Chapter 164 The Cantor

The first command struck Riven’s legs like a rope pulled tight, folding him sharply down toward the floor. He heard the next word a beat early, rising in the cantor’s chest like bubbles beneath thin ice.

"Riven, kneel," Orrin sang, the fork ringing against his cassock.

’There’s the gap... one beat between the word and the weight, enough room to live inside.’

Riven slid sideways through that gap, the command landing on the spot where his knees used to be. Each time he drove forward, another verse rose like a wall, shoving him slowly back across the floor.

Sung syllables wrapped around his wrist, tugging Overdue toward the ground with the weight of a command.

Riven hauled the sword back inch by inch, teeth bared, "Persistent, aren’t you?"

"A man who hears the next word is still a man the choir can name," the cantor said, smiling thinly.

The cathedral shuddered each time a verse missed its mark, plaster of sound sifting from the vaulted ribs. Sleepers stirred in their glowing threads, faintly mumbling names that did not belong to them in the slightest.

A bead of sweat hit his collar, "Say that again when I’m closer, old man."

"You will never be closer."

He lunged along the gap anyway, Overdue low, only to meet a wall of sung syllables like a door. The blade bit the air one step short, ringing against verses that refused to part for a villain’s name.

"I hear you coming," Orrin sang, "and you cannot close the distance."

Sweat ran down Riven’s neck as the third verse landed, each word pressing a little harder than the last. The gap shrank with every line, a closing door he could still squeeze through just if he turned sideways.

’Three more verses and the gap is gone... I can’t keep dodging, I need him to swing at something else.’

Nix crouched behind a column of folded vowels, chalk scratching a tiny copy of the lock pattern on the floor. She needed three more seconds to finish the spiral while the cantor’s gaze kept drifting dangerously toward her hiding place.

"Keep him singing," she hissed, "I’m nearly through the lock."

"Singing is all he does," he muttered, twisting away from a verse that cracked the floor.

Ysabel’s steps left no echo on the floor, as though the whole cathedral forgot to write them down. Every verse the cantor threw at her slid past like rain around a post, leaving her perfectly dry.

"You cannot be sung," Orrin snarled, backing away, "you have no name for me to hold."

"Then nothing you sing can reach me," Ysabel said, one hand on her fan.

She snapped Crown’s Weight open and pressed down, tripling the pull on the choir-stand above the cantor’s head. Beams screamed overhead, then the whole tiered platform crashed down in a storm of timber and splintered hymnals.

"Insolent girl," Orrin spat, scrambling out of the wreckage, "you have no right to a choir."

Orrin dove clear with his robes ripping, the fork ringing one furious note against the floor below. The note was meant for Riven alone, carrying every ounce of the cantor’s rage into one verse.

"Riven, fall," the cantor sang, every voice in the cathedral leaning on the word.

The command reached his ears early, then he planted his heel and let Counter-Time open right beneath it. The word struck, but Counter-Time caught it mid-air and sent the whole weight rushing back toward its singer.

[ Counter-Time: sung command returned to sender ]

"That was my verse," Orrin whispered, eyes widening as the weight turned around.

Orrin’s own command crushed him flat against the floor, the fork flying from his fingers into the dark. Riven’s flat blow landed on the cantor’s temple in that exact same instant, ringing like a struck gong.

"Too light, huh?" he asked, resting Overdue on the cantor’s shoulder.

"Impossible... the song cannot—"

He flicked the tuning fork away with his toe, "The song just did."

The syllables around Riven’s wrist loosened as the cantor’s breath failed, sliding off his skin like wet ribbon. Overdue lifted easily again, its cracked spine glowing a faint red-gold as it recognized its owner’s steady touch.

"I felt that one in my teeth, like a dentist with a grudge," Ysabel said, lowering her fan.

Every sleeper in the ribs of the ceiling stirred at once, their breathing stuttering as the cantor’s pitch died. Threads of light snapped loose from the arch above, drifting slowly down all around them like cut kite strings.

"They are letting go of me," she whispered, watching the threads fall.

Ysabel stood beneath the arch, tilting her head back to read the violet letters sagging above her. The titles clung to her name like barnacles, Duke’s Daughter, President, Heir, each one a quiet chain.

"Which one do you want back?" he asked.

"None of them," she said, staring upward, "not the duke’s daughter and not the President."

Every title tugged at her sleeve as she stared up, whispering the old comforts of rank, seat, chair. She wore them for three long years like armor, but armor was only a smaller kind of cage.

’She’s choosing what to keep... that’s the whole point of this place.’

The titles peeled from the arch one by one, drifting down like ash, until a single word remained. It settled into her open palm, violet light spilling between her fingers while her shadow found the floor.

"Ysabel," she said, tasting it, "just Ysabel... it’s lighter than I expected."

"Light means you pick where it lands."

"Do not be kind to me right now," Ysabel warned, wiping her eyes with a knuckle, "I will cry on you."

"I was going to say your nose is red."

She wiped her nose on a sleeve, "You are the worst man in this entire hymn, I hate how much I like it."

The cathedral shook as the keystone emptied, the arch above them sagging like a tent with its pole pulled. Orrin crawled toward the shaking arch, whispering a final verse that no longer found a single listener to obey.

"Door closes in ten seconds," Nix called from the floor, "wipe your faces first, you look like a wedding party."

Nix slapped the final chalk line flat, the stolen pattern flaring, a door of plain light opening beside the arch. Warm daylight and distant applause spilled through it, the murmur of a crowd waiting politely on someone important to speak.

"Ready to walk back in as yourself?" he asked, offering his arm.

"I have been ready since the hallway," Ysabel said, taking his arm.

They stepped out behind the stage curtain of the assembly hall, where hundreds of students sat facing the lectern. Dorian stood in the spotlight with a hand raised, wearing the face of a man about to save everyone.

"Is that Dorian?" Ysabel whispered, peeking around the curtain.

"Looks like he’s rehearsed your rescue, there’s even a chair with a ribbon on it."

"Then he is late," she said, snapping her fan shut, "I rescued myself an hour ago."

’He built a whole stage for this... it’s a very nice stage, I’m going to enjoy walking onto it.’

"Friends," Dorian said warmly, "today we restore the lost President."