Duets

by Philip J. Lees

I heard her before I saw her. Her voice, raised in anger, bounced off the wall of the saddler’s across the street and down the alley where I was walking, having just left the apothecary’s shop by the rear entrance. I hitched the guitar strap higher on my shoulder and quickened my pace, certain that adventure was at hand.

Sure enough, I emerged from the alley just in time to see her slap the face of her companion, so hard that his skin began to redden right away. Her back was towards me and all I could see was dark chestnut hair coiled and pinned in high disarray; a few stray strands touched a narrow neck above a moss-green bodice that tapered down to the fine swell of her rear, tight in brown breeches. Of her face I could make out just the faintest hint of a profile, but no matter—somehow I knew she would be beautiful.

She raised her right hand as if to strike again and the man stepped back. A sullen expression shadowed his handsome young countenance. He muttered something I couldn’t hear and her shoulders rose as she drew in the breath for a sigh of exasperation. Her left hand held a mandolin case. Easy, I thought.

I walked toward them slowly, enjoying the anticipation. Little stirred in the streets of Pylos at that time of day—which is why I had chosen it for my own excursion despite the heat—and nobody else was close enough to hear anything that might be said.

I stopped three paces away.

“May I be of assistance?” I asked softly, relishing the moment to come even as I composed my face into an expression of solicitude.

When she did turn and look at me I was not disappointed. Below arched eyebrows, eyes black as midnight flashed with ire as though a star burned in their depths. Her smooth, round visage was relieved by a chin that jutted just enough, but no more. Above it, her lips were pressed together, but as she scrutinized me the color faded from her cheeks and filled them out again into a half smile. She was worthy of my intervention, of that there could be no question.

Then her look became keener, those sloe eyes narrowed and she took one step toward me. I could see her take note of the strap, the guitar ill-concealed behind my back.

“I am addressing Cyro Panteger, Master of Music, am I not?” Her voice was level yet melodic, neither warm nor cold, but it held no trace of fear. I smiled.

“I cannot deny it,” I said. “I am honored that my lady acknowledges me.”

“They say you know all women’s hearts, yet none knows your own.”

“My lady is too kind,” I murmured. Should I have guessed, then? Was there something in her words, the manner of her speaking, to warn me of what was to come? I look back upon it now and I swear there was not.

So entranced was I that I had forgotten her young companion until he spoke again.

“Olwen,” he said. It was a cry of pain, but she paid him no mind.

“Begone!” She scarcely turned her head. I peeled my eyes from her and gave him a steady look.

“I suggest you heed my lady’s wishes,” I said.

In Pylos and elsewhere they know me first as a musician, second as a lover, but from necessity Cyro the brawler is not without reputation. He clearly knew that, for he hesitated but a second before taking himself away.

Olwen faced me, back straight, one hand on her hip. The world paused while we studied one another. She was almost my height. Under her weskit she wore a white silk blouse, not buttoned to the top as was the fashion, but open at the collar to reveal her pale, slender throat. The embroidered cuffs, too, were unfastened and she had pushed the sleeves halfway up her tanned forearms. Her cool expression was belied by a sheen on her forehead and upper lip. I caught a faint scent of rosemary, bittersweet. I dipped my head in homage to the impression she made.

“I thank you, Master Cyro, for your concern.” The smile flickered stronger for a moment, like the sun passing through a break in the clouds. “But Tolver is no more than an annoying puppy who needs to be spanked now and then.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” I said. “Yet one thing still troubles me.”

A quirk of an eyebrow. “And what might that be?”

“I have spent much time in Pylos,” I said. “I cannot understand how I have overlooked a person of my lady Olwen’s fine character and appearance.”

She laughed, a tremolo cascade.

“It is just these twenty days I am arrived from Nabur.”

“Then my only regret is that I have never visited Nabur and have lived so many years starved of my lady’s beauty.”

Another gay arpeggio of a chuckle, but she was pleased by my words, I could tell.

“You have earned yourself a drink, Master Cyro. Will you be my guest?”

Indeed my throat felt somewhat dry. The dust of the street coated her boots and mine. I bowed.

“It would be my pleasure,” I said. “And later,” I indicated her mandolin, “perhaps we might…make some music together?”

We shared a jug of ale at the inn, then walked to her apartment, high in the old part of the town. It was a lofty room with heavy beams overhead and thick rugs strewn over the floorboards. They seemed chosen at random, coarsely woven from motley rags and wool in shades of earth red, leaf green, gray, white, and indigo, and yet the overall effect was harmonious.

By the time we got there we were walking hand in hand, but she released me and went to pour the wine while I unpacked my guitar. The sun had almost set and waves of pink and ocher light flooded in through the window, washing over the plaster walls.

As I checked the guitars tuning, the amber flecks in the sounding board glistened and sparkled in time with the vibrations of the strings. It was from that cunning filigree work, embedded in the instrument by the craftsmen of Jaran Kanoor and made of a material they called elektron, that I drew the secret power few had heard of and even fewer knew how to use. When the strings vibrated, the elektron threads, too, gave out vibrations, both higher and lower than the human ear could hear, but nevertheless able, when manipulated properly, to affect the listener’s mood. That is how I had been so sure in my conquests over the years.

