Chapter 24 Sariel
SARIEL
M uch of their travels had been spent in small tents on hard ground, so it was a welcome relief, even to a seasoned traveler like Sariel, to relax inside a warm, crowded tavern.
It was one of many within the city of Lontaine, whose mayor had opened its gates and welcomed Isabelle’s army upon the announcement that their king, Yarrick, had allied with Doremy in the war against the Blue Rivers Alliance.
“Hey, now, there’s a fine piece!” someone shouted, reaching past the bar to where a five-stringed lute hung from the wall.
The tavern keeper, an older man half buried in a bushy white beard and hair, protested futilely.
The entire tavern was overrun with Sir Tristan’s squadron, which had ballooned to several hundred in size as Queen Isabelle’s trust in them grew.
Having so many in such a space, and with how freely the ale flowed, created noise that was worse than a battlefield.
“Here’s to hoping King Murta sees reason like King Yarrick did,” Faron said, seated at one of the round tables.
Sariel lurked behind him, leaning against the wall.
Several friends surrounded Faron, while underneath the table, Iris slept atop his feet, rousing only to eat the occasional scraps tossed her way.
“I wouldn’t mind a few more feasts like this. ”
Sariel closed his eyes, holding back his chuckle. Yes, Faron would ever be at home in such crowded environs. As much as Sariel enjoyed the comforts, he’d be just fine once out and about again. An army rarely afforded privacy, but one could at least find some measure of solitude within a tent.
The sound of horrid, tortured strings ruined his thinking.
He looked over to see one of the soldiers rubbing his fingers across the lute, some half-remembered song escaping his lips.
Meanwhile the tavern keeper looked on, flushed and upset but still hesitant to make demands of the soldiers practically drowning him in coin.
Sariel leaned Redemption against the wall and then pushed through the crowd.
“Cease this,” he said, yanking the lute away from the man. “You insult our host and the instrument both.”
The soldier started to protest, saw the serious look in Sariel’s eye, and then immediately reconsidered.
“Yeah, sure,” he muttered, escaping with his drink.
“Many thanks,” the old tavern keeper said. Sariel went to offer it back to the proprietor but then hesitated. A twinge tightened in his chest, coupled with a subtle longing.
“Might I play?” he asked instead.
The tavern keeper licked his lips. The instrument seemed a family heirloom, and not cheap to fix if damaged.
“Do you know how?”
He smiled at the man. “I shall let you be the judge.”
Sariel returned to Faron’s table. Bart quickly darted to his feet and offered his seat.
“What are you going to play?” the freckled man asked as Sariel sat down and properly positioned the lute on his lap.
One benefit of endless lives had been his mastering of a variety of instruments, the lute being one of them.
His fingers tested the strings. Well tuned. The tavern keeper’s care was apparent.
“An old favorite, I suspect,” Faron said, and nudged the surgeon Rowan sitting beside him with an elbow and a wink.
Sariel closed his eyes, his strumming growing louder.
Fingers limber, he began to play. The notes rose from the lute, joining the din of the crowded tavern.
It was doubtful anyone beyond their table could hear them.
The song was slow, its somber tone the opposite of the raucous crowd.
Sariel did not care. This was solely for him.
“ Shadows fall upon you as you lie down to rest ,” he began to sing. His soft voice flowed like water. “ The moon rises, the light fades, and when I speak your name, you do not hear. You do not hear. ”
He strummed harder, falling deeper into the flow. It had been many years since he’d sung this song, and it opened a wound within him that was always so much deeper than he anticipated.
“ Your wrinkled hands in mine, I hold you, I cherish you, and I sing you songs of old. None clasp my soul as you do. I will not leave, not until your end. Not until our end. ”
Faster now. He closed his eyes, the old notes returning to him.
He sang of memories, some true, some false.
A woman named Isca, with a beautiful smile and sky-blue eyes.
A wedding underneath violet eulmore leaves.
Travels across the realm, hands held at the cliffs of Aberdi, and love made before the falls of Twinsides. A time before wrinkled hands.
