“I will, Mama.” Lyss might ride howling into battle elsewhere in the queendom, but here in the capital she was her mother’s fifteen-year-old daughter.
The adults moved on, through the temple doors and into the street.
“Your entourage is outside, Meadowlark,” Shadow said. “Hadley mentioned something about filthy sea chanteys. She said we should bring our basilkas.”
By the time they emerged from the temple, the crowd was nearly gone, and only two or three carriages remained lined up across the street. A light snow was falling, making the cobblestones slick, forming halos around the wizard lights. Lyss drew her mother’s shawl closer around her, clutching the handle of her instrument case in her other hand, doubly glad that she’d taken the time to change clothes.
“Bravo, Your Highness, and Shadow Dancer,” Finn said, with a little bow. “You’ve exceeded all of our expectations.”
“Which were no doubt low,” Shadow said.
“We’re going to a place called the Keg and Crown, overlooking the river,” Julianna said. “Finn’s been there, and he says the food’s good.”
“I’ve been there, too,” Hadley said. “It’s on River Street, which means we’d better walk. You know how narrow that is. I don’t think we can bring a carriage through there.”
14
THE WOOING
When Breon returned from his meeting with the client to the high street, traffic had increased considerably. A steady stream of people converged on the bridge, crossing to the temple close.
Now he had time to kill before the concert was over. He could go back to the crib and wait there, out of sight. But he was in no mood to listen to Whacks harping on him, and Goose being miserable, and Aubrey giving him the sly eye. Besides, it was filthy in there and he needed to keep his new clothes clean, at least until after the gig.
He was hungry, but he’d spent the coin that Whacks gave him. Now his purse and his stomach were both empty.
That’s when it struck him that there was no reason why he couldn’t attend the concert himself. The banner said it was free, after all, and he was already dressed up. It would give him something to do until it was time to return to his post.
The whole temple courtyard was crowded, and when he got to the front of the line, he could see why. A brace of bluejackets at the door was searching everyone, patting people down, giving everyone a good look-over before they went in. He wondered why. It wasn’t hard to get into a temple, as a rule—it was tougher getting out of one. As a precaution, he slid his shiv, his stash, and the locket into the hidey-hole he’d made under the lining of his new jacket.
It took some fast talking to get into the sanctuary with his jafasa. He wasn’t about to leave it outside and come back and find it missing. Finally, after a search of his bag and his person, in which they didn’t find his stash, his shiv, or the locket, they let him in.
By the time he reached the sanctuary, he didn’t see an empty seat anywhere. People were still milling around, the way they do when they think that a seat will magically appear if they go down an aisle for the fifth time. Breon didn’t bother. He found a spot next to one of the temple pillars, to the left of the stage. He had to crane his neck to see, and he still couldn’t see everything, but he felt lucky to find standing room at all. He could hear muffled voices, and when he put his hand on the stage, he could feel vibrations from people walking around behind the curtain. His heart beat a little faster. He’d spent plenty of time playing gigs in taverns and inns, but never in a venue like this.
The inside was painted up fancy-like—like some place he’d been before that he couldn’t remember now. There were greens and winterberry around the windows and along the altars. The stone walls seemed to glow in the light from the candelabra, and the soaring ceilings made it seem like a place where the Maker might want to come and listen to prayers and whatnot.
Maybe, if he had it to do over again, he’d be a dedicate. It seemed like a soft life, except for all the religion.
The temple bells sounded overhead, and a speaker appeared center stage to introduce the first act—a mob of lýtling dancers.
Breon could’ve counted on the fingers of one hand the times he’d been inside a temple, and then it was usually in a classroom or dining hall, not the sanctuary. He half-expected someone to boot him out, but people scarcely seemed to notice him, intent as they were on the action at the front of the hall.
