by Stephen Wolf
When Dariak returned to Stonewell’s, he saw another customer at the register with a bag of bread. Dariak couldn’t help but notice that he was a good-looking young man, early twenties, with a commanding presence about him. Dariak’s heartbeat picked up a little.
Stonewell was in the process of commending the young man. “You always do great work, Randler. I do love it when you’re in town; this place always smells fantastic with your creations. Cranberries, raisins, and cinnamon today? You should give up singing and set up a shop, I tell you!”
“Stonewell, you old codger.” Randler laughed. “You never do cease with the compliments.”
Dariak practically melted with the quality of the man’s voice. He took his time wandering up to the counter, enjoying simply watching Randler move as he fetched his money and paid for his goods. He turned, caught Dariak’s eye, and smiled, glancing up and down appraisingly.
“New to town?” Randler asked.
“Just in last night,” he said.
“Then you haven’t seen my show!” Randler beamed. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small parchment. “Four nights a week, including tonight. Don’t miss it. Promise me?” He winked a cinnamon-colored eye that closely matched the hue of his neatly kempt shoulder-length hair.
Dariak took the small flyer with the details of the show and smiled back. “Sounds like a good time.”
Randler stepped forward and whispered into his ear. “I can assure you a good time.”
Feeling Randler’s breath on his ear made Dariak shudder delightedly. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
The minstrel extended his hand and introduced himself properly, and Dariak responded in kind. He then watched Randler walk across the room and out the door, turning back to Dariak to wink one last time.
Stonewell was careful not to interrupt the moment for fear of losing this new customer. But once Randler was gone and a few quiet moments had passed, he came around the counter and followed Dariak’s gaze. “Fine fellow, that one. Best singer I’ve ever heard. He seems to know the best ballads in the land, or maybe he just flashes them up with good words and music. Excellent baker to boot. Travels a lot; thought you should know.” He then turned to face Dariak. “Now, about your bread. I’ve taken the liberty of calculating the amounts of ingredients you’ll need. Fifteen, right? I’ll give you a hand; it’s a lot of dough, but you’re doing the bulk of the work.”
Looking at the flyer one last time, Dariak suddenly felt that baking tons of bread seemed like it might just be lots of fun.
Chapter 6
The Minstrel
The loaves came out almost perfectly. Dariak wasn’t too surprised, as following a cooking recipe was less demanding than most magic rituals, plus Stonewell had facilitated the process. Dariak gathered the bread while it was scorching hot and practically sprinted back to the sanctuary. He traded the bread with Brenwel for a lot more money than he expected—he must have really done a good job with it—and then he sought Elgris.
“Incredible that you’ve finished your entire task already!” Elgris mocked when he saw Dariak, knowing full well that he couldn’t possibly have finished.
The mage showed him the list and drew the healer’s attention to all the items that were already completed. “Of course not, but I’ve gone this far. And because I’ve done so much, I would like at least a poultice for my arm to slow down the infection. Surely that isn’t too much of a request.”
With a low hum of disapproval, Elgris considered the mage for a moment, then acquiesced. “Very well, but this should not deter you from completing this mission.”
Dariak had committed himself to this task, and he saw no reason to waste time affirming as much. He just nodded and smiled expectantly, waiting for the promised poultice.
When Elgris saw the odd eagerness in Dariak’s eyes, he altered his offer. “The poultice will cost you twenty-five gold. Up front, of course.”
Dariak kept himself from rolling his eyes or sighing, and he quietly dipped into the money pouch and procured the funds. Not long later, his wound was dressed with the poultice and he was rummaging through the supply cabinets for a cleaner set of healer’s robes. He wasn’t about to go off to see Randler in the same robes he had trekked about in the dirt all day. There wasn’t time to wash his own cloak, but he donned it under the white robes again, after crushing some herbs and brushing them against key parts of the fabric to help deaden the scent. After transferring the bulk of his coins to a hidden pouch inside the mage robes, leaving only about fifteen pieces in the belt pouch, Dariak was off to the show. He needed a distraction from his injury, and with the shops closed, he couldn’t continue bartering anyway.
He didn’t want to get there too early, so all the preparation delays worked in his favor. He had already passed the tavern on his way back with the bread, so he knew precisely where to go. Dariak certainly had a lighter bounce in his step than he had felt for months. It was a good feeling.
Soon he arrived at the Rooster’s Bane, chuckling at the sign overhead of a rooster in full screech with a rising sun in the distance and bar patrons blissfully passed out from a night of frivolity. He pushed the doors open and saw that a few patrons had already arrived and were deep into their ales and food. The scent of a rich stew was exquisite, and he was eager to try some. Looking around, he spotted the stage, so he worked his way closer to it, but not up to the front. He chose to sit a little closer than halfway and off toward the right side of the tavern. There weren’t any chairs in his exact line of sight of the stage, and it was, happily, a shorter couple sitting in front of him anyway.
