by Anne C Miles
And she met a young man, and he loved her...sass!
Jax roared the last word, his hand thumping the stool in emphasis. A dog under one of the tables began to whine as if in pain.
The young man went to hug her, to hug her, to hug her
The young man went to hold her, and life it went askew.
The crowd had joined in now. They muffled the sound of the cacophonous gnome.
The young man met her deema, her deema, her deema
The young man met her deema, and now he cannot chew.
The bard visibly winced as he struck a major chord while Jax’s voice dipped perfectly flat. The song had twenty verses, and likely more, but the bard rushed to finish. He launched into the traditional last chorus.
So if you love a deemae, a deemae, a deemae
So if you love a deemae, and you must true love bring
Your only hope my young man, my young man, my young man
Your only hope my young man, is to stop and sing!
The bard gestured, using his lute to point at Dane. Bell flushed but laughed with the rest as the song ended amid cries of “Sing, Dane! Sing!” Dane raised his hands, protesting, but Lile grabbed his arm and dragged him to the makeshift stage. Dane heartily wished he’d had more ale.
“I believe you need to sing, sir,” said the bard.
So I can rescue you from a tone-deaf gnome…Dane wasn’t keen on singing solo in public. He was dewin. If he sang by himself, without a crowd to mask his voice, the consequences could be dire indeed. But it was expected after the “Suitor Song” for a young man to sing. Dancing would follow. Besides, it might help fully mend things with Bell. He really did want another kiss.
“Do you know ‘The Rose’?” Dane asked.
The bard nodded assent, adjusting the pegs on his lute. Dane gulped and faced the crowd with a smile.
“A rose,” he said, bowing, “for the lovely deemae.” Dane sang, modulating his voice to disguise his gifts.
The bard played a full set of dances after Dane finished his song. Tables were pushed back, and townfolk whirled across the floor like flower petals tossed by the wind. Dane and Bell danced with the rest before collapsing at their table. Bell did not pull her hand away when Dane cupped it with his, twining his fingers through hers. She smiled, and a happy glow enveloped Dane.
“Careful, my deema might see,” Bell said, squeezing his hand.
“I think he already has,” Dane said. He leaned in. “But I think he likes me.”
“Perhaps,” Bell said. “Did you see the bard’s face when he started to sing?”
“You never tire of that, do you?”
“Never,” Bell said. “These minstrels travel so far from the Bindery to meet a gnome. I love the looks on their faces when they sing with Jax. The last one faked an illness. It’s the most common way to escape, suddenly develop a stomach cramp, or lose their voice.”
“Broken strings,” Dane said. “I saw a minstrel break four strings at once. No idea how he managed it. It can backfire, though. Jax found his tambor and demanded the man sing a set a cappella. I thought the poor sap’s head would burst.”
They were still chuckling when the bard found them and claimed an empty chair. “That was not what I expected.” He signaled to one of the serving girls for a drink. “But I appreciate the chance to play with Jax, all the same.”
“Your ale is on the house, sir,” said Bell, smiling. “Thank you for your kindness to my friend. He loves meeting new musicians.” She paused and added, “I’m Bell.”
“Aric,” the bard said.
“Dane. Where are you from, Aric?”
“Originally from Baehnt. More recently from Bestua. This is my first time this far north.”
“Are you planning to stay long?” asked Dane.
The ale arrived, and Aric drank a long pull before answering. “A few days, perhaps more. I’m collecting songs and lore. I had planned to visit the Heyegrove. You must have many who pass through to do the same.”
Bell sniffed. “This past year, few. Jax was particularly happy to see you.”
A sudden crash came from the kitchen, and Bell stood, excusing herself. “Good to meet you.”
Aric nodded in answer. He watched her walk away, then added, “I’m here to collect stories. That’s true. But I also hoped to retrieve a package for a friend. A delicate package.”
Dane raised his eyebrows, instantly wary. “Oh?”
