The Auridium Harp

Namillier had throbbed with the sound of Chords. City of the floating boroughs, Diamond of the Serine Sea, Queen of Gold, Pinnacle of Beauty, Seat of the Lord Iriwani.

Namillier was dead; dead as a body without a soul, dead like a harp with the strings plucked out. Oh, there were people in it still. But a greyness had settled on them, a weight and a dullness that had nothing to do with bright clothes – they still wore them – or laughter – they still smiled – or good food, or decoration, or anything else. It was a loss of tone, for the music of Namillier had been extinguished, and all the subtle chords and sweet vibrations that had passed throughout the city were gone, completely gone, and without their inspiration, it was doubtful anyone could bring them back.

Faeori the Airwalker planned to alter this. He entered the city quietly in the evening, the sky dark behind him, the sun before him dazzling his eyes.

“Name,” asked the guard at the gate dully.

“I am Faeori, a musician,” said Faeori. “I’m chasing the sun. I’m going to be in this city for some time; or perhaps I’ll leave again tomorrow. Who knows?”

Faeori had a musical voice that throbbed with the power of the Chords. The guard woke up just a bit, but he heard in Faeori’s voice a truthfulness and, above it, a regality and depth of personality. Faeori’s voice was amazing.

“Mm,” the guard said suspiciously. “I don’t know. There’s types of music that have been banned here since the Takat took over. Silver Chords. They suck your brain, make you a zombie, so they say.”

“Silver Chords of the moon,” said Faeori. “Beautiful music; beautiful and dangerous. Very much both. I wouldn’t say it makes you a zombie; that’s putting it too crassly. You have never heard Silver Chords?”

“Y-you h-have?” asked the guard in surprise and fear. “And you’re alive?”

“They are… captivating. Yes, those who know the Silver Chords have great power. But they’re not the horrible mind-suckers the Takat make them out to be. Still, I wouldn’t want to be under their power.”

“Wow…” said the guard. “I guess… well, just sign your name here. Name and profession.” Faeori signed his name. “I guess… good luck?”

“Thank-you,” said Faeori. “May God be with you.”

“God?” laughed the guard. “I wish.”

“Hey musician!” called over another guard: this one wearing the livery of a low-level Takat Gendarme. He sat with a group of similar companions; they were apparently the occupier’s muscle to back up the local leader’s decisions.

“You can play us some music?” asked the Takat Gendarme, but it was not a request. Quietly, Faeori sat down across from the Gendarmes and pulled his harp from his bag.

“Damn,” said one of the guards, “Harps are boring! You have anything good to play? A real tune, to lift the spirits!”

“Harps are very versatile,” said Faeori quietly. “If you want a rousing ditty, this harp can give it to you.”

Faeori felt the harp, plucked a few strings with his left hand while he carefully tuned it with his right. Suddenly, a Chord rang out – the Ultimate Chord of Truth. The guards stared, mesmerized.

Faeori plucked a few more strings, feeling his heart pound as the Chords rang true. His harp was tuned.

The Chords always terrified him; gave him a sense of things beyond his comprehension. They were based, founded, saturated in the divine. To Faeori at least, the Chords were both awful and awesome at the same time.

The auridium harp sang like a dancing ocean; the song made of mingling Chords leapt and capered like an avalanche or a royal procession of victory, and the Takat Gendarmes were overwhelmed and smothered. They wanted a song, and Faeori gave it to them.

He filled them with heat and fervor; with a love of life and a burning passion that it continue unmarred. Faeori wove pure feeling into sound and gave it the power of a hurricane. When he played the closing Chord – it had taken much study to learn that one – the Gendarmes all stared at him open mouthed. The gate-guard, along with his relief, stood side-by side, their hands clasped to their chests in postures of supplication.

No-one made a sound, as the resonances of Faeori’s Chords rolled around the gateway and dissipated into the city beyond.

“Good-night, gentlemen,” said Faeori quietly. He had to control his voice, since he himself was shaken by his own music. He always was.

“Well, damn!” said one of the guards.

Hlestechanna was a blacksmith and, as such, he worked near the edges of the industrial sector of the city. His job had changed dramatically within his lifetime, altered from a “horse mechanic” and maker of metal tools to someone who fixed machine parts. Three days a week, Hlestechanna spent the afternoon in the factories, helping the Takat mechanics with their repairs.

This particular evening was one of these. There had been complex soldering work, and three times the Takat mechanic had thrown up her hands in despair, pronouncing him a hopeless case. “Stupid, clumsy ham-fingered man! None of you understand finesse, and you never will.” In addition to being universally racist, Takat were all sexist, regardless of their gender.

