The Born Queen - J. Gregory Keyes [102]
He enjoyed the details of the place, the door knockers in the shapes of fish and flowers and especially hands, the weather vanes on the rooftops, some shaped like banners, others like cranes or dragons, but especially hands.
And he loved the Rauthhat, the lively beer hall in the center of town. It was always alive with both locals and travelers, and there was usually a minstrel or two trying to get by to learn new melodies from.
He needed the quiet of the estate, but he needed this, too—life. Especially after his talk with Mery that morning.
So the three of them found an empty table at the Rauthhat, and Jen, the barmaid with red hair and a wide grin, brought them the brown beer the place served, mussels cooked in wine and butter, and some thick, crusty bread to sop up the liquid with. Not surprisingly, Leoff felt a little more cheerful. Areana sparkled like a jewel as she said her hellos, and Mery at least ate some of the mussels and sipped at the wine.
But that went only so far, and even in the Rauthhat things were a bit subdued. No one was talking about it, but everyone knew there was an army from Hansa just a few leagues away. Haundwarpen had a garrisoned keep and respectable walls, but determined armies had taken them before.
But for this night at least, Leoff joined everyone in the place in pretending nothing bad was afoot, and he let himself develop a bit of a glow. That all ended quite healthily in the arms of his young wife that night, when, as they lay damp and sleepy in the sheets, she kissed his ear and whispered, “I’m with child.”
He cried with happiness and fear, and they fell asleep holding each other.
The next day found him staring at the blank sheet again, with—finally—the glimmer of an idea.
What if he could give the dead something else to sing?
A number of questions came around at that. Why were they singing the deadly music he had written? Would they sing anything using the forbidden modes?
Was Mery lying or deluded? That was an important one.
The old music had progressed in stages, coaxing and finally seducing the living toward death. Those who had died seemed to have expired by some act of sheer will, their hearts stopping because they—with all the strength and purpose in them—wanted their hearts to stop.
He remembered wanting it, too. He had almost surrendered everything.
Was it possible to write a backward progression? One that would make the dead yearn toward life? And if so, would that be the right thing to do? He pictured hordes of corpses rising, walking to the Rauthhat for beer, seeking the beds of their widows and widowers…
But at least he was thinking now.
He made beginnings, musical vignettes and fancies on the themes of life and death. He wrote melodies and countermelodies stripped of the modal accompaniments that would give them real power, able now to sense something of what they might do in his head.
It was with a start that he realized it was after midday and someone was calling—no, screaming—for him.
He flung open his door and hurried out of the house. Areana was running toward him across the clover, her long lace-trimmed blue skirt billowing. Her face was red from crying, and she was so hysterical, hiccups kept any sense from her words. But she was pointing, and he finally made it out: “Mery.”
The girl was lying in the well, facedown. His first thought was that it wasn’t Mery at all but just a little doll someone had dropped down there.
When the servants fished her out, he couldn’t pretend that any longer. She wasn’t breathing, and water poured from her mouth and nose.
The next few bells were a blur. He held Areana and tried to say comforting things while the servants changed