42. Play for Me
SOUNDTRACK: Kill or Be Killed by Jutes.
~ VOSKI ~
“Play for me, Vane.”
Mother sat in the parlor, a glass of nearly-black red wine in her hand, her expression odd.
I’d been about to rise from my chair, and froze.
I’d known the request would come eventually. And perhaps I should have celebrated. Maybe it was a measure that I was under her skin more than I’d thought. It was the only triumph I could claim after yet another night creeping through the house, looking for access to her dungeon, and not finding it.
Tonight I’d return to the office, praying she’d hear me again.
“I’m tired,” I muttered sullenly.
“I insist,” she returned.
We stared at each other. I fought to keep my expression blank while panic clawed up my throat. My response here would be her measure of control over me, and affect her decisions in how to deal with me moving forward.
Did I give her hope that I grew increasingly weak? Or show my backbone and make her insecure.
To my utter shock, while I considered the question, she snapped her fingers at the servants, gesturing for them to leave the room. And when they did, she folded her hands in her lap, raised her chin, and stared at me with eyes tight at the corners.
“It truly is remarkable to have you back, Vane,” she said quietly. “Whatever may have passed, whatever you may think of me, I have never wanted to see you in pain. It is a relief to see you, hearty and hale. And I find myself wishing to know the man you have become.”
“Then why ask me to play?” I said through my teeth. “I haven’t played since the day I left.”
Her brow furrowed. “That’s a grief, if it’s true. You are talented, and I have missed listening to you.”
I hated, hated that those words touched something in me.
For a moment, my mind flickered and bubbled with the memories of my childhood, all those moments her hands touched gently, and she whispered reassurance.
All those nights she’d shooed the nurses away and lay alongside me, to comfort me in the dark.
All the pride that blazed in her eyes and rang in her voice when I showed strength, or talent—
God, she was good.
And that was the answer, I realized. I had to let her believe she’d broken through.
So, I swallowed hard and without another word, rose from my seat to walk across the long room to the rich, mahogany grand piano at its end.
As I approached it, memories flooded back. Pianos were rare. A new instrument. But mother had heard one in the home of a master of symphonies, and hounded the poor man until he’d introduced her to the maker in Sierral.
It arrived when I was six years old, and became a part of my lessons. Because she’d had a tutor shipped with it.
My childish attempts had entertained Lords and Ladies. The elites of my parents’ powerful sphere.
I grew to love the instrument, with its full, round sound, and the more capable I became, the more expressive I learned it could be.
By twelve, I’d shown enough dedication that my music master allowed me the freedom to play with strength. Crashing hands down on the ebony and ivory keys, and discovering the world of feeling available in its deep bass notes.
To a boy full of anger and confusion, it was an outlet. And one allowed indoors, and at any time of day.
By fifteen I no longer needed music. Hell, I no longer needed someone else’s idea.
With the world crashing down around my ears, and everything sacred proving unholy, as I doubted everything from morality, to the redeemable state of my own black soul, those keys gave me a language that no one else would ever truly understand, a way to speak the truth without risk of censure.
And at a time in my life when everything must be questioned, through that instrument I discovered something critical about the world: when something was true, it could not be changed.
And, when something was truly pure, the thoughts of others could not mar it.
All those thoughts and memories flowed through my mind as I crossed the room to the piano at its end, then stopped.
I hadn’t lied to her. I hadn’t touched a piano—not so much as struck a key—since the day I left this place.
Would playing now be freedom, as it once was? Or merely invite the dark of those days back to my mind?
I stood over it, staring, willing myself to raise the lid.
I was beginning to sweat.
“Vane?” my mother asked, her tone still gentle, slightly pleading.
I swallowed.
‘Voski?’
I sent a plea through the bond, to Kham. ‘If I can’t do this… if I break—’
‘I’m here.’
I nodded slowly and took a deep breath.
My mother murmured something, but I didn’t pay attention. All my focus was on the deep, glossy wood of the piano.
The fingers I hooked under the lip of the lid trembled. I prayed she didn’t catch it.
Or maybe, that she did.
I lifted the lid, surprised when the hinges didn’t creak. But now, I was left with the wide plane of white and black keys, all as clean and shiny as the day I’d left.
“I’ve kept it tuned. Every six months,” Mother breathed. “Just in case.”
I fought the surge of emotion that followed that statement, uncertain if I was angry, or touched.
