Thirty-Three Tastes Of Poison

V. The Envoy

Morning hit Emőke with the power of a thousand suns. And she hated every bit of it. Trudging through official meetings and keeping herself alert was nothing short of gruelling labour. But Emőke endured. She couldn't lose, for too much was at stake. Thus, she played her part. And her green sleeves covered the fresh cuts on her hands from Elemér's curious eyes.

"Lady Emőke?" Elemér would have touched her shoulder had she not twisted away.

"Yes." She stepped forward, nodding to the High Officials, who were almost ready to take their leave.

Echoing her thoughts, the Spy said, "We could return to the manor."

"Yes, we could return," Emőke agreed. And she could kill Elemér there, dumping his body somewhere in a forgotten alley next to a quiet canal. But, perhaps, she was not ready for that yet.

"There's a music house not far from the Linsi Arcade," Emőke said, circling the largest pond in the Magistrate's garden. "It's called Seven Tears."

"A Strange Name. How do you know about it?"

"Everyone in Linsi knows about it," she replied, catching the Spy's confused stare. Elemér was a person of many faces and many strange talents, but shrewdness never discerned him. He was a trustworthy executioner and a mediocre painter. And they had little in common.

The music house was a three-story building with balconies embracing its walls and bells hanging from its slanted roof. Few people would have looked its way had the establishment's reputation not been that impressive. Seven Tears hid great potential behind a modest façade, and Emőke knew well what to search in its interconnected halls filled with music and the scent of crushed pinecones.

Whatever Emőke expected to hear when entering the music house was not a strange melody defying rhythm and overwhelming her ears. Although the interpretation seemed amateurish, Emőke recognized the piece—Lightning's music. Were the Sen artists challenging the talent of the most outstanding musician in their world? Apparently, they were. Or they were bold enough to try.

Finding a low table in the corner of the main hall, Emőke pulled a hood over her head and instructed Elemér to do the same. Huffing, Elemér sat next to Emőke and frowned at the sight of a lavishly-dressed Sen spinner who criticized Lightning's music.

"This fashionable Magor tune is nothing but a hack! It's impossible to play it without always looking at the notes. Who even writes music like that?" He scoffed, gesturing at the papers scattered on the wooden floor. Then, dropping his Magor violin, he picked up a cup of wine and smiled at the approving public.

"I bet even Lightning can't play the pieces he writes!" A woman said, praising the young musician.

"Of course, he can't. It's not music. It's a joke," the young artist agreed.

Nobody but Emőke saw a shrouded stranger pick up the violin and touch the strings with long white fingers. When sounds sprang from his caresses, they stole breaths from the audience and silenced all noises. Slowing heartbeats and weaving dreams, music reigned supreme, and Emőke smiled. For the first time in months.

There was only one musician in the world whose presence was so conspicuous that it only matched his talent. Of course, he repeated all notes without ever glancing at the papers. Of course, he eclipsed every single performer in the music house. Of course, he was Lightning.

When the last trill died on the violin's strings, he bowed to the audience, pale blond hair falling to his shoulders. That brilliant, impossible bastard. They called him 'Lightning'. But Emőke called him 'Dreamlight'—a play on his real name, which he did not favour. Although, perhaps, it was not even his real name.