for them. They stay out of your way. Huh. Didn’t know that. Hey, you a runner at all?”
“ What?”
“ We’re late. Gonna have to run the last bit. We’re not far.”
“ All right.”
Sorcha shouldered his violin case and took off. It turned out he was a runner. He ran for pleasure most days, just for the hell of it. I have never been prone to such a masochistic thing. He had said it wasn’t far, but that was a lie. I could only barely keep up with him. I was drenched in sweat, bleary-eyed and lightheaded by the time we got to where we were going. It was an apartment building a few blocks away from an already-bustling opera house called the Barlan. A pair of men sat at the foot of the building’s steps. One was an old red elf, a man with a face more weathered than lined. He had heavy steely eyebrows that furrowed over a pair of bottomless black eyes, eyes so black they seemed not to have irises at all. Next to him, sitting with a matronly, protective hand on the old man’s back, was a middle-aged man with elvish ears and short, black hair. The old man looked up as we approached. “You’re late, Sorcha.”
“ Sorry, sorry.”
The old elf pointed at me with a violin bow. “Who’s that? You got a shadow.”
Sorcha grabbed my hand and pulled me forward. I was a disheveled mess, the sweat seeping through my borrowed clothes, my hair going every which way. I’d cut myself shaving, and a trickle of blood wound its way down my neck. I had hoped Sorcha would let me slink behind him, tuck myself out of sight, but I had no luck with it. “This is Ariah. He’s with me.”
“ Aye, a blind man could see that. I’ve a set, boy. Music’s a discipline, right, you can’t pop in and out with your conquests. It’s work.”
Sorcha laughed. “No, he’s not…Prynn, it’s a long story. C’mon. Let’s go play.”
The man with the black hair stood up and offered a hand to the old man, Prynn. Prynn refused it. “If he’s not a conquest, why’s he in your clothes, Sorcha?” the black-haired man called.
Sorcha laughed again. He glanced down at his boots. There was an odd tension in him, one threaded with gentleness. When he looked back up, there was a curious half-smile on his face. “I’ll tell you later, Tayvi. I promise I’ll tell you everything after we play, yeah?”
They went to the Barlan with me in tow. They played a set of traditionals, none of which I was familiar with—most were Lothic and dated back to the war in the South. Both Prynn and Sorcha played violin; Tayvi sang. They were extraordinary. Even I, with little exposure to music, could tell they were extraordinary. It was very early, but the Barlan was packed. When Tayvi bowed after the last song, the crowd surged forward, bearing me along with it, and coins poured forth from their pockets. Sorcha pulled me on stage. He sat me next to Prynn, who thanked everyone who gave them money. He was warm with his audience, easy with them, an altogether different sort than the cantankerous old man who’d glowered at me at his building. Prynn seemed profoundly uninterested in me. I was glad for it.
Sorcha pulled Tayvi off to the side. They had a whispered conversation I couldn’t hear, but the talents are what they are, and I saw more than I should have. There was no amount of gentleness that would have adequately softened the blow he delivered to Tayvi. The loss, the bitterness, was palpable. I knew with some odd certainty—a certainty, which may not have been magical—that it had something to do with Dirva. I knew it, and the curiosity burned me alive, but I could not bring myself to ask Sorcha about it. We went directly back to the squat house after his set. We walked slow, and he told me about how he’d started playing the violin. How Prynn had taught it to him since he was young, how Prynn was from the Lothic coast and had trained formally with human musicians, but then turned rebel and fought in the war. He told me about a man named Ezra
“ What?”
“ We’re late. Gonna have to run the last bit. We’re not far.”
“ All right.”
Sorcha shouldered his violin case and took off. It turned out he was a runner. He ran for pleasure most days, just for the hell of it. I have never been prone to such a masochistic thing. He had said it wasn’t far, but that was a lie. I could only barely keep up with him. I was drenched in sweat, bleary-eyed and lightheaded by the time we got to where we were going. It was an apartment building a few blocks away from an already-bustling opera house called the Barlan. A pair of men sat at the foot of the building’s steps. One was an old red elf, a man with a face more weathered than lined. He had heavy steely eyebrows that furrowed over a pair of bottomless black eyes, eyes so black they seemed not to have irises at all. Next to him, sitting with a matronly, protective hand on the old man’s back, was a middle-aged man with elvish ears and short, black hair. The old man looked up as we approached. “You’re late, Sorcha.”
“ Sorry, sorry.”
The old elf pointed at me with a violin bow. “Who’s that? You got a shadow.”
Sorcha grabbed my hand and pulled me forward. I was a disheveled mess, the sweat seeping through my borrowed clothes, my hair going every which way. I’d cut myself shaving, and a trickle of blood wound its way down my neck. I had hoped Sorcha would let me slink behind him, tuck myself out of sight, but I had no luck with it. “This is Ariah. He’s with me.”
“ Aye, a blind man could see that. I’ve a set, boy. Music’s a discipline, right, you can’t pop in and out with your conquests. It’s work.”
Sorcha laughed. “No, he’s not…Prynn, it’s a long story. C’mon. Let’s go play.”
The man with the black hair stood up and offered a hand to the old man, Prynn. Prynn refused it. “If he’s not a conquest, why’s he in your clothes, Sorcha?” the black-haired man called.
Sorcha laughed again. He glanced down at his boots. There was an odd tension in him, one threaded with gentleness. When he looked back up, there was a curious half-smile on his face. “I’ll tell you later, Tayvi. I promise I’ll tell you everything after we play, yeah?”
They went to the Barlan with me in tow. They played a set of traditionals, none of which I was familiar with—most were Lothic and dated back to the war in the South. Both Prynn and Sorcha played violin; Tayvi sang. They were extraordinary. Even I, with little exposure to music, could tell they were extraordinary. It was very early, but the Barlan was packed. When Tayvi bowed after the last song, the crowd surged forward, bearing me along with it, and coins poured forth from their pockets. Sorcha pulled me on stage. He sat me next to Prynn, who thanked everyone who gave them money. He was warm with his audience, easy with them, an altogether different sort than the cantankerous old man who’d glowered at me at his building. Prynn seemed profoundly uninterested in me. I was glad for it.
Sorcha pulled Tayvi off to the side. They had a whispered conversation I couldn’t hear, but the talents are what they are, and I saw more than I should have. There was no amount of gentleness that would have adequately softened the blow he delivered to Tayvi. The loss, the bitterness, was palpable. I knew with some odd certainty—a certainty, which may not have been magical—that it had something to do with Dirva. I knew it, and the curiosity burned me alive, but I could not bring myself to ask Sorcha about it. We went directly back to the squat house after his set. We walked slow, and he told me about how he’d started playing the violin. How Prynn had taught it to him since he was young, how Prynn was from the Lothic coast and had trained formally with human musicians, but then turned rebel and fought in the war. He told me about a man named Ezra
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