Mordraud, Book One Page 10
Seneo had worked with the army – he knew what he was talking about. The war raged on, beyond all predictions of an end. The cemetery south of the city walls was too small to accommodate all the fallen from good families who claimed the right to a fitting burial. Entire noble lineages found themselves with no heirs, and many granted use of their sumptuous private tombs to the less fortunate families who no longer had space in their mausoleums, crammed as they were with corpses wrapped in red shrouds or coffins crafted in dark wood. The evening air was laden with the bitter smoke the wind wafted from the pyres burning in the countryside, marking all that was left of the sons of peasants. Market streets teemed with mercenaries who had journeyed from other regions: they supported Cambria’s cause for money but neglected the slightest respect for its people. Brawls, thefts and looting were everyday occurrences in the villages. The scene that had attracted Dunwich – of clean orderly streets policed by friendly gendarmes – crumbled into a murkier portrait.
The war’s front was a jagged and complex line spanning most of the East. Cambria had already asserted its dominance in territories stretching as far as the Telatias Mountains, the central chain dividing the continent’s North in two, down to the Inland Sea in the South. The Hann River itself traced out long stretches of the front, defended by Eldain’s Alliance that knew how to take advantage of the hundreds of patches of swampland dotting the rich surrounding plains. The line of combat snaked up as far as the Rampart, north-east of Cambria. The heart of resistance for Eldain and his supporters. Further north beyond the Rampart were mountains that stood as a tough barrier to overcome, guarded as they were by castles perching on cliff-tops and treacherous forest-cloaked gorges. Yet more than this, they were protected by Cambrinn – one of Eld’s time-honoured allies. Although it had declared itself neutral, it had already proven to be particularly loyal to Eldain’s policies.
Anyone living in Cambria was accustomed to it, yet Dunwich had no experience of the war at all. Seneo didn’t glide over the details. Life in Cambria was deteriorating year by year. It was hard to get used to, as they’d already done in the countryside. Cambria’s people could still recall the glorious years of prosperity and well-being that had preceded the birth of the Imperial designs, and the enticing flow of wealth generated by the early conquests. The same that had fuelled the illusion of a swift, almost painless war. Nobody would have imagined, back then, that the fiefdoms’ rebel Alliance would be able to staunch Cambria’s advance. It was simply a matter of time, given the forces deployed in the fighting. But every day’s defeat for the Empire also meant men dying far away from home, left on battlefields now paved with old corpses.
The days of journeying on horseback flew by, punctuated by Seneo’s many explanations. Dunwich was astounded by the chanter’s knowledge. Emperor Loralon was a man in the prime of his years, who’d inherited the war against Eldain from his father. He was stern in appearance, with short well-groomed black hair, and a tall sleek physique that went beyond the commonplace. His eyes were two deep dark wells drilled into an angular pale face. His dynasty was ancient, but it wasn’t the only one that had governed the capital. Nobody knew how old Cambria actually was. But Dunwich knew. It had belonged to the Aelians before these rulers, yet no man was able to recall this now.
Loralon’s grandfather had sparked the war against Elder, Eldain’s father. When the Empire was still restricted to the countryside around Cambria, but began changing shape in the dreams of the great patriarch Loren. The borders at the time grazed the wilderness north-east of the capital: an area rich in woods, fields and mountains creating distinct natural boundaries. Those were the time-honoured offshoots of the lands possessed by Elder’s noble rebels. The western region separating the capital from the Telatias Mountains and the neighbouring plains to the north entered in agreement with Cambria, to become protectorates. Essar, to the south-west, wasted no time in falling in line. Before Loren’s ascent, Cambria stood as the heart to a huge and detailed network of fortified towns and cities supported by a multitude of inter-related aristocrats. A common practice in the whole of the East of the entire continent. No state had ever incorporated more cities. Cambria was the greatest and the oldest. It wasn’t the first time it raised its head from the trench of history to make its attack. Nelaria in the North and Essar in the South had accepted to fall under Cambria’s control to avoid being overrun by the Imperial Army. They’d lost some independence, but the local nobility was left to make the minor decisions. The right degree of compromise, which Loren had artfully and successfully orchestrated.
