Sonata Form Read online

  Table of Contents

  Praise for the Books of Carole Cummings

  Map of Màstiran Continent

  Map Of Kymbrygh

  Title Page

  BOOK ONE—Timbre

  Chapter 1—Exposition

  Chapter 2—Theme

  Chapter 3—Instrumentation

  Chapter 4—Tonality

  Chapter 5—Polyphonic Texture

  Chapter 6—Idée Fixe

  Chapter 7—Sforzando

  Chapter 8—Chord

  Chapter 9—Glissando

  Chapter 10—Variation

  Chapter 11—Development

  Chapter 12—Countermelody

  BOOK TWO—Accelerando

  Chapter 13—Motive

  Chapter 14—Modulation

  Chapter 15—Inversion

  Chapter 16—Improvisation

  Chapter 17—Prelude

  Chapter 18—Cadenza

  Chapter 19—Polyphony

  Chapter 20—Transition

  Chapter 21—Variation

  Chapter 22—Presto

  Chapter 23—Rubato

  Chapter 24—Recapitulation

  Epilogue—Coda

  Author Bio

  More Books by Carole Cummings

  Small Presses Rock!

  Copyright Information

  Praise for the Books of

  Carole Cummings

  BLUE ON BLACK

  “A fresh new take on the Steampunk genre, combining imaginative technology with mind twisting mystery and adventure. A character driven story, there’s plenty here for readers to enjoy.”

  - Amazing Stories

  SONATA FORM

  “A sweet standalone romantic fantasy that’s richly imagined...”

  - Publishers Weekly

  Chapter 1—Exposition

  : the opening section of a Classic sonata form in which the two opposing key centers are exposed to the listener for the first time

  GETTING PUNCHED in the face, Milo was abruptly forced to admit, hurt just as much now as it had back in primary school. More, since this was no pudge-knuckled fist swung with all the strength of a nine-year-old. Though, Milo’s brain took an inconvenient moment to reflect, there was exactly as much surprise involved now as there had been back when Freddy Jenkins dy Moss had decided “by-blow” rolled more easily from his obnoxious tongue than “Milo” did.

  Milo had taken exception.

  “This is assault, you know.” Milo straightened, fingers tapping lightly at his throbbing bottom lip and coming away unquestionably bloody.

  “More like serving and protecting,” was the bored response from the Warden, nothing more than a too-tall, too-broad shape blocking Milo’s way in the fog-drenched pitch.

  It was dark, too dark, which was what had started all of… this. No moon, no stars, the indigo of twilight long since fettered to murky black opaqued by river fog. And these idiots had dropped their lamp. Milo had been trying to be helpful.

  The one in Milo’s blindspot had yet to let go of Milo’s shoulder. The grip was rapidly becoming as much of a problem as the unfurling thump in his jaw. Tendons probably weren’t supposed to grind into bone like that.

  “Protecting from what, exactly?” Milo leaned against the hold to spit the taste of metal from his mouth, dabbing at his lip with the back of his hand. “It was a bloody magelight, you great, spineless ogre.”

  Indignation was quickly overriding surprise as Milo tried again to shrug away the hand on his shoulder and couldn’t. Fighting harder would only make his jaw throb. He could swear the emergent ache pulsed in time to the rippling tempo of the river beneath the bridge—upon which he’d just been assaulted.

  He prodded his lip some more. “I swear, if you’ve loosened teeth I’ll have your guts.”

  Milo had good teeth. And he’d like to keep them.

  “And that’s a threat to a Warden of Wellech.” This voice was female and sounded more irate than the man who’d done the punching. The grip on Milo’s shoulder shifted to the back of his neck. Squeezed. “What d’you say, Andras? That’s enough to charge him with—”

  “Hoy, what’s the trouble there?”

  It came from across the bridge, loud and deep and somehow arrogant, and Milo could swear he heard amusement beneath it. He couldn’t see for the wide shape of the brute—Andras, apparently—in front of him, but he could hear the hollow clop of hoofbeats on the boards of the bridge as the man approached. Dim light came with him, haloing Andras, so at least this new arrival carried a lamp, unlike these other two halfwits.

