Fae Song EPUB

by Williams , Deonne

  “I told you, I have a way with horses.”

  “True. Mount up then; we’re burning daylight.”

  “As you wish, mighty Southron,” Gwynn laughed.

  “Need some help?” Shae asked when he saw that the top of Gwynn’s head was not quite the height of her horse’s withers. “You have a tall horse for a little thing.”

  “No need, I’m a good climber and have little fear of heights.” He watched Gwynn stick her foot in the stirrup, bounce once on the other and spring into her saddle. “See, I told you.”

  “So you did. Come along then. I believe I owe you dinner and a bottle of wine.” Gwynn followed Shae through the stream and back onto the road. Rogue and Talon fell in alongside each other like seasoned traveling companions.

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  Shae kept his horse at a walk, telling Gwynn, “If I estimated my rate of travel correctly over the last seven-night, Rathgarven should only be a few hours ride. There is no need to push the horses.”

  Traveling that morning, Gwynn found that Shae was not quite the serious and taciturn companion she had expected from what she knew of Southrons in songs. He answered her many questions about his people and homeland without any reticence, displaying a dry sense of humor quite like her own. Gwynn’s studies had told her a bit about Southron. She knew there were four distinct Clans, and each mastered a different area of martial art.

  What did surprise her was when Shae explained to her that the skill of a Clan a Southron was born into appeared to be innate. He had handled a blade with ease from his earliest memories. The same followed with children born of the other Clans: some excelled in horsemanship; others were phenomenal archers, scouts, and trackers. One Clan was known for their unarmed fighting ability and fantastic speed.

  The Clans also had some distinguishing physical characteristics. Those of Shae’s Clan tended to be the tallest, while Southrons from the Bow Clan were always dark haired, and they had a white streak of hair at their left temple.

  “They’re born that way?”

  “Every one of them. I don’t know why; it has just always been the way of things,” Shae told her. “Those of the Lance Clan have green eyes. The ones from the Staff Clan are more lightly built than any of the other Clans, and gods are they fast! There was a Staffmaster who used to whack me on the side of my head before I ever saw her move. I was glad when I passed my testing with her Clan; I went home every single day with new bruises. She constantly beat me black and blue with that damned stick of hers.”

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  Taking a long look at her companion, Gwynn said, “I can’t imagine anyone doing that to you.”

  “Thank you for the compliment, but I’ve been bruised plenty,” Shae admitted with a sardonic grin. “She mostly hurt my pride, and a fifteen-year-old Southron has a lot of that to hurt. But I learned to see and react to things quickly, which was the lesson I was supposed to learn at her hands.”

  While the morning wore on, he turned the tables, and Gwynn found herself answering Shae’s questions about the kind of training a bard received. He seemed surprised when he learned she had received the title of Master at nineteen.

  “Isn’t that rare?” he asked.

  “Well, it’s not very common. Some never receive it and remain Journeymen all their lives,” Gwynn replied.

  “That’s why I have this harp. When Talaysen ap Teirwellyn was on his deathbed, he said he wanted his harp given to the next bard who achieved their Master’s rating before they had seen twenty winters.”

  “Talaysen? That was over four hundred years ago!”

  “You know something of bards?”

  “That and lots of other things,” Shae laughed.

  “Southrons learn more than weapon skills. I speak several languages, and I am well versed in history. Is that really Talaysen’s own harp?”

  “Right down to its original unbreakable platinum strings,” Gwynn said. “I don’t generally advertise that fact.

  I’m sure there are people who would like to have something like this, and I doubt they would be making an offer that had anything to do with selling it.”

  “That damned harp is probably priceless from a historical standpoint alone. I can’t believe they let you take it from Inishmore without an armed troop. Don’t people comment about the strings?” Shae looked aghast. Platinum 22

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  was far rarer than gold. The only known source of the metal was a single mine deep in the south desert of Sicar. The old Khymerian Empire had supposedly held several others, but their exact locations had been lost during the succession wars that had shattered the Empire.

  “No, because all bard’s harps are strung with silver, and most people can’t see the difference between it and a platinum harp string.”

  “I suppose you’re right, but I still don’t think you should be traveling alone with it.” She felt his gaze sweep over her, lingering a moment on the slim ornate dagger hanging from her belt. “You look like an easy mark to me.”

  “I do? I don’t suppose I ever thought about it. I’ve always traveled wherever I wanted, however I wanted. I’m a bard of Inishmore. Who would raise their hand against me?”

  “Not all of Balahar is as respectful of the bards of Inishmore as those you have met. You would be amazed by what some will do for an object of value or simply for their idea of sport. Those people don’t care who or what you are; they just take what they want. It’s that kind of element that keeps me and a lot of other Southrons profitably employed.”

  “I—I don’t know what to say.” Gwynn was shocked; she had always been treated with respect. “It’s something I have never thought about. Most bards just go where they like.”