Within minutes, there were performers on the stage, tossing oversized rings back and forth, then scimitars, then flaming torches. Dariak paid them hardly any attention at all. His eyes were on the lookout for Randler and for a bar matron. The crowd thickened as he waited, and he made eye contact with one of the servers, who smiled politely and gestured that she would be over momentarily. Dariak settled deeply in his chair, happy to kick back for the first time in a while.
He was very surprised when the matron came to his table with food and drink. “Master Randler had this prepared for you,” she said by way of greeting, and she placed before him a well-seared duck with potatoes and vegetables, a small bowl of dipping sauce, a plate of Randler’s bread, and a tall glass of fine white wine. He wasn’t much of a wine drinker, but one sip of the golden treasure made him want to gulp down the whole thing and ask for more.
While he ate the food, he grinned to himself. Randler had told them he would be coming and had a special meal ready for him. He’d even included some of the bread he’d made himself that day—and Stonewell was right; it was perfect. They had barely even spoken, but here he was, like a little kid finding out the sweets store had free samples.
While he ate his delicious meal, his eyes darted around the room, wondering when his acquaintance would enter. Onstage, the jugglers had tidied their things and a comedian was rattling off a series of inane jokes, getting the crowd into a good humor.
“So the whole town came running out,” the comedian called above the din. “Everyone was armed with something. Kids had their slings. Men had swords. Women had knives. My mother had her pot roast.” He paused for laughter. “There they were, running right toward the ogre, charging on ahead like this beast had eaten their kids or something. Honestly, who’d eat something so dirty and wriggly?” Another pause. “Oh, that reminds me, don’t order the sausage here.” On cue, all the bar matrons turned and made a face at him. “So anyway, things got serious, and I could see they were going in for the kill. So it was time for me to step in at last. ‘Hey, everyone,’ I said, waving my hands like this. ‘Don’t you all know what time it is? Yeah, it’s dawn.’ So then I pointed at the ogre. ‘That’s not an ogre,’ I told them. ‘She just rolled out of bed; that’s my wife!’”
Some of the patrons pounded their hands on the table, hysterica
lly laughing, while others sighed and shook their heads. More than one wife glared angrily at an overzealous husband, and those looks made Dariak chuckle the most.
All of a sudden, the mage felt his heart start to race again. He looked around expectantly, and then from the wings came Randler, all decked out in proper minstrel garb, complete with a lute. His crisp brown hair spiraled down the left side of his head and swept just over his right shoulder. He was covered head to toe in a shimmery silk that reminded Dariak of a calm lake with just a few ripples disturbing the surface. His shoes were a vibrant purple, and upon his head was a poufy hat with wide green, violet, and azure stripes. If Dariak wasn’t completely enamored with Randler’s beautiful face, he probably would have laughed at the whole ensemble. Yet he understood that people expected a bard to wear something garish; plus, it probably helped a performer grab an audience’s attention.
Unlike the other performances, the crowd fell almost completely silent with Randler’s entrance. He hadn’t even done anything, and yet they were completely his. Dariak was in awe. He wondered, if his pulse kept quickening, would he explode or just pass out? Bar matrons went around with orders, and a second glass of wine appeared at Dariak’s table. He was slightly buzzed from the first one, so he took his time with the second. Cradling the glass in his hands, he wondered idly how its smoothness would compare to Randler’s cheek.
A single note was released into the air. It held strong for a few seconds, then wavered and fell silent, followed promptly by a second note. This carried on awhile, and Dariak wondered how a few simple notes could hold sway over the entire audience. But he didn’t dwell on it for long, as the notes started coming faster, overlapping and creating pictures in his head of a wide, open field with a warm breeze blowing and flowers swaying gently. It was such a soothing melody that it could only belong to such a scene. And then something made it all the more beautiful. Randler began to sing:
Days long ago, when this tale unfolds, we see the pain of the lost.
They were friends, companions to the end.
Their destinies intertwined.
Raising their hands to the woes of the world, they reached out to shine.
Sword held high, it is where he showed his strength.
Spells to bind, with her passion at her side.
Joined in kind, the will to reach any length.
Foes would die, for they simply could not hide.
Victory was a futile goal to seek, for what’s to do when war’s done?
These marvels took the world in hand.
Each with a view of their own.
She yearned for peace and a quiet home. Yet he prepared for more war.
Sword held high, it is where he knew his heart.
Spells to bind, with protection held in mind.
Joined in kind, but drifting now apart.
Foes would die, if there were any left to find.
Years passed them by, as their dreams went away, lost upon destiny.
They lost their hearts in misery,
For they forgot why they’d fought:
To build a world where they could rejoice, to live out their lives with love.
Sword held high, it’s the only skill he knew.
Spells to bind, fighting up against the tide.
Joined in kind, but the happy times were few.
Foes would die, even if they were inside.
They spent their lives living side by side, but not together at all.
King Kallisor always feared other wars,
While Lady Hathreneir seemed so meek.
Where once they were one and whole, now they were just incomplete.
Sword held high, where he lost himself in war.
Spells to bind, nourish all and one another.
Joined in kind, only up along their border.
Foes would die, even if it meant each other.