  Damn, now it was three against one. If Milo wasn’t growing so patently furious about the injustice of being accosted then assaulted while minding his own damned business, he might take a moment to cultivate a bit of concern over being so obviously outnumbered.

  Rather than loosening the grip on Milo, the woman who had hold of him tightened it, making Milo wince and curl his shoulders up as she said, “Suspicious person caught trying to cross the Outpost, sir.”

  “Suspicious!” This time Milo didn’t hold back—he shot a warding hex at the woman to make her let go, and when she did with a yelp, he ignored the heavy-looking truncheon Andras brandished nearly in front of Milo’s nose.

  “I was nothing of the sort!” Milo directed his ire at the man who’d paused in the middle of the bridge to dismount and lead his horse toward them. “I was merely existing—which, last I checked, I’m permitted to do—when these two accosted me and demanded my papers, and when I tried to hand them over, I was assaulted!” He held his bloody fingers out as proof, though he had no hope anyone could actually see them. “Is this how the Wardens of Wellech always behave? No wonder the rest of Kymbrygh think you lot are a pack of inbred—”

  “Yeah, you might want to pin that,” the man drawled as he hooked his shaded lamp to a sling across the horse’s withers. Slow-stepping closer, he nudged aside Andras and handed him the horse’s reins. “I’ve a feeling you’ve already made a couple enemies, and....” Gingerly, he set a finger to the tip of Andras’s truncheon and pushed it aside. “Wouldn’t want to make one of me as well, I’m thinking.”

  It was pleasant, almost jovial, but threat ran through it as obviously as light through clear glass. He looked like he’d have no problem carrying it out too. His glimmer-limned silhouette was tall and broad, and he held himself with the calm authority of one who knew his strengths and how to use them. A truncheon twin to Andras’s hung at the man’s belt, the skirt of his long coat pulled aside to expose it—subtle menace no doubt. A wide-brimmed hat made it impossible to see anything but a meager gleam of eyes in the dark.

  “I’ve made no enemies.” Milo said it evenly but didn’t try to dampen the undercurrent of fury to it. “These two, on the other hand, will be reported directly to the Kymbrygh MP’s office once I’ve concluded my business here in Wellech.”

  “Reported for what?”

  “Reported for—?” Milo gaped. “Didn’t I already say for assault?”

  Proper tamping now, he threw his hands out, refusing to flinch or even acknowledge it when Andras’s truncheon came up again. The horse blew with a shift of hoofs on the boards, clearly picking up on the tension. The man in front of Milo, however, the one obviously in charge, didn’t so much as twitch.

  “Is everyone here ignorant as well as asinine?” Milo demanded. “I admit I haven’t been to Wellech in years, but I don’t recall it being an actual crime to enter, and I’m quite certain getting punched in the face for trying to comply with a request is not considered serving or protecting by people who are actually sane!”

  “Y’ got punched in the face for attempting to use magic for harm,” Andras put in, clearly piqued.

  “It. Was. A. Magelight!”

 
The woman sidled out to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Andras. “It was magic out of the dark with no warning and without permission. You deliberately—”

  “Permission? Since when do I need—since when does anyone need—?” The mix of outrage and exasperation was making it difficult for Milo to form sentences. “And anyway, it was magic because it was dark! I was trying to be nice!”

  “By threatening—”

  “Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait.” The man in charge held up a hand. He waited until all heads turned his way before he said, “Rhywun Andras. Rhywun Bethan.” Calm. Flat. “Where is your lamp?”

  Andras and Bethan were silent for a moment, before Bethan cleared her throat. “Fell in the river, sir.”

  “…Ah-ha. I see.”

  “It was an accident.”

  “Yes. No doubt.”

  “Because they were too busy chatting to each other when I approached,” Milo put in, unapologetically bitter. “I said ‘pardon me,’ and this one”—he pointed an accusing finger at Andras—“yipped like I’d just goosed him, and there went the lantern.”

  “Syr.” This from Andras, loud and fairly indignant, and said directly to the new arrival. “He’s wearing… and he’s got....” Andras waved his great hand at Milo. “He’s clearly Dewin Sect.”