The regions behind the fief of Eld had sided with the rebel nobleman: they stretched across to the shores of the Ocean of the East, and their leaders had not the slightest intention of handing their power to Cambria. These members of nobility were not related to the other rulers of the East, and were more reserved towards the outside. Centuries of trade dealings had hardened the entire strip coasting the ocean, in a vast region rich in fiefdoms, where balance rested on ancient peace. The territories in the extreme north, those at the foot of the icy mountains, as well as the plains that had once been in the hands of the capital also shifted under Eldain’s separatist guide. Bleak lands, deemed useless and uninhabitable by Cambria. The immense Telatias Mountains chain, standing as buffer between East and West, kept out of the conflict, as did the Calhann Strait. This latter, a ribbon of land separating north from south, it depended on the excise and taxes on goods passing along its roads for its livelihood.
Seneo’s words and what Dunwich saw on arriving in Cambria mingled into an experience that blinded his eyes with splendour throughout his formative years.
***
Dunwich settled in Cambria when he was eleven. He lived in Seneo’s house, a large apartment taking up the entire top floor of a huge historic building. The staircase alone climbing up from the entrance hall was larger than anything Dunwich had ever seen. His room was exceedingly more comfortable than his old one. All was new and magnificent. Nostalgia for his quiet home life was easily blotted out by an avalanche of new tasks and situations demanding his attention.
Seneo accommodated another five boys in his home. The youngest of the fellow tenants was fifteen, the oldest nineteen. Dunwich looked barely six. He soon learnt his mentor was a well-known and respected figure in the neighbourhood where they lived – one of the most prestigious and costly areas of Cambria. He worked at the Academy, as a chanting master, an expert in the single fusion of the harmonies forming the basis to the arcane research performed at the institute. It was very similar to a school. Dunwich found himself attending long lessons in music theory, first merely as an observer, but after a few weeks, directly as a student. He had no trouble in memorising complex dissertations on the effects harmony could have on reality when blended with a chanter’s deep concentration. He was eager to learn more. The first months in Cambria flew by, in a fuzzy cloud of constant excitement.
Seneo was extremely wealthy. He paid for the whole building’s security personally, and he gave free bed and board at his home to the boys he considered promising. Once they’d finished the lengthy training to shape their voices, he polished their manner to make them ready to serve the interests of the city’s richest nobility or those of the Imperial family. Rare cases would attract a request from the Lances for one of his pupils, to act as resident master – something that brought Seneo a truly sizeable sum.
The aspiring chanter’s study programme normally involved five years of theory and practice guided by a tutor. Students had to study all aspects of music theory during this period, and had to learn off by heart the syllables that could be used to compose songs and chants. Those who managed to develop their voices to the necessary level then continued their career by enrolling in the Arcane. From that moment onwards, every effort was channelled into tuning the student’s own will to synchronise with his chanting. This was an extremely complex process, one that only a very few were capable of mastering. Ten years or so were generally allotted to this stage, after which,
further attempts at attaining this end by means of harmonies were considered pointless. This successful union of mind and music was called resonance.
The theory was complex, but the training even more so. A chanter couldn’t rely on an instrument to support him during the development of melodies; he could only count on his voice alone. One simple mistake in pronouncing the syllables, in the rhythm, in a passage, or a mundane change in tone would irretrievably break off the resonance and cause no effect. In the best of cases. Usually, an interrupted chant tended to unleash its power against the chanter himself. Often killing him instantly.
