~Isha~

 

If music be the food of love,

Sing on till I am fill’d with joy;

For then my listening soul you move

With pleasures that can never cloy

(If Music Be the Food of Love- Henry Purcell)

 

Despite the heat, Isha buttoned the collar and cuffs of his coat. Despite the futility of it, Isha did his best to look… well, less frightening. Today he wore an eye patch, unrelieved black like the rest of his attire, over his empty socket and even used the Power to render his scars invisible. Unfortunately, there was little to be done that would cover his size without draining strength he could quite possible need. But at least now he was just a giant rather than a big, ugly giant.

 

Finally shaving his head and face using a combination of Air and Fire, he strapped on his broadsword and walked out of his military-style home and off towards the Travelling Yards. His recruiting party awaited him. Despite himself, he sneered as he looked them over, furious that this was the bulk of what Dalinar would allow him to do. The man had actually refused his request to take a group of initiates to the Blight! Damn them, how was he supposed to prove he had not broken if all they gave him were these stupid recruiting missions!

 

Of the half-dozen men in the group, the Shienaran giant could only name one of them, though it was possible he had taught some of the others. Much to the rest of the party’s confusion, the hard-faced Asha’man barked a laugh as he recognized Caelen with a sword-pin on his collar. He hadn’t known the boy had gotten promoted.

 

The older man, though still called “boy” as he was only a Dedicated, grinned back at him. “Morning Caelen. How fares the minstrel-soldier today?”

 

~Don’t use that term so lightly boy, you don’t know what it means~

 

~Caelen~

 

“Morning Caelen. How fares the minstrel-soldier today?”

 

Caelen smiled at the Asha'man as he strode over. "I am faring well enough though i'm feeling rather soldierish than minstrel today. Perhaps you can help me change that. Do you think we could talk someone into letting us make our own cloaks? I'd prefer one that was more on the lines of a nice dramatic red. Or perhaps a rich purple. Or if I could compose a few songs of our valorous brethern, I could make one like a gleemans. You could call me the gleeman dedicate!"

 

He was feeling in a rare mood. Honestly, he had woken in a good mood after some rather bizarre dreams about Jocelyn. Nothing inmodest of course because the girl was young enough to be..well.. almost young enough to be his daughter... but it was the strangest dream and she had been in a pool naked and she kept asking him to find her shoes because she could get out without her shoes on. Honestly, she should have been more concerned about her hair... it was a soaked mess but he had been gentleman enough to refrain from telling her that.

 

Anyway, then he'd gotten up and seen her smiling face across the room when he'd been eating and it had been enough to send him into a fit of laughs that only got about half the looks he would have liked (he was surrouned by lunatics after all and they all expected you to act abnormal so much that they failed to notice a normal person doing anything completely off their rocker). Then he'd been informed about this raiding party.. OK they called it recruiting and they'd been very annoyed when he asked if he could steal a little boy because he'd always wanted a son.

 

But now he was back with his dear friend Isha.. well... dear in the sense of he seemed to be the only man in the entire camp to have a good sense of humor, and could keep up with a good chorus while on the run.

 

"Now tell me true... am I really not allowed to steal women and small children?" He asked with a certain glint in his eyes.

 

~Isha~

 

Out loud, Isha laughed at the boy’s humour with genuine mirth. Internally, The Voice was much the opposite.

 

~I remember those days, days when I hadn’t held anything but a sword and hadn’t touched a harp or lute in so long if felt as if my hands might have forgotten the chords. I hated those days when my voice was so hoarse from yelling that even if I had had the time, I wouldn’t have been able to sustain a single note. Blood and ashes, the only music I could write were death marches- minstrel-soldier indeed~

 

Isha did his best to ignore The Voice, but a melody kept playing through his head. Just as he was about to answer Caelen, his mind was assaulted with a thousand ways to harmonize the piece, depending on its mood, tempo, lyrics, beat, timbre and hundred of other little details that went in to figuring out just the right way to write that song. A beat was already fully formed in his mind and it seemed as if his own heartbeat the rate at which he was breathing changed to match.

 

Dum dum da da da dum dum da dum… Dum dum da da da dum da dum…

 

‘Get out of here, I can’t function with you constantly there!’

 

The Voice didn’t listen though and across a bridge of time and thought, words and pitches floated to Isha’s mind as though it had originated from the outside rather than from some enigmatic part of his own brain.

 

“To death, for life!”

Is what they said.

“To death, for life!”

They’re all now dead.

What life from death

Did they expect?

No life from death

Just lives wrecked.

“To death, for life!”

