Heartfelt Sounds Read online

  Heartfelt Sounds

  C.M. Estopare

  Copyright © 2016 C.M. Estopare

  All rights reserved.

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Epilogue

  1. Stay, Fate

  Deft fingers swim across thin silver strings.

  I'm shaking—I can't perform like this.

  Thick sandals slam onto the stage behind me. The dancers present themselves. I open my mouth as the dancers still behind me. They are statues. Dolls sprinkled in white beneath dimming candlelight.

  The stillness is a learned reaction. One given by time and misfortune.

  I open my mouth. I sing.

  “In this bitter world…”

  Fans glide open with a snap of paper. My eyes stay to my hands and fingers as they sail over sixteen strings. As the long cherrywood body of the zither rocks beneath me, in time to the foot falls of the dancers.

  “…who can declare the difference between love and hate?”

  The dancers still, their faces stoic.

  “In these mortal realms…”

  I cast my gaze up to steal a look at our audience. Three women curve their legs beneath skirts which balloon out around them. They litter the carpet like fallen petals. They are not strangers, nor are they patrons.

  A gray haired woman snaps her gaze from the dancers to me. Hard opal eyes narrow to slits. She raises a hand, her drop sleeve rises with her like the erratic tail of a ghost. A crooked finger frees itself from the long crimson sleeve. It points, squarely at me.

  Althea's eyes—they make me shiver.

  I snap my gaze to my fingers. I breathe. I sing.

  “…who can declare the difference between right and wrong?”

  Feet shuffle as the dancers behind me glide into the next act. Fans disappear into the deep pockets of pastel colored drop sleeves. Lacy cloth draped upon the stage resemble wind and they shower themselves with it. The tissue-like fabric floats in the air around them as they make movements to hold the falling cloth there, suspended in midair. Floating about their persons.

  Before they snap the cloth back with quick hands, sliding the cloth along the length of the stage as they jump and leap like tumbling winds. They form a line now, as rushing feet halt. They form a line, heads bowed to the front.

  I open my mouth.

  “Someday, I would like to ask—”

  Hands strike out—vipers reach for their prey. They strike at opposite intervals.

  “'In this world, who writes the scrolls of our fates?'”

  Arms move as waves that heave. The lead dancer raises her right arm to the sky, questioning the gods.

  “Someday, I would like to ask—”

  The leader falls. Arms forward, legs curved behind her. The dancers begin to vary in height, resembling the mortal who fights through trials. She comes from nothing. Gains strength from what the gods place before her. Trial after trial, failure after failure—she prevails. The final dancer raises her right arm in a straight arc—her body rises onto its toes. She has ascended.

  “'When mortals dream, who plucks the strings of the ancient zither?'”

  Hands soar across an ocean of silver strings.

  As one simple pluck ends with a sharp twang.

  As a string upon my precious zither rips from its wooden base.

  My hands shake as I take both ends of the little silver string. I tie them together only for them to wind apart again.

  Again and again and again.

  2. Withered Dreams

  I retreat to my room, zither cradled in my arms like an injured child.

  It falls upon my lumpy bed, hay hisses. Breaks with a dry crunch. I lower myself to my knees and dig into the pocket hidden amongst my skirts. Peach silks bunch around my sweaty hand. I search for a string as hurried steps invade my space, pushing through the curtain that cuts my room off from the corridor outside.

  “Naia.” I recognize Lore's voice with a nod and a sigh. “Naia!”

  A voice like bell chimes tinkle in my ear as I search. As I ignore her and focus on my poor zither.

  “Naia, you need to listen.”

  But I cannot. Not until my zither is fixed. Not until I am able to strum it's strings without it crying out. Without that hurting twang.

  Lore crosses the room in three quick steps. Panicked steps. Her hand grasps my shoulder before I am able to register that she has come so close. Heat hovers behind me. A tightening hand presses it's fingers into the bone of my shoulder. I wince.

  “Naia—”

  I shoot to standing. I want to scream—to yell and force her to leave. But, red flecks the corners of her eyes as a single tear waits to be shed. Golden hair springs from her head like the unkempt leaves of a rebellious bush.

  Tonight hadn't been Lore's night to perform. Tonight had been her off night, her night to venture outside of the silkhouse's doors and enjoy freedom. But here she was, crying?

  “Has something happened?” are the first words that pour from my mouth, like vomit. “Are you alright?”

  Lore lowers her head. Shakes it. Combs trembling fingers through her knotty mane. Words bubble from her mouth, but they are incoherent. She shakes her head again, raising it. Green eyes meet mine. They lock. A light glaze brightens her eyes. “I've done it.” she says. “I've done it—again.” and she brings her fingers to her lips. She chews her nails. Stops. “Tomorrow, Naia, you'll have to take my place.”

