A Promise of Iron Brandon McCoy (howl and other poems TXT) 📖

chatted casually back and forth while Richard ascended the stage. Performers were readying their act as he climbed the short steps and took his place at the center.

“Good evening,” he addressed the crowd in a booming voice. A hush followed. “My lord welcomes you tonight in celebration of his youngest, Lordson Faerin Monroe.”

Light applause followed.

“For tonight’s entertainment, we are graced with the Rose of Sevel Circus.” Richard turned to those standing off stage and bowed. Louder applause echoed through the amphitheater. “Dinner shall be served in the study, followed by music and dancing. For those who find themselves too drunk to stand, my lord has graciously opened the guest houses, stay for the night, stay for the cycle, just don’t drink all the wine.”

Laughter accompanied the applause this time. Richard paused and tossed his cape behind him dramatically. “But be warned, tonight is a fell moon. For your safety, the gates will be closing at high moon. Those not wishing to stay the night should be well on their way before then.” Laughter continued, though not as light-hearted as before.

Richard turned back to the men off stage. They shared hushed words punctuated by a few musical notes. Richard nodded and took a step to the very edge of the stage. “On behalf of Lord Edwin Monroe, may I present to you, the Rose of Sevel Circus.”

Chapter Twenty and Seven

Summer 1272, Cyllian Imperial Count

How does one translate the sound of music? Do you begin first with the notes describing the percussion of bass or the whistling of pipes? Do you describe the singer’s pitch or timbre as her words echo and tremble? Is it the composure’s complexity or the lyrics and their depth of meaning that is most critical? Or is it best described by the spirit of the work, how it moves the crowd—their emotions undulating with the crescendo? How does one describe the sound of music? For those graced with such a talent, the description may be as natural as the performance. For the rest of us, we do our best and try not to muddle the words.

Throughout the ages, generation by generation, humanity shared the names of its kings and kingdoms, told the tales of weavers and warlords, and recalled its greatest tragedies, not through words written in dusty tomes, but with song. Seveli opera is long rooted in this tradition and boasts of being the only authentic historical record of man, an unbroken line from our days before arriving in Ara.

The musicians sang in Seveli, which was beautiful though Illyrian would have been a more traditional selection. My Seveli was poor, but like most in the crowd, I recognized the tune. They opened with Lament of Mana, which told of the titular goddess and her sacrifice borne for humanity. When the song finished, the players paused and welcomed their host, who was conspicuously returning to the party with Patricia coiled tightly around his arm. Monroe bowed to them, thanked his guests, then led Patricia to a seat next to Lira, and I. Monroe nodded to me as he sat. I could see the beads of sweat still on his brow.

The musicians resumed their play with “War of the Heavens,” followed by “Betrayal of Gol,” and in finale, a roaring rendition of “Sereventus’s Fire.” Such works sung together completed the epic known as The Song of Creation. It was the oldest of songs, chronicling days long before men walked these lands. These songs had roots as deep as any elder tree. When the final notes rang, a quiet fell in around us. I looked out over the crowd, no one stirred, but as the players stood for intermission, the audience followed with a roar of applause.

“That was beautiful,” Decia said as the applause turned into a hundred conversations. “I have only ever heard The Song in Cyllian before.” She frowned. “Not really the same thing.”

Ama turned to her. “Seveli is fine, but you should hear it in Illyrian. I once knew a Roharan boy with the most beautiful falsetto. When he sang in High Illyrian, it was like listening to a chorus of serevem.”

Monroe shifted in his seat.

Patricia sucked her teeth. “And how many Easterners would know these words? Half of you pretend to know our tongue. You close your eyes, you nod your heads, but it is no secret. You Cyllians have ears for only one tongue.”

Monroe leaned close to her, placed his hand on her knee, and whispered words meant only for her.

She smiled, her almond-shaped eyes narrowing slightly. “Well, one of you respects the Seveli tongue.”

Ama rolled her eyes as she turned her back.

“I’m going to get a drink,” Crylwin declared. “Anyone want anything?”

“I’ll go with you,” I said. “Lira?”

“You boys go. But bring me back a wine if you could, nothing too sweet.”

I nodded. “Ama, how about you?”

“No, dear, just some water. I fear this is going to be a long night.” She took Lira’s hand in her own. “Lira, dear, did you know that when Faerin was a…”

I turned to Monroe, but he and Patricia were preoccupied.

Crylwin and I made our way to a tabletop on the outskirts of the amphitheater. A young man, dressed in dark blue, stood there waiting. I ordered a Rukish cider, only to find that the barrel had run dry. I settled for two glasses of red, one for me and one for Lira. Crylwin took a red for himself and then a glass of water.

“You bringing Ama her water?” Crylwin asked.

I shook my head and pointed to the glass in his hand. “I thought you were?”

“No,” he said, “this is for Decia.”

I raised an eyebrow. Decia was not fond of Crylwin drinking, but she was fond of the drink. I gestured to the attendant for another water. “Never seen her take water when wine was available. Are congratulations in order?”

I meant it in jest, but his look was deadly serious.

“Don’t,” he said with warning. “Not tonight, this is your night.”

I held up my palms. “Hey,