The pupils had to be taught all music’s secrets if they were to reach such levels of concentration. The logic behind choosing one rhythm rather than another. The bellicose beat of a war anthem had its advantages but also its weaknesses, while a hush and syncopated lament could produce other, totally different, results. The chanters could use dozens of scales. There were twelve notes, but the combinations studied at the Academy were countless. Dunwich asked for information on who’d formulated the theory of music, and how these conclusions had been reached. To his great surprise, he discovered nobody knew. Knowledge that had been lost in time – something done intentionally, he suspected. No books existed on what had been before, on the oldest theories. The twelve notes were always the same, tuned to perfection using silver forks that had remained unchanged over the centuries.
This aversion for instrumental music was another unsolved mystery. After entire generations of experimentation and assessment, it was deemed that a melody made by an instrument could not be a suitable vehicle for carrying the chanter’s intent. Thus, instruments were entirely eradicated from the studies. A very drastic choice, and one Dunwich accepted, but without ever being able to fully understand the reason. He asked many questions. Nevertheless, he kept the more controversial ones for himself, particularly during the early days. What was beneath the resonance? How could a ball of fire take shape starting simply from a candle flame? His teachers explained that it was all fruit of a specific state of mind, pushed to extreme concentration and steered by chanting’s harmonic guide. It sounded more like a dogma, rather than proven theory. He preferred to wait to discover the underlying mechanism himself, so as not to clash with anyone. He couldn’t afford to do that.
The most able students were encouraged by not having to pay for their education, and some could benefit from the privilege of a small grant. He was certainly in no position to ask his parents for money. In fact, he hoped to soon find a way to send money home, even if his family’s village was inside the territories controlled by Eldain’s rebels, at over twenty days’ travel from Cambria. He focused on his studies with an obsessive passion. He learnt every detail of the Theory of Harmonies off by heart. He trained at modulating his voice by sleeping little and eating even less. And he discovered, to his great delight, that he was a born chanter. Seneo had no doubt about it either. Dunwich succeeded in developing a range and a mastery that were close on incredible. And even before he’d been taught, he’d already understood what the final goal of his studies was.
The real challenge was to condense the melodies so that the necessary mental state could be reached as quickly as possible. A brief scale, a barely audible tune ushered out from between half-closed teeth. The choice of the right syllables to pronounce the notes. It was a constant quest for perfection. Once this was understood and mastered, resonances could be struck through just a few moments’ intense concentration.
In a single year, Dunwich had already learnt all the basic notions, to the extent that another four introductory years with his tutor seemed pointless. His voice still had scope for improvement, even if it already showed remarkable ability. Seneo convinced him to attend another year’s training with him. He was too young to attempt joining the Arcane as a fully fledged student, and Seneo had yet to find the right means to overcome that hurdle.
Dunwich still looked like a child. Nobody would welcome him at the academy unless a few details were worked on.
***
Dunwich blew out the candle lighting his desk and stretched his arms, rocking on the wooden chair. The volume The Overlapping of Minor Nine Arpeggios that he’d just finished reading had disappointed him somewhat. The usual stuff. How to combine minor scales to obtain a harmony respecting the main mental stages. A state of altered conscience, a moment of disorientation, augmented vision. An over-bright light, then an instant of darkness to mark the attainment of resonance. The fact that they were minor scales didn’t change anything, he reflected, amused by the author’s over-simplistic view. He found it astounding that there were still people willing to believe that a melody in minor could objectively sound sadder than one in major, or a chromatic one. ‘Ridiculous...’ he mused, as he poured himself a glass of water.
There was nothing subjective about arcane harmony: each aspect and detail could be traced back to the astonishing number of combinations that could be obtained through singing. Besides the harmony, a chanter also had to choose the scales he would move along, the modulations to perform, and the syllables to use to pronounce every note. He had to know how to move his hands to keep the rhythm and dictate it for others, using sign language to cue the tones for every row of vocals. It was an extremely complex and codified art.
There was no room for beauty, or feeling. Arcane chanting was a set of procedures created to make the chanter a god. That’s what mattered, not whether the melodies were appealing or ugly. Happy or sad. Some people – and perhaps he was one of these – could pick up on sadness in a minor arpeggio, but every listener was different. That sentimentalism was merely a secondary, and undesired, effect.
