by J. C. Staudt
“I’ll do nothing of the sort. You must think me a cold-hearted butcher, my lady.”
“I don’t understand. You’re not afraid of a scrawny goblin rabble… are you?”
His brow knitted together as if it confused him to look at her. “A modest troupe of goblins is nothing to be concerned over, Alynor. They’ll not bother us if we leave them be. We’ve all got to share the realms with creatures we deem less than savory. That’s no reason to pick a fight with every mouse and monster who crosses our path.” His expression eased, as if clarity had suddenly come to him. “Oh, I see what this is about now. It’s that story I told you the night before last, isn’t it? I knew it was a terrible idea from the moment I spoke the first word. Because I’ve tortured and killed, you think me a mindless slayer with more rage than sense. That’s enough of that, then. No more stories.”
“No, my dearest,” Alynor tried to say. “I don’t—”
Darion struck his reins and continued down the road ahead of her.
She urged Lana to a trot and caught up with him. “Darion. What is the matter? I didn’t mean to offend you. I don’t think you’re a mindless slayer. I promise.”
“I am, though,” he said. “I’m a murderer. I can’t count the number of lives I’ve taken, human or otherwise.”
“All for good reason, I’m sure,” Alynor said, trying to sound reassuring.
“What’s a good reason for killing?”
The question took her by surprise, yet somehow the answer came to her anyway. “To protect those you love.”
“What about to avenge them?”
She didn’t know what to say. She was beginning to feel as though the man’s demons were beyond her ability to soothe. Maybe that was why he’d kept it to himself all this time; because he knew when he let it out—when he let her see it—it would become too heavy to bear.
They rode on in silence, the echo of his questions ringing loud in her ears. The lights of the town were glimmering through the dusk by the time they emerged from the forest and crested the road’s final hill. Merchants and farmers were closing their stands and carting home for the night while tavern windows glowed with the sounds of nighttime revelry.
There were many lodging houses along the main road, but Darion passed several before he found one worthy of a stop. Alynor did not object, having no preference herself so long as the baths were warm and the beds were comfortable. The place was called the Moonshade Alehouse, a sprawling wood-shingled edifice along an isolated stretch of avenue jutting off the main road.
The Moonshade was quieter than the other pubs. When they’d stabled the horses and entered the common room through the swinging side door, they found out why. A singer was seated on the shallow stage at the back of the room, strumming his lute to the rapt attention of the patronage. His voice was so smooth and clear it seemed to ring like fine crystal through the room’s every corner and crevice. He sang the words to a mournful song Alynor had never heard before:
At dusk a distant breaking, loud
Where points of earth meet dusty cloud
‘Tis there my final rest shall bind
The strings that stretch my weighted mind
Retreating toward my resting place
The north, the north with hollow face
There I subside to life’s remorse,
Yet e’er the tune shall run its course
This tune which twists the smiles from ire
And bends them to its own design
Is falsehood for a friend’s desire
To serve command and whim of mine
For never wise was it with me
To purchase trust with trickery,
To pull the laughter from her lung,
To spark her wit with treason sung
But still its sway holds evenly
So I must keep its melody
And flee where no more might it ring
To trap the ear unwavering
A loathing sea of sand in haste
Will guide me to my resting place
May fading trail of steps be drowned
And I diminish with its sound
And still its sway holds evenly, so I must keep its melody
For only safe is it with me
For only safe is it with me
When it was over, the singer’s voice fell away. The music died on his strings, and the walls of the common room felt all the bleaker for it. Stranger still were the alehouse’s patrons, who neither cheered nor applauded; they simply resumed their drinks and their conversations as if nothing had happened. What kind of people are these, who can’t find it within themselves to appreciate a song so beautiful? she wondered.
She looked toward the stage and found the singer staring back at her. His lips eased into a smile, his eyes gleaming in the candlelight. The look was so haunting it made her want to turn away, but she couldn’t. Next she knew, Darion was dragging her by the arm toward a table at the far end of the room.