Next time they’ll learn

This is the end

They’re killing earned...

 

Savagely, Isha lashed out at The Voice, sending it to the very back of his mind. Disturbed, and truth be told more that a little frightened, his good mood had vanished. “’Fraid not, Caelen.” His tone was rougher than he would have liked and lacked the humour it should have had.

 

He seized the Power as much in need as an excuse to turn away from Caelen. Dipping into the violent river of saidin, Isha was surprised to feel slightly dizzy and had to shake his head to clear his senses and weave the Gateway. Finishing that, he waved the group through and followed.

 

They arrived in a small town a couple dozen miles north-west of the Farm. As town’s go, it hardly deserved the name, consisting of perhaps a hundred houses clustered around an inn, blacksmith’s shop and the few other essentials the area’s farmers and townspeople needed. Industry-wise, the town seemed bent on clearing the entire Braem Wood and even Isha was surprised by the loads of stripped tree-trunks that rolled by in carts pulled by pairs of oxen.

 

This was all observed some after some fifteen minutes of walking through the thick wood. By the time they came clear of the trees, dead branches and leaves crunched underfoot from where the forest had been cleared in the last two months or so. After only a brief look at the town, Isha split the group up into pairs, taking Caelen with himself, and then destinations. One group was heading to the north end up town, the other the south, while he and Caelen took care of the inn.

 

Isha, having gotten over the troubles with The Voice and feeling bad for his lack of humour at the “boy’s” last joke, turned towards Caelen with a grin. “So, you and me, eh? I don’t suppose I can dare you to do a little ditty in the tavern, can I?” The unfortunate thing about winking with one eye was that you could never actually tell whether it was a blink or a wink.

 

As it was, ten minutes later saw them at the door of the inn, though in truth the place seemed so small it was likely only to have a half dozen rooms upstairs and functioned mainly as a tavern for the area’s inhabitants. Wincing, Isha remembered that the last time he had been in a tavern he had found a much-changed Linten and had had to leave the town early to bring the boy back. Hoping that there would be no such surprises this time, the two black-coated men walked in.

 

~Dilora~

 

The wagon was parked somewhere no one would ever have thought to look.  Dilora had somehow managed to fit it in a farmer’s hay barn for the night after parting with a Tairen recipe book and a chicken.  Bad weather was coming, they said; bad weather the likes we have never seen before.  Dilora thought they were a touch too isolated and told them news of the great cities in exchange for a hot plate of some bean stew with chunks of rabbit, and then when they had retired at sunset Dilora had been of a mind to have a drink.  Completely unlike any other farmer, they had not kept a single barrel of brandy or beer anywhere on the premises so she had decided a walk to the nearest village was in order.  The others would stay with the wagon.

 

She walked the short distance to the village, tucking the small harp from amongst her possessions under her arm.  There were not too many patrons there, the inhabitants from the village dotted the tables sporadically and a pair of men in black coats entered when Dilora sat down.  The pretty blonde serving woman came over and asked what Dilora would like to drink.  She replied, asking for a portion of whatever sweet pastries or pies the cook had on the menu to go with her glass of spiced wine.  With a curtsey and a twinkle that made Dilora wonder if she’d encountered the girl before, she sped towards the kitchen and the normal hubbub of conversation resumed. 

 

Placing the wine on the table before her, Dilora pressed a silver coin into the girl’s hand and winked – a tacit instruction implicit behind her mahogany eyes.  The wench nodded, knowing full well that she would supply Dilora with wine all night for as long as the coin lasted, and that no one would supply Dilora but her.  Obviously it was lonely out here and none of the regular patrons seemed willing to approach her.  That meant the girl was probably the middle daughter of the innkeeper and the innkeeper probably had a stern hand to any man with dubious intent towards his daughter.  Being a woman, however…  Dilora smiled.

 

She watched the woman go, smiling.  There would be more silver this night, and perhaps some dancing with the girl should there prove to be someone adequate enough with an instrument.  First a sip of the wine was taken, and then Dilora picked the harp from the tabletop and strummed it idly; the music akin to liquid sound.  She’d acquired it somewhere along the road – Dilora couldn’t remember exactly where she’d got it, and it was now among the contents of the things she would sell, for the right price.  She picked out an old air, a tune of derring-do with a faint hint of quirkiness to it.  Obviously her mood was filtering through her fingers, and a melody came to mind that flowed through to the harp.  She sat, she didn’t know how long for, just playing.

 

~Isha~

 

“Do you want to wield the lightnings, boy? Will you stand with the Dragon and win the world’s salvation? Are you ready to give your life for you family?”

