The air turned cold and a swirl of mist appeared with a flare of ethereal luminosity. A roar of impelling sound, a shiver in the surrounding elements and Diarmid opened his eyes. He was no longer at the inn, but on a trail in the Kinsharra Mountains.

He looked upward to the all-embracing expanse and regretted sincerely the restraints of magic that had been placed on this region of the Kinsharra Mountains. Diarmid tucked his harp carefully back into its case slung across his shoulder, and with a regretful sigh started the long climb to Kinsharra Point.

The mountain track was snow packed, still locked in a northern winter chill, although it was the beginning of spring.

He left his footsteps behind him like tiny echoes as he marched through the frozen vista scrambling to be reborn. The wind around him blew bitter, a hungry lament keening down from the caves.

“To freeze my bones,” he growled through the gale. “No doubt I’ll lay dead somewhere before this day is through.”

He kept on walking, passing the directional marker within the hour, as the sky darkened steadily and storm clouds became the heavens.

The clouds hung low; fat, ebony shapes devouring all substance, their threat enclosing the landscape in a sunless expanse. Hoped for snow came as ice, sharp and fast, coating the trees that he plodded past, frosting them in fingers of crystal.

The ghostly panorama lay out before him, a dreary shadowed white, shades of grey and silver muting what little colour had survived the frigid weather.

Diarmid pulled his cloak folds snug, and bent his head into the squall. Feeling the chill seep from air to flesh he pulled his cloak tighter, with hope the wool and fur would ward off frostbite. In all his two hundred years he had never liked winter.

The howling wind made the ice sting and it played a melody through the tree branches. It was a sounding of chimes, reminding him of the town bells he had heard long ago in Wyvin. The ice crunched under Diarmid’s feet as he kept on, a discord amidst the windsong.

“A warm fire and ale, that’s what I need, and a place to play my harp.”

A bare whisper and his words flew away on the wind.

He sighed, tucking his frustration away, and trudged forward, the miles falling with a steady pace. Diarmid gave his harp a tug, to ease his heart, and found it snug and covered in the case.

The sleet ceased as Kinsharra Point came into view, and a caress of sun reached out of the gloom. Its feeble warmth was a firefly that did little to melt the ice from Diarmid’s cloak or bones, nor loosen the silver sheen coating his face.

But it made him smile, for it shone on the snow like a sparkle off the Diamond Rocks at Innis Fail. He was glad to see the Point, for it meant the end of a journey that had left him tired, cold and sore. Beyond it stood the rock and stone of Singer’s Hall, the great stone palace raised mournfully in past eons.

As Diarmid came round the Point, towers and spirals rose before his eyes, the Hall’s massive door a welcome sight. He reached up and pulled the gilded bell, to hear again its gentle, echoing peal.

“This meeting of Council had better be worth the trouble,” he grumbled as he waited. “And it had better be soon, before I freeze!”

The last was shouted to the door.

As the echo of his shout died, he heard footsteps. He shifted the weight of his harp on his tired shoulder, staring hopefully at the stone door. He began to hum as the handle of the door turned.

The door swung open on creaky hinges to reveal old Effin, who stood doorkeeper on this day. He was dressed in a spectacular maroon and gold robe, embroidered with an elaborate floral design. An absent compliment fell from Diarmid’s lips.

“A vast improvement on your last garment Effin. That horrid yellow colour gave you a sallow complexion.”

With a stiff nod, Effin let him in and the two wandered down the hall, Diarmid grateful of the heat.

“Have they agreed on a course of action?”

Diarmid sighed at Effin's polite shake of the head.

“Of course not. They probably can't agree on where to sit around the table.”

Diarmid thought he heard faint laughter, but he couldn't tell from Effin's face.

“The Council Room.”

Effin announced this with great dignity.

The doors swung open onto a chamber of soft light, of muted gold and sapphire, carved five thousand years past. Elegance was woven into azure glass, amber stone and burnished mahogany wood, all streaked with tints of cerulean, flame, lemon, and indigo.

It was a sight so beautiful that it still filled Diarmid with awe, even after a lifetime. He stood for a moment in the relative stillness, lingering in its ancient grace.

He drew in his breath as the chamber’s resonance began, the tiny hum, the building crescendo of ancestral voices. Sound poured out of the wood grain, a choir of spirits and bells, as every voice that had ever graced the Hall was raised high. Joy, and greed, envy, laughter, and sorrow overflowed from history, soaring from the dust, to spill its magic within his soul.

“Are you coming in?”

Ronan’s nasal voice broke the spell and Diarmid brought himself back. He stepped into his dream, and took his place at the council table.

Griffin then stood to preside as chairman.

“We gather again in reverence, the rightful keepers of the Order of the Song Mage. Before we come to the reason for this council, I shall read the chronicle of our last gathering.”

Griffin droned on, his grumbling words slowly giving Diarmid a headache. He let his mind wander, running his new tune in his head, while Griffin plodded onward.

“Are you finished?” Diarmid asked, when Griffin paused, not truly caring if he was, and quickly continued.

“Get on with the reason for this gathering.”

