The Sound of Broken Absolutes

  ~ ~ * ~ ~

  Two men. One old. One young. Both possess a gift. A gift of music with the power to change things. Even destroy. The younger is called back to his homeland. To war. The other embarks on an inward journey into his past, as he sets to repair a broken viola. An instrument with meaning to him. A resonant kind. The music each man will make will have an absolute quality. And it will change them both.

  ~ ~ * ~ ~

  The Sound of Broken Absolutes

  Copyright © 2015 by Peter Orullian

  Cover Art by Rado Javor

  Cover Design by Peter Orullian

  The Sound of Broken Absolutes is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  All rights reserved

  ISBN 978-0-9712909-4-5

  Publication History

  First published in Unfettered 2013

  Published by

  Descant Publishing

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Contents

  START READING

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Praise for

  THE SOUND OF

  BROKEN ABSOLUTES

  from the epic fantasy series

  THE VAULT OF HEAVEN

  “The Sound of Broken Absolutes is one of the most beautiful stories I’ve ever read . . . stunningly gorgeous, painfully intimate, and magnificently epic. This is a story of war, music, loss, and restoration, and it will touch the hearts of its readers.”

  — The Ranting Dragon

  “The Sound of Broken Absolutes offers a theme of rebuilding our broken selves. It resonates perfectly. Orullian pours love and dread into his rich novella about art, loss and reconstruction. His tale disturbs and ultimately uplifts with the authenticity only possible from a writer who looked life’s hardship in the eye and shook its bony hand.”

  — PasteMagazine.com

  Praise for

  THE UNREMEMBERED

  and

  TRIAL OF INTENTIONS

  Books One & Two of

  THE VAULT OF HEAVEN

  “Engaging characters and powerful storytelling in the tradition of Robert Jordan, Terry Goodkind, and Dennis L. McKiernan make this a top-notch fantasy by a new author to watch.”

  — Library Journal (Starred review)

  “A sprawling, complex tale of magic and destiny that won’t disappoint its readers. This auspicious beginning for author Peter Orullian will have you looking forward to more.”

  — Terry Brooks

  “The Vault of Heaven is an ambitious story in the mold of Robert Jordan and Terry Goodkind. Peter Orullian is a name to watch in the field of epic fantasy.”

  — Kevin J. Anderson

  “This is one huge, powerful, compelling, hard-hitting story . . . The Vault of Heaven is a major fantasy adventure.”

  — Piers Anthony

  “A fine debut!”— Brandon Sanderson

  “Great fantasy tales plunge us into vivid new worlds, in the company of fascinating characters. The Vault of Heaven is great fantasy. It grips you and shows you true friendship, strange places, and heroes growing to confront world-shaking evil. Magnificent! I want more!”

  — Ed Greenwood

  “The Vault of Heaven by Peter Orullian is a vast canvas filled with thought-provoking ideas on the questions of good and evil that engage us all.”

  — Anne Perry

  “Intricately crafted with its own distinct melody, The Unremembered is a groundbreaking work of epic fantasy.”

  — Bookwormblues.net

  “Sometimes you just need a big, fat fantasy, and Peter Orullian’s remastered edition of The Unremembered delivers everything you’re looking for: a fascinating world, tense action, charismatic characters, and a magic system the like of which you’ve never imagined.”

  — Aidan Moher

  A Dribble of Ink

  Hugo Award Winner

  “The Unremembered captures the unique essence and mystery of music, and weaves it into every line of a compelling and exciting world, while telling a character-driven story that resonates through the ages . . . a work of art on par with the masters of the genre, Jordan, Rothfuss, Tolkien, and more.”

  — Elitistbookreviews.com

  2013 & 2014 Hugo-nominated

  for best review site

  “Engaging characters, complex magic, and expertly written—a whole new kind of epic fantasy!”

  — Suvudu.com

  “Trial of Intentions is a story of music and magic, of daring and sacrifice, in an intricate and believable world, where characters face difficult and heartbreaking choices. Orullian is doing things I haven’t seen in other books, including an original system of magic. This tale will resonate with readers long after the cover is closed.”

  — Robin Hobb

  “Peter Orullian’s Trial of Intentions is a book enormous in scope and in intricacy, with a welter of political, cultural, and magical intrigues, behind which lies the role of song in preserving a myriad of cultures, all of which disagree with each other to some extent, even as it becomes apparent to the reader that, without some degree of cooperation, all will suffer, if not perish. A challenging story about challenged cultures, and one well-told.”

  — L. E. Modesitt, Jr.

  “Peter Orullian is a master of dark chocolate fantasy; bitter, harsh and sweet at once. Trial of Intentions grabs us firmly by the breastplate and challenges us to face a world of moral contradictions, stunning characters and harsh choices. An unflinching fantasy.”

  — Tracy Hickman

  Also by Peter Orullian

  The Unremembered

  Trial of Intentions

  The Vault of Heaven, Story Volume One

  For Maestro David Kyle,

  who taught me far more than music alone

  INTRODUCTION

  MUSIC MATTERS. It matters in real life. And it certainly matters in the world of my fantasy series, The Vault of Heaven.

