Discordant Harmonies 3: Measure of Resistance

Chapter Seven

There was an odd quality to ghostly music. Géta laid with his eyes closed, hands tucked under his right cheek, listening to Siéda play the lute. Like the ghost's voice, the music Siéda played felt different, in a substantial way. There was a kind of additional reality to the notes, like the visions in prophetic dreams, which made them seem heavier and portentous. As though, if Géta listened with all his might, they may tell him something new about things, or show him a vision.

He opened his eyes. Siéda still sat before him, feet tucked under knees, strumming the lute. Then the fingers froze, and the ghost's head turned. He didn't say anything, but gave Géta a sorrowful, apologetic glance before disappearing with a chime. A bare moment later, the door at the far end of the room opened.

Shifting to his stomach, Géta gripped the ends of his flute case. He didn't want to play for Owée. These days, he didn't even want to play for himself. It was all he could do to derive comfort from Siéda's playing, never mind touch his own instrument. Luckily, the ghost seemed to understand his conflicting emotions—needing music to maintain a hopeful attitude while at the same time being afraid to play it.

Someone entered with the sresaph Jalza and halted a few paces in while she locked the door, her sigil reflecting on it for a moment. This was new. For the past several days, Owée had been making at least one visit a day to wallow in the power of his magic, but now she apparently had orders to get to work. Of course, the work didn't mean she would have to do anything, but obviously that she would induce someone else to cast whatever magic the Rector deemed necessary.

While the Mage who'd entered with her stared around the room, Owée strode past him and crossed the circle to kick Géta. "Get up and get your flute."

Flinching as her boot hit a tender spot left there by previous abuse, Géta pushed himself to his hands and knees. The sresaph Jalza set a canteen down with two chicken bars, removed the shackles, and grabbed his hair, tilting his head back.

"You're to amplify magic for someone casting a weather spell."

He squinted up at her, not daring to reach up to try and ease the pain of her pulling on his hair. She'd only kick and hit him, and the less abuse he suffered, the happier he'd be. She shoved him away, keeping her grip in his hair.

"Where's your flute?"

Head still suspended from her grip, Géta felt around with both hands until the strap of his flute's case came to his hand. He pulled the cased instrument up and hugged it. Owée nodded, this time releasing him when she shoved him away.

"Assemble it and come to the circle."

She turned and went to the circle herself, beckoning the other Mage while Géta quickly did as she'd commanded. Not bothering to rise, he scrambled on one hand, one knee, and one foot to the edge of the circle and knelt, sitting on his feet in his customary position. Owée and the Mage were setting out stencils, and the Mage turned to face Géta when he finished. The sresaph Jalza crossed to Géta and slapped him.

"Play!"

He did so as Owée commanded the Mage to begin casting the spell decided upon. Like usual, Géta played music befitting his mood, something slow and ponderous, not as cheerful as he always asked Siéda to play these days. While he played, he sent power to the Mage, who seemed to falter with it, and not just because it may not have been expected. The Mage kept glancing at Géta, clearly uncomfortable with proceedings, and struggled with his magic—Géta sensed the Mage's fumbling with the power, an unmistakable flux of the energy being used by the Mage. It hurt, in ways nothing else Géta had ever done with power ever had, because it wasn't a consistent draw as Asthané created when he cast spells with the power Géta sent him.