The Daylight War
Page 89
‘Your sharusahk is nothing like what Gared and Wonda are learning from Kaval,’ Rojer noted.
Amanvah snorted. ‘Sharum sharusahk is like wolves howling at the moon. Even the dama are only a cricket’s song. This,’ she fell into a series of poses, ‘is music.’
Rojer concentrated, thinking of Darsy Cutter, the homely Herb Gatherer of Deliverer’s Hollow. He undressed the woman in his mind’s eye until his arousal faded, then rose from the bed, moving over to face Amanvah, imitating her as she shifted from stance to stance.
It was surprisingly difficult, even for one trained to the stage. Rojer could walk on his hands, tumble, flip, and dance every dance from royal ballrooms to country reels, but the sharukin tested muscles he didn’t even know he had, forcing him to hold more balance than it took to walk a ball while fiddling.
Sikvah laughed. ‘That is quite good, husband.’
‘Don’t lie to me, jiwah,’ Rojer said, smirking to let her know it was only teasing. ‘I know it was awful.’
‘Sikvah does not lie,’ Amanvah said, moving to adjust his pose. ‘Your form is good, it is only your centre that is off.’
‘My centre?’
‘Imagine yourself a palm tree, swaying in the wind,’ Amanvah said. ‘You bend, but do not break.’
‘I would,’ Rojer said, ‘but I have never seen a palm tree. You might as well tell me to imagine myself a fairy pipkin.’
Amanvah did not frown, but neither did she offer him a smile. In her eyes, there was no humour in sharusahk. He swallowed his smirk and let her guide his stance.
‘Your centre is the invisible line that connects you, the Ala, and Heaven,’ Amanvah said. ‘It is balance, but also so much more than that. It is the calm place of silence, the deep place you fall into when you embrace music, the soothing place where you ignore pain.’ She grabbed his crotch. ‘It is the hard place you use to seed your wives, and the safe place you use to sway with the wind.’
Rojer groaned at her touch, and this time, Amanvah did smile. She took a step back, signalling to Sikvah. Both women reached into pouches at their waists, slipping their fingers into the tiny cymbals used for the pillow dance.
For the next few days, the scene was repeated in one Laktonian village after another, talking the townsfolk down from their fear of the Sharum, and then performing for them. Rojer felt a bit of guilt for duping his wives about the message they were giving, but since they hadn’t even bothered to tell him they spoke his language at first, he managed to keep the feeling at bay. It wasn’t a betrayal. He was just spreading news they already thought common knowledge.
Each morning, Amanvah and Sikvah continued his sharusahk training while Enkido looked on the proceedings, his face carved from stone. It seemed more a lark than a concerted effort, but it was pleasurable enough. Leesha had told him of the deadly nerve strikes Inevera had attempted, and the ease with which the woman had wrestled her into a choke hold. There was none of that in his wives’ lessons. He improved slightly, but not enough to even attempt some of the more difficult poses.
‘You must walk before you dance,’ Amanvah said.
They were moving at a faster pace now as they moved farther from the Krasians’ control. Once, their caravan was attacked – a quick strike on horseback by a dozen bandits with throwing spears and short bows, meant to distract as another group raided one of the baggage carts. The Sharum were not fooled. They killed four of the bandits and injured several more before they broke and ran. The caravan was unmolested after that.
Less than a week out from Deliverer’s Hollow, they were beginning to feel more comfortable, with Leesha’s familiarity with the local Gatherers growing with proximity to home. Some were women she had corresponded with for years but never met. In the village of Northfork, there were actually tears and hugging, but all Rojer could feel was a growing tension. The folk here felt safer from the Sharum, and that made them bold.
That night in the taproom, after he finished the Song of Waning, there was polite applause, but then the barkeep called, ‘Ay, play The Battle of Cutter’s Hollow!’ The request was followed by a chorus of ays, with much hooting and stomping of feet.
Rojer suppressed a furrow of his brow that threatened to mar his Jongleur’s mask. Two months ago, he was touting that song from every rooftop, and had sold it dear to the Jongleurs’ Guild.
He looked to Amanvah. ‘Please play if that is your wish, husband. Sikvah and I will return to our table. We would be honoured to hear a song of our new tribe’s heroism in the night.’
They smoothly rolled back onto their heels and stood. Rojer wanted to kiss them as they passed, but while they seemed to be growing more comfortable with Northern customs, that was too far for any Krasian woman short of the Damajah herself to be expected to go in public.