Now here we are, the children of these foes, who once were lovers of all.
Do we stay apart and hold to our own?
Or do we honor the love at the start?
Embrace the chance that we could be as they were once meant to be.
Sword held high, so let us put it away.
Spells to bind, just to heal us when we fall.
Joined in kind, let this be a special day.
Foes would die, but there are no more at all.
And by these words, let us not be the Forgotten Tribe any longer.
Dariak didn’t consider himself an emotional sort, but something about this tale tugged at him. The nations of Kallisor and Hathreneir had been at war for ages, with the War of the Colossus twenty years ago marking a deep gash across their history. Dariak was only two years old when his father went off to fight at his king’s side, never to return again from that one battle. He grew up hearing of the treachery of Kallisor during that fight and vowed to continue his father’s work in his absence. But now, one mere song moved him to wonder about his motivation.
It took a few minutes for him to come back to the room from his thoughts. Randler was on to a new song, livelier this time, all about a child’s toy that refracted light into different colors—“Crash, crash, crash, and the pieces fall away!”—but when the pieces were put back together, they became clear again—“Come together, and light another day!” It was whimsical and merry, and several patrons pounded their fists or tapped their feet with the tempo.
But voices carried over the din, and Dariak couldn’t help focusing on them. “You’re sure?” said one voice. “How do you know?”
“Definitely,” replied a voice so gruff it was hard to understand. “Knew it afore, but now I’m certain. This thing’s resonatin’ somethin’ fierce.”
Dariak looked around for the sources of the voices, but quick glances made it difficult to spot exactly who was talking. No one near him seemed to be doing more than singing along with the tune.
“If it’s him, then we have to grab him before he gets away, no?”
“Definitely,” repeated the gruff voice. “And while he’s unawares would be best too.”
Dariak tensed, looking around desperately for attack. He knew he was a target in this town, being a mage. Plus, he had spent the entire day walking the streets in full view, albeit in disguise, not that merely wearing a healer’s robe was much of a disguise if anyone somehow recognized his face. He nonchalantly lifted one side of his robes and withdrew the dagger fastened to his thigh. At least he would defend himself when the attack happened. He considered prepping a few spells, but the attack seemed imminent, and he wasn’t particularly focused enough to control blasts of fire at the moment.
“So?” said the first voice a few moments later. “We have to get that back before it’s missed, don’t we?”
“Definitely,” the other said. It seemed to be his favorite word. “Okay, brace yerself.”
Dariak squinted and looked around for movement, but in a tavern full of people bopping to a peppy tune, movement was too easy to find. Several people were on their feet, serving drinks, heading to the middens, or adding dance moves to the song. He tried not to be overly suspicious in his search, because his attackers thought they had the element of surprise. When the attack happened, he realized that they actually did.
A group of four lithe men in leather jerkins popped suddenly into view, short swords and daggers poised for a quick and vicious assault. But they weren’t headed for Dariak at all. The mage realized belatedly that Randler was the target. The minstrel didn’t lose a beat in the song as the brigands darted toward the stage, but Dariak was relieved to notice that Randler had seen them coming.
The minstrel’s stance changed dramatically as he swept his lute to the floor and lifted a mace that had been cleverly concealed inside the lute’s case. He swung it around, alerting the attackers that he knew how to use it.
Most of the cr
owd screamed cheers at this turn of events, delighted they were now getting an impromptu performance on top of the other entertainment. Dariak used the cheer as a diversion and leaped from his seat toward the nearest swordsman, crashing him to the ground easily from behind. The move was met with raucous applause from the other patrons. He ignored them and scrambled to his feet to intercept another attacker, but he was less fortunate the second time.
Randler kept his mace in motion and parried the dagger thrusts of one rogue while another hopped onstage to approach from the side. Randler kicked his stool forcefully, and it flew into the man’s face, knocking him to the ground. The bard seemed to be enjoying himself, though, and from the glimpses Dariak could see, it looked like Randler was trying to keep the beat going.
A short sword swung dangerously close to Dariak’s face, but he pulled back in time to avoid the blow. Falling backward, he crashed a table to the ground, and the women sitting there yelled in protest. Dariak rolled to the side, bumping into a large man’s legs and sending him to the floor. Soon, the patrons realized that this wasn’t an act at all, and the screams of joy turned quickly to those of hysteria, followed by frantic shuffling and pushing toward the exit.
From the floor, Dariak hurled a tankard at the swordsman, shattering it against the man’s skull and knocking him out cold. The first fighter he had felled was up again, his attention focused fully on Dariak now. The mage had to dodge three chairs and parts of a table before he could even get on his feet. As the fighter stalked closer, Dariak wished he had enacted his fire spell after all. Just then, the energies played with him, and a huge fireball lit the back end of the tavern. Everyone turned to look.
Randler had a tankard of ale in one hand and a stage torch in the other. While Dariak looked, Randler took another sip of the alcohol and spewed it through the torch, turning it into a fiery blaze. The rogue he was fending off fell to the ground, thrashing in pain and trying to douse the many fires that lit his clothes.