I sang just one song, Lament of the Lonely, filling it with my longing for her. As I expected, while the last chord was still hanging in the air she put down her glass, came over to me, and leaned down to kiss me with such passion I almost dropped the guitar. I laid it carefully down on a rug, so that I could devote my full attention to the lovely Olwen.

For what seemed like hours we played on each other’s bodies, molto andante to begin with, then improvising passages of staccato, legato, pizzicato, rubato until the final movement, allegro ma non troppo. I must have slept then, for when I opened my eyes she was standing over me clad in a loose gown, offering a steaming bowl of broth that smelled of tarragon and fennel.

I sat up and slurped at it gratefully, feeling my strength return as its hot spiciness warmed my gullet. It was dark outside and the only light came from the slender glass chimneys of lanterns mounted at intervals along the walls.

I finished the broth. I could have eaten more, but she took the bowl from me and placed it on a side table.

“Now we will play real music together,” she said. “It’ll be good. You’ll see.”

She handed me my guitar and took her mandolin out of its case, sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed. She fine-tuned the instrument by ear, tweaking the pegs with a confidence that bespoke long experience.

I wasn’t sure what to play, so I picked a few chords from the introduction to a folk dance, The Boy from Rovero. Before I could make up my mind whether to continue with it, Olwen picked up the beat and sailed into the melody, dragging me along with her willy-nilly. I was more used to leading than following, but I relaxed into it and let her set the pace. I kept the bass moving smoothly through the piece and otherwise did little more than add an accent or a phrase of counterpoint here and there.

Then it changed. Not the music—the music continued, modulating smoothly from the lively opening into the slower, more moody bridge that made up the middle part of the dance. It was we who changed; Olwen and I were no longer two people, but one. The guitar and mandolin became as one instrument played by one musician with one mind, one soul, daring to take the music to heights we could never have reached alone.

We finished on a flourish, a descending ripple of notes repeating the final phrase over and over in canon, growing louder and louder, then followed by a rising burst that exploded into the twilit room like a shower of sparks that floated gently down until they faded to nothingness.

We sat in silence, enjoying a few moments of shared eternity.

“I told you it would be good,” Olwen said.

I nodded, unwilling to speak, not knowing what to say. She seemed to understand, for she packed the mandolin away, then my guitar, and helped me to stretch out in bed as if she were a mother with a small child who was too exhausted even to do the simplest of things. She blew out the lanterns, then lay beside me and cradled my head on her breast, stroking my hair and whispering meaningless things into the darkness until I slept.

When I awoke, the first light was just bright enough to set the birds atwitter and from somewhere across town a rooster let out a faint, hiccupping crow. It was time for me to leave.

That was my rule, one I had adhered to for many years: one night, no more. To do otherwise exposed me to the risk of involvement, commitment, a change from my present life to one I neither sought nor desired. Many times my rule caused me pangs of regret, but never so strong as those I felt now, as I prepared to take my leave of Olwen.

I slipped from under the sheets and felt for my clothes, abandoned on the floor in the careless ardor of the night before. After the sultry warmth of the bed the air in the room felt cool and fresh. I pulled on my stockings, breeches, boots, undershirt and tunic. I looked for my guitar, saw it propped in a corner by the window. I tiptoed across the room.

From behind me came a low, throbbing minor chord so poignant it stopped me in my tracks. I turned. Olwen was sitting up in bed, the mandolin in her hands. Her face was in shadow but I could see the glint of her obsidian eyes.

“I thought that might catch your attention, Music Master,” she murmured.

She drew the plectrum across the strings again, more strongly this time, then she began to embellish the chord, adding trills and harmonics until I found myself on my knees on the floor, weeping.

“Stop it,” I sobbed. “Please stop.” My heart was splitting into pieces. I had never felt such anguish.

At last the unbearable sound died away.

“You see,” I heard Olwen say through the echoes of my agony, “I, too, have visited Jaran Kanoor.”

I knew I was lost. She shared the secret I had kept so well for so long. But I had only ever used my guitar to give pleasure. It had never entered my mind that the same power could be used to cause pain. Until now. Had my own instrument been at hand perhaps I could have fought her, but without it I knew any struggle was futile. Before it was out of its case I would be at her mercy once more. I could not suffer that again, not so soon.

“You play well, Music Master,” Olwen said, “and you love well. I think I shall keep you for a time. A man such as you will be a grand addition to my collection.”

The room had brightened enough for me to see her clearly now. Her face was soft from sleep and her hair fell to her bare shoulders like russet rain.

“Cyro,” she cooed, like someone summoning an errant puppy. “Cyro, come back to bed.”

She smiled and stroked the strings of the mandolin again, but this time sweetly, and I felt all my pain, all my cares, all my doubts fall away like a heavy robe cast aside. She really was a lovely creature. There are worse things, I thought as I clambered to my feet. There are many worse things than loving Olwen. I crossed the room, sat down on the bed, and leaned to kiss her.

Duets

by Philip J. Lees

- End -