Hlestechanna was so wrapped up in his brooding that he did not see the man standing at his own front door until they nearly collided. Hlestechanna glared at him from under dark brows. The man was tall, with dark blond hair, slightly tan skin and deep, black eyes. He wore a dull green cloak over bright blue tunic and dark green trousers. He carried a very large satchel with great care.

“Good evening,” said the man. “I’m Faeori, a musician. I’ve decided to spend some time in Namillier, and I was wondering if I could pass the night under your roof.”

Hlestechanna frowned deeply. “I have no need for musicians,” he growled.

“Musicians are as unnecessary as blacksmiths,” said Faeori. The only truly essential job is that of farmer and construction worker. Everything else is embellishment.”

Hlestechanna frowned even more deeply upon hearing this, but he could think of no ready reply.

“The difference between musicians and blacksmiths,” said Hlestechanna slowly, “is that musicians are vagabonds. I have children, and would like them to associate with decent people.”

“That is commendable,” said Faeori. “You know nothing of who I am; you are within your rights to play it safe with me. Good evening to you, and may God bless your family!”

“God!” laughed Hlestechanna, “God! That’s as likely as a walking fish. I thank you anyway, though.”

“Jann!” A woman opened Hlestechanna’s door and stepped out. “Jann, who is that?”

He’s a musician,” said Hlestechanna grimly.

“A musician!” cried Hlestechanna’s wife. “Well, ask him in! Come in, come in! There’s plenty of room for you by the fire, and I’ll be getting you a bowl of something hot to warm your insides. Then maybe you can play something for my Jenny!”

Hlestechanna glared at his wife. Pulling her into the doorway, they whispered heatedly together. Finally, Hlestechanna offered his hand to Faeori.

“Well, musician,” he grunted, “I guess you’ll be staying under my roof after all.”

Hlestechanna’s family was small, for being a successful blacksmith. His only son, Flinsteranna, the eldest, took after his father. His two youngest daughters were both also like their father; silent, pensive, and calm. The second child, however, was a different story.

Slestechennie, or Jenny, was a fair-haired girl with dancing eyes. She had once been a healthy child, Faeori was told. But just six months ago, she had come down with a wasting illness. Exactly what it was, no-one could tell them. They were at the end of hope.

“And why do you think I can help?” Faeori asked.

“You know the Chords,” whispered Hlestechanna’s wife. “Don’t deny it. I have seen it in you. The Chords are our last hope. They have done miracles before.”

Faeori was silent for a long time, as the entire family – Jenny included – stared intently at his face. Finally, he spoke.

“If she is healed,” said Faeori, “it is by God’s grace alone, and no talent of mine. The Chords are His power, and I am as much a vessel of it as my harp.”

Slowly, Faeori drew his auridium harp from his satchel. Slowly, he plucked and tugged at the harp’s cords, bringing them to a perfect pitch.

Faeori began to play. Most of the chords in it were not terribly advanced; his tune relied on the Fourth Chord actually.

The tune was gentle and full of vigor, and Faeori poured his heart into it. He was not sure what Jenny’s ailment was, nor did he know how to find out, which made the healing more difficult. But it worked.

It worked on the whole family, actually. Although Faeori played in Jenny’s general direction, the whole family could hear his music. Minor injuries healed, old aches faded away, muscles strengthened and sinews thickened. By the end of his song, the whole house vibrated with vitality; with energy that is more than strength and with a fitness that is more than health.

Jenny slowly sat up and grinned at her family. “I feel like I was forged anew,” she said, grinning. Her voice was strong and full of life.

Ikkarine was exhausted after a long week of work. Her job was a terrible one; as a Takat factory mechanic, she was required to work all day in a sweltering building, in dim light, surrounded by the low-class nobodies who worked the machines and assisted by unskilled buffoons. And to think – this was the job she had wanted all her life, the job she had schemed and slaved to get. Woman mechanics were rare, even among the relatively egalitarian Takat. But this had been Ikkarine’s dream.

Why did it seem like this was not what she wanted?

Ikkarine made her own food, mostly; she sometimes bought it at the inns, but she did not like to frequent the inns of Namillier. They were dirty places, she thought, with dirty people in them.

She was approaching her favorite vegetable stall when she nearly collided with someone walking the other way. He was a man; strikingly tall, with light brown hair and tan skin of a similar hue. He wore a dull green cloak that obscured his face; much brighter clothing peeped beneath it. He carried an enormous satchel. Although Ikkarine had been bowled over by the violence of their meeting, Faeori did not seem perturbed.

