The Daylight War

She pretended to taste it again. ‘Perfect.’

Rojer held the last note of the Song of Waning for a long time, eyes closed, feeling the hum of the wood in his hands. He cut the note hard, and Amanvah and Sikvah followed him easily.

‘The hush before the roar,’ Arrick used to call it – that precious moment of silence between the last note of a brilliant performance and the applause of the crowd. With the heavy curtains pulled, even the myriad sounds of the caravan were muted.

Rojer felt his chest tighten, and suddenly realized he was holding his breath. There was no one to applaud, but he heard the sound anyway. He could say with no ego that as a trio, they exceeded anything he had ever done alone.

He let his breath out slowly, opening his eyes at the exact moment Amanvah and Sikvah opened theirs. Those beautiful eyes told him they, too, sensed the power of what they had wrought.

If you only knew, Rojer thought. Soon, my loves. Soon I will show you.

My loves. He had taken to calling them that, in his head if not aloud. He had meant it as a joke, calling women he barely knew ‘love’, but it had never been funny. There were times when it was passionate, and times, like last night and this morning, when it was bitter.

And there were times like right now, when the void left by the music’s end filled with a love as true as he could ever imagine. He looked at his wives and what he felt at the sight of Leesha Paper paled in comparison.

‘My master used to say there was no such thing as perfection in music,’ Rojer said, ‘but corespawn it if we aren’t close.’

The original Song of Waning had seven verses, each with seven lines, each with seven syllables. Amanvah had said that this was because there were seven pillars of Heaven, seven lands on the Ala, and seven layers to Nie’s abyss.

The translation made his previous crowning achievement, The Battle of Cutter’s Hollow, seem a cheap ditty. The Song of Waning had power over human and coreling both, music that could take a demon through the full range of reaction and words that would tell the Laktonians all they needed to know.

The Painted Man had asked for more fiddle wizards like him, but Rojer had failed at that, even questioning whether the talent could be taught at all. He had begun to feel like he was standing still, peaked at eighteen winters. But now he had stumbled onto something new, and felt his power building once more. It was not what he or the Painted Man had been seeking. It was something stronger still.

Provided, of course, his wives would perform it with him, and the Krasians didn’t realize what he was doing and have him killed.

Amanvah and Sikvah bowed. ‘It is an honour to accompany you, husband,’ Amanvah said. ‘Everam speaks to you, as my father says.’

Everam. Rojer was getting sick of the name. There was no Creator, by that name or any other. ‘Not much difference between Holy Men and Jongleurs, Rojer,’ Arrick used to say in his cups. ‘They spin the same old ale stories and tampweed tales over and over, bedazzling bumpkins and half-wits to help them forget the pain of life.’

Then he would laugh bitterly. ‘Only they’re better paid and respectable.’

An image flashed in Rojer’s mind – the evil red glow coming out from under the door to Amanvah’s private chamber each night. Had she spent the entire night there?

Your Jiwah Ka consults the dice to help guide your path.

Rojer didn’t pretend to understand the bone magic of the dama’ting, but Leesha had explained enough of it for him to grasp that there wasn’t anything divine about it. Hadn’t the science of the old world harnessed ‘the lightning in the sky and the wind and the rain’? He didn’t know what the dice were telling her, but it wasn’t the word of the Creator, and he didn’t like the idea of dancing to their bidding.

‘Do your dice agree?’ he asked, keeping his tone carefully neutral. Sikvah inhaled sharply, but Amanvah had her mask in place, giving not a hint to her true feelings. The Jongleur in him railed against that. It was a common pastime in the guild hall to try to make other Jongleurs laugh or otherwise break character while practising their routines. Rojer considered himself a master at it.

He cocked his head at her. Will I spend the rest of my life trying to trick a real reaction from you?

‘The alagai hora are never absolute, husband. They are a guide only.’

‘And what do they tell you about me?’ Rojer asked.

Sikvah hissed. ‘It is forbidden to ask …!’

‘The Core with that!’ Rojer asked. ‘I won’t dance to an imaginary tune.’

Amanvah turned to reach into a large velvet bag, the kind dama’ting kept their demon bones in. With the heavy curtains drawn, there was no natural light in the carriage, perfect for hora magic. He froze, wishing he’d kept a knife strapped to his wrist.

But Amanvah simply removed a wrapped package and handed it to him with a bow. ‘The dice tell much and little about you, husband. Your power is undeniable, but your life’s path is scattered with divergences. There are futures where hordes of alagai dance to your tune, and others where your gift is squandered. Greatness and failure.’

Rojer untied the bright cloth wrapping, discovering the small wooden box she had held early that morning. ‘But when I asked them if I should marry you, they told me yes, and when I asked what marriage gift could help you to greatness, they guided me to this.’

Suddenly Rojer felt boorish. She had been spending all that time alone making him a marriage present? Creator, was he expected to provide presents as well? No one had told him that. He made a mental note to ask Shamavah the custom when they stopped for the night, and get her advice on a gift, if need be.

Amanvah bowed as deeply as he had ever seen, her head nearly touching the carpeted floor of the carriage. ‘Please accept my apologies, for taking so long presenting it to you. I began the work two weeks ago, thinking I would have months to prepare. The dice did not predict that you would move to speaking our vows so quickly.’

Rojer ran the three fingertips of his right hand over the smooth surface of the box, feeling the wards that had been burned into the wood before it was lacquered. Some were wards of protection, but most he did not know. Rojer had never had any skill at warding.

What’s inside? he wondered. What did the demon dice command her to make him? An image flashed in his mind of Enkido. If it’s a pair of golden shackles, I am grabbing my bag of marvels and going straight out the door, moving carriage or no.

He opened the box and his eyes widened. Inside, on a bed of silk, was a fiddle’s chinrest of polished rosewood with a moulded gold centre, affixed to a golden tail clamp. The piece was covered in wards, etched into the gold and cut sharply into the lacquer of the wood, filled with gold filigree. It was beautiful.

Like all modern instruments, Arrick and Jaycob’s fiddles had chinrests, but the ancient instrument Rojer had taken from the Painted Man’s treasure room did not, perhaps dating back to days before the innovation. A chinrest allowed the player to hold the fiddle in place with just his neck, freeing his hands for other things if necessary.

‘The piece comes from Duke Edon’s instrument maker, designed for the royal herald.’ Rojer reached out reverently to touch the object as Amanvah spoke. ‘It has taken me many nights to ward it and infuse it with hora.’

Rojer recoiled, snatching his hand back as if from a hot kettle. ‘Hora? There’s a demon bone in that?’