  You may recall the film, Mr. Holland’s Opus. I’m cribbing a bit, but during one great scene Richard Dreyfuss says to the principal, who’s cutting back the art program: “If you take away music, sooner or later, there’ll be nothing to read or write about.”

  Point and match.

  Obviously, I’m biased. Music is a big part of my life. And so it was natural that it made its way into my fiction. Which it does here in The Sound of Broken Absolutes. But let me tell you how I came to write this novella.

  A friend of mine got cancer. For the second time. On many of his chemotherapy days, I went and sat with him. Just to chat. Keep him company. I know he appreciated it. But at the end of the day, my offering felt small. Because I’d eventually head home after surreal conversations in which we spoke about his chances of beating cancer. Or not.

  It reminds me of a dark novel I wrote once (a hard story to write and one I’ve never tried to publish) that grew out of this idea: The pain and helplessness of watching someone you love die. I wrote a whole concept album around it, too—also unreleased. Maybe that’s why I went at this story the way I did. With a kind of reckless abandon. I needed to do something more. Needed to say something this time. (That whole this time reference is a long story for another day.)

  So I poured myself into it. For weeks. Things that matter to me converged on the page: family, loyalty, friendship, authenticity . . . music. I began telling a story set in the universe of my series. It’s the story of two men—one old, one young—each putting his music-craft to use in very different ways.

  I imagine you’ve heard the adage, “Music has charms to sooth a savage breas
t.” Well, the phrase was coined by William Congreve in his play The Mourning Bride:

  Musick has Charms to sooth a savage Breast,

  To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak.

  I’ve read, that things inanimate have mov’d,

  And, as with living Souls, have been inform’d,

  By Magick Numbers and persuasive Sound.

  What then am I? Am I more sensless grown

  Than Trees, of Flint? O force of constant Woe!

  ‘Tis not in Harmony to calm my Griefs.

  Anselmo sleeps, and is at Peace; last Night

  The Silent Tomb receiv’d the good old King;

  He and his Sorrows now are safely lodg’d

  Within its cold, but hospitable Bosom.

  Why am not I at Peace?

  I can’t even begin to unpack those lines in this short intro. But I’ll tell you this: It’s no accident that the central song of power in my music magic system is known as The Song of Suffering. And I’ll tell you that music in this story sometimes soothes, sometimes moves inanimate things. It has to do with numbers (more on that in book three of The Vault of Heaven). And it has to do with the notion of absolute sound. And harmony. And resonance. To calm grief. One way or another.

  This tale was written to stand on its own. Meaning, if you haven’t read my novels, you’ll be okay digging into Broken Absolutes. But if you’re reading my series, this is the first really in-depth discussion and use of my music magic system. And it ties really well to book two, Trial of Intentions, which—for the uninitiated—was written as an entry point to my series. So, if you like Broken Absolutes, it’s possible for you to come along on the journey starting with Trial of Intentions, where music has a power of its own.

  Music matters. It matters in real life. And it certainly matters in the world of my fantasy series.

  And as for Richard Dreyfuss’ character, Mr. Holland, I think he’d applaud the fact that I’m not done writing about music.

  February 2015

  Peter Orullian

  ONE

  MAESTERI DIVAD JONASON gently removed the viola d’amore from its weathered sheepskin case. In the silence, he smiled wanly over the old instrument, considering. Sometimes the most important music lessons feature no music at all. Such was the case with this viola, an old friend to be sure. It served a different kind of instruction. One that came late in the training of a Lieholan, whose song had the power of intention. This instrument could only be understood when the act of making notes work together had long since been any kind of challenge. This viola made fine music, too, of course—a soft, retiring sound most pleasant in the shades of evening. But this heirloom of the Maesteri, generations old now, taught the kind of resonance often only heard inwardly while standing over a freshly dug barrow.

  Behind him, the door opened, and he turned to greet his finest Lieholan student, Belamae Sento. The young man stepped into the room, his face pale, an open letter in his hand. Divad didn’t need to ask the contents of the note. In fact, it was the letter’s arrival that had hastened his invitation to have Belamae join him in this music chamber.

  “Close the door, please.” Softly spoken, his words took on a hum-like quality, resounding in the near-perfect acoustics of the room.

  Belamae absently did as he was asked. The wide-eyed look on his face was not, Divad knew, amazement at finally coming to the Chamber of Absolutes. Although such would have been normal enough for one of the Lyren—a student of the Descant—it wasn’t so for Belamae. Not today. Worry and conflict had taken the young man’s thoughts far from Descant Cathedral, far from his focus on learning the Song of Suffering.

  “You seem distracted. Does finally coming here leave you at a loss for words?” He raised an open palm to indicate the room, but was really just easing them into conversation.

  Belamae looked around and shook his head. “It’s less . . . impressive than I’d imagined.”