It was nearly all music and dance—no jugglers or tellers of tales. He couldn’t see the dancers so well from an angle, but he could hear well enough. The talent was variable, but enthusiastic, at least, and some of the music was the best he’d ever heard. Nobody played the jafasa, of course—he seemed to have that market cornered.
The final act was a cove and a girlie, both playing basilkas. The cove looked to be a Southern Islander, but he was dressed in copperhead style, with his hair done up like one of their warriors. The girlie was big-boned, blond, and nervous-looking. They looked like they’d been matched up in the dark.
The songs were standards, their harmonies rough, but nothing a little more practice couldn’t fix. Breon was so caught up that they were halfway through their set when he realized it was time to go.
As he began working his way to the back, the haunting notes from a basilka followed him up the aisle, and he had to stop halfway to the back and turn to see who was playing like that.
It was the cove half of the duet, soloing on the basilka. Breon hadn’t heard the song before, but it caught hold of his heart just the same.
Breon stood and watched the uplander through another song. Then that player stepped back, and the girlie stepped forward.
She was as long-legged as a colt, and she looked about as comfortable in her slinky gown as Breon was in his new finery. Her hair was a tawny color between brown and blond, like wet sand or pale ale, and the way it was piled up on her head made her neck look even longer.
The audience either knew her, or they wanted her to feel at home, because they all came to their feet and roared a welcome that shook the dust from the rafters. What would it be like to get a greeting like that before you even began to play?
She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and said, “My name is Alyssa ana’Raisa, known as Meadowlark in the uplands. I am the second daughter of Raisa ana’Marianna and Han sul’Alger.”
The crowd roared again, even louder.
This stork of a girlie had a shitload of names that seemed to ping in his memory. Where had he heard them before?
“I’m going to sing about love and war tonight. First, a song I wrote about people who had no business falling in love. It’s called ‘The Raven and the Rose.’”
Her voice wasn’t as good as Breon’s, and her playing was unskilled next to her companion’s, but it was her words that caught his ear. The song was a love ballad, and the lyrics were like nothing he’d heard before—raw and honest, simple and yet true. They told a story of star-crossed lovers who changed the world to make it a place where they could be together.
Breon was cynical about lovers and love songs, but this one put him down on his back with an arrow in his heart. When it was done, the temple exploded in applause. Breon stood like an island with people crying all around him and embracing each other like it was a story they’d all had a part in.
The girl—Alyssa ana’Whatever—stood on the stage, gripping her basilka, spots of color on her cheeks, until the frenzy died down a little. Then she said, in a low, growly voice, “I wrote this next song because sometimes love is not enough. Sometimes you have to take the fight to your enemy.”
The song was called “Children of the North,” and it was a battle cry.
She sang it in a fierce, proud voice. The melody was catchy, and the chorus easy to remember, and soon Breon was singing along with the rest of the audience, like it was his story, too. Like he belonged here. But he knew he didn’t.
Breon knew there was a war going on—there was always a war going on—but it w
as a war between bluebloods. His goal was to keep from getting ganged onto a ship or pressed into the army. Now, hearing this song, he was having trouble remembering why it had been so important to survive.
When the song was finished, the room erupted with cheers and applause. Breon felt like a faker, given the sort of life he led. For years, his world hadn’t extended farther than a nasty tangle of waterfront streets. It had been forever since he’d looked beyond his next gig, his next meal, or his next hit of leaf. He was always pretending to be someone he wasn’t, whatever it took to please the client. He claimed he wasn’t a fancy, but he was just putting on airs. A fancy made a more honest living than he did.
Breon lowered his head and bulled his way to the back of the temple. He slunk past the bluejackets at the door and out into the cold night. Behind him, he heard the singing begin again—this time a faintly familiar upland ballad.
He felt low and wretched, and he knew what would make him feel better.
He left the temple close and crossed the river to the Ragmarket side. Instead of going directly to his assigned position, he turned right, following the river until he could cut down a street farther on. Huddling in the doorway of a closed shop, he dug out the precious sack of leaf and shook a little into his pipe. He stepped back out into the street, reached high, and lit the pipe from the wizard flame in the lantern overhead.