Aric nodded. “Trystan is a good mate. He told me to find a young cabinetmaker named Dane. He thought you might have stories for me. I’ve known him since we were children. He also asked me to give you this”—Aric set a pouch on the table—“and I’m to wait for his package and deliver it to him when I return.” Aric paused. “I need to travel quickly, so I’ll travel night and day. The moon will be new, but I can see by starlight.”
Trystan’s name set Dane to near panic. The way the bard emphasized the word “starlight” nearly pushed him over the edge. Dane looked at the pouch on the table, calculating. This Conclave bard was trying to get him to admit to building enchanted lutes. Tricky. His forehead wrinkled in confusion. He lifted the pouch, weighing it, and slid it back across the table. “While I enjoy gold as much as the next man and am the only craftsman meeting your description, I’m afraid there is some mistake.” Dane shook his head in apology. “I have never met anyone named Trystan. My next shipment is a fine cabinet, bound for Bestua by flatboat. It was ordered by Lord Tabor Demitri a month ago, and I’m hard pressed to finish it. I came to town to pick up final supplies for the inlay.”
Dane smiled more easily than he felt, gesturing to the common room. “Perhaps your friend has me confused with someone else. What did he order?” He worried Aric would hear his pulse racing. He slowed his breathing, thinking quickly.
Dane leaned forward. “I can help you find the person you seek. Elkere? He is the town chandler. If you’re traveling at night, you might need candles or one of his oil lamps. Shrinnik? He is the cooper.” Dane nodded to a table where a large man sat playing dice.
Aric arched a brow at Dane but reclaimed his gold. “I’m not sure what the package was,” he said. “Only that he needed it immediately. He didn’t say why.”
Dane emptied his mug and shrugged. “I’m sorry I can’t help you.”
Aric sighed. “Ah well, thank you for your time.” He stood, offering his hand. “It was good to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
Aric retreated through the crowd, toward the stairs. Dane tracked him, watching until the bard retired to his room. Dane stood, looking for Jax. The gnome was perched behind the bar on his stool, assisting Lile. He smiled when he saw Dane.
“Tell Bell I’ll be back soon?”
Jax’s smile faded, but he tapped the side of his nose and nodded.
Dane strolled into the town square and headed toward the docks. He digested what had just happened as he walked. A mist had fallen, draping the buildings in white. A cantor knew about his lutes. A breeze ruffled his mop of hair as he moved down the street, making him shiver in the damp. There was no telling when, but Aric would show up on Dane’s doorstep. The mist swirled. Dane’s back prickled. He turned left, away from the main street and onto a narrow alley. Was he being followed? Taking the next right turn, he quickened his steps, and ducked into a lane parallel to the main street. He needed to talk to Mod. He followed the lane for a few blocks, seeing no one. He heard no footfalls. He turned left again toward the river, passing a few of the Watch, the local baron’s men. They paid him no heed. Whew.
Dane stopped at a small whitewashed stone cottage. He knocked twice, two more times, and four times again. The door opened inward, revealing a small old woman with kind eyes and a warm smile.
“It’s good to see you, Dane, I was expecting you tomorrow morning.”
“Likewise, Mod. I’m sorry. This couldn’t wait.” Dane bent to kiss her cheek. “I can’t stay long. I have to ride back tonight; I think we are in trouble.”
Mod nodded and shuffled to her kitchen. Intricate hand-worked lace doilies cushioned warm-hued earthenware. Copper pots gleamed, hanging from the hooks that dangled from the crossbeam. The smell of beeswax and lavender mingled as a kettle steamed on its hook over the wide stone hearth. Mod gestured to a bench along the table. “Sit my dear. Have a spot of tea.”
Dane knew better than to refuse. “Thank you. Someone tried to collect my latest shipment early. I think I’m being watched. The buyer will be in danger.”
Mod peered at Dane briefly but focused on the kettle as she poured a cup. “You haven’t finished it yet?”
Dane shook his head. “I knew I would be cutting it close.”
“What did he look like?”