Our new tribe. Rojer gritted his teeth. Did they really know what they were asking for? He had not been fool enough to sing The Battle of Cutter’s Hollow while in the confines of Everam’s Bounty – it bordered on blasphemy.
But they weren’t in Everam’s Bounty. They were in Laktonian lands now, and surrounded by Thesans who deserved to know that their cousins in the North were growing in power, and had their own saviour to rally to. Rojer didn’t really think Arlen Bales was the Deliverer any more than he did Ahmann Jardir, but if folk needed to look to one for strength in the night and a way forward, he would still take the Painted Man over the Shar’Dama Ka. He wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life lying about it and hiding that fact from his wives.
Now was as good a time as any.
Slowly, he began to play. As he fell into the music, his fear and anxiety began to drift away like demon ashes in the morning breeze. He had been so proud of the song when he had written it, and as his fingers danced across the familiar notes, he found he still was. The Battle of Cutter’s Hollow might not have the sheer power of the Song of Waning, but he could weave a shell of protection in the night with it, keeping corelings at bay, and it had power over the hearts of all good folk. It was already sung far and wide, and would likely outlive him, lasting into the ages like the ancient sagas.
He fell into the trance that playing always brought, blocking out his wives, the Sharum, Leesha, and the patrons. When he was ready, he began to sing.
He had kept the song simple, both so country folk could clap and sing along, but also for his own benefit. His voice was nothing compared with Amanvah’s and Sikvah’s, or with that of his famed master, Arrick Sweetsong. Even in his cups, when folk laughed and called him ‘Soursong’ and he could forget lyrics midsong, Arrick still had levels of vocal ability Rojer could never match.
But he had been trained by the best, and while he lacked the lungs and natural talent, Rojer could carry a tune well enough, his voice high and clear.
Cutter’s Hollow lost its centre
When the flux came to stay
Killed great Herb Gatherer Bruna
Her ’prentice far away
Not a one would run and hide,
They all did stand and follow
Killing demons in the night
The Painted Man came to the Hollow
In Fort Angiers far to the north
Leesha got ill tiding
Her mentor dead, her father sick
Hollow a week’s riding
Not a one would run and hide,
Amanvah snorted. ‘Sharum sharusahk is like wolves howling at the moon. Even the dama are only a cricket’s song. This,’ she fell into a series of poses, ‘is music.’
Rojer concentrated, thinking of Darsy Cutter, the homely Herb Gatherer of Deliverer’s Hollow. He undressed the woman in his mind’s eye until his arousal faded, then rose from the bed, moving over to face Amanvah, imitating her as she shifted from stance to stance.
It was surprisingly difficult, even for one trained to the stage. Rojer could walk on his hands, tumble, flip, and dance every dance from royal ballrooms to country reels, but the sharukin tested muscles he didn’t even know he had, forcing him to hold more balance than it took to walk a ball while fiddling.
Sikvah laughed. ‘That is quite good, husband.’
‘Don’t lie to me, jiwah,’ Rojer said, smirking to let her know it was only teasing. ‘I know it was awful.’
‘Sikvah does not lie,’ Amanvah said, moving to adjust his pose. ‘Your form is good, it is only your centre that is off.’
‘My centre?’
‘Imagine yourself a palm tree, swaying in the wind,’ Amanvah said. ‘You bend, but do not break.’
‘I would,’ Rojer said, ‘but I have never seen a palm tree. You might as well tell me to imagine myself a fairy pipkin.’
Amanvah did not frown, but neither did she offer him a smile. In her eyes, there was no humour in sharusahk. He swallowed his smirk and let her guide his stance.
‘Your centre is the invisible line that connects you, the Ala, and Heaven,’ Amanvah said. ‘It is balance, but also so much more than that. It is the calm place of silence, the deep place you fall into when you embrace music, the soothing place where you ignore pain.’ She grabbed his crotch. ‘It is the hard place you use to seed your wives, and the safe place you use to sway with the wind.’
Rojer groaned at her touch, and this time, Amanvah did smile. She took a step back, signalling to Sikvah. Both women reached into pouches at their waists, slipping their fingers into the tiny cymbals used for the pillow dance.
