Mordraud, Book One Read online

  “Oh, I can’t stand it anymore!” he burst out, leaving his open book to drop onto his desk. The ink-well and its tray wobbled threateningly. Dunwich secured both with a splayed hand, using his fingers like scissors. He stood them up straight and planted his heels against the table leg.

  ‘I wonder how mum is.’

  He hadn’t seen his family for ages. He had to make do with the letters Eglade occasionally sent him. Each time he got one, he promised himself he’d set off for his old home the next morning. But he knew it wouldn’t be possible, at least not until he finished his studies with Seneo. He also wanted to chat to his father, and tell him about the progress he’d made. Varno was a simple man, who’d never really appreciated his son’s talents. But Dunwich knew he’d change his mind sooner or later.

  ‘When I’m earning enough money... I could ask her to visit Cambria with Mordraud, so they can see the capital...’

  He had no desire to go on studying, nor did he feel like going to bed. Thinking about home had made him want a night-time walk.

  ‘A stroll in the Park of the Temples will help me relax a bit,’ thought Dunwich, as he hunted for his boots beneath his bed. ‘I could ask Enio if he fancies coming with me... I’m so small they won’t let me in the taverns, but if I’m with him... Even the guards make a fuss if they find me hanging around.’

  He gave up on his idea straight away when he heard, through the thick stone walls, the muted shouts of the other lads as they drank toasts in the building’s kitchens. Enio would tell him to get lost if he asked him, and the whole lot would jeer at him.

  “Okay... I’ll go on my own,” he muttered as he locked his bedroom.

  ***

  Dunwich managed to be accepted at the Arcane the following year, ten years earlier than was customary and three years before the scheduled end of his foundation studies. He and Seneo agreed he should go on living with the teacher and continue studying under him, which meant he could send almost all his grant to his parents, month after month, keeping for himself just a few coppers to cover any extras he might fancy. He already had everything he could desire. A good library, fine food, luxury furniture and well-tailored clothing.

  And this was just the start of his impressive career.

  Dunwich’s presence at the new school stirred similar rumours and the same suspicions that he’d already had to endure when he’d studied with Seneo. His learning speed was incredible. He became a choir soloist after just six months. He’d sung in the rows for a mere few days before his teachers were forced to assign him a leading role. Not one of the other students could keep up with him – his voice embarrassingly stood out over theirs. Thanks to his tutor’s interest, he was able to move on, skipping the first years of study. This enabled him, at the age of fourteen, to join the ranks of the capital’s most renowned chanters.

  It was then he was able to experiment with his first resonances.

  The Arcane’s aim was not to train pleasing ballad singers. Instead music was used to achieve an array of exceedingly useful effects, particularly in military contexts. A synchronised choir could change a few passing drops of rain into a hammering storm. A solo chanter could open up the earth beneath the feet of a charging platoon. The wealthiest nobles paid experts to provide support during negotiations. A chanter submerged in his own concentration was able to pick up on threats and lies that were otherwise invisible. Or he could use his powers to free a merchant who had fallen into a trap. All he had to find was the right melody, with an appropriate tone and rhythm, to create a resonance. Candles that burst into roaring spheres of fire. The wind harnessed and shaped into murderous spikes. Light shining out from nothing. Tricks of the mind leaving rash listeners struggling for breath.

  When Dunwich managed to have contact with the teachers of Military Harmony, he realised that it, above all others, was the field he aspired to, wishing to excel over all Cambria’s chanters.