Griffin snorted.

“Very well. As you know, there is a new possibility to be discussed. Have you seen the girl, Diarmid, this commonplace peasant?”

“A commonplace peasant?” Ronan laughed.

“Come now, isn’t that a bit harsh? I know her parentage is less than noble -”:

“Less than noble!” Griffin nearly shouted his interruption. “Her father was a drunkard and her mother was a weaver!”

“And still she is being considered for the Order.” Diarmid smiled. “Isn’t she? Now do you wish to hear my evaluation, or would you prefer to argue?”

Griffin sniffed. “Get on with it.”

“I spied on the girl, as ordered, and she is a prospect. She clearly nourishes magic, and she has musical talent. Her technique is quite sound, and she has a good ear. In her music there is passion for the song; I think she may have profound potential. It is possible to turn this Sauren into a Song Mage.”

“Good,” Griffin stated, “then you shall do the Transformation.”

“I've done the last five singers!” Diarmid protested, his words snapping through the air. “Let someone else try!”

“No. You’re the best, and you will ensure nothing goes wrong.”

“Diarmid, you have the most experience,” Ronan interjected, “now that Cynan’s dead. You have the best control. You are very direct. You always make them understand. That’s why we send you so often.”

Diarmid smiled.

“I’ll do it. But I want six months leave when I've finished.”

“Ridiculous!” Griffin actually sputtered, a drop of his spit hitting the table.

“Agreed.”

Ronan spoke his consent quickly; Diarmid flashed him a distrustful look, wary of his motives.

“Don't worry so, Diarmid,” Ronan said with a laugh. “I call for a vote.”

There was an accord for a vote, and the council debated, falling person by person to Diarmid's request. He was gracious in his victory, allowing just a hint of humility.

Diarmid's mood was jubilant upon departing the Point, and was pleased to find the weather had turned warm. He could not believe his luck; for the first time in two hundred years he had six months holiday.

 ****

 When he reached his destination, the tiny village he had overheard Sauren mention, he was again out of sorts. Old memories were surfacing, stirring feelings he had entombed a century ago, the last time he had seen this hamlet, Glyndwr.

He drew in a breath, and found the calm focus to listen.

The harsh wind was following him off the hills, the subtle blending of its hollow music beating rhythm with his mood. A vibrating pulse of tone swirled around his mind, as the gusts rose over the landscape, then descended down to the village.

Diarmid let out the breath, and trailed the wind.

As he moved on, he wrapped his cloak tighter against the brisk air and a cold not solely sprung from the weather.

The last time he had trod these roads it had been during a hard passage of his life, and he still grieved in the shadows of his spirit. Diarmid walked past ancient recollections, locked against the spectre, until he sighted the inn he had been sent to find.

He cast a sad glance at it, seeing a rather dingy place in poor repair. He remembered the large two-story building from better days, not this faded, cracked, red house, the paint peeling from its wood. The glass windows were dirty and distasteful with grime, and the once famous sign hung from one hook, askew.

Diarmid tilted his head to read the words.

“The Black Dragon. At least the name hasn't changed,” he muttered, and entered the establishment.

A swift survey of the common room revealed Sauren to be absent, so Diarmid found a small table in the corner and sat down. He ordered lamb stew, bread, and ale from a serving maid, settling in among the noise, sweat, and generally unwashed patrons. As he amused himself by tuning his harp, a shadow fell.

“Can ya play us a tune? A merry one.”

The request poured from a tall, thin man who was leaning over Diarmid, a grin peeking out from a dirty face.

“Don't mind Eneas. He don't mean no harm.”

Another man, a fair size larger, beckoned Eneas from the opposite table.

“Leave the harper be, Eneas, and come sit down.”

“I don't mind playing,” Diarmid replied, “perhaps Mairi’s Song?” He looked up at Eneas.

“Ya, I like that one.”

Diarmid gestured to the barmaid to hold his dinner as Eneas sat down, then gave the inn a rousing performance. There were shouts for more tunes among the applause, so Diarmid obliged before begging off amid cries of disappointment.

The harp went away after a smile and a bow to his audience.

He ate his dinner, and moved to the long, wooden bar to order another drink. Something was needed to wash away the taste of greasy stew and stale bread.

The bartender greeted him with a cheery smile and a wink. A frothy mug of ale was slid down the bar; Diarmid caught it handily, toasting his thanks.

The sound of the door spun his head and Sauren walked into the inn.

Diarmid took another look at her as she made through the crowded inn to sit near the hearth fire.

He hadn't thought much of her features when he had spied on her, and still found her face rather plain. And her hair was too straight and too brown.

“She looks such an ordinary little mouse.”

Diarmid sighed.

“That’s Sauren. She won't give you a tumble. Best find someone else.”

The bartender's voice fell on Diarmid's ears with sly familiarity. Diarmid ignored him, intent on watching her.

Sauren shrugged off her cloak without notice of him, and bought herself a drink, accepting it without thanks. She settled on a stool by the fire, her whole body a constant movement; a restless tempo formed by her arms, her feet, angles of her head. She reminded Diarmid of a sandworm in the hot sun.

