“Thank you, but no. I think I should just go home.”
“Don’t be silly,” Lem said. “You saved my life. It’s the least I can do.”
Reluctantly, she nodded.
Tilmin began to stir as the door to the inn opened and the innkeeper returned with two men in green and white uniforms along with an older gray-haired woman in common attire—all looking none too happy at being disturbed at this late hour.
The woman regarded the scene, muttering and bobbing her head from side to side, as if having an argument with herself. She didn’t so much as look at Lem and the others for ten minutes as she paced erratically, stopping and bending to the floor, her eyes flitting from one corner of the room to the other. During this, Tilmin regained consciousness and was dragged to lean against a support beam, maintaining a hate-filled glare at Lem throughout.
“These three?” she asked the innkeeper, pointing out Lem, Valine, and Tilmin.
The innkeeper nodded that these were indeed the culprits.
“Take the young noble back to his room and treat his wound,” she ordered the men. “You two, go get changed. You’ll be coming with me.”
Valine snatched up her broken lyre, and she and Lem hurried to their rooms. Once they both returned, the woman led them outside.
“Are we under arrest?” Lem asked.
“No. But you and your friend will be in a cell overnight in case there’s more trouble. Don’t worry. I’ll have this sorted before the carriages leave in the morning.”
This, at least, was good news. “What about Lord Tilmin?”
“Assuming things are as they appear, he’ll be going home after a short stay in our jail.” She started out west along the promenade. The streets were empty but well lit by streetlamps.
Lem was taken slightly aback by the casual manner in which the woman, who he assumed was the magistrate, behaved. Most towns were rather harsh in their treatment of anyone caught up in a crime, regardless of innocence or guilt. Granted, it did not take a keen mind to figure out what had happened even without having questioned the witnesses. An experienced investigator would be able to piece it together based on the scene alone.
“This sort of thing happens often?” Lem asked.
“Not very. But when tensions run high, people do stupid things. Though most don’t try to kill one another, I admit.”
“I wasn’t trying to kill him.”
She glanced over her shoulder as they turned the corner. “I’m fully aware of that. Otherwise I wouldn’t have my back to you. We may be a peaceful little town, but we’re not fools.”
Lem seriously doubted that Tilmin posed any further threat. But as he often said to himself, caution was best. They were taken to a building near the edge of town with a sign on the façade that read Callahn Town Assembly. Inside was a small foyer with a desk. Through a door to their right stretched a corridor with evenly spaced doors on either side, most shut, but the few that were open revealing what appeared to be offices and storage. After passing through a larger open area with several rows of long benches facing an oak podium, they arrived at the cells. There were six in all, three on either side, each with a cot and a sink.
“This is the best I can do,” she told them. “But you should be comfortable enough until morning.”
Lem and Valine entered adjoining cells. To his relief, the magistrate did not close the doors.
“Don’t you want to hear our side?” Valine asked, who was looking as confused as Lem.
The magistrate shrugged. “If you want to tell me. But with one man unconscious, a dagger on the floor beside him, you with a broken lyre, and both of you in your nightclothes, I don’t see the point. Urisa told me it was Lord Tilmin’s fault. And as no one is dead, that’s that.”
Urisa, Lem assumed, was the innkeeper. “He was drunk.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“I know. But it played a part.”
The woman chuckled as she turned to leave. “A very kind thing to say, considering. I’ll wake you an hour before the carriages arrive.”
Once they were alone, Lem settled onto the cot. Valine did the same, her broken lyre held tight. Lem thought to thank her again and offer a few words of comfort, but her steady breathing told him she was fast asleep. No doubt the poor girl was emotionally exhausted from the events of the day. He had to admit to feeling the dull ache of fatigue himself, though for him it was more from travel than from stress. Not even having someone nearly kill him was enough to cause his emotions to rise. More evidence of the death of his former self, he thought bitterly.
Lem lay in bed for a time, trying to work out how he would fail the audition after having put on his ill-advised display that evening, and had barely slept by the time the light of dawn sifted through the cell window. The cot was comfortable enough, but he couldn’t manage to keep stray thoughts and images at bay. As the door to the cell was open, he decided to see who else was about and perhaps grab something to eat. Valine stirred a few times, but did not wake.
In the next room he found the magistrate standing at the podium, only now in a crisp green and white uniform with a gold chevron on both sleeves. She was flipping through a stack of paper, squinting and muttering to herself as she’d done at the inn.
“An early riser, I see,” she remarked, barely looking up. “Well, you’ll be happy to know that as soon as the carriages depart, Lord Tilmin will be taking your place in the cell. Door locked, of course.”
She took the top paper and moved it to the bottom of the pile. “Your belongings will be waiting in front of the inn when it’s time to depart. And Lord Tilmin is being held responsible for your inn and livery fees.”
“Should I wake Valine?” he asked.
“I’ll take care of it,” she said. “There’s a good eatery three doors down on the right. They should be serving breakfast by now.”
Lem bowed politely, the magistrate not seeming to want to engage in further conversation, and exited the room.
