanging it from a wall.”

  Nadja noted the familiar shuffle of Morris’s feet fading away towards the back of the shop.

  “Yes, yes, lesson l
earned,” said the woman.

  “And give my best to your family,” Morris called out as the couple departed down Nadja’s usual route of choice.

  No sooner had the bell signaled their exit than Nadja heard Morris’s footsteps returning followed by a clunk of something hard striking the worktable.

  “So glad you got my letter,” he called out.

  Nadja bit her lip and emerged from her hiding place, a sheepish look on her face. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” she said.

  “Of course you didn’t.”

  “I mean, I didn’t want to interrupt your conversation.” She hesitantly approached the worktable.

  Morris’s eyes twinkled at her. “Observation and discretion are rare but precious gifts.” He gave her a nod and a wink. “Gifts! Yes, and so I have one for you.”

  He reached down and grabbed a cloth lying across the worktable, yanking it away with a flourish.

  Underneath the cloth lay a shiny silver rod. Nadja recognized it at once as a blowpipe, but one unlike any she had ever seen. Decorative details were etched into the metal on either end of the pipe while the middle remained smooth and glinted with an almost mirror finish. Padded leather grips, about two hands in width, wrapped around the barrel on opposite ends between the etchings and the middle.

  Without thinking, Nadja reached out to pick up the blowpipe, then stopped, her hand hovering over the barrel.

  “May I?” she asked, wide eyed.

  Morris smiled. “Of course.”

  Nadja grasped one of the leather grips and hefted the blowpipe, surprised at its weight.

  “It’s so light,” she said incredulously.

  “It’s a new metal I’ve been playing with. Recently discovered in Grenyan. Lev—Levi-something-or-other. Managed to get a sample brought up from a friend. Helps to know people, you know. It’s lightweight and alloys beautifully with steel. I believe you’ll find this one to be much stronger than your wooden one, but just as light.”