He sat her down roughly and held her at arm’s length, gripping her shoulders with his meaty hands. “Look at me,” he commanded her. “Alynor, look at me.”
I am looking at you, she wanted to say, but couldn’t.
“I should’ve known it as soon as I heard that melody,” muttered Darion, half to himself. “That minstrel is a cheat.”
“Isn’t he magnificent?” she said dreamily, despite herself.
“Yes. Rather too magnificent. He’s a fraud. That instrument is aligned with the mage-song somehow. I’ll fetch our food and drink. Whatever you do, don’t look at him. If he starts singing again, plug your ears.” Darion stood and turned toward the bar, only to find the singer standing right behind him.
“Hello, friend,” said the man, in a voice as lively and lyrical as his song. He stepped past Darion and slid onto the wooden bench seat across the table from Alynor. His eyes were inquisitive, and she found herself caught up in them without understanding why. Wisps of flaxen hair hung beside his face and seemed to drift on a breeze all his own.
Darion shoved in next to her. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Making new friends,” said the singer. He extended a hand with slender fingers and long graceful nails—so as to better pluck his lute strings, Alynor knew. “Kestrel,” he said. “And what may I call you?”
“You may call me anything you like, so long as you do it elsewhere,” Darion said gruffly.
Alynor shook the singer’s hand and told him her name.
“You’re a Mirrowell of the Greenkeep?” he asked.
“The very same. Lord Hallard is my father.”
“Well, isn’t that something… I’ve played in your father’s hall.”
“Have you really? That’s something indeed.”
“Probably squeezed him dry while you were at it,” she heard Darion mutter.
“Your father is indeed a generous man,” said Kestrel, eyeing Darion. “And who might this be?”
“Forgive me. This is my husband… Sir Darion Ulther.”
Kestrel was shocked. “No. It cannot be. I’ve heard of you.”
“You and half the other folk in this room,” said Darion.
“No, I mean I really have heard of you. In a song. You know how performers are always borrowing each other’s music? Well I heard a tune by a fellow who called himself Belaric Brightstring. Said he heard it sung by a balladeer up Highhollow way. Filched the melody and used what lyrics he remembered. Made up the rest. Might be that tune’s been played in every tavern from here to the Whitebranch by now.”
“You really do have a reputation,” said Alynor, giving Darion a nudge.
Her husband was not so amused. “Speaking of tunes, that was an odd rendition you did back there. What do you call that one?”
“Ah, here’s a man who knows his stuff,” Kestrel said with a wink. “That one’s called Noralin’s Song. And that fine bit of craftsmanship up there is Noralin’s Lute.” He gestured toward his instrument, then leaned in. “Just don’t tell
Noralin. Although she’s been dead for nigh on two hundred years, so I reckon she doesn’t mind.”
“Is that how you’ve come to be so well off, then? Bilking every candler and shopkeep in town out of his hard-earned coin?”
“You’ve got a clever one here, eh?” Kestrel gave Darion a playful tap on the arm and winked at her again. “No sir, I make my living honest, just like everyone else.” He pretended solemnity while he said it, but his infectious smile took over towards the end.
“I’ve a mind to report you to the proprietor of this establishment,” Darion said.
Kestrel swept an arm toward the bar. “As you will, milord. Though I should warn you, old Garold might take exception to your blustering if he doesn’t get his cut of the proceeds.”
Darion was unmoved. “Perhaps it’s the town watch I ought to be advising. Unless they’ve got a percentage in the deal as well.”
“We’re still working on that,” said Kestrel. “For now, it seems they’ve got bigger sows to skewer.”
“Seems to me you’re the one needs skewering. You may be above the law in these parts, but you’re not above my suspicions. You’ll not squeeze a single copper out of me.”
