by ML Spencer
He waited for long minutes, but finally a great cheer went up—a din that made Aram moan, for he hated loud noises. The crowd parted to admit the bard—Ebra of Starn, Mother Groon had called him—who came forward, smiling and waving, holding a thick-necked instrument that he raised over his head, displaying it for the crowd. With a healthy leap, he arrived atop the makeshift stage already strumming, and, throwing his head back, started to sing.
The lyrics of the song were in a different language, one Aram had never heard before, its refrain both beautiful and haunting. Spellbound, Aram hung on every note, straining to understand. The occasional word would hit his ear just right, and he thought he might understand it. It was almost as though the language was one he had once known a long time ago but had forgotten.
“Hey, there!”
Aram turned, smiling happily at the sound of Markus’s voice. His new friend looked as though his spirits were up, perhaps lifted by the bard’s song. Around them, the crowd started clapping along with the tune and both boys joined in. The bard’s fingers flew agilely over the short neck of his instrument, and he tapped out the rhythm of the song on the soundboard with his hand. When the song was over, the crowd cheered and whistled, prompting the bard to launch immediately into the next.
“What language is he singing in?” asked Aram.
“I don’t know,” Markus answered, clapping along with an eager smile on his face. “Maybe Cerylite.”
“It’s ancient Aulden,” said an old woman standing next to them, her hair covered by a blue headscarf. “The High Speech.”
“Aulden,” Aram whispered, a faint shiver coming over him. He didn’t know much about the Auld, only that they were an ancient race of people who were no more. One and all, they had been slaughtered by the Empire or harvested by the Exilari. He didn’t know what that meant, to be harvested, but it sounded awful.
“How does the bard know the High Speech?” asked Aram.
“Because that’s what he’s trained to know. That’s what bards are for: to remind us of what was lost.”
With that, she moved away through the crowd, clapping and singing along to the strange-sounding music. Aram scooted closer to Markus. He had stopped clapping and now stood considering the bard with acute interest. The ever-present flurry of knots that occupied his mind had gone still, and for once, he found himself intrigued by something different.
As the bard sang, his gaze fell upon Aram, and he gave a knowing smile, as though the two of them shared a secret.
“Let’s go,” said Markus unexpectedly, catching Aram’s shoulder.
Aram glanced at his friend, wondering what had caused Markus to want to leave—he’d so been looking forward to the performance. Nevertheless, he followed him as Markus wound back through the crowd to the edge of the marketplace, then jogged to keep up with him as he retreated down the street.
“What is it?” Aram asked, once again afraid he’d done something wrong.
Markus shook his head. At first, he didn’t look like he was going to answer, but at last he stopped, hanging his head.
“He’s going to pick you.” His voice was coarse and ragged.
Aram stared into Markus’s face, gauging his expression. “You’re angry.”
“Not angry,” Markus corrected with a heavy sigh. “Just disappointed.”
That made Aram sad. He didn’t want his new friend to be disappointed, and he certainly didn’t want him to miss out on something he wanted more than anything in life. Why had the bard smiled at him? Why hadn’t he smiled at Markus, who wanted—no, needed—that smile so much more?
“What if I can help you?” Aram asked.
Markus frowned. “What can you do to help me?”
Aram glanced around to make sure no one was close enough to overhear what he was about to say. He was scared of telling his secrets to Markus, secrets he’d never told anyone, not even his ma, because people already thought he was strange, and he didn’t want to give them more reasons to think so. But Markus had seen his cave and hadn’t ridiculed him … so maybe, just maybe, he was a good enough friend to accept this part of him, too.
Softly, Aram asked, “What if you could do a magic trick that no one else can do? Do you think the bard might pick you then?”
Markus’s brow furrowed in an expression that could have been either puzzlement or disgust. Seeing his face, Aram felt his stomach tense and his skin grow cold. He had taken a chance. Perhaps it was too big a chance…
“What kind of magic trick?” Markus asked.
