Beethoven's Tenth
cover art by Tony Peak
In post-Napoleonic Europe, rival secret societies hunt for Beethoven’s Tenth Symphony—for whoever deciphers the intricate mathematics hidden within, gains power over time and space. Trestan Descaix, Napoleon’s best spy, seeks the Tenth’s hidden transcripts for Revolutionary partisans. The quest will send him across time, braving horrors from Borodino to Auschwitz, and ultimately to other worlds in a race to decide the course of humanity. Composers living and dead aid or hinder his efforts. Yet a mysterious competitor not only challenges him for the Tenth, but the Enlightenment ideals he’s claimed to uphold—and his betrayals in doing so.
Beethoven's Tenth: Excerpt
Movement I
1.
Overture in D minor, Opus 31
March 29th, 1827
Vienna
1.
Overture in D minor, Opus 31
March 29th, 1827
Vienna
Trestan sprinted across the dunes, but the figure far outdistanced him. Music echoed behind him, music not performed by human hand. The vibrations emanating from it made him stumble in the sand.
He would not reach the columns in time.
The Broadwood’s strings warbled and popped as flames devoured the piano. Each tightly-bound metal wire, exposed like the sinews of an industrial beast, snapped apart in a staccato volley. The noise’s brusque atonality made Trestan jump. No matter how hard he tried forgetting, the sounds of war, of death, were ever fresh memories.
Embers suffused the air as the fire spread throughout the apartment. Voices echoed in the street below. Though the occupant had been buried earlier, Trestan gripped the pistol inside his waistcoat. The creak of weakened beams made him hurry.
He passed a stack of blackened, curling manuscripts, victims of the rising heat. Tuning pins and key levers popped from a burning harpsicord. A hissing noise made Trestan turn. It was a brass ear trumpet, melting in the flames. Nothing was spared in the House of the Black-Robed Spaniards, Beethoven’s final home.
Trestan hurried to a bookshelf and yanked out volume after volume, seeking anything written in the late composer’s scrawl. The books were hot to the touch. Sweat stung Trestan’s eyes, smoke stole his breath. Something must be here, else the bastards would not have set the residence aflame. Their fabricated Hell would not stop him.
The tuning fork in his jacket vibrated. Trestan pressed a hand against it, fearing it might leap from his pocket. He’d never used one before. The technology his superiors used was strange, but it had transported him here. He hoped it transported him out.
The vibration repeated, audible this time: a slight pulsation singing through the air, a delicate fingernail tapping a wound copper wire. Trestan ignored the books and concentrated on the sound, the tuning fork directing him. He ducked through a burning doorway into Beethoven’s sitting room. Wallpaper curled off the walls like leprotic flesh, pocked with flaming holes. They reminded him of the dead at Valencia, at Salamanca. Piled corpses ready for Moloch’s altar. Reminding him of those he’d betrayed.
He threw aside a sedan chair and snatched up the vibration’s source.
It was another tuning fork, lying in a pool of blood. The crimson mirror reflected the growing inferno around Trestan. Damnation was never patient.
He lifted the fork, which quivered despite his vengeful grip. It was a semi-tone higher than his, piercing his eardrum. Gritting his teeth, Trestan pressed hands over ears to stave off the aural assault. But the semi-tone rang throughout the apartment, a final note in Beethoven’s dirge.
The vibration ended abruptly. Some ceiling collapsed, blocking the doorway with burning timbers. Cinders zipped through the air, incinerating hundreds of holes into Trestan’s clothing. He patted them out and shoved the fork into his pocket.
The building shook as more ceiling surrendered to the conflagration. Trestan held a handkerchief to his mouth, coughing as smoke stole reality. His boots crunched through a fallen vase, his knees scraped past the ironically dead furnace. Something snapped underfoot, and he glimpsed a black mask through the smoke. A gaunt, knowing visage, come to claim him from an earthly inferno for the one surely awaiting him after death.
It had Beethoven’s face.
He would not reach the columns in time.
The Broadwood’s strings warbled and popped as flames devoured the piano. Each tightly-bound metal wire, exposed like the sinews of an industrial beast, snapped apart in a staccato volley. The noise’s brusque atonality made Trestan jump. No matter how hard he tried forgetting, the sounds of war, of death, were ever fresh memories.
Embers suffused the air as the fire spread throughout the apartment. Voices echoed in the street below. Though the occupant had been buried earlier, Trestan gripped the pistol inside his waistcoat. The creak of weakened beams made him hurry.
He passed a stack of blackened, curling manuscripts, victims of the rising heat. Tuning pins and key levers popped from a burning harpsicord. A hissing noise made Trestan turn. It was a brass ear trumpet, melting in the flames. Nothing was spared in the House of the Black-Robed Spaniards, Beethoven’s final home.
Trestan hurried to a bookshelf and yanked out volume after volume, seeking anything written in the late composer’s scrawl. The books were hot to the touch. Sweat stung Trestan’s eyes, smoke stole his breath. Something must be here, else the bastards would not have set the residence aflame. Their fabricated Hell would not stop him.
The tuning fork in his jacket vibrated. Trestan pressed a hand against it, fearing it might leap from his pocket. He’d never used one before. The technology his superiors used was strange, but it had transported him here. He hoped it transported him out.
The vibration repeated, audible this time: a slight pulsation singing through the air, a delicate fingernail tapping a wound copper wire. Trestan ignored the books and concentrated on the sound, the tuning fork directing him. He ducked through a burning doorway into Beethoven’s sitting room. Wallpaper curled off the walls like leprotic flesh, pocked with flaming holes. They reminded him of the dead at Valencia, at Salamanca. Piled corpses ready for Moloch’s altar. Reminding him of those he’d betrayed.
He threw aside a sedan chair and snatched up the vibration’s source.
It was another tuning fork, lying in a pool of blood. The crimson mirror reflected the growing inferno around Trestan. Damnation was never patient.
He lifted the fork, which quivered despite his vengeful grip. It was a semi-tone higher than his, piercing his eardrum. Gritting his teeth, Trestan pressed hands over ears to stave off the aural assault. But the semi-tone rang throughout the apartment, a final note in Beethoven’s dirge.
The vibration ended abruptly. Some ceiling collapsed, blocking the doorway with burning timbers. Cinders zipped through the air, incinerating hundreds of holes into Trestan’s clothing. He patted them out and shoved the fork into his pocket.
The building shook as more ceiling surrendered to the conflagration. Trestan held a handkerchief to his mouth, coughing as smoke stole reality. His boots crunched through a fallen vase, his knees scraped past the ironically dead furnace. Something snapped underfoot, and he glimpsed a black mask through the smoke. A gaunt, knowing visage, come to claim him from an earthly inferno for the one surely awaiting him after death.
It had Beethoven’s face.