Kestrel held up his hands. “Oh, I wouldn’t dare. I confess, my intention was quite the opposite…”
“Not interested,” said Darion. “Now kindly leave my lady and me—”
“I thought your song was lovely,” Alynor interrupted. She took two silver coins from her purse and held them out to him.
“You are too kind, milady.” Kestrel accepted the coins and slipped them into his purse, quick as a cat.
Alynor ignored Darion’s dark look and asked the singer, “Where do you hail from, good sir?”
“Oh, here and there. Wherever the song takes me, really.”
“Let it take you back to your stage and away from my table,” Darion suggested.
“Dearest… have you forgotten all your manners?”
“Nearly,” he muttered.
Alynor could not understand Darion’s dislike of the man. Kestrel seemed a nice enough fellow to her. So what if he’s got an arrangement with the owner? That must be common in these little places… “I apologize for my husband. He’s usually a bit more gracious around new acquaintances.”
“I wish you’d call me friend, milady.”
“Friend. Of course,” she said, and could not help the grin on her face. “My husband is usually nicer to friends.”
Darion was irritated. “What do you want from us? Why did you come over here? Can you not leave us in peace? Have you not another song to play, or an unsuspecting beggar to part from his coppers?”
Kestrel tapped his chin amusedly. “Where to start? Protection, conversation, yes, and many. Does that suffice to answer your questions?”
Darion began to reply, but apparently found himself tongue-tied. Alynor held back a girlish giggle at the look of utter perturbation on her husband’s face.
“Allow me to explain further,” Kestrel said when it became clear Darion had nothing intelligible to add. “I’m afraid my motivations are purely selfish. You see, it isn’t every day a man rides into Fenria Town with plate steel on his chest and a warhorse between his legs. And this not three days after I hear tell of a Dathiri rider come through with news of war in Berliac. You’re bound for the front, Sir Darion. Like the days of old. The days they speak of in that song I heard about you. The moment I saw you, I knew you were someone worth knowing.”
“I’m not,” Darion said. “You don’t need my protection. War will never come to Fenria Town unless the Dathiri Ford and Castle Maergath both fall. The only way an army can cross the Dathiri River is by boat, and there aren’t enough boats for that unless the people of Forandran sail across to welcome the Korengadi with open arms. So you see, you’re quite safe here. You’ve naught to fret over.”
Kestrel gave a wily laugh. “Fretting?” He mimed playing his lute. “I intend to be doing a lot of that soon, though not here in Fenria Town.”
“Stay where you belong, minstrel,” Darion told him. “War is no place for a cutpurse.”
“And I suppose it’s just the place for your lady wife?”
“My lady wife has more fight in her than you’re ever like to find at the bottom of a pocket.”
Alynor was taken aback by the comment. She thought it a compliment at first, but after a moment she wasn’t so sure. He thinks I have fight in me. What does he mean by that? Is he saying he respects my having kept up with him, or merely that he finds me obstinate and contentious? She supposed he could’ve meant both. She didn’t understand why Darion always insisted on being so cryptic and unclear. Why couldn’t he ever just say what he felt? Trying to decipher his meaning only troubled her, so she gave up on it.
“Who said anything about fighting?” Kestrel was saying. “War means soldiers. Soldiers work for good coin, which they spend on spirits… and when soldiers get spirited, they want to sing. That’s where I come in.”
“So you’re looking for a change in venue,” Darion said. “From robbing townsfolk to robbing soldiers.”
Kestrel’s easygoing look clouded over. “Now look here. Let’s get one thing straight, old man. Using a little mage-song to improve my audience’s mood does not make me a thief. They’re here for a good time, and that’s what I’m giving them. As it happens, I can offer gold for your protection on the road.”
“I want none to do with your ill-gotten gains,” Darion replied. “We’ll not be sticking to any roads, neither. So unless those dainty little slippers of yours can handle hundreds of leagues of untamed wilderness, I suggest you find your own way to Maergath.”