Aram whispered, “The kind that’s real.”
Chapter Four
Aram trembled, fearing he’d gone too far. Markus was staring at him with the kind of look people gave him when he’d done something really wrong. Only, unlike most times, he knew exactly what he’d done, and he was terrified that Markus would think him addled and wouldn’t want to be his friend anymore.
“What do you mean, real magic?” Markus asked. “Do you mean, like Exilari magic?”
Aram shook his head emphatically, not wanting Markus to think that of him. The Exilari were sorcerers who worked for the Empire. He didn’t know much about them, other than that they lived in cellars and practiced a kind of magic that caused a lot of people a lot of pain.
“No! Not like them,” Aram said quickly. “I do things with knots. Knots of air.”
Markus’s brow pinched. “What kinds of things?”
Aram shrugged. “Just little things. But if the bard thinks it’s you doing it, maybe he’ll pick you.”
Markus reached up and scratched the back of his head. Then he glanced over his shoulder at the market, where the bard was still performing. “How does it work?”
“I see in color,” Aram replied.
“Everyone sees in color.”
Aram’s face scrunched as he tried to find the right words to describe what he did. “This is a different kind of seeing. It’s like … the world’s made up of millions of tiny threads. I see those threads in color. Sometimes I see people in color, too. Like your color is…”
He blinked, startled, then peered harder at Markus. For the first time, he realized that his new friend had no color at all. He stood speechless for a moment, not knowing what to say. Everyone had an aura … unless they were dead. Dead people lost their color quickly, within seconds. A slow, creeping fear came over him. What if Markus was dead? Could that be possible?
“What?” Markus demanded.
Aram gulped. “You don’t have a color.”
Just then, Mother Anilla strolled by with a pail of milk and nodded at them cordially. Markus smiled back at her and mumbled a greeting. After she was out of earshot, he leaned close to Aram.
“What does that mean, if I don’t have a color?”
“I don’t know,” Aram admitted, careful to keep his voice low. “Everyone has a color, like a glow about them. Some people are brown, some are orange. My favorite color’s yellow. People like Jory are usually blue or purple. If someone’s purple, it means something’s wrong with them. They’re bad.”
Markus frowned hugely. “So, you’re telling me that everyone in the world has some type of aura—everyone except me. Are you making this up?”
“No!”
“Prove it.”
“I can’t.” Aram sighed, deflated. “The only time I can do magic is when someone’s in danger.”
Normally, he couldn’t touch the colored strands of air that he could see. But if someone was in danger, then the threads became more solid. Like when the large post had almost fallen on Mister Cray’s head. He’d been able to deflect it just a little. Not much, but enough. He just couldn’t do anything if he was in danger.
Markus’s eyes narrowed. “Then, how could you help me impress the bard, if I’m not in danger?”
Aram looked at him sadly. “I know what your father does to you. You are in danger.”
Markus had a hard time sleeping that night. His back ached even worse than it had earlier, and his mind was too ag
itated to rest. Aram’s confession had bothered him on many levels. Foremost was the revelation that the boy thought he could work magic. Aram had been blessed with a bountiful imagination, but it was going to get him into trouble. If he went around telling people that the air was made out of colored strings, people would think he was mad, and the village elders might even order him restrained.
But that wasn’t the only reason he couldn’t sleep. He was also scared because the bard was making his choice in the morning, and he was terrified that Aram was going to ruin his chance by doing something stupid in a misguided attempt to be helpful. That, or by being selected himself. Markus knew he had no talent to display at the audition; he couldn’t sing or dance, and he didn’t play an instrument or juggle. His muscles had always served him best, and he’d been hoping the bard would want a travelling companion who could use a sword, with all the raids that had been happening lately. It was a small chance, but it was still a chance, unless Aram blew it.
There was one last fear that was keeping Markus awake, the fear that disturbed him most of all. What if Aram wasn’t imagining—what if he really could work magic? It was a frightening possibility, and one Markus couldn’t idly dismiss, for he had been to Aram’s cave and had seen firsthand that the boy was capable of astonishing things. If Aram really could work magic, then Markus feared for his life.
