Faro made his way along the tunnel, his head low. He resisted the urge to trail his fingers along the tunnel wall; Nesh had caught him doing that and had rebuked him for it. From what he could make out of her words, it harmed the matorna ægi—the fragile fungus that provided the meager luminescence. He knew that ægi meant "eye," and he was fairly sure that matorna signified some kind of digging activity.

The straight path from his little sleeping chamber to the room he called the library was the only tunnel that Faro trusted himself to walk alone. It was in the library where Nesht usually gave him lessons. It was also there that food and drink was left for him, for while the dhar were welcoming, they did not dine with him apart from two feasts that had occurred since he'd become their guest. He did not mind the seclusion much; even in the tunnels, he could smell the foul roasting fat when they cooked over their braziers.

Reaching the library chamber, Faro fumbled with flint and steel, trying to light the lamp with the tinder left for that purpose. The oil within the lamp came from beached whales and other creatures that the dhar hunted on the strand, their fat rendered down. Nesht had conveyed the understanding of oil-making while drilling him on the names of animals. She sketched the beasts with charcoal on a pale slate, and made ample use of hand motions. The oil had a stench, and it made his nose run more than coconut oil, but Faro tolerated it for the sake of light.

Faro had not yet seen a whale. He knew of them by the stories of Coir, for the Noshians were a sea-faring people, and from the descriptions and sketches that Nesht provided, he thought they must be the same. He hoped to one day glimpse one of the beasts, himself.

At last, he managed to light the wick. Lamps and candles were about the only concessions the Vien made for fire. On the table was a covered dish of cold dried fruits and a covered pitcher of küg. As he ate and drank and stared at the detailed carvings in the stone walls, he heard approaching footsteps. The dhar wore boots of hide, the soles of which hardened from friction and made a slapping sound on the stone as they walked.

Nesht turned into the chamber, carrying something in a hide bag. The hide was stitched with intricate designs, the thread made of some kind of metal that shone in the light.

Without a word, she gently laid the bag down on the table and pulled loose a yellow drawstring at the top. Opening the bag's mouth, she reached within and drew forth what Faro recognized as a musical instrument. A large body of some white material divided into sweeping arms. Shining metal strings stretched taut between the opposing arms. The white material was inlayed with intricately carved designs and symbols which Faro did not understand. Polished knobs stuck out from the arms. He couldn't tell what any of the materials were with certainty, but it was beautiful, its surfaces polished so that the light played upon the designs.

Nesht cradled the instrument against her body, holding it steady with one hand.

"Kulna," she said, pointing to the instrument.

"Kulna," Faro replied, knowing her methods well.

Pointing at each in turn, Nesht went on to describe the names for the different parts and materials from which the harp was made. It took her a few minutes to impress upon Faro that the body of the instrument was made of whale bone and the knobs were from the tusks of kimgrip, the largest of the wallowing creatures that lived upon the shores. The idea of making a musical instruments from body parts was displeasing, but he had grown adept at hiding such reactions from the dhar. At least, he hoped he hid his feelings. The strings were of a certain type of brass. He felt they had far more words for metals than they had metals he could differentiate. He did not understand the many alloys, and he couldn't tell the difference much of the time, despite Nesht's repeated drills.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Deftly, Nesht touched the strings and plucked three together. Crisp tones rang, their vibrations touching the stone walls and ceiling and doubling back. A shiver passed through Faro's body. Again, Nesht plucked the strings.

"Wolin," she said. Now, her fingers played across them, a melody of warmth and comfort emerging from materials that were dead and cold moments before.

Faro had grown up in Vireel's glade. The most music he heard there were the old songs sung by his mother—for which he pestered her incessantly—and the strange rhythms of the quthli. Coir, as he said himself, could hold a melody about as well as a fishing net could hold water. Yet Coir and his mother had always told him how the Vien settlements were full of the music of voices, harps, flutes. They told of the dances, of how singing wafted across the water as your ship neared the harbor of Talanael, of how the people gathered to listen in the cool nights beneath the trees of the tirs. Yet Faro had never seen a harp, and if the Vien were musical, Vireel was odd among them. He could not remember her singing.

Now, he watched and listened enraptured to the melody that Nesht drew forth from the strings of her kulna. Was this a harp? She played on, and Faro saw the melody, its twists and turns, its colors. Its vibrations brushed his skin. It was as if a whole story of home and peace was told to him without words, turning to sadness as memories slipped away. His eyes blurred with tears, and a strange tightness gripped his throat and chest.

Nesht stopped, the notes trailing off-mid phrase. Faro opened his eyes. He hadn't realized he'd closed them. She was silent for a time.

"Wolin," she whispered.

"Wolin," Faro repeated, his voice broken.

They sat without stirring.

Nesht had not kept to simple vocabulary in their daily lessons. As soon as she felt he had a handle on the simple words, she had asked questions. She asked one now:

"Wolin. . . nar ateg yean?"

Faro was still getting used to the strange way the dhar had of placing the things before the actions. Wolin. . . music. Nar meant have you. In reality, it meant have, but because she said nar rather than nir he was pretty sure it implied him without using a word. Ateg he wasn't sure about. . . Yean, though, meant kind, as in a kind of something. When she asked the question, she had motioned away with her chin, as she often did when she asked him about the Vien. As best he could tell, the question meant something like: "do you have music among your kind?" His interpretation came more by impression than reasoning.

Faro carefully attempted to formulate an answer with the limited understanding he had yet attained.

"Mec rig. . ." He shook his head and placed his hand on his chest. "Tig erig."

They do. I don't.

"Or erig?"

You don't?

There was a tone of sincere confusion in her voice. Faro shook his head, staring at the kulna in her hands. It was made of bone, but. . . he wasn't sure he cared, now. He wanted to hold the instrument, to pull forth music. In a strange way, was it not fitting that what once lived should sing with such life?

"Tigu sholn," he said, pointing to the kulna. "Wolin tigu sholn."

Teach me music.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.