  It shook Milo rigid. He was used to people knowing what he was just by looking at him. He’d never once had such in-his-face cause to view it as a possible drawback. Not until now. The sigil-etched gold earring was a right he’d earned through years of study and practice, and he wore it proudly. In retrospect, perhaps too proudly, considering he was in Wellech. Prejudice had been an infrequent thing in Milo’s admittedly rarified practical experience thus far, but it wasn’t like he wasn’t aware of its existence. It would be rather difficult to remain ignorant considering what was going on only half a continent away, and with the Purity Party twaddle getting louder every day. Only, he hadn’t actually run into it facefirst before. And the powerless disbelief and newness of it stung.

  “I am.” Milo squared his shoulders. “Dewin Sect, that is.” He addressed the man who was clearly a superior to Andras and Bethan, and so far the only one who was actually listening to Milo. “Funny, though. That’s never been cause for anyone to treat me like a criminal before.” He lifted his chin. “Has Wellech taken to outlawing orthodoxies they don’t like?”

  The man sighed as though this was all just too trying for him. For him! “Now let’s not get carried away. This is not—”

  “Carried away!”

  “It was magic in the dark!” Bethan burst out, overloud and offended. As though she had the right.

  It silenced everyone for a moment. The River Aled bustled beneath their feet, all cheerful and minding its own busy affairs. The fog, by contrast, seemed to gain oppressive weight, sinking into lung and bone with a chill that stoppered breath and shuddered right down Milo’s spine.

  The man broke the uncomfortable hush with a weary-sounding “Uh… huh.” He dipped his head, rubbed at his chin. “So.” He blew out what sounded like an exasperated sigh. “Am I to understand, then, that this”—he waved to encompass all of them—“came about because this man tried to supply a magelight by which to see the papers you asked him to produce upon broaching the Outpost and attempting to cross the bridge?”

  Milo huffed and rolled his eyes to the heavens. “Finally!”

  “Hush, you,” said the man and turned back to the other two. “Rhywun Bethan?”

  Bethan lifted her chin. “Syr, we were given instructions to be extra vigilant tonight in light of the coven assembling. Your tad wanted no trouble, and said we were to—”

  “Bethan.” The man hadn’t raised his voice, hadn’t moved, but it cut Bethan off clean. “Tell me—who is the First Warden of Wellech? Would that be my tad?”

  Bethan’s silhouette slumped. “No, syr. That would be you, of course.”

  …Wait.

  “Your… tad,” said Milo. “First Warden.” He tried to squint through the dark, but he still couldn’t see anything but shapes. “Is that… is that Elly?”

  The man twitched. “It’s Ellis, yes. Ellis Morgan dy Rees.” He paused. “Do I know you?”

  “Well, it’s been years, but I should hope you wouldn’t have forgot entirely. And if you’ll permit me to produce a magelight without getting punched in the face for it, I reckon we can find out.”

  Another pause, this one shorter, after which the man waved a hand and said, “By all means.”

  Smiling now, perhaps a bit smug, Milo flicked his fingers until a soft little globe flared at the tips, a wash of yellow-blue skimming the faces of Bethan, Andras, and… well. Magelight was always chancy, cutting out shapes in monochrome blues and skewing them with shadows that didn’t belong. But Milo’s memory was already busy filling in blanks that seemed to have shifted beyond it, melding it to here and now, and the result was… interesting.

  Ellis had changed. A lot. Taller, of course, and broader—so much broader—and the podge of youth in the brown cheeks had honed to bold angles, nose straight with a slight upturn, and a wide, firm jaw that looked like it could bite through leather. His hair was longer, a crimp-curled sweep across wide shoulders, lighter now than the bark-brown sunstreaked with auburn Milo remembered. The eyes, though… well, Milo couldn’t see them in the dark, really, but he’d wager they were that same fathomless slate, uptilted at the corners so Ellis always looked like he was enjoying a private joke, possibly at your expense.

  “Duwies and all the goddesses.” Ellis rubbed at his mouth; Milo suspected it was to hide a grin. Shaking his head, Ellis kept his eyes on Milo but said to Bethan and Andras, “You’ve no idea who this is, have you?”

