The Music of the Mind: The Order of the White Raven, #1

By A.K. Adler

Would you give up on being a hero in order to save the world?

 

Finn Bran is a young journeyman bard who performs all the traditional songs of heroism and great deeds, while dreaming that he could someday be part of such a story. But the Kingdom of Valeria is falling into decline all around him as a mysterious force fosters thoughts of violence and intolerance in people's minds. Brought face-to-face with this terrifying evil, Finn narrowly escapes death and emerges beaten, but possessing a strange new gift - or curse. Able to hear the purity or impurity of people's thoughts in the form of music, Finn realises that his unique insight leaves him with the responsibility to fight back against the evil being that has defeated him once already. But first, he must learn to master the music of his own mind.

 

This quest will lead Finn from the enchanted realm of the Fair Folk to the castle dungeons; to an ill-fated battle with a dragon that leads to a friendship that changes the shape of the world; to an inner mastery of elemental forces.

 

Finally, will Finn be strong enough to face the immutable enemy that has twisted an entire nation to its own dark ends ... or will he need to reach out for help from the strangest of places?

• Language: English
• Publisher: UpLit Press
• Release date: Mar 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215164730

A.K. Adler

I am interested in reading – and writing – books that have some meaning, some impact; that do not just entertain, but make us into better people. Fiction has great power to change us: we take the hero’s journey with them, and so stories can lead us deeper into the truth of who we are. I have always loved fantasy, but as a born cynic I would ask myself, ‘Isn’t this unrealistic? Why does good always triumph over evil?’ But I have learnt to find this truth in fantasy: good always triumphs over evil because this is an inevitability. The story follows our inner journey, the one each of us must take over our lifetime: a journey from darkness and struggle that always holds the potential for light. Each one of us has that potential to conquer our inner demons and find our own enlightenment; that potential is indestructible, and the darkness within our mind is only a temporary obstruction. So, good will always triumph over evil, in the end. The novels I write will, I hope, be one little spark to illuminate and encourage that inner journey. I live in a Buddhist community in the middle of nowhere. I walk in the woods every day, and would probably be happy never to go into a city again (as long as I have access to online shopping). There is a lot of insight I have gained through meditation in my writing – but my books aren’t Buddhist books. I just try to inspire everyone to be good and kind and happy.

Book preview

The Music of the Mind

The Order of the White Raven, Book 1

A.K. Adler

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UpLit Press

Copyright © 2017 by A.K. Adler

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.K. copyright law.

Contents

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Map

1.White Gold Prison

2.The White Raven

3.Alchemist

4.Queen of Shadows

5.Shadow

6.Avalon

7.The Seeing Pool

8.The Music of the Mind

9.Castles Made of Air

10.Fire and Fae

11.The Folk of the Air

12.Deception

13.Winter's Claws

14.The Muirgen

15.Underwater

16.Echoes and Projections

17.Fire’s Heart

18.Willow Bark and Yarrow

19.Firebrand

20.Convocation

21.Part of the Story

22.Metamorphosis

23.Elegy

24.A Dragon’s Debt

25.Crescendo

26.Coda

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Books by A.K. Adler

The Order of the White Raven

The Music of the Mind

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Chapter one

White Gold Prison

The day was dripping towards nightfall. The trees dripped; the eight or so bandits standing on the raised banks beside the dirt road dripped; their leader dripped more than most, as he sported a thick tangle of facial hair that soaked up the rain like a sponge. He called out in a loud gruff voice: ‘Hold your horses, lad – this is a robbery!’

The rather bedraggled bard halted dispiritedly in the middle of the forest track. His damp black hair dripped into his eyes; his colourful motley was all turned a drab brown in the rain; the only bright spark in him came from the collar of white gold at his throat. He would happily have held his horse if he had one, but he was travelling only on his own two feet.

The young bard, Finn Bran, was not feeling at his best. It had been raining all week, ever since … he shuddered and turned his thoughts away. He needed to stop thinking about that night: he had been so preoccupied with his thoughts that he hadn’t even been aware of the gang of robbers gathering around him. It would not be the first time he’d been robbed – these bands of thieves had become increasingly common throughout Valeria – but he still kicked himself for walking so unseeing into a trap.