Kestrel gave a sad little scowl. “Have it your way.” Something caught his attention from across the room. The barkeep was waving him over. “Looks as though I’m being summoned for duty,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me.”
As soon as he was out of earshot, Alynor asked Darion why he’d been so nasty toward such a nice man.
“The wilds are an unsafe place, my lady. You’ve never traveled without an armed escort, so mayhap you deserve the benefit of the doubt where that’s concerned. Taking up with strangers is a sure way to wake up with an empty purse and an open throat.”
Kestrel took the stage and began to play another song, an upbeat shanty which Alynor found vaguely familiar. As he played, patrons frequented the painted clay pot he’d set beside his chair for donations. Soon Alynor could see the glint of copper inside, even from across the room. She thought she saw a silver coin or two among them, though she couldn’t be sure whether they were the ones she’d given him.
When Darion returned to the table from arranging their room and board for the night, he was carrying two horns of ale. He set one in front of Alynor before sliding onto the bench opposite her. “Drink,” he said. “Aren’t you thirsty?”
Alynor had been thirsty earlier, but she wasn’t anymore. “He’s asked for our help.”
Darion groaned. “Oh, gods. Is this about that singer again? The only thing he’s asking for is the inside of a dungeon. That man is either hoping to take us for fools or he’d turn on us the moment things went sour on the road. You’re too trusting, woman.”
“Explain to me why you think him so unsavory,” she demanded.
“Do you not understand that he uses magic to influence his listeners?”
She gave him a brazen look. “I hardly know the first thing about magic, Darion.”
“Take my word for it, then. A man who uses magic to manipulate the minds of others is as unsavory as they come.”
“He isn’t actually stealing from anyone though, is he?”
“Short of cutting their purse strings himself… no, I suppose not. Though who can vouch for the man’s other nightly activities?”
“I’m talking about when he sings. He isn’t using his magic to make people’s purses disappear. He hasn’t maneuvered anyone over to his jar like a puppeteer. Nor did he blow my coins into his waiting palm on the tide o
f some magical gale.”
“No, my lady. He’s done much worse. He’s slithered his way into the minds of the people who own those coins…”
“Is that unlawful?”
“Beg pardon?”
“Are there any laws against it?”
“There are no laws against magic in the realms, save in a few places. Why should that matter? He’s stealing, plain and simple.”
The music wafting through the room was making Alynor feel blithe and careless. She began to speak more freely, and without considering the implications. “Well I don’t think it’s wrong. I say, if a man has a talent, he ought to use it. Yes.”
“You’re not serious…” Darion said in disbelief.
“I’m afraid I rather am, my dearest.” She gave him a silly smile and hugged his brawny arm, resting her head on his shoulder. He was so big and strong that sometimes she felt she could get lost when he held her with those arms. Music was playing, and the common room was filling up with guests, and everyone was happy and smiling. On top of that, she and Darion were due for a long sleep in a soft bed with a roof over their heads. The prospect made her too glad to ignore any longer. “Take me to bed. Won’t you, my love?”
“My lady,” Darion exclaimed, glancing around in embarrassment. “Have you forgotten your courtesies?”
“I forget nothing,” she said, looking up at him. She tapped him on the nose. “You are simply adorable when you’re angry.”
Darion’s cheeks reddened. When the serving girl came to bring their dinner, he tossed a pair of coins on the table and waved her away. “I think you’ve had enough for one night.”
“But my darling,” she said. “I—”
He slid off his bench and took her in his arms, carrying her like a child.
“This one’s off to enjoy himself,” said a man seated at a nearby table.
His friends laughed.
Darion carried Alynor up the stairs and backed through the door to their room. He laid her on the bed. That was the last thing she remembered before morning came.
Chapter 7
“Use of the mage-song requires mastery of three aspects,” said Sir Jalleth Highbridge. “You must see the sigil in your mind; you must know its name; and you must speak it in tone.”