  “That might be true for many bards, but it is something you should think about, for no other reasons than because of that harp and because you are a seemingly defenseless woman. Few women who are not from Southron ride freely about Balahar with no one to look after them. I like you, Gwynn. I would hate to think of you getting hurt—or worse.”

  “Maybe we can talk more about it later. I don’t want to think about it right now. I have always considered myself 23

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  fairly sensible, but you are leading me to wonder.”

  “I think you’re a little naïve, but I’m sure you will be sensible enough when reasoned with,” Shae chuckled.

  “Reasoned with? Who told you I can be reasoned with?”

  They sank into an easy silence after that. Somehow each other’s company was enough for the ride. Just past midday, they topped a hill and found themselves within sight of Rathgarven. Eastern Meran had once been under the sway of the Khymerian Empire, and the squat, sturdy wal surrounding Rathgarven dated from the early years of the Empire’s occupation of the area.

  Gwynn halted Rogue and reached into one of her saddlebags. She removed a strap hung with small bells and leaned forward to clip it over the poll strap of the gelding’s bridle. Reaching in a second time, she removed an antique silvery chain hung with bells smaller than the ones on her bridle. They rang faintly when she hung the chain around her neck. Shae’s expert eye recognized the metal, and Gwynn caught the question in his gaze.

  “Yes, the chain belonged to Talaysen also.”

  Shae shook his head. “I’m beginning to think you were right. Bards can’t be reasoned with.”

  “Why?”

  “Because someone had to let you leave home all alone carrying a virtual fortune around your neck and under your fingers,” he told her. “Or is someone trying to get rid of you?

  Perhaps you made someone jealous when you earned that harp?”

  “Don’t be silly! Bards don’t think like that. It probably never occurred to anyone I might be at risk. But,”

  Gwynn admitted, “I could have been better informed about things.”

  “You have no idea how lucky you have been already.”

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  Shae ro
lled his eyes at his own words. “I cannot have just said that! Southrons don’t believe in luck; we believe in good planning.”

  “Don’t worry,” Gwynn giggled, “bards make people believe in all kinds of things they never believed in before.

  Why couldn’t one make a Southron believe in luck?

  However, I’m not quite the wide-eyed innocent you seem to think I am.” Gwynn fingered her chain, a faint shadow dwelling in her eyes. “When I was little, all I could think about was earning the bells of a Master. In the last few years, I’ve found out that sometimes, they are heavy to carry, especially when asked to serve justice. Sending someone to punishment is a decision that cannot be taken lightly.”

  Bards of Inishmore had long mastered the ability to see the truth in a man’s mind and know the secrets of his heart. That power had saved some from the gallows and condemned others in their place. A bard of Inishmore could override any tribunal or judge with a word, because none could hide their thoughts from a bard who sought them.

  “Gods, yes, that’s a sentiment I can certainly understand. Southrons do not believe in the taking of life lightly either, even if the taking serves justice. Now, enough talk of serious things. What kind of wine do you like?”

  “I prefer Krean red, and I like it at least six years old.”

  Gwynn informed him, nudging Rogue forward.

  Shae’s left eyebrow shot up. “Krean red? You have expensive tastes,” he grumbled.

  “I daresay, it will still cost you less than a healer’s fees, and I already told you I was spoiled.”

  “Try spoiled rotten. Race you to Rathgarven, loser pays for both our night’s lodging.”

  “Done!” Gwynn exclaimed, setting her heels into Rogue’s sides.

  “Cheat!” Shae shouted after her while he spurred 25

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  Talon into a gallop.

  The two urged their horses down the hill toward town, Rogue’s bridle bells ringing a steady counterpoint to Gwynn’s laughter. Talon caught up with him, but then they stayed neck and neck all the way down the hill, neither one of them able to outdistance the other. Talon’s legs were slightly longer, but Rogue carried less weight, so they were evenly matched. Shae and Gwynn slowed their horses about a hundred paces from the city gate.

  They dropped to a trot, Gwynn pushing back the hair that had escaped from her braid. “Shall we call it a draw?”

  “Fair enough,” Shae agreed. “We can call off the lodging bet.” Gwynn nodded, thinking with satisfaction that dinner and a room would cost her nothing tonight, since a bard rarely had to pay for lodging and Shae was buying her dinner. He gestured toward the town’s gate where three guards had stepped outside with ready hands on their sword hilts, and several more peered over the battlements above.

  “We seem to have gotten ourselves some attention.”

  “Good, bards like to make an entrance.”

  “So do Southrons, we use these opportunities to enhance our fearsome reputations, especially in provincial backwaters,” Shae said, a wicked gleam rising in his eyes.

  “And how does one do that?”

  “Watch and learn, little one.”

  Shae seemed to grow more imposing with every stride Talon took toward the gates, and Gwynn watched the two younger guardsmen pale under their helms. He halted his destrier squarely in front of the guards, and the older one, possibly a sergeant by his shoulder knots, swallowed before he addressed him.

  “Is there some trouble behind you, Southron? You and your companion seemed to be riding quickly toward town.”