Markus rolled over in bed, hoping with all his heart that Aram was wrong.
By the time morning came along, Markus was exhausted. Sometime in the night, he’d admitted to himself that he wasn’t going to be picked, and he’d made his peace with it. He would have to wait until he was eighteen to escape the village and his father. Or maybe he could run off and become a mercenary or a sailor. Either one would be a hard life, but better than the one he was currently living.
Aram really did deserve to become the bard’s apprentice. And whether or not he could really do magic, Markus could think of no safer place for him.
When the knock came at the door, he wasn’t ready for it. Exhausted, Markus rolled out of bed and donned his trousers, tying the drawstring with a new appreciation for the overhand knot. Opening the door, he saw Carince Hanary standing in the predawn gloom, holding a glass-paned lantern.
“Get ye to Flanters’!” Mister Hanary ordered upon seeing his face. “The bard’s making his selection!”
Markus’s heart skipped. He closed the door and tugged his roughspun shirt on over his head. Then he paused, collecting himself. His father was still asleep—even Mister Hanary’s hollering hadn’t been enough to wake him. He’d spent most of the previous day at the tavern and had returned deep in his cups.
Markus’s pulse thrummed in his veins. His hands were suddenly quivering.
“All right. I can do this,” he mumbled, even though his voice was full of defeat.
Opening the door, he emerged into the pre-dawn darkness. The lane was empty, though the air was already filling with the scent of bread from Mister Dareau baking the morning loaves. Up ahead, Markus saw a shadow skitter around a corner. Probably one of the other boys who’d been roused from sleep. He thought about going to collect Aram, then thought better of it. Mister Hanary was moving in the direction of the docks, so he would have already knocked on Aram’s door.
Best get moving.
He walked in the long shadows of moonset, the stars fading above him. The sounds of the waves were a gentle and lulling refrain, bringing him some measure of comfort. He could hear the occasional morning birdsong, but even the roosters weren’t awake yet. The silence around him seemed somewhat prophetic and he tried not to let it unnerve him. But his courage started failing as he drew near the large two-story house that belonged to Mister and Mistress Flanter, the closest thing the village had to an inn.
In the green area behind Flanters’ stood a row of children who’d arrived there ahead of him. Behind the children, a crowd of parents and onlookers waited, an anxious-looking lot. He didn’t see Aram, for which Markus didn’t know if he should be sad or grateful. Taking his place at the end of the line, he turned and faced the plank wall of the inn.
To his right stood Jan Larule, a tall and scraggly lad who could play the flute. Next to Jan was Mavry Torne, a capable youth who had an uncanny knack for locating shoals of herring. Galrad Fost, one of the miscreants who’d given Aram the thrashing, came to stand next to him, taking his place at the end of the line. Galrad fell in beside him with a derisive smirk and a taunting nod.
“Here to make a fool of yourself?” Galrad whispered, too low for anyone else to hear.
Markus whispered back, “Actually, I’m here to make a fool of you. Again.”
Galrad’s lips peeled back, baring his teeth. But he didn’t say anything further, just stood staring straight ahead with reddened cheeks, for there were too many eyes on them.
The sky warmed and the roosters took up their morning cries while the songbirds made a racket from the trees and rooftops. The sea breeze blew, making Markus shiver. In the shadow of the inn, the warmth of the sun didn’t touch the grass, which was heavy and wet with dew.
When the inn’s door finally opened, Markus glanced up and down the line of boys. There were fourteen of them in all, every boy in the village between the ages of twelve and sixteen. Every boy but Aram, who was unaccounted for. Markus wondered if Mister Hanary had purposefully skipped his door.