Diarmid shifted a bit on his barstool, an echo of Sauren's restlessness. He was drawn to the tune she began to hum, and to the movement of her fingers as they slid along her mug in rhythm. She raised her head and their eyes met. Within her depths he saw an emerald fire, set alight by the soul of the music. It was the true indication that he had not been sent on a fool's errand.

Sauren finished her drink quickly, giving Diarmid a nod and a dismissive wave, then went straight upstairs.

Diarmid waited but a heartbeat before following her.

He paused on the landing, hidden in the shadows, and waited until she closed the door of her room. He crossed to the door, swung his harp off his shoulder, and then politely knocked.

“Be gone,” came her reply, “I won't see anyone.”

Diarmid tried the door and sighed, for it was bolted shut; he truly hated it when things were difficult. So he took his harp from its sack, and strummed a particular note. The door quivered.

Three more notes and it was open.

She was standing there, in the middle of the small room, her mouth quite agape in astonishment. But she recovered quickly.

“How did you -? Get out!”

Her face turned slightly red, and the force of her last two words nearly knocked Diarmid off his feet. He hung his head; he did so hate when things were difficult.

His fingers danced the strings and two more notes sweetly sealed her mouth. Then he closed the door, shutting out the hallway.

“Please sit down, we have things to discuss.”

She hesitated, but eventually sat down on the creaky bed. Diarmid made himself as comfortable as possible on a hard wooden stool.

“Have you ever heard of the Order of the Song Mage?”

Her eyes widened like a full moon as she nodded, and for a moment Diarmid smiled.

“Yes, our fame is long and legendary. Feared and honoured together.” His smile faded.

“I have sought you out, because you have been chosen. The council has decreed you are to become a Song Mage.”

“Mm-hm-hurm-”

The sounds she was making were incomprehensible, so he played four notes and let her speak.

“Ahh- ohh-” She flexed the muscles around her mouth. “I can't become a Song Mage! I’m barely a harper!”

She seemed genuinely shocked at the offer.

“Your talent and abilities will not be a hindrance or an asset. The essence of the Song Mage is spun from the depth of one's soul. And you have been chosen.”

Diarmid began to play.

The notes he started with were gentle, a hint of the summer's rain. The girl closed her eyes to listen, as the music reminded her of the light, warm touch of those raindrops, and the fresh smell of wet air. In listening she felt her cares float in the harmony, and her body become light and ethereal.

Diarmid was playing a smooth tempo and she went with him as he slowly heightened the rhythm.

Inside she danced and flew, whirling around the room infinitely bound to every note. The tones expanded like the southern sunrise, a shimmer on the horizon, to where she soared, then fell into the waiting light.

His music held her suspended there, until she heard the sound. A soft coo, woven from the golden cascade, the echo of a child's first breath.

Then came the whistle of the first winter's wind, as it blows down from the snow-kissed mountains.

The music brought forth the sounds of springtime birds; of a laugh, the high-pitched trill of merriment; the sassy tang of a river's running water; of the warm, sweet buzz of insects; the crashing noise of a busy marketplace.

Diarmid played a swirl of cadence, the infancy and the mortality of harmonies, as sheer power - raw as lightning - thundered around her. Sauren stepped out into the spreading wave that expanded out before her into dreams and memories.

She saw through a window, onto the forgotten, the shadows, beckoning desires; it was a pane of coloured glass that reflected the light into a prism of shining colours.

Sauren held everything she ever heard, ever wanted, ever knew, within one heartbeat and swam an ocean without water. It took her in swells to summer fields filled with shocks of violet flowers, to lightly falling snow under the silent night sky of stars.

She wrapped her essence around the whoosh of falling leaves, so gently passing on the air, and the loud melodious peeping of new frogs. Every voice, every note, spoke her world. Of life that sent its flavour and joy on the dulcet tones.

Within Diarmid's song she found reasons. For the music was the storyteller, a herald bringing a shattering, soul-filling tale. She absorbed the resonance, ate the voice, played the tune in movement, and stroked the vibration on her fingertips.

His music permeated her, a fluid brimming through her pores. It reworked each fibre, every stitch of her, until her eyes were stars, her flesh the earth, her hair sunlight, and her soul the first and last notes of the song.

Diarmid's final notes caught the newness of her, and sorrow filled up the room, a lament for what was gone. A mournful dirge that trumpeted the farewell of whom she had been. Slowly Sauren drifted home on the final strains of the music.

“You understand now?  What you are inside the music?”

She nodded, her voice still unsure, still drifting. Diarmid put his harp away and looked into the mirrors that were her eyes. They were not quite his; their surface was still uncracked, not broken and mended a thousand times.

“You will learn, as every Singer does. The magic, the music takes its price.”

Diarmid sighed, and then kissed her gently on the cheek.

“We must go home now, my sister in harmony, to Kinsharra Point. You must commence your formal instruction.”

Diarmid held out his hand and she accepted it, with a whisper good-bye to her former life.

  

Copyright © 2008 A. F. Stewart

From the book Inside Realms

 

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