Finn attempted to dredge up an engaging grin. ‘You won’t find much on me, I’m afraid; I’m just a travelling player, not some rich court minstrel, you know.’

‘You’ve got a mighty nice piece of jewellery for a poor player,’ the bandit chief commented, ‘We’ll start with that, shall we? Hand it over.’

Finn raised a hand to the band of white gold encircling his neck, feeling its smooth and seamless purity.

‘It doesn’t come off,’ he said with a sigh.

The massive hairy bandit stepped up close to Finn and examined the collar for himself, turning it in his huge hands, pulling it roughly so that Finn was forced onto tiptoes in order to breathe. Finally, he gave an exasperated grunt.

‘Get a saw, Martin, and we’ll cut it off.’

‘Ha!’ Finn said bitterly. ‘You’re welcome to try. There’s magic on it; nothing you do will work.’

‘We could cut your head off,’ the bandit mused, ‘I bet that would do the trick.’

Finn stayed quiet – he had a feeling the bandit was right about that but was in no hurry for them to test the theory out.

‘I’m not so sure about this, Boss,’ one of the men interjected. ‘It’s awfully bad luck to kill a bard…’

The chief considered. ‘You may be right there; alright then lads, we’ll forget the gold band, just strip him of anything else of value.’

‘Isn’t it bad luck to rob a bard, as well?’ tried Finn hopefully, but seeing the look on the bandit chief’s face he hastily amended himself: ‘OK, OK, but leave me my lute – think of it as an investment. With my lute, I can earn money, and you can rob me again next time I pass this way.’

The leader let out a guffaw. ‘I like this lad! OK, you can keep the lute; but we’re taking your boots.’

Finn made no complaint as they stripped him of his few possessions: a bedroll, some spare clothes, quill and ink, half a loaf of bread, and a few silver and copper coins. No gold but that around his neck. Unsurprisingly, they didn’t take his word for it that the bright collar would not come off: one of the men produced a small saw – they must have robbed a skilled carpenter to have that – and tried to cut it off. Finn wished they would succeed, but the metal was impervious to the blade. The ruffian did nick Finn’s ear, which bled copiously but didn’t hurt too much; the man even apologised and gave Finn a scrap of cloth to hold against the cut until the bleeding stopped.

The rough band of outlaws were all looking at him askance now, muttering among themselves: they obviously wanted as little to do with magic as Finn did himself. They melted back into the dripping trees with their bounty and left him alone on the path. He hoisted his lute case onto his back – at least he still had this, his most valued possession.

Finn remembered running barefoot as a child. He had tough soles then; he and his brother had chased around the woods for hours, little toes finding footholds to scamper up trees… he had definitely become soft. After he’d been walking for maybe an hour his feet already hurt. In no way did this resemble the sunlit forest of his childhood memories: it was approaching full dark, it was still raining steadily, and there was no warm fireside to run home to.

Or maybe there was: a flicker of firelight appeared through the trees and Finn breathed a sigh of relief. Most folk would welcome a bard: they wanted to hear the latest news, and they respected tradition. Bards held a well-established place; after kings and priests, bards were also widely considered to be protected by the Goddess. Finn had little truck with priests and had never met a king, but he was happy to accept the hospitality that these social systems afforded him, especially on a night like this.

Picking up his pace, he hurried towards the light. He slowed again in disappointment when he saw that it was not a well-kept home that awaited him, but a dilapidated hut, obviously abandoned: another traveller must be making use of the shelter it offered. Well, at least he wouldn’t have to start a fire himself.

‘You’re late!’ a voice called stridently and a man stepped into the doorway of the hut. Finn squeaked in shock at the bizarre appearance before him. The man had to have seen at least sixty years, but he stood tall and upright, his height emphasised by his gauntness and by the shock of grey hair corkscrewing out from all over his head. He wore a long tattered grey robe, reminiscent of the pictures of Druids from centuries ago; actually, at second glance, maybe he had made the clothes himself from faded sackcloth. He waved Finn inside like a long-expected guest.

Finn stepped into the hut cautiously. ‘Hello, sir. Do you live here?’

‘No, no, just passing through,’ said the stranger, bending over a pot on the fire. ‘Not much of a place to live, ferret’s nest from the smell, but I heard you coming and thought to start a fire…’

‘You knew I was coming?’ Finn interrupted.

