The Dark Symphony

gardens, back from the rich colors to the primary border of white, beyond that into the shimmer-stone pavement of the streets.
    When he got home, he had to suffer through a celebration staged by his father, a mammoth, nothing-lacking extravaganza with one of the highly expensive primitive orchestras that used real relic instruments instead of moog machines. The robo-orc had been stored in a closet somewhere. There were two hundred well-wishers and freeloaders present, all wearing partial or full false faces of sequined shimmer-cloth that stretched snugly over their features and was somehow unable to conceal (for Guil, at least) the bestiality that lurked on the true expressions that had leered from the tiers of the Great Hall only hours earlier.
    His father grasped him by the arm, just above the elbow, his fingers digging into Gull's flesh. Thus chained, he was dragged about the room from one guest to another, here to be congratulated, there to be slapped on the back. "And here," his father said, "you must know who this is, even though he is wearing a mask."
    It was Frederic. Guil knew that even without a clear view of the bird face. The eyes were unveiled, and that would have been enough by itself. They glistened, red-rimmed, and bored into him, searching for his vital areas. But it was not the eyes, first of all, that told him this was his old instructor. It was the sting-strap. Even now, away from lessons, in a social situation, the vicious pendant carried the leather sting-strap looped through the belt of his robe. It dangled next to his left hip, much like the gun of an ancient cowboy.
    "Congratulations," Frederic said, though it was obvious that he did not mean it. Insincerity literally dripped like venom from his words.
    "Thank you," Guil said.
    "The Pillar didn't frighten him at all," Guil's father said. He grinned, pinched Guil's arm even tighter. "He walked into one when he was just a child. Did you know about that?"
    "No," Frederic said.
    "Walked right into it. Didn't bother him then either."
    "It was just my head," Guil amended.
    "What?"
    "I just put my head in, Father."
    "Still," the Grand Meistro said. "Still, for a mere child of—"
    "What do you intend to do with your life now that you've earned it?" Frederic asked.
    "I haven't thought much about it."
    The eyes shone brighter, bored more deeply. "Teaching is out, of course. Unless you teach guitar. But that is a limited field. You could go into maintenance."
    Guil's father choked.
    "Keeping the Towers and all the other configurations in form and operative is a noble enough task," Frederic amended, shifting his gaze to the Meistro. "I had thought the boy might go into a biological area," the Meistro said. "He was always keen on sciences outside of sound science. We need good biologists to track down the new developments in Popular mutations, to dissect them."
    "Or he could go into entertainment," Frederic said. "He could work with the filming crews who do those feature lengths on the Populars."
    "I don't think so," Guil said. "I have a year to think, by custom. I'll take my time."
    "Certainly, certainly," his father said.
    "Certainly," Frederic echoed. Guil noticed that the teacher's hand had strayed to the sting-strap. His bony fingers stroked it as if so doing brought him some pleasant stimulation.
    Then it was over, and he was alone with his father, standing against the mantle of the simu-fire fireplace where sound-flames wavered behind the shimmering brasslike grill.
    "
Der Erlkonig
," Guil said, swallowing some of the green wine that had flowed freely throughout the evening.
    "Just a song," his father said uneasily.
    "No."
    "Just a song!" The Meistro's face was a livid, ugly mask like a corpse frightened even after death.
    "Vladislovitch didn't understand the ninth rule of sound, I guess," Guil said.
    That's heresy." The Meistro forced down his rage and sipped the wine, the tensed muscles of his neck denying his front of calm. "There is no Ninth Rule."
    The pillar? The land beyond?"
    "A sound configuration. Nothing more. Like the other sound configurations."
    The unreal flames sputtered, throwing off cold. "Do you know the history of the pillar, father?"
    "Created as a final test for the Coming of Age Day rituals so that—"
    "No. I doubt all that."
    His father swallowed the wine, picked up another glass that was half empty and rimmed with blue lipstick. "Created as a final test by some test master who thought—"
    "By Vladislovitch. He created