  The Arcane stood in the cultural heart of the capital, near the towers dominating the large golden gates. The edifice was built shortly after the Empire declared its expansion intentions, flaunting the stately and ostentatious taste so dear to the head of Loralon’s family, Loren. White marble interspersed with decoration in coloured stone, broad windows topped with pointed arches, and commemorative statues on pedestals dotting the walls in regular niches. Cambria’s schools, the Military Academy, the Arcane, the time-honoured Science Society and the Imperial Library were situated inside a verdant and well-tended park where all the students could meet, debate or enjoy lunch in the shade of the mighty chestnut trees that the Emperor himself had ordered be transported from the forests west of the city. Loralon’s father and grandfather had always displayed an ardent interest for culture and learning, and the fruits of their dedication had generated a myriad of awards, competitions and foundations accounting for a large portion of the city’s heritage. Painters and sculptors created magnificent works to embellish the most prominent noble residences, the theatres offered a rich succession of plays starring both young and renowned performers, the alchemists produced sophisticated medications, and the geographers derived legible maps from parchments eroded by the centuries.

  Nevertheless, times were quickly changing. Loralon did not share his family’s same keenness for art and education, and hadn’t even completed his studies to be recognised Master of the Empire – supreme judge and guardian of the law – as he’d had to take over from his father following his early death. He could have finished his studies, but he abandoned them for the good of the city, as he put it.

  A choice many ascribed to his poor scholarly skills rather than to a real urgency to take command.

  The war had been trudging on for decades, with no conclusive progress, and the patrons’ pockets and the Imperial bureaucrats’ coffers were no longer brimming with funds. The belt was tightening, and only the most talented managed to firmly keep hold of the privileges granted by the foundations. The Arcane was supported by the Imperial Lances, since it supplied them with master chanters and experts in theory research, thus ensuring that standards were still very high. Becoming a member was a rare opportunity, reserved to a very few.

  Dunwich was perfectly aware he couldn’t afford the slightest distraction or even the most minimal delay. As a boy from the masses, with no family to back him and without a shred of financial security, he had to unfailingly better everyone at everything.

  Something he didn’t find at all hard.

  VII

  “Are you new here too?”

  Dunwich was walking briskly along the white gravel path, absorbed in going back over the previous day’s lesson. How to apply sets of three emotions and choose the right harmony bridges. Interesting the example of a passage in minor used to introduce a drastic change to a Cambrian major scale. The resulting effect was uncontrollable vibrating of precious metals. A stimulating topic – one he could contribute much to. Initially, he didn’t realise the question was addressed to him, and so he didn’t slow his pace. Only when a hand was placed on his shoulder did his thoughts shift and he turned to see who’d been so intent on disturbing him. Almost every day he was asked if he was lost, or if he was waiting for a brother or father. Dunwich once again cursed that damned childlike body of his.

  “No, I’m not lost! I’m on my way to a lesson,” he burst out in irritation, not even bothering to look at his assailant.

  “But I asked you if you’re new here, not whether you’re lost!”

  Dunwich shook his head slightly to clear his thoughts and lifted his eyes. Not only had he misheard the question, but he had failed to notice the gender of his assailant.

  A female assailant.

  “No, well, yes... I’ve been studying for three years, but I’m attending the academy now...”

  He loathed speaking with any human beings, but particularly females. The other young men made fun of him, jeered at him, or crept away in angry fear when they realised his position at the Arcane. Instead, women treated him like a cute and adora
ble little puppet. ‘Oh well done, how clever you are...’ was the typical sentence that would come out of their well made-up mouths. The awful thing was he looked on those lips with the receptive eyes of a fifteen-year-old, trapped in a child’s body.

  “So you must be Dunwich! I’ve heard a lot about you!”

  ‘Here we go,’ he mused, in frustration. ‘I might as well just head home.’

  “I’m a great admirer of yours. They say you’re a genius!”

  Dunwich was lost for all the words on his list of ready-to-use apologies.

  “Well... thanks, I’m... I’m...” he stammered shyly, “...honoured. I am...”

  “The honour’s mine! I’m sorry if I mistook you for a novice!” A hand stretched out towards him. It was smooth, slender and well-groomed. Dunwich took it with his small kiddie fingers. “My name’s Lisea. I arrived in town recently, from Calhann’s alchemy school.”

  “Are you here to specialise in the herbal arts?”

  “Yes, the most respected experts in the whole of the North live here in Cambria, even though... I’d rather attend the Arcane, but women aren’t admitted.”