As he made his way through the building, the people he passed took special notice of him as they went about their business, mostly casting disapproving frowns and shakes of the head, likely thinking him a troublemaker released from jail. Only a handful wore uniforms. The rest were casually dressed townsfolk … bureaucrats, from the looks of them. Lem held the same disdain for the bureaucrats that many did. He had heard the grumblings in the taverns and inns around Lamoria about how unnecessary they were—a waste of taxpayer gold—some complaints becoming quite heated and profane. Lem had come to the realization that it was how power was truly wielded by the nobility. Nothing worked without the bureaucrats; they were the grease that made the wheels turn. Control the bureaucracy and you could bring the daily life of the citizenry to a grinding halt if you wanted. A single week of disruption could drive a city to its knees. Yet he doubted this to be the case in Callahn, not with everything revolving around sustaining the college.
Once outside, he breathed deeply, enjoying the ever so slight chill of the morning air that filled his lungs. Only a few people were about, the doors to the shops just beginning to open. Lem stopped a passerby to ask for somewhere he could purchase a decent lyre.
“Nowhere,” the woman answered with a soft laugh. “Nothing is decent. Everything made in Callahn is of extremely high quality. So unless you brought coin, you might think about using the one you have.”
A beginner’s lyre, like the one Valine had broken over Tilmin’s head, was only a few silvers. Still, for someone without means, that was no small sum. One of good quality could be as much as a gold, which was what he had intended to buy as a replacement.
The shop where he had been directed was not very big, but every inch of the walls were covered in various instruments, which as he’d been told, were of high quality. Most he recognized, though a few he had never seen before. A young man in a dark apron was dusting one of the three shelves that spanned the center of the shop from back to front. Seeing the customer, he dipped his head in greetin
g.
“I need a lyre,” Lem said. “A good one.”
“Five gold,” the boy said, without halting his work.
Lem furrowed his brow. “Five?”
The boy shrugged. “Cheapest we have.”
“Can I see it?”
The boy turned and pointed to the opposite wall where a lyre was hung between a lute and a mandolin. When Lem reached out to take it, the boy spun around. “Not unless you’re buying it.”
“How do I know if I want it unless I hear it?”
“This is the shop of Master Gulmar Boraan. Not some trinket cart. Buy it or leave.”
Lem frowned, but retrieved the gold from his pouch. After all, Valine had saved his life. The boy took the coins, examining them to be sure they were genuine, then hurried to the back, returning a moment later with a polished wooden box with the letters G B in gold inlay on the lid. Removing the lyre from the wall, he placed it in the felt-lined box that, from the perfect fit, had been made specifically for this instrument.
Without thanking the rude clerk, Lem exited the shop and started back to the inn. Though the carriages were not yet there, a few of the applicants were waiting in the front with their belongings. They pretended not to see Lem approaching. Whether this was due to the encounter with Tilmin or that they were still intimidated by his performance, he didn’t know. Probably a bit of both.
His stomach gurgled as an unpleasant reminder that he had not stopped to eat. He regarded the inn door, thinking to perhaps retrieve his belongings. But Tilmin was probably still in there, guarded by officers. Best not to risk more trouble than necessary.
In ones and twos, the remaining applicants found their way onto the promenade. The innkeeper, along with two young lads, exited at one point, carrying both Lem’s and Valine’s possessions. Lem asked how long until the carriages arrived, but the woman pretended not to hear him, casting him a disdainful look before reentering. He didn’t have to wait long. Valine arrived just as six black and gold carriages pulled up in a tight line and stopped in front of the inn.
Lem touched Valine on the arm to get her attention and handed her the box.
Upon seeing the contents, her eyes popped wide and she gasped a breath. “This is too much.”
“Just don’t go hitting anyone with it,” Lem said.
Valine smiled, teary eyed, cradling the gift. “I promise.”
The applicants climbed into the carriages, Valine sitting in the seat opposite Lem, running her hand lovingly over the box. With several cracks of the whip, the procession moved forward. Faces of those dreaming to become bards beamed with excitement, Lem being the notable exception.
Once beyond the town, it took about a half hour to reach the forest. The road was paved with smooth, well-fitted stones, making for a comfortable ride. The air was fragrant with the aroma of honeysuckle and mint, and the forest floor was carpeted in great swathes of a rich green moss. It was unseasonably warm, though not uncomfortably so. Lem knew there was a hot spring not far from the college that was said to stave off much of winter’s bite.
They passed several roads along the way that vanished into the thick of the forest. The college itself was more than a single large building, of which there were numerous depictions in paintings and drawings, some he’d seen. There were additionally at least twenty lesser complexes, each area dedicated to a different musical discipline and each far enough away from the others to be completely isolated. The roads, Lem guessed, likely led to these. They also passed dozens of clearings where small cottages had been built to house the instructors. Most were made of stone with thatched roofs and a well-kept front garden, though some bore the influences of the eastern and southern nations—red or brown brick and clay tiled roofs. Not a bad life, thought Lem. A decent home and surrounded by music. Had his life unfolded differently, he would not have minded the trip. He allowed himself a moment of daydreaming. Maybe this was where the road would lead after Mariyah was free. Plenty of forest for Shemi to wander about and hunt. And most of all … peace.
