by Melanie Rawn
Desse caught up with him on the edge of town and bought him dinner—the least the old man could do after ruining his prospective meal—and Col nodded complete disinterest in whatever the Mage said.
“If you’d bothered to stick around this autumn, you would’ve learned a few things. For instance—Lady Maichen Ambrai divorced her husband, left her home, and took her younger daughter with her. No one knows where they’ve gone.”
“Uh-huh,” said Col, and kept eating.
“The elder daughter took her father’s name of Feiran and is with him at Ryka Court.”
“Mmm,” said Col, taking a swig of ale.
“Auvry Feiran is high in Anniyas’ favor nowadays, recently promoted to Commandant of the Council Guard.”
“Pass the green pepper,” said Col.
“He’s efficient, too. Ambrai was destroyed, as you heard at Scraller’s.”
“Too bad.”
“And you’re going to go live with a friend of mine.”
Col stuffed the last of the bread into his pocket and drained ale down his throat. “Nice talking to you, old man.”
“Sit down,” the Mage said.
He pulled a bored face. “Are you going to Fold the floor again?”
“No.” Desse calmly buttered a slice of bread. “I didn’t Fold it the last time. You really must learn a little something about magic—at least enough to call a spell by its right name.”
And in spite of Col’s infuriated efforts to the contrary, his knees bent and his rump connected with the bench once more.
“That one, for instance,” the Mage went on, “is commonly called Stay Put.”
Collan capitulated with poor grace. “Look, what’s all this to do with me? I don’t know any of these people and I don’t want to. I’m doing fine as I am.”
Eloquent green eyes below wildly tufted brows took in every detail of his patched clothes, skinny frame, and lank, dirty, uncoifed hair.
“It’ll get better once the big merchant fairs start,” Collan defended. “St. Tirreiz’s Day I made so many cutpieces I jingled!”
“Congratulations. Did I mention yet that my friend’s name is Falundir?”
Wild wolves couldn’t have parted Col from his seat now. Falundir was a name pronounced with deepest reverence by Carlon the Lutenist. The last true Bard, Falundir scorned to perform anyone’s work but his own. His were the most glorious songs Col had ever learned. He had never played them for Scraller’s guests; they were too pure to be sullied by such an audience.
“I heard he was dead,” Collan whispered.
“You think everyone is dead. Geridon’s Golden Stones, you’re as gullible as Anniyas. Falundir is as much alive as I am, and marginally more willing to tolerate your company.”
“Me?” It came out as a squeak; his voice was changing apace, mouse one minute and lion the next. He cherished his vocal insecurities devotedly—for obvious reasons. Reminded of the debt he owed the old man, aware of the incredible favor about to be done him, Collan drew a steadying breath and placed his hands flat on the table. He was shocked at how rough and raggedy they’d become: the dirty, awkward hands of a laborer, not a musician. It seemed forever since he’d picked up a lute. Fear clotted in his throat.
“You’ll remember how to play,” Desse assured him, correctly reading his panicky face. “Do you accept?”
“Yes!”
The old man grunted. “First intelligent thing you’ve ever said.”
Col wasn’t listening. “But why would he want—?”
“Because he needs your help. And don’t ever tell him I said so.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The First Councillor is a rather demanding critic.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Flatly: “The sentiments expressed in one of Falundir’s songs were judged inappropriate. Avira Anniyas personally sliced the tendons at the base of each finger, then cut out his tongue.”
The ale soured in Col’s stomach and he thought he was going to be sick. “Blessed St. Velenne,” he breathed.
“Make yourself useful, and Falundir might consider keeping you past winter. I assured him you’d work your stones off—stones you still have, thanks to me.”
“I remember,” Collan grated.
“Good.” The old man stretched and stood up. “Remember it as well the next time you consider a midnight flit from people who’re trying to help you.”
But he never even considered leaving Falundir.