‘Of course, can always sense another one, normally avoid people but there aren’t so many of the Order of the White Raven around…’

Finn almost choked in shock; a memory of the vision he had seen only days ago flashed through his mind. ‘You’ve met the White Raven?’

‘Met him?’ the old man grumbled, ‘of course not, the white raven’s a symbol, taking a thing of darkness and making it light; you know that, boy; you may be wet behind the ears, but you’ve chosen to wear the serpent too, now do you have a bowl to put these beans in?’

Finn’s head was spinning, and it took him a minute to adjust to the abrupt change of topic. ‘I don’t even have any shoes.’

‘Why would you want to eat beans out of your shoes? You make no sense, boy. And people wonder why I live on my own! Never mind, I can use the pot.’

He scooped some stew into a wooden bowl and handed it to Finn, then settled himself beside the fire with the cooking pot between his knees. Finn was feeling more and more confused with every word of conversation; he sat and ate in silence. The old hermit seemed happy to maintain a one-sided conversation, often in a grumbling half-murmur.

Finn finished his beans without tasting a mouthful and commented, ‘My Master, Morwen Talesin, is one of the greatest bards of the age, and in ten years as his student, I never heard him mention this Order.’

The old hermit grunted. ‘Never heard of him, either. And why would anyone want to sing songs about us? We’re just trying to be good, not sticking swords in people. Some bloody heroes they are, who are they to decide who should live and who should die?’

‘So you think you make a better hero?’ Finn asked.

The man gave an amused huff. ‘Maybe when I have conquered all my own enemies …’

‘I can’t imagine you have too many enemies, Sir.’

‘Oh, plenty still.’ The hermit tapped his temple. ‘The enemies are in your heart and in your head, my lad… The world out there is getting darker, but we can still get out – yes, get out by getting further inside, ha ha!’ He abruptly put down the cooking pot and declared, ‘I cooked, you’re washing up.’

Finn meekly stretched out for the pot, and the firelight cast glimmering reflections bouncing off the white-gold collar at his throat. The old man grabbed his arm and pulled him closer, so that Finn had to catch himself awkwardly against the dirt floor to prevent tumbling into the fire.

‘Watch out!’ he exclaimed, ‘I’m a bard, not a tumbler!’

But the strange old man ignored him, instead fingering the seamless metal at his neck. Finn drew back sharply and the man’s fingers, holding on, jerked painfully against his throat.

Finn slipped away, saying disdainfully ‘I wouldn’t have taken you for a thief, Sir.’

The old hermit laughed out loud at that. ‘I can’t steal something that isn’t really there! It’s just your mind, boy; the White Raven has shown you your mind. And very pretty it is too! Who would have thought you had it in you, so much potential! Like an alchemist transforming lead into gold, you must transmute your soul--’

‘Wait,’ Finn interrupted, ‘an alchemist can remove this thing?’

‘No, you fool, I’m using a metaphor! Don’t they give bards any training these days?’

‘You’re not making any sense!’ Finn shouted, but as soon as the anger arose in his mind he pushed it away again, shuddering: it reminded him too much of the tendrils of darkness attacking. He never wanted that feeling inside him again. He let out a deep breath and spoke more calmly. ‘I just want to understand what’s happening to me.’

The hermit smiled. It was a sad smile, but one lit with an inner acceptance and peace that Finn would not have expected from the gruff old man. That smile made him beautiful, despite his unkempt beard and tatty clothes.

‘You’re being forged in a fire, my lad. You’ll be free when you too become pure gold.’

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It took Finn a week of hard walking to reach Chromos on the Southern coast. Chromos was the trade centre of Valeria, named for the many colourful mosaics adorning the walls of the stone buildings, an elegant walled city with wide market squares selling goods from all the countries surrounding the Gulf Sea. Finn was not as engaged as he usually was by the designs of the mosaics which offered a stylised depiction of the trades that occupied each building, for it was dark and once again raining heavily as he entered the city. He felt like he had been wet for days, and although he had traded a night’s entertainment for some new boots, they were loose and uncomfortable and had already sprung a leak.

