by Marie Brown
Chapter 3: Enter the Bard
Kirel shivered in the chill of the late autumn evening. He'd never expected Scholastica to get this cold. Only late autumn, not even winter yet, and the days were already as cold as winter where he'd grown up. And the nights. . . ! Brr.
But he stood and shivered anyway, in his less than adequate new to him cloak, and enjoyed the entertainment. Up on the courtyard stage of one of Scholastica's myriad taverns a group of musicians sang and played, providing a seamless harmonic backdrop for the soloist, a young man with red-gold hair and a voice like a bell. Kirel enjoyed music, an interest once encouraged by his mother, and he recognized the amazing talent on stage before him. He'd never heard a voice like that of the soloist, a warm and rich tenor, with a very flexible range. And he played an instrument, too, a thing that looked like an enormous lute and rang with the sound of metal strings. None of the travelling minstrels passing through Tanivar Estate used such instruments.
Weaving underneath the vocals and instruments, a deep-voiced drum thumped out an intricate, compelling rhythm. Kirel shoved his way through the crowd, most of whom seemed more interested in laughing, shouting, and imbibing much beer than listening to the music. The closer he got to the stage, awash with the light of glowballs, the more the drum stirred his blood. Wonderful!
The singer stood directly in front of him now, out at the front of the raised stage. Kirel stopped moving when he found himself pressed against the wooden edge of the stage itself, between two footglows. He had a great view here, and the sound. . . !
He could see the background singers, now, each with a stringed instrument of their own. He recognized a lute, a zither, and a mandolin, but the fourth defied identification. It stretched tall and thin above the head of its seated player, its strings speaking in a plaintive wail. The drummer sat behind them and to the left, partially obscured by shadows.
The music reached its finale, and Kirel sighed. Too bad it couldn't go on forever. He applauded frantically with the others, who broke off their shouted conversations long enough to acknowledge the performance.
The soloist caught Kirel's eye and smiled. His heart did a funny little flip in his chest. Then the singer glanced over his shoulder and called out, "Dragon's Lament."
The music started again, slow and mournful. The instruments carried the melody for quite a while, weaving together a net of magic. From his close vantage point, Kirel saw all of their fingers flashing, dancing rapidly through intricate fingerings. The drum throbbed beneath the melody, like a bass heartbeat, ba-doom. Ba-doom. Ba-doom.
Then the singer began his tale of a lonely dragon, last of his kind and locked into immortality. The words were few and simple, woven into the instrumentals with skill, but the sadness they evoked brought a lump to Kirel's throat. Poor lonely dragon, doomed to wander eternally alone, always searching for the answering cry he would never hear.
The song told of the dragon's mate, dying at the hands of a human hunter, and his discovery of their broken nest and shattered eggs. It followed his hopeful search, then told of centuries of crushing despair, followed by his retreat into the mists of a remote mountain range, safe from hunters but ever and always alone.
Afterwards, the group took their bows and left the stage. Kirel sighed, both supremely satisfied and frustrated. He'd heard the sounds of good music from the street as he hurried past, heading home after a late night at the stables. Looked like he'd arrived just in time for the end of the performance. Damn his dedication to duty! He could have seen the entire performance if he hadn't been in the stables.
But then fewer horses would have exercise, and Rashka would still be feeding, and. . . Kirel sighed.
Following an impulse, he struggled through the crowd once more, to the backstage area. Here he found the group congratulating each other on a good performance as they packed their instruments in protective cases or wrappings.
"No matter what the audience thinks," one of the backup singers, a young woman, laughed.
"Well, I think the performance was wonderful," Kirel said. Startled heads turned to look at him, the stranger in their midst.
"Thank you," the soloist said, recovering first. "I saw you out there, for the last two songs, anyway. You must have been the only one truly listening."
"The others are a bunch of fools," Kirel said. The singer's speaking voice equaled the beauty of his singing, sending funny little tingles racing through Kirel. "I've never heard music like that before."
"Nobody has, outside of Scholastica," the young woman who'd laughed at the audience's lack of interest said. Tall and thin, with curly brown hair brushing her shoulders, she smiled at Kirel. "Hello, I'm Caro."
"And I'm Kirel. It's a real pleasure to meet you." He smiled, but his eyes drifted back to the singer.
"I'm Sylvan, Kirel." He extended his hand. Kirel grasped it, noting the strength in his fingers and the string calluses at the tips. The contact sent a warm, pleasant sensation shooting through his body, and he couldn't have torn his gaze from Sylvan's hazel eyes if his life depended on it. Except—uh-oh. Something unusual stirred down below. "Are you doing anything tonight?"