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TO&FQ: Book 1 - Chapter 36 (RAW)
🕑 Added 2024-12-07 04:19:58 +0000 UTCChapter 36 - The Rise of the Songstress
To sing is an expression of your being, a being which is becoming.
- Maria Callas.
“Well, milady, that was certainly one way to deal with that. For a moment there, I thought you’d be ordering ‘off with his head’ or something,” Sergeant Frest commented dryly.
Seraphina glared at him. “I really do not understand how you view me, Sergeant. I am not some sort of tyrant. I was merely trying to execute my privilege as a member of the nobility for the benefit of someone much less well-endowed than myself.”
Frest’s eyes lowered for a moment before meeting her eyes. “Yes, milady, you could certainly say that,” he answered seriously, striking a mailed gauntlet to his chest as a salute.
“Frest, if you are attempting some form of humor, please stop. I suffer no fools,” the Lady Seraphina replied primly, with a sniff.
“Now, Haze… announce me if you please,” the noblewoman commanded, adjusting her dress.
She had chosen a rather unremarkable dress, something a well-to-do merchant’s daughter might wear to a special event. It was all part of her plan to convince the crowd that, despite her family’s wealth, she was one of ‘them’—a subtle and cunning strategy that had served her well before. What truly grated on her, however, was that Miriam had provided the dressmaker with outdated measurements, leaving the garment just a bit too tight across the chest.
“People of Lucalle’s Ford! The Lady Seraphina, daughter of our beloved Duke, has deigned to give you all the gift of song. Beloved of the Goddess herself this is a blessing from her to all of you!” the Bard declared grandly.
There was only a scattering of weak applause at first—an almost painful courtesy from an audience determined not to be impressed. The crowd, a restless sea of sour faces, had come here on the behest of the Town Mayor Franzo. Seraphina knew their type. She had performed before more hostile crowds than this: people who had hissed and booed before she’d even opened her mouth, who had hurled insults over imagined scandals and petty slights. Yet in every one of those places, she had eventually won them over, and she intended to do so again today.
Haze played the first notes of his Chordrelle, a fancy and ornate instrument that was known for their cascading notes that rippled like water. Each note seemed to rippled across the square, settling over the audience and coaxing them, almost against their will, into uneasy silence. The tension hung thick in the air, like a bowstring pulled taut. Seraphina stepped forward, her posture elegant, her youthful beauty a quiet command for their attention.
As she began to sing, her voice started small, as if carried on the wings of a gentle breeze. It curled around the Chordrelle’s melody, blending seamlessly with the instrument’s delicate harmony. It was her first song, composed before the world recognized her as the great treasure she would become. By any measure, it was a trite piece—just a simple tune about a girl waiting patiently for her beloved at the end of a day’s work. Silly, perhaps. Yet here, in a place where no one understood the words, the melody carried its own undeniable weight.
Soft as a whisper at first, her tone brightened with each passing measure, gathering strength and warmth. The crowd might have come in skepticism, but they could not deny the purity in her voice. It was honest, without artifice—a raw, human sound that wove through the notes, binding them together into something larger and more profound.
And in her voice, in each and every note, as she sang with all of her heart was threaded the strength of the Covenant. A thing that she herself did not notice as her voice began to harmonize with itself.
Now she pressed forward, pushing her voice into fuller chords, letting it rise and fall like a bird riding the wind. Hers was a powerful thing, employing her full Strength that none, not even she could have predicted. The notes soared upward, breaking through their initial resistance and scattering their doubts. One by one, frowns eased and folded arms loosened. Some leaned forward, caught off guard by the strength and passion pouring into every phrase. Others closed their eyes, surrendering to the music.
By the time she reached her crescendo, her voice had filled the square to its farthest corners, reverberating out into the streets beyond and echoing in the hearts of those who’d hoped to remain unmoved. Now, others came, drawn to the unfiltered siren’s song. At first a trickle, it became a floor as more and more people stopped what they were doing and came to be closer to the source of the great music.
They all came as if entranced, as if the song sung was speaking to each of them, resonating in the secret places of their heart. Seraphina had indeed made good on her promise to Ibn that it would be one of the happiest days of their lives.
Indeed, the boy had only eyes for her, mesmerized as he was by the power of her song.
When the last note died, solemn and powerful in its ending, the applause that followed was no longer forced or scattered. Instead, it swelled into a storm through the very town, genuine and complete. Seraphina scarcely needed to acknowledge their response; this was what she did—turning even the hardest of hearts, one note at a time.
Walking out of the crowd, an old man, slightly dumpy in around the waist, with an odd attempt at a beard approached her and the chains of his office around his neck. He walked with the assistance of a cane, his rheumy green eyes stained with the rigor of age seemed wet with tears.
“I am Mayor Franco Carbezio of this town. Thank you, thank you, milady,” the old man declared, wiping at his eyes. “I doubted, but truly now, I thank you. I did not believe that one so blessed by the touch of the Goddess would grace us with your presence.