 

The boy nodded enthusiastically but he kept shooting fearful glances at Isha’s size every few moments. Not for the first time that night, the giant Asha’man thanked his Mirror of the Mists. If the boy only knew…

 

“Imagine a flame then. Small and flickering. There is nothing but the flame. You are the Flame. You are alone. You can feel the heat of the Flame. You feed your emotions into the Flame. All your happiness. Your fear. Anger. Sadness. Anxiety. You are empty now. Your emotions feed the Flame and make it brighter. It makes it hotter…”

 

Isha droned on for some fifteen-or-so minutes before finally giving up. With a sigh, he stood and shook the boy’s hand. “I’m sorry, lad. You can’t do it.”

 

“Do what?”

 

“Channel.”

 

Despite the knowing gleam in his eyes, the boy still looked shocked and glanced around the room as if to see if any had heard him; to see if any didn’t know exactly what the black coats meant. The entire room eyes the pair of uniformed men warily as if they were rabid dogs, which, Isha supposed, they were in a way. Doomed to go mad. Doomed to turn on everyone around them.

 

~As if you aren’t mad already~

 

‘Look who’s talking?’

 

~Kinda hard to look at things in your own head~

 

‘Shut up’

 

Isha rolled his eyes at The Voice- that apparently Ages-dead composer. Mad as it sounded, the giant man could hardly wait to be alone and attempt to find out more about this odd phenomenon occurring in his own skull. ‘Light! A voice in my head, how much can I still trust my own sanity?’

 

The boy made a hasty exit, trying to be inconspicuous, which made him all the more conspicuous for his efforts! With his impaired vision, Isha scanned the room for any more possible recruits but his eyes fell on the harpist at the end of the room instead.

 

He, or rather the Voice in his head, was immediately enthralled. The being that was Isha faded into the background as the other part of his mind stepped to the fore. It didn’t recognise the tune, since it had been composed in this latest Age, but being a highly skilled musician, it quickly picked it up and began altering harmonies and rhythms until it was a new arrangement completely.

 

The Voice moved the body, as if in a trace, towards the young lady harpist and sat down in one of the chairs closest to her. Closing Its eyes- ‘Eye.’ corrected the piece of mind that was Isha- it drank in the music like an alcoholic too long from a draught of ale.

 

When she finished the piece, It clapped Its unfamiliarly large, rough hands, loudly. Since he was the only one in the room clapping, especially so loudly, she eyed him curiously. With a smile, The Voice was not yet used to the repulsiveness of this new body and so was taken aback by her being taken aback by his attempt at a friendly grin and Its first thought was: ~My, people in this Age are so rude!~, It asked “May I have a try?”

 

~Caelen~

 

Caelen wanted to laugh at the men that seemed to flock to them who later seemed relieved or upset at their lack of ability. Some wanted it and he wondered what they thought came with this ability, while he wondered what made the other type think they could. Perhaps they had bad thoughts about their neighbors and thought they were mad for it.

 

His amusement about that left as another man tried to quietly leave the room. No doubt there would be a few people who might try to pick fights with 'em later, but there had been enough to try that he doubted anyone would get in too much trouble for it. But it was his companion that really broke his inner thoughts. He watched as Isha moved to the end of the room to the young woman who had been playing.

 

Odd enough to see him move, and yet there had been something different about his steps, about the way he moved through the room. He kept back a little, but pulled a chair up behind Isha's. It wouldn't do for anyone to think they were trying to steal women from villages, no matter what he had been joking about earlier. He kept his silence for once and let the other man interact with her to see what was happening.

 

~Dilora~

 

The last notes fell away as her unskilled fingers finished plucking.  Staccato applause came drifting to her ears from a couple of sources, the loudest being from a giant in the corner.  Instantly, Dilora thought that this was some throwback from the Caemlyn Carnival standing in this inn so far away from the city proper.  No, this figure couldn’t be that.  He was dressed in black from head to toe, a long black coat with some silver adornments on it – was this one of those male channellers she had heard so much talk of whispers about?

 

He was asking her something.  She knew she was staring but he was definitely a figure that required a second look, or at least one very long one.  As the moments stretched out, Dilora became certain he was deserving of the latter and it wasn’t that her manners had deserted her, yes, that was it. 

 

“May I have a try?” 

 

The giant had a strange voice, and large hands that looked like they might crush her harp.  Some nobleman would pay dearly for a harp as well made as this, and even though there were no parties present that were interested in buying the thing, her mind ran into the spiel of sales that she kept for each item in her wagon, praising it’s tone and quality and comparing it to the very best money could buy.  It was a very good harp, one of the finest she had ever transported.