The house in the depths of Sheve Dark was simple bordering on primitive: a roof and a hearth and a room. Much of Col’s time and energy was expended in hunting, fishing, tending vegetables, and otherwise keeping them both fed. There was no society but their own. Gorynel Desse’s annual visits were brief. The winters were green ice, the summers green fire. But work was familiar and solitude soothing. The hearth warmed him in winter and forest ponds cooled him in summer. And the finest Bard who ever lived made of Collan his hands and eventually his voice.
It made him dizzy whenever he thought about it.
Falundir was a small, frail, testy man of forty or so, blue-eyed, beak-nosed, and nearly as black-skinned as Gorynel Desse. Most folk, Col had learned on his travels, were pretty much brown; some fairer, some darker, some blondish, some reddish like himself. The Mage and the Bard were two of only ten people he’d ever seen whose skin was distinctively black. Blood, Tier, or slave, extremes of coloring were unusual.
Unlike Carlon, with his taste for elaborate clothing, Falundir wore whatever Col washed and set out for him. But, like Carlon, he was a castrate. His voice as a youth had been the purest in all Lenfell; Col heard its remnants whenever the Bard thought himself alone in the cottage. At those times Falundir hummed melodies he could no longer put words to, piercing the dank forest air with crystalline sweetness. Col learned to keep completely still outside the window so the Bard wouldn’t remember his presence—and committed every fragment to memory in the personal number-code that was music to him.
Communication was naturally a problem after Gorynel Desse’s departure. Having spent his life expressing himself in perfect phrases of his own creation, Falundir refused even to attempt speech now. The boy did a lot of guessing and questioning; the Bard did a lot of grimacing and gesturing. Eventually they worked out a language of their own.
It frustrated Col unbearably that there was no way for Falundir to share the details of his life. Desse had told him a little. Born a slave in Shellinkroth, music had won Falundir his freedom at eighteen. He’d performed before everyone worth mentioning, traveled the length and breadth of Lenfell, known Mage Guardians and Lords of Malerris and notables of every Name, witnessed and written about great events. But his life was locked away now: the poet’s eloquence muted, the minstrel’s fingers useless.
The crippling was recent. Desse had taken him to stay with friends while his wounds healed, then installed him in a cottage ten miles into Sheve Dark and set out to find Collan.
“I didn’t like leaving him alone from Harvest to Candleweek,” the old man had admitted. “And bringing you to him is a risk. You still have your hands and voice. Don’t be surprised if he’s hostile at first. Have patience. You can understand what he’s lost.”
After a few days, Collan began to think the winter silence of Sheve Dark was the biggest risk of all. The snowy forest was unnervingly quiet, not even a bird to twitter or a squirrel to rustle the undergrowth. After such glorious music as Falundir had made—this?
Intimidated by the forest silence—not to mention Falundir’s renown—Col didn’t say much at first. After a couple of weeks, he began talking just to hear the noise. Falundir endured this rambling babble for an hour one morning, then snorted and left the cottage. Col took the hint and shut up for several days. Then one evening the Bard settled before the hearth, pointed at Collan, then at his own lips, and nodded.
“You
want me to—what should I talk about?”
A shrug. A graceful circle described in the air by a useless hand.
He found himself telling the Bard everything. His early memory of wind; slavery at Scraller’s Fief; wanderings as a street entertainer and thief. He talked until his throat was raw and the Ladymoon set. Falundir mulled homemade mead for him, and he talked on until midnight.
That was how they spent most evenings that winter. Col remembered much he’d thought forgotten. If he paused, Falundir would scowl and fix him with a stern look from bright blue eyes, and Col would strive to recall a scene down to the smallest mote of remembrance. He learned how to let a memory flow out of him in words that made precise pictures. Too many words, he knew; he hadn’t the Bard’s gift for summing emotion or sensory detail in a few choice syllables. But memories led to more memories, and after a time he understood that together the notes formed the music of his life. Some tones rang clear and strong; others were sweetly delicate as whispered grace notes—and many were raucous, painfully out of tune. But they were all him, and all his, played to the drumbeat of his own heart.
