The Rise and Fall of a Dragonking - By Lynn Abbey Page 0,2
the wall of the pit. Slaves entered first, wrestling a rack of bells and cymbals through the sand. Before the melodic discord faded, a quartet of musicians entered, swaddled completely in black and apparent only as velvet darkness on the sparkling sand.
Anticipation gripped the guests. Someone dropped his bowl. The clash of pottery shards echoed through the amphitheater, bringing hisses of disapproval from other guests, though not from the patient, empty-handed lord seated along the rail.
Another door opened, larger than the first, spreading a rectangle of ruddy light across the pit. The polished brass bells and cymbals cast fiery reflections among the guests, who ignored them. Nothing could draw their attention from the three low-wheeled carts being trundled onto the sand. An upright post of mekillot bone rose from each cart, a crossbar was lashed to each post, and a living mortal—two women and a man—was lashed to each crossbar, arms spread wide, as if in flight.
One of the women moaned as the wheels of her cart churned into the sand. Her strength failed. She sagged against the bonds holding her to the post and bar. The titillating scent of abject terror rose from the pit; patient Lord Ursos was patient no longer. He pushed back his sleeves and set his elbows upon the rail.
When the carts were set, the slaves departed, and the musicians struck a single tone: flute, lyre, bells, and cymbals together. It was a perfectly pitched counterpoint to the woman’s moan. The fine hairs on the lord’s bare arms rose in expectation as the night’s master strode silently across the sand.
There were no words of introduction or explanation. None were needed. Everyone in the amphitheater—from the slaves in the top row of the gallery to those in the pit, especially those unfortunates bound against bone in the pit—knew what would happen next.
The night’s master drew a little, curved knife from the depths of his robe. Its blade was steel, more precious than gold, and it gleamed in the torchlight when he brandished it for the guests. Then he angled it carefully, and its reflection illuminated a small portion of the bound man’s flank. The prisoner gasped as the first cuts were made, one on either side of a floating rib, and howled as the master slowly peeled back his flesh. The lyrist took the first improvisation in the time-honored manner, weaving the middle tones together, leaving the highs for the chimes and the lows for the flute.
Brandishing his knife a second time, the master made a second, smaller, gash across the bloody stream. He dipped his free hand in a pouch below his waist and smeared a white, crystalline powder into the new wound. The bound man gasped and strained against the crossbar. Tinkling cymbals framed his thin, close-mouthed wail, and the flutist blew a haunting note to unite them.
The bare-armed lord sat back from the rail. His sleeves fell, disregarded, back to his wrists as his eyes closed and his hands folded into fists. His breath came rapidly as the melody took shape in music and mortal suffering. The tones were too potent for some of the guests around him; they added their own whimpering harmonies to the night master’s music. Symphony and empathy together sent a shiver along the lord’s spine. But the shiver died before it reached his throat, and he alone, except for the master, remained silent.
The melody continued to evolve, not attaining its final form until the three captives were bleeding, weeping, and wailing: an eight-tone trope, four ascending, then the lowest, followed by a three-tone cascade through the middle range.
The dark passion of the night master’s music quieted the lord’s restless thoughts and gave him a moment of peace, but, born from mortal flesh as it was, the melody ended all too soon. One by one the captive voices failed. Where there had been music, only meat remained. The master departed, and then the musicians, the guests, and the slaves, also, until the lord was alone.
Utterly alone.
His lips parted, and music, at last, rose from his throat: an eight-tone trope, four ascending, then the lowest, followed by a three-tone cascade through the middle range.
* * *
Much later, when all but Urik’s rowdiest taverns had fallen into a stupor and templars drowsed against their spears, the midnight peace of one humble dwelling—a tiny room tucked beneath roof-ribs, broiling by day and frigid by night—was broken by an infant’s angry squalling. The mother, sleeping on a rag-and-rope bed beside her man, awoke