 

“Of course you may have a go,” Dilora told the man, wondering if she’d be turned into a little pile of cinders if she refused.  The first time she met one of the black-coated Asha’man and he wants to play a harp!  No wonder there was accusations of madness.  Dilora chided herself.  She should not be so uncaring towards people that could well be paying customers and if it brought her to the attention of more powerful people … well … those in power often had more money.  Her fingers twitched a little, producing a strange note from the harp and she looked up, startled.  She had to look up a long way to see the face, was it smiling down at her? 

 

“Yes, of course you may play it.  I warn you as I warn everyone though – you break it, you buy it.”  Dilora handed the harp over to him, a trifle reluctant but interest and piqued curiosity overcoming it.  She saw his companion; a good-looking man, look on amusedly, but a sudden thought struck Dilora about how oddly feminine the harp looked in the giant’s hands.

 

“I have a condition though,” Dilora told him, her quick mind having the beginnings of an idea.  It might be better if she position herself by the door so she could make a quick escape if it wasn’t taken the right way, but the ale was warming her stomach and her mind was warming to the idea.  “I would like to sing a song to accompany you, if that’s alright?”

 

~Isha~

 

By the time she had assented to his wish Abrem was in another world entirely. He ran his hands down the wooden sounding board, caressing an ancient lover. It had been too long; thousands of years too long. His fingers ached for those close strings, they felt awkward and slow away from fourteen bar runs that even most of the virtuosos of his Age, and those legends from years long bygone made the virtuosos of this Age, few as they were, seem nobles beginning with their first lessons. This Age was so barbaric in their style of music- the little there was. Life was bland without the constant mood set by lutes, harps, flutes, voices, ensembles, choirs. Every song sounded the same, the same instruments, and the timbre. Where were the harp and lute duets? Where were the harp trios? Where in the world had all the choirs gone?

 

Closing his eyes, he breathed in using the other man’s nose, losing himself in the familiar smells of stain. Like stroking the head of a newborn baby, a thick finger, unused to this strange new employ, struck a glissando down the length of the strings. The tuning was foreign to his professional ear and immediately he set about tuning it differently. The one good thing about these new, thick fingers was that they could turn the knobs without the aid of a wrench.

 

The range on the harp wasn’t nearly what he was used to, it had been years… It had been years preceding even the War of Power, since Abrem had played a harp smaller than himself… or at least smaller than he had been which had been roughly two feet smaller. Since this harp was so small, it was meant to be played from the lap rather than from a sitting position as he had been used to, its range was only half of what its mighty predecessors had had.

 

Mostly the upper octaves of strings had been left off, leaving the harp with a decent bass range. Searching the ancient archives of his mind, he came up with an old, though new to his audience, tune. Reworking it to fit this harp as it had been originally composed as a duet between a bass lute and horn, Abrem stretched his fingers to play, giving a one-eyed glance at his vocalist.

 

“I’ll give you eight bars introduction.”

 

“Bars?”

 

“Just begin once I give you a nod.”

 

Transcribing as he went, his left hand began the song with a running bass. There was basically enough room to keep it going in octaves and leave the right hand enough room to chord the horn solos though occasionally he was forced to shorten the intervals of the left hand when particularly low. As the bass ran on, his right rolled open chords before running in sync with the bass in close harmonies and then repeating the phrase. He repeated the phrase twice before nodding to his vocalist.

 

By the time the young woman began singing, sweat dripped down Abrem’s grizzled brow. His fingers flew over the strings with a speed above par for his own Age and unheard of in this. And still his fingers were hindered by unaccustomed thickness, though luckily the strings on this harp were farther apart than of old and therefore Abrem could only pass off part of his inadequacy, so-called, to the new body.

 

The beauty of the discordances between harp strings and the vocalist sent shivers down his spine and gave him goosebumps. He lost himself in the rapture of the music letting it carry him back an entire Age to when this sort of piece would have been commonplace at a gathering of any and every sort. As if were, the audience was confounded by the newness of this music’s timbre and in fact, Abrem had never himself tired to set a horn and bass lute duet to harp. Combined with the singer’s smoky tone, it was a fusion of two Ages; two worlds even.

 

Abrem was pleasantly surprised by her voice. By the level of instrumentalists, he had figured that vocalists would have experienced a fall from the prestigious choirs and virtuosic professionals of his day. Not so. Her pitch was perfect and while the tonality was foreign to his ear, trained to the voices of piercing sopranos, manly altos, almost prepubescent tenors and rumbling basses, tones clear as a bell, it was a breathiness and alto that was neither untrained and had a femininity pre-War of Power altos had lacked. The most surprising thing about her had been her ingenious improvisation which would have earned her high praise thousands of years back.

