David Farland - Lords of the Seventh Swarm

Thomas nodded in answer to the question. “Now, the dronon are wise in this respect. They use their own people, use them as efficiently as we use hogs. They put them to work, demanding their time, talent, and effort. No dronon life is wasted, no moment left unaccounted for. And because of this, this great secret, the dronon as a species shall out-match mankind. We are ephemeral. We are fog that they shall pass through on their way to glory. So, unless you wish to be destroyed, this is the lesson you must learn from the dronon: the proper use of mankind!”

Even had Thomas been able to respond, he would have been unable to speak. Karthenor’s cold wisdom astonished and horrified him. It was not the ruthlessness of his logic: it was the honesty of it, the simplicity. He had never considered mankind in such a light, and Karthenor’s vision seemed to pierce a veil of darkness in Thomas’s mind. Yes , he almost wanted to say, yes, that is how it should be. A life should not be wasted. Yes, I want to live in a world where life has meaning.

Yet he could not. He could not look down upon man as such an ignoble thing. Karthenor clapped Thomas on the shoulder and smiled: “I shall make a dronon of you yet, Mr. Flynn!

“Now, Thomas, I want you to sing for me, and for the boy here,” Karthenor ordered, getting up, removing the lute strap from a peg. He handed the instrument to Thomas an admirable piece with a front of fir and a sound box of rosewood. It had been tuned by someone with a fine ear. Somehow, Thomas could not imagine the shepherd having so fine a touch with an instrument. It had to have been the wife, with her delicate bones and her long, sensitive fingers.

And all the clear arguments that he’d just heard issue from Karthenor’s lips suddenly collapsed in on themselves. This woman they had murdered played the lute. This woman had played the lute, and for all Thomas knew, she might have been the greatest composer who had ever lived.

Karthenor had abused her, treating her worse than Thomas had ever treated any whore who might give it to him cheap, standing against the wall in some waterfront fishing village.

If Karthenor had really believed what he said about understanding the proper use of mankind, he would have found better use for this woman. The truth was that he took from her only what he wanted.

Thomas felt surprised at himself. For one moment, he had almost been deceived into believing that he and Karthenor shared an insight, belonged to some great fraternity of “Those who matter.” It was an alluring lie. As Thomas tested the instrument, plucking the lute strings so the clear notes reverberated over the room, Karthenor amended his commandment, “Sing for me tonight, Thomas. Sing songs that are sweet, so the child will sleep well. Sing the most beautiful tune you know, and sing it better than you ever have before.”

So Thomas sang the ballad of Tara Gwynn, a love song for the first girl he’d ever loved, the one he loved the best. She’d died giving birth to his child. It was a piece he’d been working on in secret for many years, and he’d hoped that when he’d honed its rough edges, it would gain him some notoriety. It was to be his masterwork.

But as he sang, he did not sing for his lost love. Instead, he sang for the woman who lay dead at his feet. He sang of his loss for her, so that tears filled his eyes.

Perhaps it was not the most beautiful piece in Thomas’s repertoire, though it was close, but it was the one he felt most deeply now. It shamed him to the core of his soul that on this night, of all nights, as the colored moons of Tremonthin crept out over the pine trees, shining through the windows of the cabin like ornamental lanterns, and the owls hooted in the spring woods, and Thomas had just killed a woman-it shamed him that the Guide made Thomas obey Karthenor’s order.

He sang the sweetest song he knew, and he sang it more hauntingly than he ever had sung it before, better even than he believed he could have sung it.

Then he vowed never to sing it again. So what if his masterwork went unappreciated? This shall be my sacrifice , he told himself, to atone for my conceit .

For his part, Karthenor seemed to enjoy the ballad. It was hard to tell. The Lord of Aberlains wore his golden mask of Fale that glowed dimly, somehow baffling the eye in this darkness. Still, his face seemed unlined by care. The child in his arms slept peacefully. He and his men sat on couches or on the floor, and as the fire crackled in the fireplace, the firelight twisting among the logs, they stared away, enrapt by the power of Thomas’s voice.

When Thomas finished his song, Karthenor ordered another, and another, until Thomas found himself singing long into the night.

When Karthenor was ready for sleep, he bent near Thomas’s ear and whispered, “Well done, my friend. For this night’s work, I give you a gift. I promise that when this work is done, when the accounts are settled and your niece has paid her dues, that one thing will l grant you: though my dronon masters slaughter a whole world, one man will be left standing. I grant you your life.”

Thomas did not answer. His Guide would not let him respond.

That night, as Orick slept with one arm resting over Tallea’s neck, his paw planted firmly on her snout, he dreamed a dream that would change his life.

He dreamed that he was riding a florafeem, sitting under a yellow silk pavilion as bright as the sun. The florafeem’s whole body thundered as it hurtled through the air. It soared through dark skies like blue velvet. Stars and worlds swung through the wide heavens.

Orick stared at the passing worlds in awe, then looked around in the bright starlight at the back of the florafeem.

Earlier in the day, he’d been surprised at the creature. Just as a whale will have multitudes of barnacles making their home on its back, the florafeem served as home to many small creatures-grasping gray plants that looked like anemones, black wriggling beasts that at first appeared to be some dark running liquid but which were more like worms. Another form of life might have been some purple fuzzy hairs that sprouted from the florafeem’s back, or it Orick looked about on the florafeem, hoping to find something to his tastes, but there were no platters of food sitting about. Instead, Orick studied the florafeem’s back, and all about him, in the dark grassy fuzz, he saw strange shapes: graceful birds on wide tan-and-green wings whipped past him, and. Orick realized that these must be Qualeewoohs, though he’d never seen a live one before.

Tiny people were also making their way through this furry jungle, slicing at hairs with machetes. Tallea was there, a tiny bear wandering over a wilderness of alien skin, between a herd of crablike creatures. Then there were dronon, Orick saw. Thousands of dronon in the distance, crawling over the furze like black mantises, their mouthfingers clicking over voice drums as they spoke.

Orick saw nothing to eat, yet his stomach was in knots. “Where did you put the food?” Orick asked the dove.

“Why it’s right in front of your nose, you doltish bear,” the dove said. “Just kill something furry and swallow it down quick. It’s just like eating squirrels. They might wiggle on the way down, but they taste fine.”

Orick stared at the tiny people, at the ratlike aliens, at the cruel dronon, at Qualeewoohs and other things that wriggled like worms through the jungle of hair. Orick could tell these were sentient creatures all-there was too much wisdom in their eyes. But it wasn’t their sentience that made the thought of eating them turn Orick’s stomach. It was their repulsiveness. There was something dark and evil here. “Well, I’m not so hungry as all that,” he grumbled.