“Watch where you’re going, you lump of turd!” growled Ikkarine. Faeori offered her his hand, but she ignored it, scrambling to her feet on her own.

“I’m sorry,” said Faeori. “Do accept my apologies.”

“Oh, go to hell,” Ikkarine growled.

“I don’t think I will,” Faeori replied.

Ikkarine barked a short laugh. “You’re not really sorry. You’re just chivalrous.”

“You say that as though it’s a bad thing.”

Ikkarine said nothing for a moment. “It’s a meaningless way you men all act. It’s just a surface politeness. It doesn’t mean a thing.”

Faeori cocked his head. “I always thought it was a sign of respect.”

At this point they had moved to the side of the street, out of the way of shoppers. Ikkarine didn’t know why she was even still talking with this man. She didn’t know that Faeori’s voice, through almost a century of singing Chords, had been morphed by them until his every word was almost a Chord itself.

“It’s a good thing there are women in the world,” said Ikkarine. “Without women, there would be no human race.”

“Without men, there would be no human race,” said Faeori. “Each is necessary.”

“Some are more necessary than others,” said Ikkarine.

“In what way?” Faeori asked.

Ikkarine was silent for a moment. “Women are smarter than men.”

“On the contrary, men and women think differently. What is easy to one is hard to the other, and vice versa.”

“Women are gentler than men. We can do detail work more easily.”

“That is true. But men are stronger than women. Where you have gentleness, we have brute force.”

Ikkarine thought she finally had her weakness. “Men cause wars,” she said. “Women are more likely to be diplomatic.”

“This is true. But men are more likely to be steady and unyielding. They do not compromise as easily, and will rush in when it seems foolish – and yet is necessary.”

“That doesn’t apply to all men!” said Ikkarine indignantly.

“Nor do your statements apply to all individual women, either. We’ve been dealing in generalizations. But every person is unique.”

“I just -” Ikkarine stopped. “I wanted to change the world – bring women forward. We were unequal,” she said. “We still are. But I was going too far in the other direction, I think. I wanted us to dominate.”

“You can’t change the world,” said Faeori. “But you can change yourself. That’s where it starts. Good day, and may God be with you.”

Ikkarine almost objected – she was an ardent atheist, like most Takat – but bit her tongue.

“Good luck,” she said, instead.

Tavy bent carefully over her microscope. Moving the minuscule blade with greatest care, she painstakingly subdivided the ground water lily’s root into exactly the right size chunks. A single grain would alter the memory potion; even a little more or less and it would be changed beyond recognition.

Memories were fascinating. Two people could look at exactly the same event and derive drastically different memories. That was why Tavy’s work was so hard. She was essentially creating memories backwards. The potions she made would build up the memory of an actual event from that person’s perspective. The ingredients determined their perspective on the memory; what the memory actually consisted of was determined by their perspective.

Having gained the precise amount she wanted, Tavy carefully scraped it into the pot. The water lily added a small element of boredom, and was possibly the most pivotal part. Hopefully, her subject would remember how, due to boredom, he decided to get up and walk around.

As soon as her potion had come to a boil, Tavy took it carefully off the fire. She took a small sample in a teaspoon and poured it into a bottle of fine wine. This wine, meant as a gift for the Ambassador of Serive who was visiting the city, would serve as a fine medium for conveying the potion. In addition, the wine’s idea of time passed would mesh well with the overall perspective the Serivin Ambassador was supposed to get: a debt needed to be repaid.

Tavy hid the bottle of wine in her healer’s satchel and stepped out of her rented room at the Three-Poster Inn. Posing as a traveling healer easily masked Tavy’s true identity by allowing her to gather and carry various herbs without arousing suspicion.

The inn’s main floor was nearly empty; normal for this time of day. The only occupant was a tall man in an old, green cloak.

As Tavy hurried towards the door, Faeori stood up. They reached the door at about the same time, and Tavy quickly stood back.

“No,” said Faeori, “after you.”

“No,” said Tavy quickly. “You first.”

“If we argue, we’ll be here all day,” said Faeori. “And I know you want to deliver your potions as soon as possible. As for me, I’m in no particular hurry.”

“You mean remedies,” said Tavy. “Healers don’t make potions.”

“Forgive me,” said Faeori. “I thought you made Memorie.”

Tavy caught her breath. “Yes… how did you know? I don’t remember ever meeting you before.”

“I’m Faeori,” he said. “In the same way you are a mixer of herbs, I’m a musician.”

“A player of Chords,” Tavy elaborated.

“I’m following the sun. I may leave here this evening… I may stay a year or more.”