It was nearly spring before he felt brave enough to discuss music or poetry with the great Bard. Part of it was shyness; part of it was his certainty that his frustration would grow even more acute. Falundir could not contribute to the conversation. But their communication system took some of the edge off Col’s need. He would make a statement or ask a question, and the Bard would indicate yes or no and either encourage further talk on the subject or hold one hand up to end it.
It was better than nothing, but it drove Collan crazy just the same.
One evening as they fortified themselves against the cold by liberally sampling Falundir’s mead, Col gave a cloying recital of one of Scraller’s bedtime stories. And sound issued from the Bard: laughter. Rich, carefree, even musical, showing Collan how fine a voice it had once been. The twinkle in blue eyes lasted into the next day. How long had it been since Falundir had found anything even remotely funny, let alone laughed?
The days lengthened and grew warmer, hunting improved, and the vegetable beds sprouted weed bouquets. One afternoon Col knelt beside the cabbages, ripping up dragoneye and spike bloom while Falundir grappled with the hoe, preparatory to planting the corn. All at once the Bard let out a soft groan. Collan turned, alarmed. The fierceness of the blue eyes in the dark face toppled him back on his heels as surely as the long-ago wind had flattened him into a muddy ditch. The look was one of bitter grief and terrible hatred. And it was directed at him.
What have I done? he tried to say, but his lips wouldn’t form the words. He was as mute as Anniyas had made Falundir.
And then he realized. He’d been singing—softly, under his breath, but singing. And the song had been one of Falundir’s.
“I—I’m sorry—” he stammered. “I didn’t mean—”
The Bard flung the hoe onto the new earth, and disappeared into the forest as silently as a Wraith.
It was well after dark before he returned. Col huddled miserably before the fire, dinner ready but uneaten. He served Falundir, then himself, but still had no appetite. After a time, Falundir set aside his bowl and rose. Collan didn’t dare look at him. When one lax hand fell onto his shoulder, he flinched.
A small silver key dropped into Col’s lap. He knew at once what it opened: the cupboard over Falundir’s bed was closed with the only lock in the cottage. His knees shook as he approached and opened it, certain there would be incredible treasure within. He was right.
Songbooks. Great leather-bound folios of music and words, glossed in Falundir’s own hand, were stacked ten deep. Behind them, wrapped in Bardic blue silk inside an unmistakable bronzewood case, was a lute.
Falundir’s songs. Falundir’s lute.
“I can’t,” Col blurted, taking a step back.
A gentle hand pushed him forward. He looked over his shoulder. The thin dark face smiled, bright eyes glittery with tears. Col ached with empathetic anguish. Surely the books and lute had not been unlocked since the Bard began his exile here. To see them again, to hear the words sung and the instrument coaxed into tune and played—and by so giftless a lout as Col—
Falundir extended both hands. Slowly, he drew the fingers in to the palms. They curled only a little; tendons meant to bend knuckles had long since atrophied. His thumbs could hold objects by pressing into his palms, but that was all. His fingers would never dance across the strings again.
It was the first time Collan had felt anyone’s pain but his own, and the onslaught unnerved him. He cast a single desperate glance at Falundir’s liquid blue eyes, and fled the cottage.
As with all his most vivid memories, that evening was imprinted on his mind for survival’s sake. More surely than changes in voice or height, it signaled approaching adulthood. A gift from his mother—meager though it eventually proved when compared with others—made itself felt that night. And Col rejected it utterly.
5
He wasn’t fool enough to reject the Bard’s gift of music.
At first he practiced alone, deep in Sheve Dark, with only the summer denizens of gargantuan trees as his audience. But as summer turned to autumn, it grew too cold and his fingers lost the suppleness they’d regained. So for the first weeks of winter, he neither played nor sang.
Falundir never touched the books or the lute. Gradually he was able to look at them without tears springing to his eyes. One night he simply pointed to the cupboard, and Collan helplessly brought out the instrument and began to play.