 

Her first two lines of text were accompanied in the same style as his introduction. The third line was the climax of the song, which he accompanied with falling glissandos impossible on any instrument but the harp and one of the sources of it beauty. He finished each of the verses with a run of dissonant closed chords and tight harmonies but she sustained her last notes against an open cadence.

 

~Dilora~

 

Oh they call him Lil Isha

And on weekends he's a she.

You'll know him by the high heels

And the eye patch, you see.

 

Oh they call him Lil Isha

And he plays the harp so well.

He has such dextrous fingers

From the embroidery he sells.

 

Oh, they call him Lil Isha

And he really is a mess.

I'd take him in hand myself

But he might borrow my dress

 

Oh, they call him Lil Isha

And on weekends he’s a she.

The procedures worked so well now,

Such femininity! 

 

She could not help it.  The words came into her head and they would not leave her alone.  The harp playing was so beautiful, so feminine sounding that the idiocy of comparing the towering giant to a delicate little flower seemed … right.  It was a dangerous move but given that they were in public, he could hardly do anything now and by then she could probably use the harp to barter if she needed any leverage with him.  There weren’t too many patrons here, and most would forget by the end of the evening anyway.  Dilora hoped that she could sell something though – times were getting a little on the hard side.  She would have to find something else she could sell, else her trade would be reduced to begging for sustenance. 

 

I can always sing for my supper though.  I can be like a little stray cat, look up with big eyes, and someone will take me in. 

 

What an odd thought to have at the end of a song?  Dilora shook her head to clear it and decided to do some serious trading to take her mind off it.  The last chords were dying now, and Dilora looked up, wondering how her song would be received.  As a gambit, she winked at the giant, and called for the barmaid to bring over drinks for them.

 

~Caelen~

 

He really was trying to stay out of it and watch Isha and the woman playing. He was trying very hard. Very very hard. But... he was himself and when the music died down and the girl winked at Isha Caelen lost it and started laughing.

 

"Now that girl has more courage than the whole of us." He said with a grin for the player. She had a lovely voice and such an instant wit that he liked her from the moment she had opened her mouth. "Wonderfully sung my lady. You do seem to know our Isha too well. Have you met before or was it devine influence that has you so intune with my giant friend here?" He asked with a large smile.

 

~Dilora~

 

She smiled impishly and thought rapidly.  “I knew a beautiful girl called Lilisha once.  She had the brightest blue eyes I’d ever seen.  Don’t tell me this tall one’s name is Lilisha too?”  Dilora gave a laugh and smiled at the handsome one, whom she quite fancied, then at the tall one whose name was in question.  “Was it on the nametag sewn into his jacket?  We have not met before.  I thought I overheard you say his name and the oddness of such a person, meaning no offence; of course, playing a delicate harp like this struck me as a little unusual.  My saucy mind ran with the idea and turned it into a little song.  I do hope you don’t mind.” 

 

The barmaid winked at Dilora and deposited three tankards of ale down on the table.  She took one and gestured at the other two with it.  “By way of apology.”  Dilora took a swig of the ale and felt a little more relaxed now.  “Allow me to introduce myself.  My name is Dilora Fashelle, and I am a peddler.  I travel across the lands and sell things and sing the occasional song, as you have just found out.”  Her eyes fell on the harp that the large man was stroking absently. 

 

“Tell me, do you like that harp?  It’s been in my wagon for what seems like an Age now, and you are the first person to show interest in it.  And tell me… where did you learn how to play so beautifully?”  Dilora sat back in her chair and crossed one leg over the other, her foot idly kicking her skirt.  It would be interesting indeed to hear the answer to this.  These Black Coats were rather powerful.  Perhaps they’d be interested in some sort of trade agreement with Dilora Fashelle if she stayed on their good side…

 

~Isha~

 

As the last note of the harp melted into the air, so did Abrem. Isha was left gaping at his own hands on unfamiliar strings. Hands that were so used to killing and destroying, creating beautiful music? The idea was preposterous and obviously the young woman thought so as well. Deep down, buried back in the unused corners of his brain, Abrem was offended that Isha could not take his music seriously while Isha was offended that Abrem found a song so obviously making fun of the entire situation hilarious!

 

What had happened to his young sense of humour where even death was a thing to be mocked? Where nothing could destroy that iron self discipline, impenetrable self-confidence; nothing could destroy his mind or cast doubt on his sanity. What had happened to Isha the strong? Isha the brave? Where had that man gone; that man, the living, breathing, much larger, different form of his father but in essence the same; his father’s legacy?