  Divad chuckled low in his throat, the sound musical in the resonant chamber. “Quite so. I tend not to correct assumptions about this place. Could be that I like the surprise of it when Lieholan see it with their own eyes. But the last lessons in Suffering are plain ones. The room is rightly spare.”

  The walls and floor and vaulted ceiling were bare granite. In fact, the only objects in the room were four instruments: a boxharp, a dual-tubed horn, a mandola, and the viola Divad held in his hands. Each had a place in an arched cutaway at equal distances around the circular chamber.

  He held up the viola. “What about the instruments? What do they suggest you might learn here?”

  Belamae looked around again, more slowly this time, coming last to the viola. He concluded with a shrug.

  “Aliquot stringing,” Divad said, supplying the answer. “It’s resonance, my boy. And leads us to absolute sound.”

  Belamae nodded, seeming unimpressed or maybe just overly distracted. “Do we have to do this today?”

  “Because of the letter you’ve received,” he replied, knowing it was precisely so.

  The young Lieholan stared down at the missive in his hands, and spoke without raising his eyes. “I’ve looked forward to the things you’d teach me here. We all do.” He paused, heaving a deep sigh. “But war has come to my people. We’re losing the fight. And my da . . . I have to go.”

  “Aliquots are intentionally unplayed strings that resonate harmonically when you strike the others.” He held up the viola and pointed to a second set of seven gut strings strung below those the bow would caress.

  Belamae looked up, an incredulous expression on his face.

  Divad paid the look no mind. “A string vibrates when struck. There’s a mathematical relationship between a vibrating string and an aliquot that resonates with it. This is usually in unison or octaves, but can also come in fifths. We’ve spoken of resonance before, but always as a way of understanding music that must be heard to have a resonant effect.”

  “Did you hear me?” Belamae asked, irritation edging his voice. “I’m leaving.”

  “Absolute sound,” Divad went on, “is resonance you feel even when it’s not heard.”

  “My da—”

  “Which is what makes this instrument doubly instructive. You see, we play it in requiem.” He caressed the neck of the viola, oiled smooth for easy finger positioning. “Voices sometimes falter, tremulous with emotion. That’s understandable. So just as often, we play the dirge with this. And the melody helps to bring the life of a departed loved one into resonance with those they’ve left behind. Like the sweet grief of memory.”

  Belamae’s anger sharpened. “In requiem . . . You knew my da was dead? And you didn’t tell me?”

  Divad shook his head. “You’re missing the point. There is a music that can connect you with others in a . . . fundamental way. As fundamental as the sound their life makes. And once you find that resonant sound, it surpasses distance. It no longer needs to be heard to have effect.”

  The young Lieholan glared back at the older man. Then his brow relaxed, disappointment replacing everything else. “You’re telling me not to go.”

  “I’m telling you you’re more important to them here, learning to sing Suffering, than you would be in the field as one more man with a sword.” He offered a conciliatory smile. “And you’re close, my boy. Ready to understand absolute sound. Nearly ready to sing Suffering on your own.”

  Belamae shook his head. “I won’t ignore their call for help. People are dying.” He glanced at the viola in Divad’s hands. “They wouldn’t have sent for me if it was my sword they wanted. But you don’t have to worry; I know how to use my song.”

  “And what song do you think you have, Belamae? The song you came here with?” His tone became suddenly cross. “Or do you pretend you can make Suffering a weapon? That is not its intention. You would bring greater harm to your own people if that’s why you go. I won’t allow it.”

  “You’re a coward,” Belamae replied with the indignation only the young seem capable of. “I will
go and do what I—”

  “You should let your loss teach you more about Suffering, not take you away from it.” Divad strummed the viola’s strings, then immediately silenced them. The aliquots hummed in the stillness, resonating from the initial vibration of the viola’s top seven strings.

  The two men stood staring at one another as the aliquots rang on, which was no brief time. Divad knew trying to force Belamae to stay would prove pointless. Crucial to a Descant education was a Lieholan’s willingness. Especially with regard to absolute sound. But if he could get Belamae to grasp the concept, then perhaps the boy would be convinced to remain.

  Divad reached into his robe and removed a funeral score penned specifically for this viola. It was a challenging, complex piece of music, made more difficult by the seven strings and their aliquot pairs. Even reading it would stretch his young protégé’s skill. Divad had written it himself in anticipation of this very meeting, knowing sooner or later Belamae would learn of the trouble back home. Its theme was separation, constructed in a Maerdian mode that hadn’t been used for centuries. It made use of minor seconds and grace notes as central parts of the melody. A listener had to wait patiently for a passage or phrase to resolve, otherwise the note selection might be interpreted as the performer misplaying the piece.

  Learning to play it would be its own kind of instruction for the musician, precisely because of the instrument’s aliquots.

  Divad handed the piece of music to Belamae. “Read this when you think you’re ready to hear it.” He gently tapped his young friend at the temple, suggesting he be in the right frame of mind when he did so.