For the next few days, the scene was repeated in one Laktonian village after another, talking the townsfolk down from their fear of the Sharum, and then performing for them. Rojer felt a bit of guilt for duping his wives about the message they were giving, but since they hadn’t even bothered to tell him they spoke his language at first, he managed to keep the feeling at bay. It wasn’t a betrayal. He was just spreading news they already thought common knowledge.
Each morning, Amanvah and Sikvah continued his sharusahk training while Enkido looked on the proceedings, his face carved from stone. It seemed more a lark than a concerted effort, but it was pleasurable enough. Leesha had told him of the deadly nerve strikes Inevera had attempted, and the ease with which the woman had wrestled her into a choke hold. There was none of that in his wives’ lessons. He improved slightly, but not enough to even attempt some of the more difficult poses.
‘You must walk before you dance,’ Amanvah said.
They were moving at a faster pace now as they moved farther from the Krasians’ control. Once, their caravan was attacked – a quick strike on horseback by a dozen bandits with throwing spears and short bows, meant to distract as another group raided one of the baggage carts. The Sharum were not fooled. They killed four of the bandits and injured several more before they broke and ran. The caravan was unmolested after that.
Less than a week out from Deliverer’s Hollow, they were beginning to feel more comfortable, with Leesha’s familiarity with the local Gatherers growing with proximity to home. Some were women she had corresponded with for years but never met. In the village of Northfork, there were actually tears and hugging, but all Rojer could feel was a growing tension. The folk here felt safer from the Sharum, and that made them bold.
That night in the taproom, after he finished the Song of Waning, there was polite applause, but then the barkeep called, ‘Ay, play The Battle of Cutter’s Hollow!’ The request was followed by a chorus of ays, with much hooting and stomping of feet.
Rojer suppressed a furrow of his brow that threatened to mar his Jongleur’s mask. Two months ago, he was touting that song from every rooftop, and had sold it dear to the Jongleurs’ Guild.
He looked to Amanvah. ‘Please play if that is your wish, husband. Sikvah and I will return to our table. We would be honoured to hear a song of our new tribe’s heroism in the night.’
They smoothly rolled back onto their heels and stood. Rojer wanted to kiss them as they passed, but while they seemed to be growing more comfortable with Northern customs, that was too far for any Krasian woman short of the Damajah herself to be expected to go in public.
Our new tribe. Rojer gritted his teeth. Did they really know what they were asking for? He had not been fool enough to sing The Battle of Cutter’s Hollow while in the confines of Everam’s Bounty – it bordered on blasphemy.
But they weren’t in Everam’s Bounty. They were in Laktonian lands now, and surrounded by Thesans who deserved to know that their cousins in the North were growing in power, and had their own saviour to rally to. Rojer didn’t really think Arlen Bales was the Deliverer any more than he did Ahmann Jardir, but if folk needed to look to one for strength in the night and a way forward, he would still take the Painted Man over the Shar’Dama Ka. He wasn’t going to spend the rest of his life lying about it and hiding that fact from his wives.
Now was as good a time as any.
Slowly, he began to play. As he fell into the music, his fear and anxiety began to drift away like demon ashes in the morning breeze. He had been so proud of the song when he had written it, and as his fingers danced across the familiar notes, he found he still was. The Battle of Cutter’s Hollow might not have the sheer power of the Song of Waning, but he could weave a shell of protection in the night with it, keeping corelings at bay, and it had power over the hearts of all good folk. It was already sung far and wide, and would likely outlive him, lasting into the ages like the ancient sagas.
He fell into the trance that playing always brought, blocking out his wives, the Sharum, Leesha, and the patrons. When he was ready, he began to sing.
He had kept the song simple, both so country folk could clap and sing along, but also for his own benefit. His voice was nothing compared with Amanvah’s and Sikvah’s, or with that of his famed master, Arrick Sweetsong. Even in his cups, when folk laughed and called him ‘Soursong’ and he could forget lyrics midsong, Arrick still had levels of vocal ability Rojer could never match.
But he had been trained by the best, and while he lacked the lungs and natural talent, Rojer could carry a tune well enough, his voice high and clear.
Cutter’s Hollow lost its centre
When the flux came to stay
Killed great Herb Gatherer Bruna
Her ’prentice far away
Not a one would run and hide,
They all did stand and follow
Killing demons in the night
The Painted Man came to the Hollow
In Fort Angiers far to the north
Leesha got ill tiding
Her mentor dead, her father sick
Hollow a week’s riding
Not a one would run and hide,