“Why thank you, Mayor,” she smiled thinly at him. “It has been a pleasure and an honor. How about I sing one more for the good people of Lucalle’s Ford people?” she offered.
Seeing the stunned reactions of Frest, Ibn, and the rest of her escort drew forth a delicate laugh from her. In her eyes, their expressions mirrored that of primitives witnessing fire harnessed for the very first time. It was altogether too charming.
*****
Though word drifted through the cobblestone streets and candlelit taverns at a much more languid pace than through electronic means, it was no less contagious than a fever. Within a single a few hours, every merchant, stable boy, and minor noble in Lucalle’s Ford knew of the Duke’s daughter and the enchantment of her voice. Her recent performance in the town square had sparked a quiet inferno: the name ‘Seraphina’ now flickered on every tongue, like gossip-embers dancing on evening air.
Mister Martelli, the proprietor of the ill-named Swan’s Song, stood near Seraphina, wringing his hands with eager anticipation. He wore the greedy smile of a man who tasted gold in the very thought of her presence beneath his roof. “Will you truly sing tonight?” he asked, leaning in as if trying to catch the last strains of some secret note. The young lady knew that he was already charging ten gold pieces a head for table reservations. Frest could be useful like that at times.
His beady eyes glittered with avarice. In response, Seraphina allowed him the privilege of attending and waiting on her hand and foot before the performance—fetching food and drink, adjusting the cushions, lighting the candles. She reveled in the fact that she could make the man do anything to assure himself that he might reap a tidy fortune from those drawn to her radiant fame. Such tiny creatures who would do anything for mere money, she thought to herself.
She remembered a private social experiment she had conducted many years before, back in her old world. It involved giving a seemingly ordinary, picture-perfect family what they would consider a fortune, no strings attached, and entirely tax-free. She had spotted them one day through the tinted window of her chauffeured car—so naively loving, so irritatingly wholesome that she could scarcely stand the sight of them.
Within weeks, they had destroyed one another. Naturally, her company recovered most of the money. After all, the family had funneled it right back into her businesses—her casinos fed the father’s gambling habit, her services catered to their every ill-advised whim. Their teenage daughter, lured by dangerous foreign substances, wound up working for a criminal cartel that paid tribute to her through a string of shell corporations. And for the finale, she repossessed their home, leaving them all gasping under mountains of debt.
It had been, she reflected, a rather fascinating glimpse into the true nature of humanity.
She smiled to herself, savoring the memory as she savored a glass of wine. After easing her voice sufficiently with the crimson vintage aged half a century, its bouquet rich with oak and dark berry, Seraphina stepped lightly onto a small stage. Here, she would soften her tone and shape her melody to suit a crowd of fewer, yet far wealthier, patrons. This was not new to her; she had courted the ears of the powerful and well-to-do before, her voice a well-honed blade she wielded as deftly as any Rogue would his steel.
Below her on a separate platform, Haze Finleigh, her accompanist and the latest addition to her entourage—settled onto a thick silk cushion, tuning her Chordrelle with delicate care. In a world where a female bard still drew raised eyebrows and scandalized whispers, Haze’s presence would only fueled the mystique around Seraphina. It added a certain spice to the gossip and rumor that surrounded her. It would help them grow viral. The pair, poised beneath the gentle glow of lanterns, readied themselves.
There would be no testing, they would launch straight into it at her silent command.
And so they did and Seraphina sang a sad, melancholy love song. The ending theme tune for the game on which this world was based: The Maiden of the Wisterias. The lyrics were not written by her, the melody was not composed by her, but the song was hers. Here, in this very moment, that fact was undeniable. She wished it to be so, so she made it so.
For nearly a full minute after the final note faded, the dining hall of the Swan’s Song remained perfectly still. Guests hovered at the very edges of their seats, eyes alight with a silent, unvarnished plea for the music to begin anew. But Seraphina had already given what she meant to give, her mind drifting toward the next course of her meal.
As she rose, the applause struck like thunder, shaking the rafters above. She wended her way through the tables, politely inclining her head every now and again as she returned to her seat of privilege. Lesser musicians stepped onto the stage, daunted by having to measure up to her divine performance. Hers would be a very hard act to follow.
“That was so beautiful, Lady Seraphina!” Eloise gushed, her voice full of praise as she put a heavy book down. Yet to Seraphina’s practiced ear, there was the faintest whisper of jealousy beneath the compliment.
The maid Miriam quickly echoed, “Milady, it was as if the Goddess herself had come down to sing! Everyone thought so—I’m certain of it!”
Even now, every eye in the establishment remained fixed upon Seraphina.
She sighed softly, watching as Martelli lifted a gleaming silver cloche to reveal a succulent roast garnished with delicate herbs and fragrant spices. The aroma drifted warmly through the air, making her anticipation grow.
“My thanks for all your kind words,” Seraphina replied, favoring Eloise with a sweet smile. Then, in a tone as gentle as it was firm, she added, “Next time, however, please refrain from bringing books to the dining table. It would be greatly appreciated.”
It was always a good habit to keep people in their place.