Dane described the man, sketching with his hands. “Medium height, light brown hair, and cleft chin, scruffy but no real beard. A full bard. He claimed to know Trystan. He offered gold openly at the inn. He was speaking of the fae before I’d properly introduced myself, and he tricked me into singing in public. I thought he might be just another storysmith out hunting old tales. But he tried to obtain the lute himself. It was bold. He called himself Aric.”
Dane cupped his hands around the teacup, letting the warmth flow into his fingers before raising it to his lips. The steam curled upward, and he breathed in the scent of honeysuckle. “And there were jackdaws on my hedges today.”
Mod clucked to herself, settled into her chair and picked up her teacup.
“Conclave. He’ll be paying you a visit then.”
Dane nodded. “He said he was headed to the Grove.”
Mod pursed her lips, considering. “We’ve sent fourteen of your father’s lutes out over the years, Dane. I canna remember anyone trying to intercept them. We thought we had a close call seven years ago, when you were just a boy, but the lute made it to its owner. The person turned out to be a merchant traveler. We’ve never had anything as bold as this.”
“Could it have been a trap? Was there anything odd about this order? It’s the first lute I’ve built on my own, Mod. Stars.”
He didn’t even know what he was doing. What if he was captured? The penalty for performing with an enchanted lute was severe. The penalty for making them was worse. Much worse. Never mind the fact he was dewin. Storm King, help me.
Mod shook her head. “Everything was in order, and one of my boys met Trystan himself, scried him in a mirror. He was genuine. Trystan dan Tenkor is not just a bard. He’s a prince. He’s respected, not fully bound to the Conclave like most. Independently trained in Pelegor, not molly-coddled. He is making his Journey to become a full Bindery master, but he had the proper tune. He was genuinely sent to us.”
“I don’t know then. I’d best get home. But Bell...”
“Never mind the girl, lad. I’ll get word to her. You slip away.”
Dane nodded briefly, meeting her eyes. “Tell her to stow my things. I’ll come back for them.” With a wave, he headed back out into the mist, striding toward the inn stable.
It was going to be a long ride home.
CHAPTER SIX
MID-JANUARY IN Louisville, Kentucky wasn’t subzero weather, but the walk across the campus green still made Sara wish she’d chosen a school in Florida. Peter swept in not far behind her and parked his athletic frame into the seat next to her. He carried a beverage tray with two steaming cups of coffee.
“Here you go, Rudolph,” he said. “One vanilla latte.”
“My hero.” Sara sipped slowly, careful not to burn her tongue. “Are my ears red too?”
“Vermilion,” Peter said. “But you look great, milady.” He bowed, somehow managing not to seem awkward, though he was seated. Peter didn’t look like a nerd. He looked like a singer from a boy band, with a smile that could melt even her cold face. His ice-blue eyes and crooked grin always made her feel better.
But he really was such a geek.
Sara narrowed her eyes. “Have you been larping again?”
“Belegarth is not larping. In my case, it’s exercise. But no, it’s too cold. We won’t meet again until spring.”
Sara said, “You pretend to sword fight. That’s larping.” She laughed.
“Larping, milady, is when you dress up and pretend to be in another world. It’s live action role play.” He tapped the desk in front of him. “Belegarth is just pretending to fight with padded swords and armor. It’s exercise.” The room began to fill with other students. Peter paused and added, innocently, “I did watch Princess Bride again last night.”
Sara rolled her eyes, swiveling her legs under her desk. Professor Kent strode to the podium and welcomed them. She listened, taking notes and pointedly not reacting to Peter’s antics as he doodled in the margins of his syllabus.
It was their first class together in ages, like freshman year all over again. Peter certainly hadn’t changed much.
As the professor droned on about what they could expect, Sara snuck a look at Peter, who had given up on his drawing and was listening, taking actual notes. He’d been her rock these past few months. Late-night phone calls, lazy days hanging out listening to music, pizza study sessions. It had all cemented their friendship to the point that he was family. Sometimes she wanted more, imagining what he would be like as her boyfriend. Peter was a good person. Too good for me.
“Pizza tonight?” he asked as class ended.
Sara shook her head. “I have to work at the Tank.”
