by Amy Keeley
The music stopped and she did as well. Then, she noticed a small crowd that had gathered, clapping their hands politely for the musician. Walking over to it, she tried to see who had decided to come all this way just to play for the crowd at a backwater market.
“Thank you,” she heard a man say. His smooth voice was music itself, calm and melodic. Is this the beginning of the charm? she wondered. Minstrels, her father had once said, could bind people with their songs if they chose. That was why so many of them only played for nobles, the few who could protect themselves.
She waited for the spell to catch. Nothing. It must only be a tale, she thought, and moved closer until she could see the man who belonged to the voice.
Wild, wavy hair somewhere between gold and brown framed a face more handsome than she’d expected. Her eyes widened, drinking in the sight of his slow, full smile, his brilliant, aquamarine eyes that sparkled as he lifted the fiddle to his shoulder. Those eyes scanned the crowd and paused at her.
Quickly looking down at the ground, cheeks hot, she wanted to run. Only the press of the crowd behind her kept her in place.
Unlike the tune before, this one began with a long, mournful note that seemed to resonate with the very core of her. It’s a spell, she tried to tell herself, though no magic clung to her.
No, it was the music itself. That explained why the crowd had grown. There were no illusions, and a musician who played as well as this without using magic was a very rare thing.
Lifting up her eyes again, she listened as the music changed. What had begun as mournful slowly added an undercurrent of anger, growing as the song progressed. She closed her eyes, the music saying everything about her life that she wanted to say and couldn’t. Pain and anger mixed with despair, as the notes became increasingly discordant and the melody more complex. She couldn’t move as he played through the emotions that made up her daily life. She felt the final cry of his fiddle in her heart and nearly doubled over from the pain.
No one had ever reached as fully into her soul as this minstrel did. No one threatened to heal her as this minstrel did.
He lowered the fiddle from under his chin and glanced at her, a sly grin barely forming, before scanning the crowd. Slowly, as if waking from a dream, the crowd began to applaud, then faster, and faster until the applause became deafening.
“Excuse me,” she whispered to the people behind her, tears filling her eyes.
“Thank you,” she heard him say. “Thank you very much. I’m honored. And now, let’s pick up the pace.” She had managed to get past the crowd just as the first notes of a rousing dance tune filled the air.
He must use magic, she thought, though she hadn’t felt any. But she didn’t know of any magic that could let a person view inside another. As far as she knew, it didn’t exist.
Yet there was no other way to explain how clearly his song had matched her thoughts.
Clutching her purchases, she forced herself to walk, not run, back to the handcart. She didn’t look back at the gaily colored canopies as she threw her items in. It would have been a blur of colors anyway through the tears. With a hard yank, she pulled the cart away and pushed with all she had.
“Control is important,” she whispered to herself. “Control is everything, in magic and life. If you do not have control of yourself, how can you hope to master magic?” They were words every child raised in Tothsin beliefs knew, and everyone was a Tothsin now.
The words brought no comfort, but they managed to get her to a stand of trees by the river where she could hide from potential passersby as she cried great, heaving sobs.
It’s like having a secret told to a room full of strangers, she thought. And she wasn’t naive enough to think he cared. The fiddler had probably seen her, made a few educated guesses, and played something that he thought might get him an extra coin. It was her own reaction that told him he was right, if he’d even bothered to look for it afterward.
He had. She remembered his glance and slumped against the tree in shame.
The sun was getting low in the sky. She sighed. It would be impossible for her to make it home before dark. The night air chilled her, but she only hugged herself in response. Lejer stayed out late sometimes as well. Maybe it would be good for her to be late for once. Show him how it feels.
She closed her eyes. The music had gotten to her more than she wanted to admit, she decided. A wife is a comfort to her husband. No matter how often he stays out or how long, she must always be waiting for him.
And yet, it wasn’t until the sun had begun to sink into the horizon that she went back to the cart and began pushing it home.