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  Shae’s blue eyes seemed to bore right through the man, and when he answered, his accent was more clipped and harsher than Gwynn had heard from him. “Trouble?

  Southrons don’t leave trouble behind them. They eliminate it.” The man took an involuntary step backwards, and Shae finally had mercy on him. “As it happens, the lady bard and I had a wager on the speed of our horses, but I thank you for your concern.”

  The man looked at Gwynn for what was probably the first time since they had gotten within speaking range.

  “Greetings, lady bard. Rathgarven is honored by your presence,” he said, bowing in her direction.

  Gwynn inclined her head formally in return and answered the man in full voice, the echoing harmonies filling the air around them. “I thank you for the kind welcome. I am Gwynn ferch Gryffyn. I would take it as a kindness if you could direct us to one of your better inns; we have both been on the road for some time and are now looking forward to the pleasures of civilization. Well,” she added with an arch sidelong glance at Shae, “at least one of us is.” He turned the full force of his daunting glare on her, but she didn’t blink.

  The man appeared more unnerved at Shae’s look than she, so it was a moment before he could answer her inquiry.

  “I’m sure you would find the Gilt Tankard most accommodating. Fol ow this street to the marketplace and then turn north; it’s on the right just past the square.”

  “Thank you,” Gwynn replied while she started Rogue forward. Shae followed with Talon, and the guards almost fell over themselves making way. She managed to wait until they were out of earshot from the gate before she began to chuckle. “I see what you mean about enhancing your reputation.”

  “I’ve always enjoyed making guards tremble in their boots. It’s one of my favorite things about arriving in 27

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  provincial towns. However,” he growled at Gwynn, “we are going to discuss your impertinence.”

  “Bah,” she dismissed him with an airy wave of her hand. “Bards are impertinent to everyone, as it helps remind them of their true place in life. Besides, it’s probably very good for you, because I doubt few people have the nerve to do it.”

  “True that,” Shae agreed with the ghost of a smile.

  It was early afternoon and the streets were busy while they rode through town. The strange thing was, no matter how crowded the street, the two riders never had any problem getting through. Somehow, the crowd always thinned at just the right moment in front of Shae.

  Ahead, a gleaming golden mug-shaped sign swayed gently in the afternoon breeze. Gwynn pointed toward it. “I believe this must be our inn.”

  “Hard to miss, even if you can’t read. Looks respectable enough, though. Let’s check the service. Ostler!”

  Two boys and an older man appeared from the open stable door. The boys stopped, staring open-mouthed at Shae and his war horse.

  The ostler gave the boys a push towards Rogue. “Just the two horses, Southron?”

  “Aye,” Shae answered. “What are your rates for boarding and lodging?”

  “Six coppers per night, per horse. The inn runs from three coppers for the common room floor to six gold crowns for our best rooms,” he said. While the Empire itself had been gone for hundreds of years, silver coins were still nobles, and gold coins were still crowns no matter where you went.

  Gwynn dismounted with her usual ease, but grabbed her stirrup leather for support, because her knees gave under her when her feet touched the ground. Shae’s hawk-like gaze 28

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  narrowed when he saw it, but he said nothing when Gwynn let go of the strap and straightened. She pulled her saddlebags from Rogue, removed his bridle bells, and handed the reins to the taller of the two boys, disconcerted by the strange amount of effort it took. “His name is Rogue.”

  The taller boy elbowed his friend. “See the bells; she’s a bard.”

  “Yes, I am,” Gwynn agreed, feeling somewhat breathless, “and if you come by the common room tonight, I know a few songs that are great favorites among boys your age. I’ll be glad to sing them for you.” The boys scurried off with Rogue, wide smiles on their faces from Gwynn’s promise. She watched them go into the stable, breathing slowly while they disappeared.

  Shae dismounted, tossed his saddlebags over one shoulder, and had his bow case over the other in the time it took Gwyn
n to pass off Rogue’s reins. He took a long, considering look at the ostler before handing him Talon’s reins. “Don’t worry, Southron,” he assured him. “I’ve handled a few of these fellows; I know how to treat them.

  My name is Hamish; let me know if there is anything special he needs.”

  “Very well, just give him lots of hay to keep him busy while he’s in a stall. Bored Southronbreds can get destructive.” The two walked across the stable yard, Shae taking Gwynn’s saddlebags from her and throwing them over his own. “You look tired,” he said by way of explanation.

  “I am tired, but I don’t know why. We didn’t ride that far or that hard. Do you think that healing you took more out of me than I realized?”

  “Most healers would have to rest a few days after 29

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  doing what you did. You are good at it, though. I feel I could ride straight through to Mazlo.”

  “Isn’t Mazlo a few day’s ride from here?”

  “Aye, it’s right on the Dinar River. I’m taking the Western River Road south to Samhayne.”

  “Samhayne? That’s odd; I was heading in that general direction myself. Of course, being what I am, it might take me quite some time. We of Inishmore tend to get sidetracked more readily than some. If my mother wasn’t performing or composing or asleep, she couldn’t be still. I’m not quite like that.”