“Okay. What are you doing Friday night?”
“Friday...” Sara thought for a minute, then flipped her phone open to check her calendar. “Friday I’m at the library till six, then free.”
“Cool. I’m taking you on a date.”
“A date?”
Oh no. Oh no. No, no, no, no, no, no.
“A date, milady.” Peter’s eyes twinkled. “Dinner and a movie. I expect you to be on your best behavior.”
Sara looked at Peter. A movie quote flew out of her mouth. It was one Peter knew and would begin the bit they did sometimes. It would also tip him off. Big time. But she needed to stall for time.
“You remind me of a guy.”
“What guy?”
“A guy with a power.”
“What power?”
“The power of woo-hoo.”
“Woo-hoo?”
“Hoo-do!”
“Who do?”
“You do.”
“Do what?”
“Remind me of a guy.”
“What guy?”
“A guy with a power.”
“What power?”
“Give up?”
Peter’s expression transformed from playful to serious to uncertain as they traded the lines. She was anxious. Crap. Could she go out on a real date with Peter? Geek, brother-like man child? Really cute geek. She couldn’t deny it. But he was her friend. That was rare. And safe. His sister was her roommate. She didn’t want to screw this up, too. Besides, Peter never dated anyone for long. His last girlfriend had been a year or so ago, what had her name been? June? Sara had met her twice. That was before D-day. Before Rilla.
But she couldn’t hurt him.
Coward. I’m such a coward.
Peter would keep at her too, if she blew him off. He wasn’t the type to let it go. She could think about it this week, then talk to him on Friday at dinner. No need to blurt things she might regret, admit to her confusion. Not here, not in class with people streaming out of the room around them.
“Okay, pick me up at eight. And no dragon flicks.”
Peter’s grin was relieved. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The Senior Practicum at the Hite Institute for the Arts was an intensive class with a studio component. A juried showing at the end of the semester counted for half their grade. Very important. Sara needed to get there early. She claimed a space on one of the couches lining the front of the vast loft-like space. A converted chapel, the building featured high ceilings beamed with golden oak. Overstuffed couches formed an informal enclosed meeting space.
By this point in the program, most students had either dropped or moved on to more practical studies. The twenty Material Arts students who remained knew each other well.
A huge screen dominated the wall in front of the sofas. It flickered with a slide cast from a feeble projector. The aroma of coffee and the faint smell of burning metal reached Sara as she read.
Internship with Wryneck Workshop.
Sara frowned. Actor’s Theatre had an internship up for grabs every year. The highly coveted arts internship program was open to schools across the country. Interns helped fabricate props and sets, some worked with sculpted fantasy costumes or elaborate makeup. There were only a few open positions, and exposure also included travel to New York or Los Angeles to work with professionals in major markets.
The class had competed for the internship in September. Sara had submitted her application packet, and like everyone else, received a polite rejection letter. The Wryneck Workshop was a very famous design and effects company in Hollywood. Famous. It would make an internship with Actor’s look like kindergarten.
Miranda Vine settled into a cross-legged position, resting against a couch and settling her skirt around her. Sara nodded to the slide and raised an eyebrow, sipping from her travel mug. Miranda peered at it and shrugged.
“No telling,” Miranda commented. She pulled a sketchbook and pink gel pen from her bag.
Chantal Goddard was one of the last to arrive. Small, wiry, sharp faced, with close-set eyes and a large mouth, her lips curled in disdain as she surveyed her seating options. Barely pausing, she swept over to Sara, looking at her pointedly until she made room. Chantal proceeded to ignore Sara. Sara pretended not to notice.
Their teacher and mentor, Polly Worden, bustled in...and she wasn’t alone. Bastien Crowe. The Bastien Crowe strode in behind her.
“I’d like to introduce Bastien Crowe,” said Polly. “He’s here to discuss this semester’s first practicum.” She gestured to the lectern in front of the screen and claimed the large overstuffed armchair reserved for the professor. Nonchalant. As if the most famous designer on the planet attending her class was super ordinary.