I swallowed again. Then took hold of my balls—metaphorically—and tapped one crooked finger down on middle C.
The note rang, pure and warm through the room. I closed my eyes and listened to it until it faded, which was quick, because I hadn’t used the pedal to lift the dampeners.
Instinctively, still standing over the instrument, I spread my fingers and played a single chord. My heart swelling into the space it created behind my ribs.
‘It is beautiful,’ Kham whispered in my mind.
‘It’s supposed to be. But even beautiful things are ugly when they’re used to harm.’
Kham sent a rush of love and reassurance. I was grateful he didn’t push me to form memories, or speak about it further.
Giving in to my curiosity, I leaned down to pull out the padded bench to precisely the right distance from the keyboard, then sat down, still staring at it, grateful that my mother didn’t speak.
I placed both trembling hands on those gleaming, white and black keys, then caught myself a split second before depressing them.
Adrenaline shot through my system at how close I’d come to playing without thought.
If I was going to do this, every note must be a choice, and every choice intentional. I couldn’t afford to let anyone move me.
‘Kham?’
‘I’m here. I’d like to hear you play—but only if you choose to show me.’
I took a deep breath and almost smiled.
Yes.
I could play for my dragon.
With a rush of relief, and a little bit of excitement, I pressed the ball of my foot down on the pedal, then let both hands drift across the keys, playing a tinkling scale of sorts, building each chord a single note at a time, enjoying it, before moving to the next.
It was a careful, intrepid exploration. A hesitant adventure, at first.
But as the notes began to blend and rise, as my body remembered, and my ears perked, I began to play. And something in my chest soared.
High, tinkling treble notes.
Low, booming bass notes.
The melodious dance in the middle.
I remembered the day Kham found me, broken, and on the verge of destroying myself, the raw power in him soothing the raw self-hatred in me, because I could cling and no longer be responsible.
He would choose. He would judge. He would determine if any good remained.
And he did.
I thought of flying on Kham, and the breathless thrill of the very first time I’d ridden him in a clear mind. I remembered victories, and new strengths.
I remembered being pinned as a Furyknight.
Then later, sworn-in as a Shadowfang.
I painted the sky in blue, purple, and pink, and gilded the clouds in gold. I played the praises of the green, green grass, and soft rustle of the forest leaves.
I played the dark, and the moon, and the echoing chambers of a foreign castle.
I played the softness of a woman’s body—then faltered, because it was the wrong one. The first one. Not the precious one.
My heart pounded. My breath came too quickly. I stared—
“Why did you stop?”
I couldn’t tell her. So I closed my eyes, and shifted everything.
The first time I saw Grace smile.
The curve of her neck where it met her shoulder.
The simple, sweet dignity of the way she raised her chin.
The mischievous grin when she felt clever.
Her hair, braided not quite right, and tendrils fluttering to tease at her cheeks and my collarbones.
The room around me faded. I forgot where I was. Because I flew with Grace sitting before me, her back to my chest, and her laughter ringing in the wind…
Her anger when she came for me at the solitude.
Her heat when we discovered each other for the first time.
Her teary smile when I told her I loved her, and I meant it.
The impossible unity. The need. The fire. The love. The Grace.
My heart wept tears I couldn’t shed.
My chest constricted.
Memories and dreams collided until one couldn’t be separated from the other, only underlined with beauty and need and—
I sucked in a breath and shoved away from the piano as my mother’s hands came to rest on my shoulders.
I leaped with such panic, I almost bowled her over, trying to flee.
Luckily, she still had reflexes like a cat’s and leaped back, out of the way, as the bench toppled from the force with which the backs of my legs hit it.
I tripped, stumbled on it, but righted myself.
I stared at her for a shocked breath, then started for the door.
“Don’t ever touch me without my permission again,” I croaked, keeping my head turned away. I couldn’t let her see my eyes.
“Vane, come back! It was beautiful. I just wanted to—”
“I’m going to bed.”
I’d reached the door and opened it, about to step through, when she cleared her throat. “I received the wedding invitation today.”
I stopped dead.
No. No, no, fucking no. Not now. Not when I was still aching— “What. Wedding?” I asked hoarsely.
“Your lover’s, of course. I assume she inspired that gorgeous composition?”
Slowly, taking hold of myself with every fingernail of control, I turned to face her once more. “What wedding?”