  I grin as a sadness wells up in my chest. Whether Lore was drunk or high—it didn't matter. This was her normal now. This was her way of dealing with sorrow. Of being slave to a silkhouse. But I couldn't help her anymore. “Did you forget?”

  She cocks her head.
“Althea will give me to the Saints if I perform like this—Naia, will you help me?”

  I sigh. “You really think she'd give you to a brothel? Besides, tonight was my last performance.”

  Lore nods, breathing unsteadily. “Can you help me? Take my place like you've always done? I thought you liked the dance, Naia.”

  I nod. “Yes.” I tell her, the grin evaporates. My heart tremors. “And I'll miss it very much.”

  Lore opens her mouth—twists her face. She wants to argue, to talk me into doing her job as she has always done. But realization hits her when she notices that the walls of my room are bare. The sliding wood panel of my closet is clamped shut, it no longer overflows with beautiful silken gowns. They have been taken from me. Everything has been taken from me because I possess no money. No family. My bed of hay has a single white sheet upon it, and in the morning even that will be gone. The only thing Althea allows me to keep is my zither—which is not even my own, but a gift. A gift from Lore during happier days. When she wasn't trying so hard to forget.

  “No.” she murmurs. “No—where have your things gone?”

  I shrug. “Althea has taken them and sold them.”

  A dejected look plagues her face, making the glaze disappear from her eyes. It is replaced by bleak sorrow, the sorrow she wallows in when her mind is not swimming in sake. “I—I am a horrible sister!”

  My hand falls to her shoulder, then. Gently, I pat it. Her gown is slick with sweat. “You are the best sister I have ever known.” Sister. The word made the sides of my lips twitch. Truly, she was only a house sister. Nothing more.

  The curtain behind her rises, the lacy white fabric breathing as one of the girls lets herself into my room. A gown like snow graces her thin frame. Her hair is pulled tight into a black topknot.

  Wide eyes greet me before she bows her head. Lore rounds on her. “How dare you!”

  The girl stiffens. Her chin rises. “I'm only doing my job, mistress. Making sure I don't end up on the streets—or worse.” she hugs a small writing board to her chest, a brush and ink cup balances on its curved edge. “I've come to claim what is the Orthella's.”

  “A senior of the house working under that red-witch—Hana, you throw your own sisters to the streets! How do you—”

  Lightly, I touch Lore's arm—which has risen in her anger. It hovers over the poor girl, readying itself to slap her clean across the cheek. I look at Hana, face soft. “What does Althea want?” What more could she take from me?

  Hana swallows. Taps her slipper upon the floorboards. “Your gown.” she spits. “Not the slip.”

  I blink, taken aback. “My clothes?”

  Hana nods. Lore snorts and hangs her head. Shakes it.

  “Now, Naia—she wants your dress, now. Y—you can keep the slip.”

  Color drains from my face. I feel cold and I haven't even taken the gown off. Peach colored skirts, slick sleeves complete with a V-neck bodice that was made specifically for me—for my frame. Given as a gift of the house when I finally began my apprenticeship. Lore chose the color, the silky fabric. She wanted her apprentice to mirror her. It was in this gown that I learned that a songstress never cuts her hair. Never, ever.

  I begin to undo the ties at my back. The skirt slips, its attachment to the bodice undone as I unlace that as well. Everything comes off. Everything. I am left with slippers and an off-white linen slip. My arms hang at their sides once I pass the pieces of the gown to Hana. I ignore the urge to cry. The urge to throw myself at her feet.

  She throws the pieces over her shoulder. Turns on her heel. Leaves.

  Lore grinds her teeth, a vein pops from her forehead.

  I hang my head.

  “I'm sorry.” comes a light whisper. I raise my head to meet Hana's gaze. Her face is red. “It's not right—but times are tough, you know that. You saw the turnout tonight. No one. Not a soul came to the Orthella. It scares her. It scares us all—and now even the most talented are getting pushed to the streets. Don't you get it, Naia? You're in trouble. Which means we all are. If you had been a full-fledged songstress—if you had earned your title—you would have been the last. The absolute last to go.”

  With that, she disappears behind the curtain. Leaving. Slippers hiss, gliding on wood.

  “If I could take your place…”

  Lore's voice. I look at her—dazed. A fog creeps into my mind, swallows everything. Leaves nothing.

  I back up to the bed. Move the zither away. When I sit, I place it in my lap.

  A string's still missing, but it still sings beautifully.

  …

  When the morning comes, Hana ushers me out.

  3. A Bitter Departure

  Stone the color of midnight is overwhelmed by a bleak dawn. The dark face of the Orthella stands before me as Hana squares herself before the entrance.

  Hana stares me down. A grimace mars her face. “You can go there.” she points, my gaze follows. Across a street of gray flagstones and dirt stands an oblong building with round stones dimpling it's wide face. Rectangular windows glow with orange light while others are closed with soft pink curtains. Its front door is steepled by pillars painted a crisp, foamy, white.