  “A great injustice...” replied Dunwich, nodding seriously. Not that he was particularly interested in the matter. So long as he could attend the Arcane, he didn’t really care. But it was actually a curious fact that women were automatically rejected. Achieving resonance was extremely hard, and very few were capable of it. He didn’t feel it should be an exclusively male prerogative.

  Nevertheless, he certainly didn’t want to miss out on that small interlude of celebration – so rare in the midst of that sea of scorn.

  “Yes... It’s the custom, unfortunately.”

  Pretty, considered Dunwich, trying not to go red. Tall and slim, with her blonde hair pulled up and fastened on the crown of her head with a wooden clasp. Hazel eyes, long lashes. A slightly tapered nose. The living example of a woman who would never in the world be interested in him.

  “Is there something wrong? Is my hair too showy? I wasn’t sure what fashions were like in the capital... It’s my first time here...”

  Lisea’s hand went up to her hair and her mouth sullened in an exquisite pout. She was enchanting with that hairstyle. Dunwich groaned to himself. Blushing was no longer his main problem. He moved awkwardly and slightly crossed his legs.

  “No, no! I’m just not used to... I don’t have many opportunities to...”

  Again another blank in his reactions, he realised in alarm. He was making a real mess of it. “I was just noticing you’re at least a span taller than me, perhaps more...”

  Dunwich wished he already knew a great chant for being swallowed up by the ground. An instant harmony so he could merge with the road’s bedrock. Lisea was staring at him, dumbfounded.

  “Pay no attention... I was talking nonsense.”

  “Well, it was nice meeting you, Dunwich!” she concluded, changing the subject. “Perhaps one of these days, if you fancy it, we might eat together. That way you could tell me a few things about Cambria and your school! I’m in the dorms for foreign students. You’re in the Arcane residence, I imagine...”

  “No, I lodge beyond the park, at a tutor’s house. He’s called Seneo,” Dunwich replied, wondering in the meantime if he’d offended her with his comment on height. How was he supposed to behave with girls? What did they want to hear? He was somewhat lacking in experience on the topic. It was definitely easier when he daydreamed about it.

  “Really! You must be extremely good... See you soon, then!”

  Lisea smiled goodbye and trotted off. Dunwich stood in the middle of the long path, motionless until he heard the first chants from the practice rooms. He was to be the soloist again. But he couldn’t wait for evening to come.

  So he could bump into her again as they left for the day.

  ***

  The months went by, spent in tiresome group practices where he learnt nothing new and lengthy personal training sessions. Each time Dunwich came across an interesting notion, he devoured it and was left hovering in frustration while the others attempted to master it. He was venturing to shape his first resonances but his course-mates were unable to provide a base for him. So he always had to practise alone. He never missed a chance to press ahead in his studies, attending other Arcane choir sessions as a spectator and developing his own personal ideas at home. And after meeting Lisea, he had his first chance to spend some time with fellow students without being hammered with insults. The Calhann girl had settled in well, and it was through her that Dunwich was seen well by a few young novices who considered him an example of deftness to look up to, and they’d expressed an interest in meeting him. His night study sessions suffered as a consequence, yet his constant sour and irritable mood was greatly soothed.

  Even if the first meeting didn’t go very smoothly.

  “Hey, everybody, let me introduce Dunwich. Remember the name? I was speaking about him the other evening...”

  His first official contact with the rest of mankind took place in the park near the Arcane, on a chilly autumn evening. Lisea had worked on convincing him to the point of exhaustion, overcoming his staunch reluctance after many lunches spent chatting together. Luckily, she was the one to take the initiative to invite him, and not the contrary. Dunwich would never have found the courage to make a first move. He always had the unpleasant feeling of appearing like a child intent on pestering the adults.

  “The prodigy?! It’s great to meet you. My name’s Ronio,” burst out a short boy with a shrill voice and a bright expression. “This is Silia, she studies medical sciences, and that’s Denor. Lisea often talks about you... Come on, tell us about the advanced studies. They say they’re extremely tough. Is that right? Have you already learnt anything useful?!”

