A man holds a stringed instrument, his eyes fixed on a small ingot of copper, a short bar of iron, and some strips of tin, all set on a polished circle of marble perhaps two spans in diameter. He sings, his fingers deft on the strings of the instrument.
“…a rose, in bronze and hued to the white,
its petals in ovals and catching the light,
its stem both firm and arched in iron so dark…”
As the notes of the song die away, a circle of blue light enfolds the marble and the objects upon it. Then, with the faintest of chords, unheard except to the singer, all the objects vanish to reveal a perfect white bronze rose upon an iron stem, lying upon the marble.
The door opens behind the singer, and the Matriarch enters, alone.
The man bows.
She steps forward and studies the rose. “It is truly beautiful, Alcaren.”
“I am glad that it pleases you, Matriarch, seeing as little that I do is pleasing these days.” The man who holds the small instrument, larger than a mandolin, yet smaller than the lutars introduced by the sorceress of Defalk, is broad-shouldered but narrow-waisted, too short for his breadth to be handsome, but not exactly stocky either. His hair is a nondescript brown, cut short, as if he were a lancer, which he is not. His eyes are gray-blue, penetrating, but not piercing.
“Certainly, the self-pity of your words is less than pleasant,” counters Alya.
“What would you have of me?” Alcaren lowers the instrument.
“What do you call it—the instrument?”
“A lumand, I suppose. It’s between a small lutar and a mandolin.”
“Are there others like it?”
“I do not know, but I would doubt such. It is made for my voice.”
“You have a voice both pleasant and true, and most effective. Yet you seem to lack the wisdom as to when it is wise to use it.”
Alcaren waits, not replying.
“Using sorcery to enchant the daughter of the Exchange Mistress was scarcely wise.”
“I did not use sorcery. I sang her some songs. I wrote them most carefully. There were no suggestions, and no commands. One was about a rose.” Alcaren gestures toward the white rose on the marble. “But not sorcery as you just heard.”
“When a sorcerer sings, it is considered sorcery.” Alya’s voice is dry. “Whether it be so or not. You should have known better.”
“A mere man, and I am supposed to know such?”
“A cousin of the Matriarch, raised in this family and taught all we know, and you refuse to use that knowledge wisely or acknowledge it.” Alya shakes her head gently. “What am I to do with you?”
Alcaren shrugs. “I am good with a blade, and I ride well. You would not let me be a lancer.”
“The men’s companies will not accept an officer who is a sorcerer,” Alya points out.
“And the women’s won’t accept a man,” Alcaren finishes. “I know. Why did you train me, then?”
“I had no choice. You were already making up songs and spells. You could have hurt yourself or others.”
“Better you had killed me.”
“The Harmonies have a use for you.”
“What? In more than a score and a quarter years, I have not seen such.”
“Be patient.”
“You came to tell me that?”
“No…I came to tell you that you are to be one of my personal guard chiefs. As you said, you are skilled with a blade, and I will give you leave to use two or three spells to protect me, as and if necessary.”
“You are more accomplished than I, Matriarch.”
“The times are changing, and I fear that the demands of being the Matriarch will mean that I can no longer be as watchful of myself as before.”
“The Sturinnese will maintain their blockade?” A glimmer of interest appears in the gray-blue eyes.
“More ships have left Sturinn, and they carry far more armsmen and lancers, and those of ours in the harbor are not armed to take the fight to those already arrayed to the south.”
“And you trust in the Harmonies?”
“Not totally.” Alya smiles. “Best you gather your belongings. I have a carriage.” After a pause, she adds, “Do not forget the rose. You may need it.” She turns.
Alcaren glances from the departing Matriarch to the rose, frowning, then slips the lumand into its boiled leather case. After a long moment, he lifts the rose.