Page 130 of Ashborne Forged

By twelve, I’d shown enough dedication that my music master allowed me the freedom to play with strength. Crashing hands down on the ebony and ivory keys, and discovering the world of feeling available in its deep bass notes.

To a boy full of anger and confusion, it was an outlet. And one allowed indoors, and at any time of day.

By fifteen I no longer needed music. Hell, I no longer needed someone else’s idea.

With the world crashing down around my ears, and everything sacred proving unholy, as I doubted everything from morality, to the redeemable state of my own black soul, those keys gave me a language that no one else would ever truly understand, a way to speak the truth without risk of censure. And at a time in my life when everything must be questioned, through that instrument I discovered something critical about the world: when something was true, it could not be changed. And, when something was truly pure, the thoughts of others could not mar it.

All those thoughts and memories flowed through my mind as I crossed the room to the piano at its end, then stopped.

I hadn’t lied to her. I hadn’t touched a piano—not so much as struck a key—since the day I left this place.

Would playing now be freedom, as it once was? Or merely invite the dark of those days back to my mind?

I stood over it, staring, willing myself to raise the lid.

I was beginning to sweat.

“Vane?” my mother asked, her tone still gentle, slightly pleading.

I swallowed.

‘Voski?’

I sent a plea through the bond, to Kham. ‘If I can’t do this… if I break—’

‘I’m here.’

I nodded slowly and took a deep breath.

My mother murmured something, but I didn’t pay attention. All my focus was on the deep, glossy wood of the piano.

The fingers I hooked under the lip of the lid trembled. I prayed she didn’t catch it.

Or maybe, that she did.

I lifted the lid, surprised when the hinges didn’t creak. But now, I was left with the wide plane of white and black keys, all as clean and shiny as the day I’d left.

“I’ve kept it tuned. Every six months,” Mother breathed. “Just in case.”

I fought the surge of emotion that followed that statement, uncertain if I was angry, or touched.

I swallowed again. Then took hold of my balls—metaphorically—and tapped one crooked finger down on middle C.

The note rang, pure and warm through the room. I closed my eyes and listened to it until it faded, which was quick, because I hadn’t used the pedal to lift the dampeners.

Instinctively, still standing over the instrument, I spread my fingers and played a single chord. My heart swelling into the space it created behind my ribs.

‘It is beautiful,’ Kham whispered in my mind.

‘It’s supposed to be. But even beautiful things are ugly when they’re used to harm.’

Kham sent a rush of love and reassurance. I was grateful he didn’t push me to form memories, or speak about it further.

Giving in to my curiosity, I leaned down to pull out the padded bench to precisely the right distance from the keyboard, then sat down, still staring at it, grateful that my mother didn’t speak.

I placed both trembling hands on those gleaming, white and black keys, then caught myself a split second before depressing them.

Adrenaline shot through my system at how close I’d come to playing without thought.