The exhaustion she had briefly managed to push away came back, making her efforts slow as she traveled the long road. Her thoughts inward, she didn’t notice the figure ahead until she had gotten close enough to see it was a man with hair the same as the fiddler.
Looks drunk, she thought, watching him stumble a little as he walked. Probably celebrated a successful day’s work. That made sense. Playing like he did, he probably looked for women to join in the celebration afterward, preferably unhappily married ones. Everyone knew minstrels, men and women, had friends who were something more in every town. Only the ones who stayed with the nobles showed enough self-control to have families. Vagrants like this...Krysilla bent down her head and pushed a little faster. The sooner she got away from him, the better.
He looked over his shoulder, but didn’t smile as she approached. What she now realized was the case that held his fiddle dangled from his hand, the long strap wrapped twice around his wrist.
That doesn’t look right, she thought as she passed. It looks long enough to wrap over his shoulder.
He still walked unsteadily, giving her a brief nod as she passed. Behind her, she could hear his steps slow, then stop altogether.
She only took a few paces herself before she also stopped. Turning around, she saw him staring at the ground in front of him. He didn’t look up as he stumbled to the river’s edge.
He’s going to fall in, she thought, and ran after him. “Wait!”
He didn’t stop.
“Sir! Wait!”
He reached the edge and swayed forward, then back, still staring at the ground. It was only when she caught up with him, breathless from running, that he looked at her. “Village?” he said, his eyes struggling to focus on her.
“That way,” she said, pointing down the road.
He shook his head. “How far? I have...an appointment to keep. Must. Keep.” He closed his eyes and swayed again, this time to the side, and this time he fell onto the tall, shore grass.
For a moment, Krysilla stared at him. She’d been so embarrassed by his music’s touch that she hadn’t fully appreciated how handsome he was in his dark violet minstrel’s vest, so dark it was almost black, with the white handkerchief in the pocket that announced to the world he was unattached. She knelt down next to him, then looked up. The King’s Dogs, men trained in terrible arts forgotten even by nobles, kept watch over the roads, but some stretches were better kept than others. In daylight, the danger was minimal, but at night, when lights made for easy targets, a woman lured off the road might be easy prey.
Looking back down at the stranger, she frowned. She doubted he’d have anything to do with robbers. Unless, she considered, it was part of his act.
As if you know, she chided herself and decided to try waking him up. At the very least, perhaps she could escort him to an inn.
I may be a married woman, she decided, but the road is a public place. It’s perfectly acceptable for me to speak with an unmarried man here. And if anyone is wondering what I’m doing in the tall grass with him, I’ll ask for help. “Sir. You have to wake up, sir.” She tapped his cheeks, then pressed her hands against his skin.
He’s not drunk, she realized. He’s burning with fever.
“Sir, you’re going to have to get up.”
His eyes opened briefly and stared at her, unseeing. She touched his cheek and
tried to ignore how he leaned into her palm.
Too dry, she thought, and wondered how he’d managed to come down ill so quickly. Unless he was fighting this off while he played this afternoon. “Sir, you’re ill. I can carry you in my cart, but you’ll have to help me get you there.”
His eyes focused briefly on her face and he nodded. She wrapped his arm around her shoulder, bearing his weight as he got to his feet. They reeled back and forth as they walked to the cart. We must both look drunk, she thought, and looked down the road both ways. Far off behind them she could see someone, but they were very far off.
Pulling out the burlap she kept to cover goods as they traveled, she knelt down and used her hands to give him something to step on. He practically fell into her cart, moaning as he laid down. Running back to the river, she grabbed his fiddle case and laid it down beside him. Covering him as best she could with the burlap, she went back to pushing the cart toward the village, already forming a list of things she would need to heal him.
Few passed her on the way. Of those who did, most were too caught up in their own thoughts or merriment to care about the married woman with a man in a cart. Only one looked in, a rotund, red-faced blob on top of a horse who said, “Had a bit too much fun tonight, eh?”