 

It was all gone. It had taken only a few days to crack him- a few days where it would have taken his father years. How had he ever believed himself a match for his father? How could he have ever thought to have made his father’s memory proud? From beyond the grave, his father sneered at him, mocked him and disowned him as the failure he was. Unable to kill a simple Trolloc? It was laughable when his father had killed three of a dozen plus a Myrdraal to save him. His father’s life was wasted.

 

The entire tavern laughed around him- at him. His companions were carrying on a conversation about him and he wasn’t listening. How could he have sunken to the point where he was playing harps in taverns, talking to some mad part of his brain that had been dead four thousand years, opening himself up as a joke for people’s amusement? Light, he might as well go jump in some cage at a menagerie. Crowds would come to see the “terrifying monster” that could play the harp in a twisted oxymoron. His “owner” could get fat and rich off the profit he turned while Isha could sit and think himself so popular just for being so big and ugly. What a world!

 

~Get over yourself, boy~

 

‘Go on, take it!’

 

~What in the Light are you talking about?~

 

‘My mind. Go on, it’s yours. I don’t want it anymore’

 

There was a minute of silence on Abrem’s part.

 

~It’s not mine, I won’t take it. But with your permission, I wouldn’t mind borrowing it for the evening~

 

‘Knock yourself out’

 

~Thank you~

 

‘Whatever’

 

Returning to the stream of conversation, Abrem laughed as hard as the rest of the pub with a loud, booming laugh. ~You have an excellent set of lung, boy. You’d make a spectacular bass~ Isha didn’t give an answer, instead moped in Abrem’s subconscious. “You have a beautiful voice, young lady. May I have your name?”

 

~Dilora~

 

Obviously, he had been so caught up in the music that he hadn’t caught her name the first time around.  Well, this time, he wouldn’t forget it.  It was nice to see someone appreciating music like this though.  Most of the time any instruments she carried went to pampered nobles with no real aptitude for music and, being of a lyrical bent, Dilora had understanding with anyone with true talent, like this unlikely source.  Those thick fingers did not seem capable of creating more music than howls and screams of pain, but they made the harp she had carried sing.  She spread her skirts and curtsied, acknowledging both his talent and his rank.

 

“My name is Dilora Fashelle, and I thank you for the compliments.  All too often when I sing, it is in front of an audience that does not fully appreciate it – all they see is this.”  She gestured at her body with both hands and then laughed.  “Mind you, I don’t mind that.  They’ll buy more from a source like this.  While I’ve got it, I’ll use it.” 

 

Dilora was very grateful the man did not seem to have taken offence at her rhymes.  He had to have understood, but he was choosing to ignore them.  He really must want the harp.  Dilora put on her most winning smile and straightened.

 

“Would you like to buy the harp, sir?  You are obviously a person of good taste and ability, and the price is very reasonable for someone who has demonstrated that he can take care of it.”  Dilora reached out and gave the harp a caress along the top thinking how sad it would be to see it go, but secretly thinking how much more wagon space she’d have to either stretch her legs out or store more things to sell.  Perhaps, Dilora thought, the giant would sell his coat or that shiny pin in part exchange for the harp, but she doubted she could find anyone that would buy it.  The pin would look nice on her cloak though…

 

“Well, are you interested, good sir?”  Dilora took a long drink of ale, feeling it warm her stomach and bring a tinge of lightness to her.  While she didn’t drink anywhere near as much as she had done a year ago, she could still put away the same as most men.  She smiled at him.  “For another song and that silver pin, it’s yours.”

 

ooc: I apologize for the abundance of musical termanolgy and the length, I get long-winded when it comes to music ;)

 

Abrem studied the harp for a few more moments before shifting his gaze to Dilora and then back to the harp.  Sitting down, he settled the hard back on knees.  With a nimbleness that seemed impossible from fingers as fat as this new body’s, he began playing scales on the harp, octaves in each hand, tuning it back to the correct scale for the song he had in mind.  “It’s a good harp, small but well-made for its plainness.  Unfortunate that it doesn’t have pedals or even levers, makes swapping keys so much easier.  Ah well… wouldn’t have pedals on a lapharp.  Light, what I’d give for a concert grand.”

 

Having finished that, the former Age of Legends composer reached up towards the silver pin at his throat.

 

‘No!’

 

~It’s just a pin, boy~

 

‘To you’

 

~And what is it to you?  A symbol of your station?  Does it make you who you are?  Are you your black coat and damning power?~

 

‘What am I supposed to tell Dalinar when he asks where my pin went?’

