Quatrain by Sharon Shinn Read Free Book Online Page A

The soprano line arched and ached over the dark, melancholy alto like lightning over a louring sky. It would not have surprised me if the air had darkened to storm just from the passion of their voices. But after a frenzied twining arpeggio of minor harmonies, their voices suddenly resolved into a triumphant major third, and everyone in the crowd around me gasped. I opened my eyes—it seemed I had shut them—fully expecting to see the street around me washed with brilliant sunshine. It took a moment for me to reorient myself to an ordinary sky and my place in the middle of a crowd. It was some comfort to see similar looks of confusion on the faces of the people around me.
    The audience inside burst into deafening applause; those of us out in the street merely shifted our feet and tried to find more comfortable positions. No one made any move to leave. I imagined the two women making their way off of a temporary stage and new performers climbing a shaky set of steps. Inside the building, the quiet grew intense, and those of us outside fell silent as well, filled with greedy anticipation. I noticed that my face and shoulders strained toward the doorway and that my whole body was clenched with readiness. Everyone around me had much the same pose.
    When the new voice rose in song, I gasped so hard you would have thought someone had punched me in the stomach.
    That was Stephen singing.
    His voice was a rich baritone, silky smooth; he held each note as if it could be weighed in carats. The first piece I had ever heard him sing was a requiem at the funeral of a woman I had not met, and I had sobbed through the entire number as if I had lost all hope of the god. For a long time, I had not wanted to hear him sing again because I didn’t think I could bear the sadness, but then I heard him deliver a love song. I realized that his voice was meant to express deep emotion—any emotion—as long as it was passionate and heartfelt. In all the time I knew him, I never heard him sing a playful melody or a tavern ditty, but when he performed a sacred mass, you would fall to the ground praying, and your soul would make a trembling obeisance.
    This afternoon he offered a song of thanksgiving, a gorgeous expression of contentment and well-being. I could see the people around me nodding their heads and smiling at each other. I could tell his voice was infusing them with a sense of serenity and hope, a belief that the world was wondrous and all dreams were within reach. Even I—who believed neither of these things, as a general rule—felt my spirits lift and my burdens lighten. Laban was a very good place and I was having a very good day. Nothing impossible awaited me. Life was a treasure trove of joys.
    When his voice reached its dramatic conclusion and abruptly ceased, I felt as if I’d been slapped. My head snapped back and my bright mood vanished. Once again, I saw my own emotions mirrored in the expressions of the people around me. But I doubted any of them felt a sense of letdown and betrayal as keen as my own.
    I had to see Stephen’s face.
    Apologizing in an undervoice, but moving with a great deal of determination, I started elbowing through the throng, pushing my way into the crowded building. A few people elbowed back, and some refused to give way, but I managed to inch up the stairs and through the dense cluster of people packed into the back of the room. “Excuse me—please let me through—I’m sorry. Please let me get by,” I murmured.
    I had made it a few feet into the interior of the building, and I was deep in a knot of unyielding strangers, when Stephen began singing again. This time his deep, steady voice anchored a quartet of performers. I heard the pale-oak tenor, the black-satin alto, and the crystalline soprano lay their individual architectures over his flawlessly planed foundation. I found myself smiling again. Suddenly good-natured, the people around me agreeably made room when I pressed forward, trying to get