Trouble never came to the Bard’s College. Or at least, he had not found mention of any during a reading of its history. A world of artisans and music, set completely apart from the turmoil and toil of Lamoria. Even during times of war, special care was given to ensure it remained untouched. Lem was impressed by this—that the people of an otherwise brutal society could recognize the value in preserving a place dedicated to music was, to his mind, by far their most redeeming quality.
Just before midday, the trees gave way to open meadows and tiny streams, spanned by wooden bridges, that crisscrossed the landscape. A few groups of people could be seen, gathered together, bearing various musical instruments, some playing in concert, others individually as the rest listened, and still others attentive to an instructor’s lecture.
The applicants were looking even more excited than before, whispering and pointing out various aspects of the grounds that caught their attention. Valine was simply leaned back, eyes closed and a tiny smile on her lips. She looked different. Unafraid. Should the college reject her, he decided to recommend that she seek out the Lumroy Company. Her compositions would be a welcome addition, and he was sure that Clovis would treat her fairly. This time of year, they would be somewhere in the Trudonian city-states. Finding them shouldn’t prove too much of a challenge.
The voices rose as they rounded a sharp bend and the main building of the Bard’s College came into view. It was impressive, to be sure, and undoubtedly ancient. Made from a dark brown stone that gave off a slight green hue when struck by the sunlight, it was three stories high and nearly as broad as the Temple itself. Several balconies with intricately carved balustrades protruded from the top floor, and statues of musicians playing an assortment of instruments, their faces frozen in various degrees of rapture, were placed along the lip of the roof. At the front entrance was a massive set of oak doors guarded by a half-open portcullis. A low row of perfectly formed bushes ran along the façade, just beneath the bottom of the windows, with more statues between them at regular intervals.
The immediate landscape contained more trees than the open meadows they had recently passed, looking purposeful in their placement, most with stone benches where one could relax, shaded from the heat of the sun. The ground was covered chiefly with moss and leaf litter, rather than the manicured grass he would have expected to see. It gave the grounds a feel that the building was a natural part of the forest—something grown rather than built. Lem found it quite pleasing. It reminded him of Old Fashem’s house, though the college was massive by comparison. Built as a present for his wife, the entire rear portion was dug into a hillside, and the timbers of the front half were all handcrafted and stained to match the pines and oaks so to appear as if they were unmilled and were actually sprouting from the forest floor. A true oddity; albeit a beautiful one.
They looped around a great white marble obelisk with unfamiliar runes carved down the sides and inlaid with gold. It was said that the ancient language had been created by the bards, though why it had died out, Lem didn’t know. The history of the bards was interwoven with fable and mystery to the point where it became impossible to divine what was true and what was myth. Perhaps with further study he could learn more, but there hadn’t been time to delve deeper.
The carriages pulled in front of the walkway leading to the entrance and came to a halt. A moment later, one of the doors swung open, pushed by two gangly young boys in yellow robes. A woman dressed in similar attire, though with blue borders on the cuffs and collar, exited. She was older, Lem guessed in her fifties, with long auburn hair tied back in the center, though hanging loosely on the sides, and was looking out on the applicants with a warm smile.
At least the welcome is friendly, he thought.
As they climbed out, Lem noticed Valine was stealing glances at him. Lem groaned inwardly, hoping that she had not misinterpreted his actions for romantic interest. If so, he would need to remedy the situation quickly.
“Gr
eetings to you all!” the woman said, her arms wide. “My name is Iradora Pruul. I’m an instructor here at the college and will be your guide during your audition. I know that many of you have traveled a very long way to be here, and I understand how nervous you must be. There are only three vacancies this year, so most of you will be returning home.”
This revelation caused a stir. Three vacancies? Why so few?
“For those of you who are asked to stay, life will be much different from what you are used to. The path to becoming a bard is not an easy one. The challenges are many. But I assure you that if you work hard and see it through, you will not regret your time among us. For those who will be returning home, remember: Music lives within your heart. This is only a place, nothing more. Failure is a state of mind. Perhaps this is not where you are meant to be. Or if it is, perhaps now is not the time. Either way, I hope you take this opportunity to grow from the experience.” She spun on her heels. “Come. We have much to do before the day ends.”
The assembly filed in behind her, Valine staying close to Lem’s side. Beyond the threshold was an open gallery lit by three crystal chandeliers. The walls were covered from floor to ceiling in rectangular gold plates roughly the size of a large book and etched with various musical notations. There were several exits on either side and a winding staircase directly ahead that climbed to the next level.
Iradora paused and pointed to the walls with a sweep of her arm. “Each one is a composition dedicated to a different Bard Master. Some are hundreds of years old, even predating the records held in our archives.” She retrieved a piece of paper from a pocket, taking a moment to examine it before returning her attention to the applicants. “Now, if you will please line up, I need to confirm your applications before we go any further.”
Once they were in a line, Iradora went from person to person, asking their name and then once finding it on the list, moving to the next.
Lem was near to the end, and she paused two down before reaching him, looking back and counting the entire group.
A Chorus of Fire Page 7