Now that he had an audience whose opinion he valued—unlike Scraller and his moronic guests—he found he could neither sing a note nor move his fingers in the simplest of chordings. The humiliation was worse than being sold.
Falundir’s reaction was a total lack of reaction. Col put the lute away.
The next night it was waiting for him by his chair at the hearth. The implication stunned him. Falundir simply watched his eyes, no expression on his face at all. Collan sat, tuned the lute, and once more tried to play.
He was a little better this time. He still winced at every mistake, and cast anxious glances at the Bard. At length Falundir pointed to himself and shook his head. Then he gestured expansively to Collan and nodded.
Not for me; for yourself. That was what Falundir meant. What Col had always known instinctively was confirmed by a Bard who had refused to compromise his music for the First Councillor’s political peace.
It never became exactly easy to play for Falundir. Collan never forgot who was with him, listening with exquisitely sensitive ears, crippled hands twitching every so often as rippling notes stirred his fingers’ memory. But as they worked out a teaching system, the Bard humming the notes he wished to hear, Col’s confidence increased and he wasn’t so much mortified by mistakes as irritated by them.
From the folios, he learned every song Falundir had ever written down. He wondered sometimes what it must do to his teacher, hearing compositions he could never again perform the way he’d intended. Col clung to something Carlon had told him once—that the best songs lived on their own. “Even an indifferent Minstrel can’t ruin its essence, and a superior talent both draws on and adds to it. It’s the mediocre piece that needs a really good player to make it come alive—and at the hands and voice of an idiot, such songs are exposed for the disasters they truly are.” Collan doubted there was anything he could add to the lives of Falundir’s works—and he knew they made him sound a much finer talent than he really was.
When he knew every piece in the folios, he yearned for more. But more there would never be. Falundir could hum new tunes for him to pick out on the lute, but of words there could be nothing. Speech and pen had been gateways for the Bard’s soul, and were now locked tight. Still, Collan carefully wrote down the new melodies, hoping that someday a poet worthy of the music would hear it and do it justice.
Seasons passed, the green chill of winter
following the suffocating green heat of summer in Sheve Dark. Gorynel Desse arrived every spring, and at those times Falundir would send Collan out to hunt extra meat. What the Warrior Mage told his old friend during these private times remained a mystery to Col. At first, he lingered outside the cottage, trying to overhear. But Desse must have used a Silence spell, for even crouched beneath an open window with a snatched glance inside showing him the Mage’s moving lips, Col heard nothing. He shrugged and went hunting.
Sheve Dark was so luxuriant that anyone unaccustomed to threading through the maze of Scraller’s Fief would have been hopelessly lost in a hundred paces. Collan never was. Though all trees looked pretty much the same to him, he soon mapped out the forest in his head with mathematical precision.
For hundreds of miles, gigantic redwood pillars rose two hundred feet before spreading needle-thick arms toward each other, a canopy that shut out all but the fiercest sunlight. Birds of flamboyant colors and raucous voices lived in the upper branches. Lesser trees, underbrush, and the heavy cushion of needles provided homes for other creatures: slow, shy pricklebacks, squirrels and other rodents, and deer with racks ten feet across. At the forest’s edge was Sleginhold, the largest town and only manor house in more than a hundred miles. Its inhabitants ventured into the Dark sometimes to hunt, fish, or gather medicinal plants, but Collan avoided them and they never seemed to find the cottage. He didn’t understand that until one of Desse’s visits, when the old man let him watch while he renewed the Wards.
“They’re all different,” the Mage explained as they trod a barely visible trail. “Identical spells attract suspicion.”
Collan nodded. “If you put too many Look That Way Wards—”
“Exactly. I vary them with I’m Thirsty, Deer In The Thicket, Is My Horse Lame, and so on. My favorite is What Did I Leave Behind.” He grinned, white teeth flashing in his dark face. “I’ve seen folk hurry halfway home, convinced that the bow in their hands is in fact propped against the front door.”