“You’re foolish to give away your identity,” said Tavy. “The Takat kill your kind. Their Dyschord Drums will nullify your powers, and you will have your head cut off.”

“The Takat fear the abilities of those who influence the mind. But they have destroyed much that is both beautiful and beneficial.”

Tavy shrugged. “There’s nothing much anyone can do about it.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” said Faeori. “We can’t beat the system, that’s true. It’s bigger than we are. It’s the little things that we can do – giving life to a sick girl; buying a beggar a hot drink; putting the will to fight back in a soul that has grown cold. Reminding people of that which is important.”

Tavy was quiet for a long time. “You give the spark of life through song,” she said. “Could you play me one?”

Faeori wordlessly drew his auridium harp from the massive satchel in which it lay. And he played a slow song, a quiet song, with quick little bursts of excitement and grandeur, and a lot of slow, monotonous plodding through the ordinary and the usual – but always a strong urge to fight, to win, to thrive.

A crowd gathered; people outside hearing the sound of music and inexplicably drawn. The inn staff and the innkeeper came, as did the few residents who were still in the inn. All were astounded; none were unmoved.

And when Faeori played the closing Chord, secretly in their hearts the crowd made a resolve to never tell the Takat about this. Faeori could have easily planted such a resolve in their hearts, but he had not and they all knew it. Singly and yet en masse, everyone in the inn vowed themselves to secrecy.

Except one.

Commander Kalab had a dilemma. He was both a poker-player and a philosopher, and this is the way he thought about it: is it better to gamble the money for the day’s food with a good hand and the possibility of getting thrice the return, or keep it in the certainty of getting fed.

More plainly put: a young girl, a practicer of Memorie with a price on her head, had come to him with an offer. She knew of both a plot to subvert the Serivin ambassador and the location of an advanced Chord-user. In return for a full pardon and a license to practice Memorie, she would reveal both.

Commander Kalab thought long and hard about his decision. What finally swayed it was the fact that he didn’t lose even if she was lying; she would still be in custody.

And so Faeori was arrested as he walked between the market and Hlestechanna’s house. Because his connection to Hlestechanna could not be proven, the smith and his family were pardoned on the condition they not leave Namillier for the next five years.

Commander Kalab turned the auridium harp over to the Namillier’s Takat governor, and imprisoned Faeori in preparation for his trial the following week.

The day of the trial, the courtroom was packed, with people spilling out into the streets. Commander Kalab presided as judge, with Tavy, Hlestechanna, his wife and daughter, Ikkarine, the gate guards, and countless others as witnesses.

The trial was by the book. Most people claimed they had not recognized the music to be Chords; indeed, did not think it could have been Chords. There was no mind control; no arcane occurrences. True, power flowed and miracles were achieved, but many of these things had been thought impossible to achieve through the Chords. Some, such as Ikkarine, had never even heard Faeori play.

Before each witness spoke, a Dyschord was played to counter any influence Faeori might have had over their minds.

“He is a good man,” Hlestechanna said. “He healed my daughter, Slestechennie, of a chronic illness that would have killed her. He never used mind control, or I would have turned him in.”

“His music was both beautiful and… and… well, it lifted your soul,” said the Takat gate-guard.

“He’s a man of wisdom,” said Ikkarine simply.

“He doesn’t deserve to die,” said Tavy, tears streaming down her face.

In his defense, Faeori spoke simply. “I came from a distant realm, and was not entirely acquainted with the way things are done here. I used Chords, it is true. But I used them for the purpose of benefiting Namillier. That is all.”

The trial, with a brief lunch recess, took all day. At the end, when all the witnesses had been heard, Commander Kalab gave his verdict.

“This man has broken the law. He used the Chords.

“He used them to good purpose, which indicates a good heart. But he flagrantly broke the law, and the law says he must die. A good heart in the breast of a lawbreaker will still be punished by the law.

“Faeori the musician shall be executed at dawn.”

Dawn came, and Faeori was gone. He had broken out that very evening, not an hour after the closing of the trial. In a sudden burst of strength, Faeori had overpowered the guards. He then snuck into the Takat governor’s palace and retrieved his auridium harp. Faeori then used the harp to vaporize both the palace and the fort, which was next door. He then flew over the city wall, which he turned to ice.

When morning came, the citizens of Namillier were astonished. The Takat government buildings were utterly destroyed and the city wall was slowly melting. Faeori was gone, headed east, following the sun, a blinding light in his eyes.

With the walls melting under the onslaught of the light, bright beams driving back the night, the streets of Namillier were once again bright, for the sounds of joy had been returned to them.