 

~The truth~

 

‘That I traded it for a harp’

 

~Why not?~  Isha mentally spluttered indignantly.  ~Because big, strong Isha Talcontar suddenly plays the harp?  It doesn’t fit your image?  Are you only your image?~

 

‘I am a soldier’

 

~That’s nothing to be proud of.  I was too once.  Worst time of my life.  Do you know what happened?  A whole lot of killing- and for what?  So I could slaughter my entire family in the end?  I watched my wife drown in her own blood as I slit her throat open with the Power.  I tore down my son, laughing as his skin peeled off and cracked in the heat of the fire I burned him with.  I bashed in the skulls of my children, giggling as their brains felt cool on my bare feet.  What did the One Hundred companions accomplish?  They killed more people than the Shadow ever did during that war.  The heroes who “saved the world from the Dark One” each slaughtered their own families, each burned down three towns for each the Forsaken destroyed in their “cruelty”.  It wasn’t the Shadow who caused the Breaking, it was the “good guys”.  We were the ones who reduced the glory of humanity to a handful of ragged survivors, relying on instincts and luck to survive~

 

‘What else would you have done, let the Shadow win?’

 

Abrem didn’t answer.  Isha fought for control of the body and Abrem threw him back with a ferocity the persona of Isha had never seen from him nor thought that the peaceful musician possessed.  The giant tossed his silver sword pin over to Dilora.  It might mean something to his alter-ego, but it meant nothing to him except as a reminder of the boy’s ideals that violence could solve everything, let alone anything.

 

The only response to Isha’s question was the song.

 

Quietly, on the verge of inaudibility, Abrem began to pluck first the dominant, then tonic notes, one after the other.  Continuing for a few bars, he crescendoed until others in the inn, besides the peddler, were turning towards the odd sight of the fearsome giant plucking gently at the harp on his knees where they expected a sword.  Some laughed, but Abrem was so lost to his music that he did not notice and played on heedless to any dint on his alter-ego’s reputation.

 

Isha cursed at the musician from where he was captive in his own mind.

 

“I don’t fight…”  The warrior silenced his ranting to listen to lyrics he couldn’t understand.  He couldn’t get perspective on the idea that there was some other way to everything; that the world didn’t have to be rules by the sword.  Isha had grown up a warrior, in a society where prestige in battle was glorified above all other attributes, where a man’s honour was determined by how well he could kill- this concept was foreign to him.

 

Abrem added bass notes below the obstinato in his right hand.  That the repetition, despite it only being two notes, was in the right hand and soprano notes of the harp rather and the melody in the bass made this song as unique as its lyrics were to the patrons of the inn.

 

“And I don’t steal

I might believe in things

That you don’t think are real

And I know my wrongs

And I can learn to fight

I keep my heart on the outside

So it can see more light

See more light.”

 

The single notes in the left hand became chords as the giant’s heavy boot thumped a steady beat.  The difficulty in this song lay in the accuracy needed as his left hand jumped from playing below his right to above every third bar.

 

“I killed for the rich

And I bled for gold

And I ignored all the babies

The sick, the weak and the old

And I lost touch with a friend

But please believe in the end

I cannot waste it anymore.”

 

Humming along to the melody, Abrem reached a forte level before launching into a bridge of rolled chords, using the entire limited range of the harp.  His boot thumped harder on the wooden floor boards and he was playing so hard that the strings visibly vibrated by the time he launched into the next verse.  His booming bass voice silenced the inn as they fell under the spell of the music.

 

“I woke in a field

Beside a ditch

And the sun came up

And the Earth turned on its switch

I came to a fork

And I made a choice

So I got into that ditch

And I followed wherever I heard a voice

Wherever I heard a voice

Wherever I heard a voice

Wherever I heard a voice

Wherever I heard a voice.”

 

Any lesser musician would have snapped a string with the force with which Abrem played.  Abrem had had hundreds of years to perfect his talent though and despite seeming to play with wild abandon, his left hand flying to and fro opposite ranges of the harp, over top of the right which returned to the ostinato every few bars while, in the meantime, flying over the strings, throwing in glissandos every here and there.

 

"Wherever I heard a voice.”

 

Abrem paid no attention to his numb foot which threatened to stamp a hole right through the commonroom floor.  Almost as soon as the bridge had begun, all that was left were the final rolled chord hanging in the otherwise silent room.  Abrem’s right hand returned to the ostinato when he was certain his audience had caught the full force of the fermata.  At first, neither note was discernable through the slowly fading notes but it crescendoed again as Abrem returned to the verses.