The more he smoked, the more he realized that he’d been right all along. It didn’t much matter to him who was in charge—his life wouldn’t change, either way. His life was a whole series of todays with no guarantee of tomorrow.
A few minutes later he was on his way back toward the bridge, the magic of leaf rocketing into his fingers and toes, ready to step out of his tawdry skin and into his role.
The concert must have ended while he was otherwise engaged. People streamed past him, mostly families that had walked in from the surrounding neighborhoods. People were buzzing about the music and the dancing and how amazing it all was. Some of the children were in costume, so they must have been up on stage themselves.
Breon set a cup on the ground in front of him, seeding it with a few steelies, then leaned against a building, his foot propped against the stone wall, his jafasa resting comfortably on his knee. Lost in a pleasant euphoria, he adjusted the tuning, the people around him a smear of color and movement. He ran over the set list in his head, one love song after another.
Digging into his pocket, he pulled out the girlie’s pendant and dropped the chain over his head, sliding the locket under his fine linen shirt so that it rested on his bare chest. How long had it been since she’d worn this? Closing his eyes, he pressed it against his skin, picking through memories, dreams, and desires, looking for the melody that would resonate with her.
Her music was elusive as a fellsdeer, complex as the sea air, a mingling of love and loss, courage and fear, sorrow and joy and anger. What had been, what was, and what could be. Three notes, with an odd dissonance to them. Three strands, woven together, stronger than any one of them. Raw, unfinished, feral, changeable as a spring day. Maybe it was the leaf—it was probably the leaf—but he fell in love with the girlie’s music before he ever set eyes on her.
He wouldn’t know if he truly had it until she came, and he played it for her. In the meantime, he launched into his set list of tavern songs and drinking songs and love songs that he no longer believed in.
When he began to play, the coins piled up quickly—they always did. Some people lingered awhile to listen, murmuring softly among themselves like they were still in temple, and others shushing them. Couples, old and young, held hands and smiled.
At first the sidewalks were crowded, but the numbers dwindled gradually and still the girlie with the shawl did not come. Breon felt a prickle of doubt. His client had seemed knowledgeable about what she would be wearing and where she would be walking, but maybe he had been mistaken, or maybe she had changed her mind. Or maybe Breon had lingered too long with his pipe and he’d missed her in the early crowds.
He kept waiting, kept playing and singing, though now the streets were all but empty. Disappointment burned in his throat. He shouldn’t have gone off for a hit just as the concert was coming to a close. That was his mistake—the latest of many.
Since he was in no hurry to go back to their crib and face Aubrey and Whacks and Goose with empty pockets, he kept on waiting, looking around to see if he could spot the client lurking nearby. He didn’t see him, but as he scanned the area, he thought he saw movement on a nearby roof. When he focused in, he saw nothing, so maybe the leaf was playing tricks on him.
It was snowing harder, and the wind was finding its way through his clothing, and it was more and more difficult to stand in one place and play with his breath coming in clouds and his fingers stinging from the cold. Maybe it was time to accept the fact he’d messed up. Again.
There’ll be other gigs, he told himself. Better ones.
Just then, he saw a group emerge from a nearby tavern and head his way. They looked to be about his age, and they were laughing and jostling each other as they came. As they passed in and out of the light from the bridge buttresses, he squinted, trying to get a good look.
It was an odd mingle of people. Two were dressed in clan garb, three wore temple dress-up, and the others were all bluejackets.
Breon guessed bluejackets enjoyed a drink and a bite as much as anyone. But he saw no green-gowned girlie among them.
Something about the group reminded him of the song he’d heard in temple—the one that had made him feel guilty.
We are children of the north.
This time we fight as one.
Wizard, clan, and valefolk,
Our daughters and our sons.
