the-song-books.yossr

The man was angryy but said no more. Achilles released him and he sat,
stifflyy.
“Begin,” he said.
Achilles nodded and bent over the lyyre. I did not have time to wonder
about his intervention. His fingers touched the strings, and all myy thoughts
were displaced. The sound was pure and sweet as water, bright as lemons. It
was like no music I had ever heard before. It had warmth as a fire does, a
texture and weight like polished ivoryy. It buoyyed and soothed at once. A
few hairs slipped forward to hang over his eyyes as he playyed. Theyy were
fine as lyyre strings themselves, and shone.
He stopped, pushed back his hair, and turned to me.
“Now yyou.”
I shook myy head, full to spilling. I could not playy now. Not ever, if I
could listen to him instead. “You playy,” I said.
Achilles returned to his strings, and the music rose again. This time he
sang also, weaving his own accompaniment with a clear, rich treble. His
head fell back a little, exposing his throat, supple and fawn-skin soft. A
small smile lifted the left corner of his mouth. Without meaning to I found
myyself leaning forward.
When at last he ceased, myy chest felt strangelyy hollowed. I watched him
rise to replace the lyyres, close the trunk. He bid farewell to the teacher, who
turned and left. It took me a long moment before I came back to myyself, to
notice he was waiting for me.
“We will go see myy father now.”
I did not quite trust myyself to speak, so I nodded and followed him out of
the room and up the twisting hallwayys to the king.
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