 

“I came to that door

And I rung that bell

And I saw that friend that I lost

And we sat down for a spell

Wade in that water

Learn to swim

Either I’ll sink or I’ll float

That’s a good way to begin

That’s a good way to begin

That’s a good way to begin

That’s a good way to begin.” (Pacifist’s Anthem- Sunparlour Players)

 

~Dilora~

 

She examined the silver pin in her hand.  The little sword had jabbed her when it landed in her palm and she rubbed the sore place better with the opposite finger to ease the sting.  She didn’t have to.  No sooner than she had caught the little ornament, the big man’s fingers had flown across the harp in a piece of music so complicated, so beautiful, that her attention had completely wandered from the tiny sting. 

 

It seemed as though all her cares faded with the song and she became entranced by it; lost in a melodic story so powerful she clung to each word and phrase.  She knew tears were threatening from the moving piece.  This man was talented and had not deserved the ridicule her first song had given him. 

 

As the final notes faded away, Dilora looked around at the other patrons and occupants of the tavern.  All stood as though enchanted.  The bartender had paused in the act of polishing a mug and he had not moved yet.  A serving maid had just put a mug down on a table but had not yet removed her hand.  Even those on their feet returning to tables or on their way to the necessary had not moved another foot.  She crossed the floor to him.

 

“I am sorry.  You do great honour to that harp, and it is right that it should go with you.”  Dilora leaned forward and placed the silver sword pin on the table.  “Keep this.  I saw that your colleague has one, which makes it far more important than I had first thought.”  Out of the corner of her eye, Dilora thought she saw the taller, better looking one nod approvingly, but she might have just imagined it.  There was a funny atmosphere in the room now that the music had finished.  It felt like those eldritch mornings when the mist curled around ones’ legs and made a person think of the legends.  She did not quite expect to see the Heroes of the Horn float through the door and order ale, but that was the kind of feeling music such as she had just heard engendered in Dilora. 

 

“As for payment, it would be a great honour if you would jot that song down for me.  I have never heard it’s like before and would love to have the tune.  Maybe one day I’ll be as good as you are.”  She smiled and sat back in her chair to finish the rest of her drink.

 

Abrem grinned.  Isha sat, spellbound and utterly speechless in the back of their shared mind unable to say a word.  He took back the pin, refastening it to his collar opposite the dragon and wordlessly Isha passed on his gratitude.

 

“Thank you.” he bowed from where he sat.  The motion gathered scattered applause from the rest of the commonroom which had broken from its trance and once again the air was cut by the clattering of tankards, the rattling of dice and drunken shouts.  And yet, a certain space was given to the hideous Asha’man, not of fear, but of respect.  People lowered there voices and there was a certain softer tone to their eyes when they glanced in his direction where there had once been a fearful hardness when they looked upon his black uniform and disfigured face.

 

“I don’t suppose you have paper?” a passing serving girl handed him a napkin.  “Good enough.”

 

Dilora looked on quizzically when he drew the customary five-lined staff that had been used for compositions back in his Age.  Realising that the treble and bass clef staffs had not transferred over to this new Age, he just scratched down the lyrics and chords instead.

~Dilora~

 

She watched with interest as the lines appeared on the paper.  And she was still surprised with how deft the big man actually was.  He would take good care of the harp.  He certainly knew music, not that Dilora did.  Grateful that now the chords and the lyrics appeared alongside the lines, Dilora smiled up at the big man and took the proffered napkin when it was offered to her, which she promptly folded up and put in her pocket.  Oh yes, today had been very profitable indeed. 

 

“Gentlemen,” she began, looking from one of the black-clad forms to the other “I think our business is about concluded, unless I can manage to convince one or both of you that you really need pins.”  The handsome one laughed, and the big man just sat there with a gratified expression on his … memorable face.  Dilora curtsied impishly and finished her drink.  “It has been a pleasure doing business with the esteemed men of the Black Tower.  I have to say you are not at all as I imagined you would be – not that I imagined anything, but you know how it is.”  The drink was making her babble.  She stopped, and smiled again. 

 

“If you ever need anything while you are out on the road, send for me!  My name is Dilora Fashelle, and you’ll know the Moon and Stars wagon anywhere!”  Huh.  She had just made up the name and, Light, it sounded well!  True, her wagon was painted in red and gold with moons and stars all over it, so why not give it a name?  In a flurry of skirts, Dilora turned and quickly made her way out of the tavern.  The reminder of her wagon reminded her that the open road was calling, and it was a calling that could never be ignored.