Worried about the consequences, she said, “Yes, sir.”
“You’re a good wife, then,” he grinned in honest admiration and moved ahead.
“Yes, I am,” she whispered, hating the lie, and pushed faster. Still, it was after dark when she got home. Perhaps, she thought as she looked at the homes around them, this is a good thing. Darkness meant she could push the cart to the back. If she made any noise, the neighbors wouldn’t be able to make her or the man out clearly. They might even assume it was her husband, though Lejer was a little taller and thicker around the middle. The clothes look the same in the dark, she told herself as she pulled the burlap away from the feverish minstrel. And the vest...no one would be able to tell the color of the vest in this light.
Climbing inside, she shook the man. Leaning close to his ear, she whispered, “Sir? Sir, we’re here. You have to get up again.”
His head lolled toward her, eyes half closed. But he saw her. She was sure of that when he shifted and tried to sit.
She jumped down from the cart and grabbed a three-legged stool. “Here.” It took a moment for her to help him find it and another for him to actually step down from the cart. He leaned heavily against her as they walked to the house until she wasn’t sure he’d be able to make it up the stairs.
Opening the back door with one hand, her fears turned out to be correct. He put his hand on the wall, then his back, then he slid down to the floor of the kitchen.
Closing the door, she finally felt safe enough to talk to him in something more than a whisper. “Sir? I’m sorry. I understand you don’t feel well, but you’ll have to keep going.”
He shook his head. “Can’t stay here. I have to meet someone.”
“Not with a fever like that.” She touched his cheek, still burning hot, and began to feel some panic. “Sir,” she said, her voice firm, “I can’t carry you to the spare room. I can help you, but there are stairs and—”
He shook his head.
“—you’re dehydrated. If we don’t get the fever down, you could die. And wouldn’t that be bad for whoever you need to meet? Now, please, get up.” She waved her hand. Lights turned on down the hall, lights provided by the lord of the region for every resident. King’s Lights, they were called. She grabbed the stranger’s arm and prayed he would at least try to stand. At first she didn’t think he would. His arm felt limp and his eyes stayed closed. Panicked now, she gave one strong tug. As if rousing from a dream, he started. Leaning on her once more, she managed to guide him down the hall to the stairs.
The back door opened.
She stopped, the minstrel leaning on her, her eyes wide as she saw Lejer stumble to the chair in the kitchen. “Krysilla,” he called out. “Ale, Krysilla!”
The minstrel chuckled. “Krysilla,” he mimicked.
Thinking quickly, she said, “Coming, Lejer. I just have to—”
“Comfort, woman!”
Ignoring him, she was about to help the stranger up the stairs when he pulled away. Instead of collapsing, the stranger looked at her, somewhat more coherent than before. “Go. I’ll stay here.”
She hesitated.
Still feverish, he smiled and closed his eyes. “Promise.”
Krysilla reluctantly turned just as Lejer called out for her, and this time it sounded like he was getting up. “Woman!”
“Coming!”
She hurried down the hall to the kitchen, leaving the stranger at the foot of the stairs. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. What would he think of her now with Lejer yelling like that? Breathless, she grabbed the doorjamb to stop herself. “What do you need?”
“Where were you?”
“I was busy at the front.”
“A customer? Now?”
Thinking quickly through her options, she decided telling the truth was the best among them. “A sick minstrel.”
Lejer’s eyes went wide. He leaned forward, swaying a little. “He can’t stay here.”
“You and I have gotten ill before.”
“And we haven’t gotten anywhere near the ovens when that’s happened.”
Is the spare room anywhere near the ovens? she wanted to snap. Knowing that logic wouldn’t work very well at this point in his drunkenness, she ignored him. “You said you wanted ale?” She walked quickly to the pantry and got a small bottle he kept for nights like this when he wanted a little something before bed.
