At long last her turn came. She swallowed her nervousness as best she could, took the platform, and began.
Privately she thought it was a pretty silly song. Why on earth any man would put up with the things that lady did to him, and all for the sake of a “kiss on her cold, quiet hand” was beyond her. Still, she put all the acting ability she had into it, and was rewarded by a murmur of approval when she’d finished.
“That voice—I’ve seldom heard one so pure at that late an age!” she overheard as she packed up her instrument. “If he passes the third day—you don’t suppose he’d agree to become castrati, do you? I can think of half a dozen courts that would pay red gold to have him.”
She smothered a smile—imagine their surprise to discover that it would not be necessary to eunuch her to preserve her voice!
She lingered to listen to the last of the entrants, then waited outside for the posting of the results.
She nearly fainted to discover that she’d moved up to second place.
“I told you,” said a quiet voice in her ear. “But are you still sure you want to go through with this?”
She whirled, to find the minstrel Talaysen standing behind her, the sunset brightening his hair and the soft shadows on his face making him appear scarcely older than she.
“I’m sure,” she replied firmly. “One of the judges said today that he could think of half a dozen courts that would pay red gold to have my voice.”
“Bought and sold like so much mutton? Where’s the living in that? Caged behind high stone walls and never let out of the sight of m’lord’s guards, lest you take a notion to sell your services elsewhere? Is that the life you want to lead?”
“Trudging down roads in the pouring cold rain, frightened half to death that you’ll take sickness and ruin your voice—maybe for good? Singing with your stomach growling so loud it drowns out the song? Watching some idiot with half your talent being clad in silk and velvet and eating at the high table, while you try and please some brutes of guardsmen in the kitchen in hopes of a few scraps and a corner by the fire?” she countered. “No thank you. I’ll take my chances with the Guild. Besides, where else would I be able to learn? I’ve got no more silver to spend on instruments or teaching.”
“There are those who would teach you for the love of it—welladay, you’ve made up your mind. As you will, child,” he replied, but his eyes were sad as he turned away and vanished into the crowd again.
Once again she sat the hard bench for most of the day, while those of lesser ranking performed. This time it was a little easier to bear; it was obvious from a great many of these performances that few, if any, of the boys had the Gift to create. By the time it was Rune’s turn to perform, she judged that, counting herself and the first-place holder, there could only be five real contestants for the three open Bardic apprentice slots. The rest would be suitable only as Minstrels; singing someone else’s songs, unable to compose their own.
She took her place before the critical eyes of the Judges, and began.
She realized with a surge of panic as she finished the first verse that they did not approve. While she improvised, she mentally reviewed the verse, trying to determine what it was that had set those slight frowns on the Judicial faces.
Then she realized; boasting. Guild Bards simply did not admit to being boastful. Nor did they demean themselves by reacting to the taunts of lesser beings. Oh, Holy Three—
Quickly she improvised a verse on the folly of youth; of how, had she been older and wiser, she’d never have gotten herself into such a predicament. She heaved an invisible sigh of relief as the frowns disappeared.
By the last chorus, they were actually nodding and smiling, and one of them was tapping a finger in time to the tune. She finished with a flourish worthy of a Master, and waited, breathlessly. And they applauded. Dropped their dignity and applauded.
The performance of the final contestant was an anticlimax.
None of them had left the tent since this last trial began. Instead of a list, the final results would be announced, and they waited in breathless anticipation to hear what they would be. Several of the boys had already approached Rune, offering smiling congratulations on her presumed first-place slot. A hush fell over them all as the chief of the Judges took the platform, a list in his hand.
“First place, and first apprenticeship as Bard—Rune, son of Lista Jesaril of Karthar—”
“Pardon, my lord—” Rune called out clearly, bubbling over with happiness and unable to hold back the secret any longer.“—but it’s not son—it’s daughter.”
She had only a split second to take in the rage on their faces before the first staff descended on her head.