Hands behind his back, long cloak fluttering in his wake, the bard walked forward and stood in front of them, his gaze sweeping over the line of young men. He wore a felt hat with a long feather, and the wool tunic he wore was embroidered with fine thread. He looked far more somber than he had the previous day, and much more intimidating. Every thought Markus had of impressing him swiftly melted away.
Ebra of Starn walked toward Markus’s end of the line and stopped beside the last two boys who had arrived late and stood to Galrad’s left.
Peering unblinking into the first boy’s eyes, the bard asked, “What is your name, and what can you do?”
“Percil Canry, Master Bard. And I can sing,” the boy answered, his voice cracking. A glistening sheen of sweat had broken out across his brow.
Ebra of Starn crossed his stout arms and nodded curtly. “All right, then. Let’s hear you sing.”
Percil swallowed heavily, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in a convulsive movement. Then he opened his mouth and started to sing. His voice was rich and clear, and even though the song he sang was Caradeshi, it was evident that it was a melody full of sadness and grief. He let the last note linger then drop into a silence that remained pure and unbroken for seconds after the song had faded.
Ebra of Starn nodded, his lips pursing. “You sing well,” he pronounced, then moved to the next boy in line. “What can you do?”
“I can juggle,” said Tamen Parish with an eager smile.
“Let’s see.”
The boy stepped forward and, from a pouch tied to his belt, produced three perfectly round stones, the kind one might find on a river bottom. Without hesitation, he launched them into the air and sent them dancing, first in circles then in figure-eights. He kept them going for a full minute before the bard interrupted him:
“Can you do four?”
The rocks tumbled to the ground, and Tamen lowered his head in defeat.
“No,” he muttered and returned to the line without retrieving his stones.
The bard moved to stand in front of Galrad, whom he had to look up to address. “What can you do?”
Galrad’s cheeks were already flushed, but now they took on a blotchy shade of red. “I can whistle.”
The bard motioned for him to begin.
Closing his eyes, Galrad squeezed his hands into fists and puffed his lips out like a fish. A breathy whistle wheezed from his face in an uncooperative tune that petered off quickly. An apologetic half-smile squirmed across his lips.
The bard said nothing and moved on to Markus. “What’s your name, and what can you do, son?”
Markus drew
in a deep breath, his mind freezing like jammed gears. His mouth opened, and he tried to force meaningful words out, but none came to him. He shook his head, his chin drooping to his chest. “Markus Galliar, sir, and I can’t do anything.”
“That’s not true,” came Aram’s voice from behind him. Markus turned to see the boy emerge from the crowd of adults. He approached and stopped next to Markus with a wide smile on his face.
“Markus can do magic tricks,” Aram proclaimed. “Watch him throw a stone!”
“Oh?” The bard’s eyebrows lifted, and he turned back to Markus. “Let’s see.”
Markus gritted his teeth, feeling his cheeks redden like swollen apples. Casting Aram a look of spite, he stepped forward and, bending, selected one of the round stones the juggler had dropped. He stood there staring at it in his hand, half-hoping the rock would do something, all the while doubting it would. A trickle of sweat dribbled down his brow, and he flicked a glance at Aram.
The bard motioned impatiently for him to begin.
Markus stared harder at the rock. Of course, nothing happened. It was just a rock. Breathing a sigh of disgust, he tossed the rock away and turned to get back in line.
A gasp from the crowd halted him between strides. Looking up, he saw that everyone was staring wide-eyed at something behind him. Scared to look, Markus turned around slowly.
And found the rock he had tossed hanging suspended in the air.
Markus sucked in a gasp.
As he watched, the rock started moving. It glided back toward him and dropped into his outstretched palm.
The crowd burst into rowdy cheers. For seconds, Markus just stared at the rock in his hand, blinking, too frozen to react. Then, mouth hanging open, he glanced up at the bard.
Ebra of Starn rested a finger against his cheek, tapping it lightly. “That’s a good trick,” he pronounced at last. “You truly surprised me, and that happens more rarely than you’d think.” He turned to Aram, his brow pinching. “What’s your name?”