The Demon Cycle Series Books 1 and 2: The Painted Man, The Desert Spear. Peter V. Brett
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‘In the mood for music, are we?’ Arrick asked the crowd, not missing a beat. He was answered with a cheer, so Arrick went to the bag and took the fiddle, tucking it under his chin and turning back to the audience. But before he could put bow to string, the man cried out.
‘Not you, the boy!’ he bellowed. ‘Let Halfgrip play!’
Arrick looked to Rojer, his face a mask of irritation as the crowd began chanting ‘Halfgrip! Halfgrip!’ Arrick looked to Rojer, his face a mask of irritation. Finally he shrugged, handing his apprentice the instrument.
Rojer took the fiddle with shaking hands. ‘Never upstage your master’ was a rule apprentices learned early. But the crowd was calling for him to play, and again the bow felt so right in his crippled hand, free of the cursed glove. He closed his eyes, feeling the stillness of the strings under his fingertips, and then brought them to a low hum. The crowd quieted as he played softly for a few moments, stroking the strings like the back of a cat, making it purr.
The fiddle came alive in his hands, then, and he led it out like a partner in a reel, sweeping it into a whirlwind of music. He forgot the crowd. He forgot Arrick. Alone with his music, he explored new harmonies even as he maintained a constant melody, improvising in time to the tempo of clapping that seemed a world removed.
He had no idea how long it went on. He could have stayed in that world forever, but there was a sharp twang, and something stung his hand. He shook his head to clear it and looked up at the wide-eyed and silent crowd.
‘String broke,’ he said sheepishly. He glanced at his master, who stood in the same shock as the other onlookers. Arrick raised his hands slowly and began to clap.
The crowd followed soon after, and it was thunderous.
‘You’re going to make us rich with that fiddling, boy,’ Arrick said, counting their take. ‘Rich!’
‘Rich enough to pay the back dues you owe the guild?’ a voice asked.
They turned to see Master Jasin leaning against the wall. His two apprentices, Sali and Abrum, stood close by. Sali sang soprano with a clear voice as beautiful as she was ugly. Arrick sometimes joked that if she wore a horned helmet, audiences would mistake her for a rock demon. Abrum sang bass, his voice a deep thrum that made the planked streets vibrate. He was tall and lean, with gigantic hands and feet. If Sali was a rock demon, he was surely a wood.
Like Arrick, Master Jasin was an alto, his voice rich and pure. He wore expensive clothes of fine blue wool and gold thread, spurning the motley that most of his profession wore. His long black hair and moustache were oiled and meticulously groomed.
Jasin was a man of average size, but that made him no less dangerous. He had once stabbed a Jongleur in the eye during an argument over a particular corner. The magistrate ruled it self-defence, but that wasn’t how the talk in the apprentice room of the guildhouse told it.
‘The payment of my guild dues is no concern of yours, Jasin,’ Arrick said, quickly dumping the coins in the bag of marvels.
‘Your apprentice may have talked your way out of missing that performance yesterday, Soursong, but his fiddle can’t succour you forever.’ As he spoke, Abrum snatched Rojer’s fiddle from his hands and broke it over his knee. ‘Sooner or later, the guild will have your licence.’
‘The guild would never give up Arrick Sweetsong,’ Arrick said, ‘but even if they did, Jasin would still be known as “Secondsong”.’
Jasin scowled, for many in the guild already used that name, and the master was known to fly into rages at its utterance. He and Sali advanced on Arrick, who held the bag protectively. Abrum backed Rojer against a wall, keeping him from going to his master’s aid.
But this wasn’t the first time they had needed to fight to defend their take. Rojer dropped straight down on his back, coiling like a spring and kicking straight up. Abrum screamed, his normally deep voice taking on a different pitch.
‘I thought your apprentice was a bass, not a soprano,’ Arrick said. When Jasin and Sali spared a glance to their companion, his quick hands darted into the bag of marvels, sending a fistful of wingseeds spinning in the air before them.
Jasin lunged through the cloud, but Arrick sidestepped and tripped him easily, bringing the bag around in a hard swing at Sali, hitting the bulky woman full in the chest. She might have kept her feet, but Rojer was in position, kneeling behind her. She fell hard, and before the three could recover, Arrick and Rojer ran off down the boardwalk.
The roof of the Duke’s library in Miln was a magical place for Arlen. On a clear day, the world spread out below him, a world unrestrained by walls and wards, stretching on into infinity. It was also the place where Arlen first looked at Mery, and truly saw her.
His work in the library was nearly complete, and he would soon be returning to Cob’s shop. He watched the sun play over the snowcapped mountains and fall on the valley below, trying to memorize the sight forever, and when he turned to Mery, he wanted to do the same for her. She was fifteen, and more beautiful by far than mountains and snow.
Mery had been his closest friend for over a year, but Arlen had never thought more of her than that. Now, seeing her limned in sunlight, cold mountain wind blowing the long brown hair from her face as she hugged her arms against the swell of her bosom to ward off the chill, she was suddenly a young woman, and he a young man. His pulse quickened at the way her skirts flared in the breeze, edges of lace hinting at petticoats beneath.
He said nothing as he stepped forward, but she caught the look in his eyes, and smiled. ‘It’s about time,’ she said.
He reached out, tentatively, and traced the back of his hand down her cheek. She leaned in to the touch, and he tasted her sweet breath, kissing her. It was soft at first, hesitant, but it deepened as she responded, becoming something with a life of its own, something hungry and passionate, something that had been building inside him for over a year without his knowing.
Some time later, their lips parted with a soft pop, and they smiled nervously. Arms around one another, they looked out over Miln, sharing in the glow of young love.
‘You’re always staring out into the valley,’ Mery said. She ran her fingers through his hair, and kissed his temple. ‘Tell me what you dream about, when your eyes have that faraway look.’
Arlen was quiet for some time. ‘I dream of freeing the world from the corelings,’ he said.
Her thoughts having gone another way, Mery laughed at the unexpected response. She did not mean to be cruel, but the sound cut at him like a lash. ‘You think yourself the Deliverer, then?’ she asked. ‘How will you do this?’
Arlen drew away from her a little, feeling suddenly vulnerable. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘I’ll start by Messengering. I’ve already saved enough money for armour and a horse.’
Mery shook her head. ‘That will never do, if we’re to marry,’ she said.
‘We’re to marry?’ Arlen asked in surprise, amazed at the tightness in his throat.
‘What, am I not good enough?’ Mery asked, pulling away and looking indignant.
‘No! I never said …’ Arlen stuttered.
‘Well,