They flung her into the dust outside the tent, half-senseless, and her smashed instruments beside her. The passersby avoided even looking at her as she tried to get to her feet, and fell three times. Her right arm dangled uselessly; it hurt so badly that she was certain that it must be broken, but it hadn’t hurt half as badly when they’d cracked it as it had when they’d smashed her fiddle; that had broken her heart. All she wanted to do now was to get to the river and throw herself in. With any luck at all, she’d drown.
But she couldn’t even manage to stand.
“Gently, lass,” firm hands took her and supported her on both sides. “Lady be my witness, if ever I thought they’d have gone this far, I’d never have let you go through with this farce.”
She turned her head, trying to see through tears of pain, both of heart and body, with eyes that had sparks dancing before them. The man supporting her on her left she didn’t recognize, but the one on the right—
“T-Talaysen?” she faltered.
“I told you I’d help if you needed it, did I not? I think you have more than a little need at the moment—”
“Th-they broke my fiddle, Talaysen. And my lute. They broke them, and they broke my arm.”
“Oh, Rune, lass—” There were tears in his eyes, and yet he almost seemed to be laughing as well. “If ever I doubted you’d the makings of a Bard, you just dispelled those doubts. First the fiddle, then the lute—and only then do you think of your own hurts. Ah, come away lass, come where people can care for such a treasure as you—”
Stumbling through darkness, wrenched with pain, carefully supported and guided on either side, Rune was in no position to judge where or how far they went. After some unknown interval however, she found herself in a many-colored tent, lit with dozens of lanterns, partitioned off with curtains hung on wires that criss-crossed the entire dwelling. Just now most of these were pushed back, and a mixed crowd of men and women greeted their entrance with cries of welcome that turned to dismay at the sight of her condition.
She was pushed down into an improvised bed of soft wool blankets and huge, fat pillows, while a thin, dark girl dressed like a gypsy bathed her cuts and bruises with something that stung, then numbed them, and a gray-bearded man tsk’d over her arm, prodded it once or twice, then, without warning, pulled it into alignment. When he did that, the pain was so incredible that Rune nearly fainted.
By the time the multi-colored fire-flashing cleared from her eyes, he was binding her arm up tightly with thin strips of wood, while the girl was urging her to drink something that smelled of herbs and wine.
Before she had a chance to panic, Talaysen reappeared as if conjured at her side.
“Where—”
“You’re with the Free Bards—the real Bards, not those pompous pufftoads with the Guild,” he said. “Dear child, I thought that all that would happen to you was that those inflated bladders of self-importance would give you a tongue-lashing and throw you out on your backside. If I’d had the slightest notion that they’d do this to you, I’d have kidnapped you away and had you drunk insensible till the trials were over. I may never forgive myself. Now, drink your medicine.”
“But how—why—who are you?” Rune managed between gulps.
“ ‘What are you?’ I think might be the better
place to start. Tell her, will you, Erdric?”
“We’re the Free Bards,” said the gray-bearded man. “As Master Talaysen told you—he’s the one who banded us together, when he found that there were those who, like himself, had the Gift and the Talent but were disinclined to put up with the self-aggrandizement and politics and foolish slavishness to form of Guild nonsense. We go where we wish and serve—or not serve—who we will, and sing as we damn well please and no foolishness about who’ll be offended. We also keep a sharp eye out for youngsters like you, with the Gift, and with the spirit to fight the Guild. We’ve had our eye on you these three years now.”
“You—but how?”
“Myself, for one,” said a new voice, and a bony fellow with hair that kept falling into his eyes joined the group around her. “You likely don’t remember me, but I remember you—I heard you fiddle in your tavern when I was passing through Karthar, and I passed the word.”
“And I’m another.” This one, Rune recognized; he was the man that sold her her lute, who had seemed to have been a gypsy peddler selling new and used instruments. He had also unaccountably stayed long enough to teach her the rudiments of playing it.
“You see, we keep an eye out for all the likely lads and lasses we’ve marked, knowing that soon or late, they’d come to the trials. Usually, though, they’re not so stubborn as you.” Talaysen smiled.
