The Lay of Lilyfinger: A Tor.com Original

By G. V. Anderson

A fantasy adventure story from G.V. Anderson "The Lay of Lilyfinger" is a Tor.com Original

An acclaimed musician and her apprentice travel to the newly freed country of Skinnere to play a complex and culturally fraught song that will lay bare the wounds of empire, occupation, and sacrifice of its players and listeners.

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: May 19, 2021
• ISBN: 9781250810922

G. V. Anderson

G. V. Anderson is a speculative fiction author whose short stories have won a World Fantasy Award, a British Fantasy Award, and been nominated for a Nebula Award. Her work can be found in Strange Horizons and Lightspeed, as well as anthologies such as The Year’s Best Dark Fantasy & Horror. She resides in Dorset, UK, and is currently writing her first novel.

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The Lay of the Lilyfinger by G. V. Anderson

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Have you been to Skinnere before? asked Pom, his hands tight on the railing. When his teacher didn’t reply, he turned away from the view of the oncoming shore. Saaba?

Yes, pk. Now get away from the side.

Saaba-niszak was in a dreadful mood. The ferry crossing had damaged her zankla flute—a gift from her late teacher, Saaba-meszki, and a rare treasure from their shared homeland, Sorskail. There was no replacing it, nor hope of an adequate repair. Her despair threatened to ruin their chances at the coming audition, which would make the loss even worse: her zankla would have been broken for nothing. She only hoped that no one else had been hired by the time they arrived.

She thought it unlikely. The advertisement had called for musicians who could play the Lay of Lilyfinger. The Lay was the traditional centrepiece of a Skinnish girl’s Staining ceremony; it ran for five hours with two hundred and fifty stanzas across three movements, and no one record of it agreed with another. Bards with the Lay in their repertoire were few and far between, and she was confident in her rendition. Even if she hadn’t been, there was nothing for it—they badly needed this job. She had an apprentice to feed and creditors to pay off. The ferry tickets hadn’t been cheap.

She hugged her suitcase protectively as the ferry rolled over the harbour chain.

Pom joined her on the seat, the rosy nap that covered his skin all blown about by the wind. Saaba-niszak regretted her sharp tone—he was bound to be excited by new places. But the odd mixture of his Yamzemayan nap and short legs was drawing unwanted attention from the other passengers.

He kicked the air sullenly. What’s it like? Skinnere?

Wet, she said. Focus, Pom. First stanza, pk.

Pom stilled his legs and dutifully recited the Lay’s first stanza sotto voce. Twenty-two octosyllabic lines in a language he barely spoke, learned by rote in the short time