  My face has lost all of its color. “The Saints'?” I whisper. “I couldn't…” A brothel? And I told Lore that Althea would never…

  “Mali and Rayen went there when Althea let them go.”

  I am aghast, zither square against my chest like a shield. “They were apprentices…”

  “Just like you, Naia.” Hana crosses her arms, her eyes move to stare into the distance. “Where-ever you go—you can't stay here. Althea wouldn't like it.”

  “But…” I swallow. No tears. “…where will I go?”

  Again, she points.

  “Please—anywhere but there!”

  Hana shrugs, her face an emotionless mask. “You'll scare people away if you stay here on the street. Go to the Saints—or go somewhere! Anywhere!”

  “I want to go home!”

  Hana sighs heavily. Hangs her head and shakes it. “The Orthella is no longer your home, Naia. You've been let go—”

  “I've known no place else—Yarne raised me! She was my mother before Althea took her place—before Althea ran the Orthella into the ground!”

  Every silkhouse had a house mother. The woman who provides. Who collects patron donations and uses it to feed her girls and keep them wonderfully outfitted. To keep the house clean and presentable. Yarne was giving—generous. She was the Orthella's first house mother and a true mother to girls who had gone without. But with Yarne's death came Althea, her frugal daughter. Who was altogether cold and unforgiving. Girls started disappearing the moment she became house mother, as our patrons dwindled down to none.

  “I thought…” I choke—my voice uncertain. Wobbly. “…I thought this would always be my home…”

  A silkhouse never let a girl go—it couldn't. After years upon years of training within the house as a songstress—the beautiful gowns brought, the instruments, the make up; a girl owed the house mother a lifetime of gold and silver—she could never leave freely. And kicking her out would hurt the silkhouse tenfold. Joining a house—or being forced into duty—was a lifetime affair. The silkhouse became your home, the other songstresses your sisters. The Orthella was my home. It was all I knew.

  It is all I know.

  I drop to my knees. Mouth open, arms choking my zither. “Hana—please…”

  Saying her name strikes a chord, and she turns ashen despite the rose dabbed upon her cheeks.

  But she is silent. Rakes me with eyes that swim in sorrow.

  She can do nothing. Nothing at all. Though Hana is Althea's right hand in everything the older woman does, no matter how much she likes a person or wishes no ill-will upon them; here she is, helpless. Completely and utterly helpless.

  Just as I am.

  But I push myself onto my feet. I look down the wide street of the quarter. This was attached to a whole city.

  I'v
e never ventured past this block. Not even in my off time. Everything is new to me—and this is only one street in the whole of Felicity. Only one.

  There are probably thousands.

  Someone has to take me in. Someone.

  Hana shoots her arm out. Opens her palm. In the center is a tiny black purse. “I've been saving it for—” she averts her eyes down. Brings them back up. “—well it doesn't matter now, does it?” she smiles, slowly—as if she's afraid to. My heart skips a beat. “Go on, take it. You—of all the people Althea has let go, well—I fought for you. Really—I did—but she plans on shutting the place down. She's got these crazy notions that Felicity won't exist in a couple months. War—” Hana shakes her head. “—she's crazy. And the moment she realizes no war's happening—I'll find you and make sure you come back.”

  Hana smiles when I take the pouch. When I open the collar of my slip and tuck it into my breast band.

  “Home, Naia—it's right here. It always will be. Home, Naia.”

  …

  Home.

  I can't help checking. Over and over, I whip around—just to make sure the Orthella is still there. All black stones stark against a brightening sky. Closer now, is the Saints—a brothel. One place that is not down on its luck. As I shuffle past, a single moan wades upon a breeze of the morning and I pull my shoulders up to my ears. The chill makes me shiver. The noise makes me blush.

  I did not belong in a place like that.

  No girl did.

  But the apprentices that Althea turned out often went there for shelter. For work. I could not imagine what they did to keep their place. To eat and to keep a roof over their heads. But now that I'm in the same position, I can see why they'd turn to a brothel. It would be easy for girls like us to get a place there. Songstresses—even without their make-up—had an otherwordly beauty to them. Hair down to our ankles, a lonely spirit which grazed all of us. Somehow, that meant beauty and coupled with musical talent—that meant a livelihood.

  But not anymore. The Orthella was the only silkhouse in this quarter of the city. But Felicity was a large city—it's own country, almost. So, perhaps…

  Maybe I could find another.

  At this idea, I grin. My arms relax around my zither as I step upon the flagstones. Soon, the Saints becomes a dizzy memory as I round a gray corner into another part of the quarter. One with multicolored bazaars propped up against teetering buildings. A sign shoved between the flagstones reads: Shopper's Row. I murmur the name to myself as I zigzag through the sleeping marketplace, the pathway growing narrower and narrower as the street squeezes—walls creeping over me.