Book 1: Chapter 36 - The Rise of the Songstress [Part 1]

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To sing is an expression of your being, a being which is becoming.

- Maria Callas.

“Well, milady, that was certainly one way to deal with that. For a moment there, I thought you’d be ordering ‘off with his head’ or something,” Sergeant Frest commented dryly.

Seraphina glared at him. “I really do not understand how you view me, Sergeant. I am not some sort of tyrant. I was merely trying to execute my privilege as a member of the nobility for the benefit of someone much less well-endowed than myself.”

Frest’s eyes lowered for a moment before meeting her eyes. “Yes, milady, you could certainly say that,” he answered in mock seriousness, striking a mailed gauntlet to his chest as a salute.

“Frest, if you are attempting some form of humor, please stop. I suffer no fools,” the Lady Seraphina replied primly, with a sniff.

“Now, Haze… announce me if you please,” the noblewoman commanded, adjusting her dress.

She had chosen a rather unremarkable dress, something a well-to-do merchant’s daughter might wear to a special event. It was all part of her plan to convince the crowd that, despite her family’s wealth, she was one of ‘them’—a subtle and cunning strategy that had served her well before. What truly grated on her, however, was that Miriam had provided the dressmaker with outdated measurements, leaving the garment just a bit too tight across the chest.

However, she had no idea that the dress she wore was probably worth a common man’s monthly wages.

“People of Lucalle’s Ford! The Lady Seraphina, daughter of our beloved Duke, has deigned to give you all the gift of song. Beloved of the Goddess herself this is a blessing from her to all of you!” the Bard declared grandly.

There was only a scattering of weak applause at first—an almost painful courtesy from an audience determined not to be impressed. The crowd, a restless sea of sour faces, had come here on the behest of the Town Mayor Franzo. Seraphina knew their type. She had performed before more hostile crowds than this: people who had hissed and booed before she’d even opened her mouth, who had hurled insults over imagined scandals and petty slights. Yet in every one of those places, she had eventually won them over, and she intended to do so again today.

Haze played the first notes of his Chordrelle, a fancy and ornate instrument known for its cascading notes that rippled like water. Each note seemed to flow across the square, settling over the audience and coaxing them, almost against their will, into uneasy silence. By the end of the intro, the tension hung thick in the air, like a bowstring pulled taut. Seraphina stepped forward, her posture elegant, her youthful beauty a quiet command for their attention.

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As she began to sing, her voice started small, as if carried on the wings of a gentle breeze. It curled around the Chordrelle’s melody, blending seamlessly with the instrument’s delicate harmony. It was her first song, composed before the world recognized her as the great treasure she would become. By any measure, it was a trite piece—just a simple tune about a girl waiting patiently for her beloved at the end of a day’s work. Silly, perhaps. Yet here, in a place where no one understood the words, the melody carried its own undeniable weight.

Soft as a whisper at first, her tone brightened with each passing measure, gathering strength and warmth. The crowd might have come in skepticism, but they could not deny the purity in her voice. It was honest, without artifice—a raw, human sound that wove through the notes, binding them together into something larger and more profound.

And in her voice, in each and every note, as she sang with all of her heart was threaded the strength of the Covenant. A thing that she herself did not notice as her voice began to harmonize with itself.

Now she pressed forward, pushing her voice into fuller chords, letting it rise and fall like a bird riding the wind. Hers was a powerful thing, employing her full Strength that none, not even she could have predicted. The notes soared upward, breaking through their initial resistance and scattering their doubts. One by one, frowns eased, and folded arms loosened. Some leaned forward, caught off guard by the strength and passion pouring into every phrase. Others closed their eyes, surrendering to the music.

By the time she reached her crescendo, her voice had filled the square to its farthest corners, reverberating out into the streets beyond and echoing in the hearts of those who’d hoped to remain unmoved. Now, others came, drawn to the unfiltered siren’s song. At first a trickle, it became a floor as more and more people stopped what they were doing and came to be closer to the source of the great music.

They all came as if entranced, as if the song sung was speaking to each of them, resonating in the secret places of their heart. Seraphina had indeed made good on her promise to Ibn that it would be one of the happiest days of their lives.

Indeed, the boy had only eyes for her, mesmerized as he was by the power of her song.

When the last note died, solemn and powerful in its ending, the applause that followed was not forced or scattered. Instead, it was a thing that swelled into a storm through the very town, genuine and complete. Seraphina scarcely needed to acknowledge their response; this was what she did—turning even the hardest of hearts, one note at a time.

Walking out of the crowd, an old man, slightly dumpy around the waist, with an odd attempt at a beard approached her, the chains of his office around his neck. He walked with the assistance of a cane, his rheumy green eyes stained with the rigor of age seemed wet with tears.

“I am Mayor Franco Carbezio of this town. Thank you, thank you, milady,” the old man declared, wiping at his eyes. “I doubted, but truly now, I thank you. I did not believe that one so blessed by the touch of the Goddess would grace us with your presence.

“Why thank you, Mayor,” she smiled thinly at him. “It has been a pleasure and an honor. How about I sing one more for the good people of Lucalle’s Ford people?” she offered.

Seeing the stunned reactions of Frest, Ibn, and the rest of her escort drew forth a delicate laugh from her. In her eyes, their expressions mirrored that of primitives witnessing fire harnessed for the very first time. It was altogether too charming.