“I should hope to live!” the lanky fellow agreed. “They made the same remark my first day about wanting to have me stay a liltin’ soprano the rest of me days. That was enough for me!”
“And they wouldn’t even give me the same notice they’d have given a flea,” the dark girl laughed. “Though I hadn’t the wit to think of passing myself off as a boy for the trials.”
“But—why are you—together?” Rune asked, bewildered.
“We band together to give each other help; a spot of silver to tide you over an empty month, a place to go when you’re hurt or ill, someone to care for you when you’re not as young as you used to be,” the gray-haired Erdric said. “And to teach, and to learn. And we have more and better patronage than you, or even the Guild suspect; not everyone finds the precious style of the Guild songsters to their taste, especially the farther you get from the large cities. Out in the countryside, away from the decadence of courts, they like their songs, like their food, substantial and heartening.”
“But why does the Guild let you get away with this, if you’re taking patronage from them?” Rune’s apprehension, given her recent treatment, was real and understandable.
“Bless you, child, they couldn’t do without us!” Talaysen laughed. “No matter what you think, there isn’t an original, creative Master among ’em! Gwena, my heart, sing her ‘The Unkind Lover’—your version, I mean, the real and original.”
Gwena, the dark girl, flashed dazzling white teeth in a vulpine grin, plucked a gittern from somewhere behind her, and began.
Well, it was the same melody that Rune had sung, and some of the words—the best phrases—were the same as well. But this was no ice-cold princess taunting her poor knightly admirerer with what he’d never touch; no, this was a teasing shepherdess seeing how far she could harass her cowherd lover, and the teasing was kindly meant. And what the cowherd claimed at the end was a good deal more than a “kiss on her cold, quiet hand.” In fact, you might say with justice that the proceedings got downright heated!
“That ‘Lament’ you did the first day’s another song they’ve twisted and tormented; most of the popular ballads the Guild touts as their own are ours,” Talaysen told her with a grin.
“As you should know, seeing as you’ve written at least half of them!” Gwena snorted.
“But what would you have done if they had accepted me anyway?” Rune wanted to know.
“Oh, you wouldn’t have lasted long; can a caged thrush sing? Soon or late, you’d have done what I did—escaped your gilded cage, and we’d have been waiting.”
“Then, you were a Guild Bard?” Somehow she felt she’d known that all along. “But I never hear of one called Talaysen, and if the ‘Lament’ is yours—”
“Well, I changed my name when I took my freedom. Likely though, you wouldn’t recognize it—”
“Oh she wouldn’t, you think? Or are you playing mock-modest with us again?” Gwena shook back her abundant black hair. “I’ll make it known to you that you’re having your bruises tended by Master Bard Merridon, himself.”
“Merridon?” Rune’s eyes went wide as she stared at the man, who coughed, deprecatingly. “But—but—I thought Master Merridon was supposed to have gone into seclusion—”
“The Guild would hardly want it known that their pride had rejected ’em for a pack of gypsy jonglers, now would they?” the lanky fellow pointed out.
“So, can I tempt you to join with us, Rune, lass?” the man she’d known as Talaysen asked gently.
“I’d like—but I can’t,” she replied despairingly. “How could I keep myself? It’ll take months for my arm to heal. And—my instruments are splinters, anyway.” She shook her head, tears in her eyes. “They weren’t much, but they were all I had. I’ll have to go home; they’ll take me in the tavern. I can still turn a spit and fill a glass one-handed.”
“Ah lass, didn’t you hear Erdric? We take care of each other—we’ll care for you till you’re whole again—” The old man patted her shoulder, then hastily found her a rag when scanning their faces brought her belief—and tears.
“As for the instruments—” Talaysen vanished and returned again as her sobs quieted, “—I’ll admit to relief at your words. I was half-afraid you’d a real attachment to your poor, departed friends. ‘They’re splinters, and I loved them’ can’t be mended, but ‘They’re splinters and they were all I had’ is a different tune altogether. What think you of these twain?”