By now he knew Seneo’s library back to front. His teacher still insisted on the theory, even if Dunwich had tried to explain to him that he was only too familiar with the ideas. To avoid any friction, he always restricted himself to acknowledging the level he’d achieved, without going into the topic dearest to his heart. That those theories were useless and, more to the point, inexact. Seneo wouldn’t take kindly to such an observation, he reflected, chuckling.
Dunwich practised alone or with Seneo, improvising melodies on pieces chosen and performed by his teacher. Simple bass arpeggios, or sometimes long notes pounded out in mixed rhythms. It wasn’t easy, or rather, that had been Dunwich’s impression when he’d watched the older boys’ lessons. They got lost, couldn’t anticipate Seneo, tangled their voices as they tried to follow him. After a first few failed attempts, he worked out for himself where he was going wrong. He shouldn’t wait to understand what his tutor expected of him; he was supposed to lead. Conjuring up melodies was an almost involuntary act for him. He would amuse himself by sketching out wordless musical creations over Seneo’s bass lines, and he tended not to be taken by surprise when the teacher suddenly changed rhythm or tone. He tackled studying as if it were a game. And this was precisely the reason he was tired of poring over the theory, when all he wanted was to finally see the effects a resonance could have on reality. He’d heard the older lads say the choirs’ powers were constantly put into practice at the Arcane. Glorious epic refrains unleashed terrifying flames and lightning bolts. Murky and malignant murmurs stirred the shadows, making them slaves to the chanter’s will. Something could be created out of nothing or an existing entity could be expanded beyond all proportion by a chant. A burning torch could be the source to an ocean of fire, or a puddle in resonance with a chanter’s voice could spread and swallow up a whole road. He couldn’t wait to try it out himself, yet he had to respect the required academic years. True torture.
Theory, theory and still more theory. Useful, of course. But he’d already memorised it all many a time. He had absorbed every single syllable that could be used in composing. He knew how to harmonise all the scales. Everything Seneo could teach him on the subject, Dunwich had learnt. He’d also gone beyond, asking himself who had structured that framework to music, and whether the past held other practices that had been discarded by history
. Since nobody knew, he wasn’t obliged to make the effort to seek out an entirely new answer. He purely had to learn to mechanically repeat the same harmonic sequences, to use the right syllables, to choose the right rhythms, to pursue the right atmosphere. And leave his will to meld with perfection. Something he found extraordinarily easy. He didn’t understand why the others found it so hard, not even managing in some cases. When he wished, he could abandon himself to his voice after just a few notes. He wanted to do it, so he did it. A straightforward procedure.
The other boys studying under Seneo were morons, he concluded, in frustration.
In all honesty, he would much rather have spent the occasional evening enjoying some fun with his fellow students, instead of reading alone in his room. He could always hear them laughing and fooling around in the kitchen until late at night, when their tutor had already retired to his chambers, or was out of town on business.
But they didn’t want him.
Hence, they were complete idiots.
“They’d have fun with me,” he told himself in annoyance, as he grabbed yet another book from his small library. A guide to a steady voice. “How to make full use of breathing... Thanks. As if I didn’t know,” he muttered sarcastically.
He’d impressed them in the beginning with his arresting intelligence. But it hadn’t lasted long. Some of them started making fun of him, teasing him with an array of offensive names. Brat, sprog, freak child. Tiny shit head. Competitiveness was a lifestyle well-engrained from a tender age in Cambria. But when, during his one-to-one lessons, he’d shown he could thrash them in the swiftness with which he followed Seneo in chanting, the jeering and taunting turned to bitter hatred. They didn’t want him with them when they were out in town, or when they were eating or planning on fun. He’d tried having dinner with them now and again, but he’d been forced to get up and leave, infuriated by the imposed and mocking silence they’d used to convey he wasn’t welcome at their table. Since then he’d eaten alone in his room, picking at the hunks of bread and lumps of cheese the cook would set aside for him.