  Andras scowled. “That’s what we were trying to find out.” Petulant.

  There were so many retorts Milo could give to that. He kept his mouth shut, and merely shrugged at Ellis.

  Ellis rolled his eyes but finally dragged his gaze from Milo to turn it on Bethan and Andras. He opened a hand toward Milo.

  “If this man had wanted to attack you with magic, rest assured, you’d be nothing more than a couple of greasy streaks of ash right now. And while I appreciate your extra vigilance this evening to keep any threat away from the coven while they meet, you might want to consider the fact that the only reason this man is not sitting Second Chair in said coven is because he’s yet to sit the rites. Also, Meistr Eluned refuses to die, but that’s another matter and not the point. The point is that the only reason he’s not sitting First Chair”—Ellis paused with a grin and dropped his hand—“is because his mam is.”

  So, that… was not the way Milo would have liked Ellis to handle this.

  Firstly, it was mostly inflammatory, vicarious boasting. Milo was still newyddian, after all; he wouldn’t receive the adept—arbenigwr—rank until after he’d sat the rites this evening. And he had a long way to go to even get within touching-distance of a meistr rank, let alone lead a coven.

  And secondly, the instant and shocked regard from Bethan and Andras was already heating Milo’s cheeks and making him want to sink through the boards of the bridge. Fused so abruptly with the lingering wrath, it was all coming together to make his stomach roil.

  “Your mam is the Black Dog?” Bethan’s voice was again overloud but her tone this time was eager.

  “The Black Dog Corp is a myth,” Milo said, reflex, because it was how his mam always answered any hint of that question—instant denial; instant scorn. He shrugged. “But yes, my mam is C—”

  “Ceri Priddy.” Andras was apparently so awed he’d forgot his truncheon entirely; it hung limp at his side now, his grip loose enough Milo could probably snag it and whack him with it if he wanted to. He sort of wanted to. Almost breathless, Andras said, “The Witch of the Namurs Front, and Angel of Marnet.”

  Milo scowled. “She’s Dewin too, since that seems to matter to you, and so prefers the term ‘mage’ over ‘witch.’ And I’d like to see someone try to call the Offeiriad o
f the Kymbrygh Coven an angel to her face. It’s not even the same sect!”

  No one was even listening to him. Bethan and Andras, it appeared, had forgot entirely that Milo was even there, too busy talking over each other with tales of courage and intrigue involving a woman who Milo knew had trouble remembering where she’d left her spectacles, and who’d cried romantically maudlin tears when Milo had confessed to having experienced his first kiss while away at school. This “witch” and “angel” was not someone Milo knew, even if he’d heard the stories as much as—probably more than—anyone else.

  Ellis, though, was smirking quite blatantly, eyes sparking mischief right at Milo. Amused satisfaction was all over his familiar-unfamiliar face as he listened to his apparent minions wax rhapsodic about epic battles in a war they only knew through history lessons, and possibly a few sozzled veteran’s tales at the local pub. Ellis let them run on long enough for Milo to start shifting uncomfortably then held up a finger. Only that, a small, silent gesture, outwardly unobtrusive and benign, but it shut Bethan and Andras up in seconds and had them both straightening their backs. And Ellis wasn’t even looking at them, eyes on Milo the whole time.

  When there was no sound left but the quiet rush of the river, Ellis lifted his eyebrows at Milo, and… there. That was Elly. That was the boy who was a little too confident and more annoying for it because his charm, combined with his undeniable cleverness, meant he was good at everything he tried—and the arrogance was infuriatingly justified.

  As though privy to every single thought currently hogtying Milo’s wits, Ellis grinned, though it only stayed long enough for him to turn to Bethan and Andras. Ellis’s whole demeanor slid immediately into disappointment and mild irritation as he stuck his hand in his pocket, and jerked his head toward his horse.

  “Bethan, please take Calannog to the stable at West Spring and tell them I’ll pick him up on my way back to the Croft. Andras, I’ve got Dilys on her way to relieve you. Please remain at your post until she does. I’ll see you both in the morning to discuss”—Ellis waved a hand—“this.”