The fiddle and lute he laid in her lap weren’t new, nor were they the kind of gilded, carved and ornamented dainties Guild musicians boasted, but they held their own kind of quiet beauty, a beauty of mellow wood and clean lines. Rune plucked a string on each, experimentally, and burst into tears again. The tone was lovely, smooth and golden, and these were the kind of instruments she’d never dreamed of touching, much less owning.
When the tears had been soothed away, the various medicines been applied both internally and externally, and introductions made all around, Rune found herself once again alone with Talaysen—or Merridon, though on reflection, she liked the name she’d first known him by better. The rest had drawn curtains on their wires close in about her little corner, making an alcove of privacy. “If you’ll let me join you—” she said, shyly.
“Let!” he laughed. “Haven’t we made it plain enough we’ve been trying to lure you like coney-catchers? Oh, you’re one of us, Rune, lass. You’ll not escape us now!”
“Then—what am I supposed to do?”
“You heal, that’s the first thing. The second, well, we don’t have formal apprenticeships amongst us. By the Three, there’s no few things you could serve as Master in, and no question about it! You could teach most of us a bit about fiddling, for one—”
“But—” she looked and felt dismayed, “—one of the reasons I wanted to join the Guild was to learn! I can’t read nor write music; there’s so many instruments I can’t play—” her voice rose to a soft wail “—how am I going to learn if a Master won’t take me as an apprentice?”
“Enough! Enough! No more weeping and wailing, my heart’s oversoft as it is!” he said hastily. “If you’re going to insist on being an apprentice, I suppose there’s nothing for it. Will I do as a Master to you?”
Rune was driven to speechlessness, and could only nod.
“Holy Three, lass, you make a liar out of me, who swore never to take an apprentice! Wait a moment.” He vanished around the curtain for a moment, then returned. “Here—” He set down a tiny harp. “This can be played one-handed, and learning the ways of her will keep you too busy to bedew me with any more te
ars while your arm mends. Treat her gently—she’s my own very first instrument, and she deserves respect.”
Rune cradled the harp in her good arm, too awe-stricken to reply.
“We’ll send someone in the morning for your things, wherever it is you’ve cached ’em. Lean back there—oh, it’s a proper nursemaid I am—” He made her comfortable on her pillows, covering her with blankets and moving her two—no, three—new instruments to a place of safety, but still within sight. He seemed to understand how seeing them made her feel. “We’ll find you clothing and the like as well. That sleepy-juice they gave you should have you nodding shortly. Just remember one thing before you doze off. I’m not going to be an easy Master to serve; you won’t be spending your days lazing about, you know! Come morning, I’ll set you your very first task. You’ll teach me—” his eyes lighted with unfeigned eagerness “—that ghost-song!”
Not long after I was accepted into the Magic in Ithkar anthology, the late Robert Adams who was the co-editor asked me to participate in his Friends of the Horseclans anthologies as well. I was happy to, since I liked Robert a great deal, and this was the result, which appeared in Volume Two.
Robert was an odd duck; you either liked him and chuckled over his eccentricities, or you passionately hated him. His most popular books, the “Horseclans” series, have not weathered the change in political climate well. For some background, they are set in a distant future following a nuclear war in which (apparently) the U.S. and the Soviet Union both bombed each other back to the Stone Age. The hero of the earliest books is immortal and telepathic, having evidently stood in the right place at the wrong time as one of the nukes hit. He decides to single-handedly bring civilization in the U.S. back up to par, mostly by uniting the remains of the population with the Native Americans who, being on remote reservations, survived intact. The villains of the books are the Greeks, who sustained very little damage, since it seems that none of the greater powers thought they were worth bombing back to the Stone Age. They proceed to flourish and conquer in the tradition of Alexander, eventually moving on to the North American continent. However, thanks to better living through radiation, there are telepathic horses and mutated, large cats in North America, both of which have teamed up with the Horseclans-folk.
Dragon's Teeth Page 20