  “Nice to meet you!” exclaimed Dunwich nervously. “But what do you mean by useful?”

  “War resonances, ways to alter the ground... or to swell flames! They say a person can even chant with two voices... Is it true?!”

  Dunwich began walking with them, trying to keep up with their pace. They must all have been twenty or so. Smart youngsters, who’d already passed the strict screening to attend Cambria’s prestigious school. Silia was short and slightly plump, but had a lovely face. Denor was taller than the others, and very stocky. A hulk ready to brandish his shield and sword. His shadow of a beard conveyed the idea of a man of experience.

  “Yes, I’ve already experimented with a few resonances... Of course, I still need to try out chanting with more than one voice... But the rest is not that hard,” began Dunwich. But he immediately realised that they might misinterpret him. “I mean in general, not for me... It takes a bit of effort, but it’s not impossible... Learning long intricate chants off by heart, knowing how to use the syllables properly, working on these things, and seeking out the right concentration...”

  “Sure, but you also need to know how to withstand the blow from a dissonance,” Ronio blurted out. “When concentration’s in symbiosis with the chanting... That’s the hard part!”

  “No, I don’t see it like that. Chanting dominates over all else. Harmony is harmful only when you get it wrong. The key is never making a mistake.”

  “You talk as if it were child’s play!” giggled Lisea. “How long have you been studying chanting?”

  “Well, I’d say... three years, more or less.”

  “THREE YEARS?!” thundered Denor, the muscly bearded young man. “Impossible... I’ve been practising for over ten years now, yet I still can’t connect up my mind and my chanting to generate more than a pathetic little flame from a dying candle...”

  “But you’re a big retarded oaf, Denor! In fact, you should have become a soldier, not an artist!” interjected Ronio, sticking his tongue out. “Chanting’s for sublime minds...”

  “I want to be a Lance, you worthless singer!” the young man snarled. He seemed quite menacing but Dunwich realised the pair were only joking about. It was a rare event: he wasn’t the target of
the teasing. This coaxed new and unfamiliar courage in him.

  “Would you mind letting me hear how you chant?”

  Dunwich used the best tone he could muster to not sound hostile and, to his relief, he realised he’d managed it. The small group came to a halt. Denor cleared his throat, breathing slowly, to find the right calm. The park was traced out by the evening’s crisp air, and a gentle breeze rustled the reddish leaves of the large trees lining the long avenue.

  “I’m not used to doing it out of the blue...”

  “Well, you’d better get used to it if you want to chant while riding with a sword in your hand!”

  His quip stirred a few amused chuckles from Silia and Ronio. Dunwich pretended not to notice. He wanted to seem as authoritative as possible, not a jester. His intention of dampening any aggressive overtone was unsettled by Lisea’s first admiring smile.

  Denor struck up a couple of arpeggios, and moved his hands, opening and closing his arms as if in slow applause. He had a good voice, but it was rough and approximate in the changeovers. He shaped the syllables dragging his s too much. A small glowing flame materialised between his palms beneath his fingers cupped over to form a shelter, but after some time and too much toil.

  “If I may give you a bit of simple advice...” began Dunwich, moving closer. Against Denor’s bulk, he seemed even more minute, but he tried not to think about it. Otherwise he’d never have the courage to say what he was about to. “First, get rid of the yokel accent and study your syllables to perfection. Then... you’re lacking in imagination... Try picturing a campfire burning among the tents pitched at the front... the smell of the earth churned up by the horses, the rank odour of rusting metal... Like this...”

  Dunwich began chanting quietly. The melody was totally different to Denor’s – the usual tune taught to novices. It sounded like the sad lament of an old soldier, rich in innocently simple and moving melodic passages. Dunwich had worked on his voice obsessively, shaping and milling it for greater flexibility and range. His hands moved just the once, as if to shine an apple, and a flame sprouted straight away, warming his fingers. All eyes were fixed on him.