“He has to leave.” Lejer got unsteadily to his feet.
“Would you like a blanket as well?” She handed him the ale.
“He has to leave.” Ignoring the ale, he rolled to the side as he tried to get from the kitchen to the hall, knocking over a stack of dishes in the process. She cringed as they shattered. With a wave she picked them up and put them in the trash bin. “I’ll get him out of the house. But you need to go to bed.”
He shook his head again, his eyes dull. “He can’t stay here, Krysilla.”
“Of course not. Do you want me to go upstairs and warm the foot of the bed for you?”
He nodded. A thought flit through her head, a memory of a time when he would have joked that all he wanted warming his bed was her. That had been very early in their marriage and had been gone before one season had changed to another. Even then, she remembered, it had been halfhearted.
But wives were supposed to adapt to such things, so she patted him on the shoulder and went back to the foot of the stairs where the stranger waited.
Except he wasn’t there.
Heart pounding, she looked at the front door. No time to search for him. If she didn’t make sure Lejer was comfortably sleeping off the ale, the stranger most certainly wouldn’t be staying here tonight. Running up the stairs, she heard Lejer began to sing his favorite drinking song: Lovely Lisbet, a sad tune about a young woman married off against her will to a fearsome lord-magician, while the young man who truly loved her made plans to steal her away.
At the top of the stairs now, she threw open the door to the master bedroom. A soft, low, melodic voice singing the same tune Lejer sang drifted from one of the spare bedrooms. Racing into her own, she threw a warmed brick under the covers and ran back to the hall. The stranger’s singing had stopped. Walking quietly down the hall, she checked the three guest rooms they had, one by one. In a room filled with blues and greens that made her think of the river or the sea, the stranger lay on top of the bed’s covers, one foot firmly on the floor and the other leg bent so that his boot didn’t touch the quilted cover.
Glad to see he was still here, she ran back down to Lejer, still singing at the top of his lungs the sad tune. He’s about to get to the part where he cries, she thought. As expected, by the time she reached him, tears had begun to roll down his face.
“
Isn’t that a sad song, Krysilla?” he said as she pulled his arm over her shoulders.
“Yes, it is.” She’d asked him once why he sang it, but he acted as if he had no idea, so she’d let it go. He was heavier than the minstrel but more coherent and a little more coordinated. It didn’t take long to get him up to the top of the stairs, or into bed to sleep it off.
She had removed the warming stone and was just in the process of pulling the covers over him as he lay down when he grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her to him. Surprised, she stiffened in his grasp, eyes wide and breath coming in small snatches. It had been years since he’d wanted her like this.
No, she realized. He’d never wanted her like this.
His smile was warm and soft. It made her feel bad for admiring the strange minstrel lying in the other room.
Then, his eyes focused and he frowned. Letting her go, he rolled over. “G’night, Krysilla.”
“G’night.” Confused, she tried to keep her steps quiet on the cold wood floor. Closing the door until only a sliver of light remained, she tried not to run back to the stranger. Running would make noise.
He was still there on the bed. Feeling his forehead, she bit her lip. His fever had gotten worse.
The law required she get a healer, someone who had been licensed in using magic to heal. There was only one exception. The farmers were allowed to use healing magic since it was tied to herbs, and herbs grew in the ground. Anything that grew in the ground was available to a farmer.
Or a farmer’s daughter, like Krysilla.
That doesn’t apply to you anymore, the more practical side of her warned, even as she hurried as silently as she could down to the kitchen. You promised to leave your father’s magic behind when you married Lejer, as all married women do.
And I have a person who could die before the morning comes, she replied as she stoked the fire and warmed a small pot of water over it. Taking out a couple of pieces of wood in the kitchen’s floorboard, she pulled out a small bottle of tincture. Holding it between her palms, she felt the fire of the herbs flowing through them. Just a little to start, she remembered, adding only that to the water before putting the small bottle in the pocket of her skirt.