The streets were wide and well-cobbled, but gloomy; at each junction there was a wall-mounted bracket to hang a lantern, but most of them swung dark, their oil exhausted. Even here in the economic heart of the kingdom, there was less prosperity than Finn remembered. He grinned wryly to himself – wasn’t twenty-eight too young to be thinking of ‘the good old days’?

It was with great relief that he arrived at his destination: a tall and somewhat ramshackle stone house with a blue and green mosaic of a caduceus beside the door. Finn eyed the stony blue serpent distrustfully – he was not feeling too kindly towards snakes lately - before hammering for admittance.

The man who opened the door had wavy black hair and a thin face, dominated by piercing blue eyes: he looked so like Finn he could only be his brother. Finn smiled weakly as his brother gaped at him.

‘Hello, Aiden. Aren’t you going to invite me in? I may look more like a drowned rat than a human being right now, but I thought you’d be able to recognise your own twin.’

Aiden laughed delightedly and pulled Finn into a firm hug. ‘I wasn’t looking to see you for weeks yet!’ he exclaimed as he guided Finn inside. ‘Did you finish your circuit early this year?’

Finn grimaced. ‘No, I cut it short. I felt the need for some brotherly advice, believe it or not.’

‘I don’t believe it! When did it dawn on you that I’m the one in this family that is possessed of all the wisdom?’ Aiden abruptly sobered. ‘You sound serious. Come and sit by the fire.’

The door led directly into a darkened shop, with only the light coming from the doorway behind the counter casting fitful glimmers onto the rows of jars and making bundles of herbs hanging from the rafters cast distorted and eerie shadows on the walls. Aiden hurried Finn through into the next room, a small chamber made cosy by firelight. Finn gratefully shed his dripping cloak and slumped into one of the high-backed wooden chairs by the fire to pull off his sodden boots.

Aiden returned from the next room with a steaming cup of mint tea, which he handed to Finn as he sat down opposite him.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

Finn stared blindly at the coils of steam rising from his mug. ‘I have no idea. It started when I died.’

Chapter two

The White Raven

It had been in a little village with nothing to distinguish it from a hundred others he had seen. A couple of stone farmhouses; a handful of wattle-and-daub cottages; a common with a flock of sheep grazing and some fields still stubbled after the harvest, closely bordered by the surrounding forest. He had stayed two nights, as he was tired and the villagers were happy to hear new songs and the latest news. Finn had spent a pleasant day in between, enjoying the late autumn sunshine in the village square and being pestered by the children too young to be helping in the fields. He liked these interactions: the children in the villages didn’t tend to get much education, so a bard’s stories were a history lesson and moral philosophy rolled into one.

It was good; it was necessary. But it wasn’t enough.

He loved the life he had – it felt like living in one of the stories he told, travel and adventure and romance – but in the epic tales there was always some grand goal, a finale with a heroic triumph of good over evil. Where was Finn’s life heading? Despite all the adventure, there was always something missing, some defining sense of meaning and purpose. Real heroes didn’t just tell stories: they made stories, they changed the world.

Finn knew what his mentor Talesin would say: ‘Bards change the world, too, lad. Music is the language that writes history, that remembers the past and shapes the future.’ He’d said those words often enough in the six years Finn travelled with him as an apprentice, and when Talesin played there was a kind of magic in it. A magic that Finn had still not been able to replicate.

The tales and songs filled with magic were Finn’s favourites. Most of them were banned, now. The previous king, Bredwyr, had outlawed the practice of magic sixty years ago, and with it all the songs of the Fair Folk, of witches and enchantments. Even many of the religious songs had been forbidden since King Bredwyr’s decree caused the rift in the church.

Finn knew all the songs, of course. It was a bard’s duty to remember. He just wasn’t allowed to share them; they were locked up tight inside, along with his own creativity.

That night in the tavern Finn began his set with a mournful ballad called The Bard’s Lament, in which a minstrel laid to rest a mythological creature called a Medraut, some sort of evil spirit. Tales of fighting against magic were still within the law.

As the last notes died away Finn sat for a moment absorbed in the yearning to lead a life worth remembering. To be the kind of person who slew monsters, a hero worthy of a ballad of his own. Something clicked into place within his heart, like a stiff lock suddenly turning and letting the tumblers fall into line. No longer simply a wish, but a determination. I will