The locket warmed against his skin, drawing his attention. Startled, Breon fingered it and took a second look at the group walking toward him.
That’s when he saw her—one of the two in clan garb was carrying an instrument case, and wearing the shawl the client had described to him. She was tall, but she had the shawl up over her head, so he couldn’t make out her hair color.
He felt the magic buzz through him like stingo, connecting the locket and the girlie on her way to him. This, then, was his target. Here, then, was his opportunity to make a new start.
He straightened, took a deep breath, found the chords he’d chosen, and launched into her song.
15
RAGMARKET ENCORE
The Keg and Crown was cozy, with a warm hearth surrounded by winter greens. Lyss pulled the pins from her carefully arranged hair and shook her head, letting her hair fall around her shoulders. That seemed to fit the Keg and Crown better than Aunt Mellony’s twist. As did her leathers.
They toasted Finn and Julianna’s betrothal, and this time Lyss was able to make a gracious show of it by playing and singing “Lily of the Vale,” a traditional love ballad. At the end, Sasha raised a silent toast to Lyss, looking at her over the rim of her tankard.
Lyss and Shadow played the basilka and Hadley sang sailors’ songs that were, indeed, so filthy that the entire tavern stared at first, then joined in. They moved on to marching songs and far-away-from-home songs and when-will-this-war-be-over songs. Every so often, they would bang their cups on the table, forcing a kiss from the betrothed couple, who seemed all too willing to comply.
Sometimes, one song leads to another, and one round leads to two. Lyss felt more relaxed and at home than she’d been since she returned to court.
That was when the bonging of the Southbridge Temple bell across the river reminded her of how late it was.
“I have to go,” she said, tossing down her napkin. “I never meant to stay this long. I have a meeting at an ungodly hour.”
“I’m in that same meeting,” Julianna said, pushing back her chair. “We’ll all go.”
Lyss shook her head. “No, no, stay. I’ll take Sasha and Cam and the rest of my Gray Wolves with me. The rest of you don’t have a curfew. We’ll take one carriage back
from Southbridge, and the rest of you can take the other one back.”
“Sounds crowded,” Shadow said, unfolding to his feet. “I’ll go back with you. I’m staying in Kendall House with my father, so it won’t be out of the way for me.”
In the end, they all left together.
Outside, it was snowing harder, the wind had picked up, and the temperature was dropping as well. Lyss pulled her shawl up over her head to keep her hair from whipping around her face. They walked back toward Bridge Street, Cam in front, Sasha lingering to the rear, swinging her head from side to side, looking for danger. Julianna and Finn walked hand in hand, Lyss and Shadow behind them, talking softly as the snow came down.
They were just turning onto South Bridge when Lyss heard it—a strange, ethereal music that seemed to sink its claws into her soul.
“What is that?” She turned and looked back the way they’d come.
“I don’t hear anything,” Shadow said.
Lyss had no idea what kind of instrument it was, but it sounded exotic, otherworldly. The voice of it was high and clear and pure as the Dyrnnewater, the kind of melody that ensnares the heart on a first hearing, gets the feet moving, and never lets go.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, and took off running, her instrument case banging against her hip.
“Meadowlark! Wait!” Shadow called, half-laughing. “You’re going the wrong way.”
The musician stood on a street corner, where South Bridge met the quay, playing a stringed instrument she didn’t recognize. He was a slight figure muffled in a thick cloak, the hood pulled close around his face. A busker, it must be, hoping to take advantage of the crowds of music-lovers leaving the concert.
But there were no crowds now, only Lyss.
“Lyss? Hey, Lyss, where are you going?” Now it was Sasha calling after her. Lyss turned back toward the others, spotting them partway across the bridge. Then they disappeared as tendrils of darkness snaked toward her, wrapping around her like a shroud, shutting the rest of the world out. She could hear nothing, see nothing. The shadows filled her mind, so there was only Lyss, the otherworldly music, and the musician.
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