“ And wherever you go, I shall follow ,” he continued. He felt his insides shudder. “ One life with you is not enough. Not ever enough. ”
The woman named Isca was reborn as Elena. Emerald eyes instead of sky blue, but still the same warmth, the same love. It had been decades since Sariel wrote the song, and still it hurt to remember.
“ And young once more, we shall dance ,” he sang, momentarily opening his eyes.
The tavern had fallen silent. All listened, enraptured.
His fingers moved with expert precision, drawing life from the strings to cast it into the air.
He had not meant to do so, but radiance shimmered unseen upon the strings, and it reverberated within the lyrics, adding to the spell.
“ We shall dance, and sing, and sing. Isca, I loved you. Elena, I love you still. Wherever you go, I shall follow. One life is not enough. Not ever enough. ”
The tempo increased, though his melancholy never eased.
This was the part that had given the song popularity and allowed it to endure for centuries since he first sang it while standing over the freshly dug earth of Elena’s grave.
A barrage of names. A pain of a hundred lifetimes, made universal to all who listened.
“ Isca and Elena. Mildred and Tara. Agnes, Ginnie, and Haley. ”
His fingers strummed harder, and the unseen waves of radiance pulsed throughout the crowd.
They would not know it, would not understand it, but Sariel’s memories were carried on those waves.
The moments spent with his beloved entered their minds, a casual smile, a wine-soaked laugh, one of their simple homes, built of sod and sticks.
These images would flit in through the ears of all who listened, unknown, little thieves carrying Sariel’s melancholy.
“ Amanda, Rose, Camille, and Lily. ”
Life after life, spent in love, always doomed to age and dust and starting all over again. Sariel sang, eyes closed, momentarily vulnerable as the weight of the past carried him down.
“ Each face, each name, new and yet known, I am here. I am waiting, waiting, waiting, for you. ”
The tempo slowed again, each brush of the strings releasing the power of a thunder strike in the silent tavern. Every note struck silver, and he gave it his blessing.
“ The moon rises. The shadow falls. Every grave. Every pair of wrinkled hands. I will hold you, as the light fades. As the light fades. As the light must ever, and forever, fade. ”
One last strum. The note hung in the air, and then the spell broke.
A few dozen clapped awkwardly, uncertain of what had just transpired but knowing it was something special.
Others looked away to hide the wiping of their eyes, and some guzzled down their drinks with renewed fervor.
Sariel took in a deep breath, his insides feeling like he had sprinted a half dozen miles.
“That was… exceptional,” Rowan said. She leaned against Faron’s side, her head resting on his shoulder. “I can’t believe I have never heard it before.”
“It’s an old song,” Faron said. He patted her hand, which was resting atop his knee. His smile was gentle. “Old, but a good one.”
“My pa used to sing ‘Isca,’” Bart said, staring at the lute as if it were magic. “The names weren’t all the same, though.”
“Every singer chooses the names,” Sariel said, rising from his seat. “Tonight, I chose mine.”
He returned the lute to the tavern keeper, who accepted it graciously.
“Might you sing more?” the man asked. “Something a bit more jovial, perhaps?”
“Forgive me,” Sariel said, and he dipped his head. “I have but one song within me this night.”
He exited the tavern. His cramped room, shared with Bart and Faron, was not sufficient. He sought privacy. He sought the company of the stars, and the stars alone. The din of the tavern faded behind him, and he walked Lontaine’s streets, Redemption resting across his back and shoulders.
The night was deep, the homes he passed through quiet and dark. He walked until reaching the thin stone wall surrounding the city. Once he easily scrambled up, he sat with his legs hanging over the side, and he rested his sword across his lap. No guards were nearby. At last, he was alone.
“Am I right to leave you, Tara?” he asked the stars. “Are you better never knowing who I am? Who we were?”
A dozen funeral ceremonies flashed through his mind. A body, sometimes burned, sometimes buried, and sometimes entombed. The names changed. The faces differed. The grief forever remained the same.
“Damn it all, Sariel,” he muttered to himself. “You’re no better than Faron.”
He sat on the wall until the stars faded, the sun rose, and he could drown his memories beneath the rote activities of the day.