“Very well,” she said. “I’ll perform at the recital.” It was not as though she could refuse her instructor’s request.
“Good.” He nodded. “Tomorrow, we’ll go over the transition into the chorus. It is the only thing I heard that needs work—the rest of your piece is excellent. Well done, Shandara.”
“Thank you,” she said, hearing his unspoken words.
Well done . . . but not quite well enough.
Glumly, she wrapped her harp back in its thick cloth case and bid Master Tangeli good evening. She would go back to her room and work on the music until her fingers bled, if that was what it took to reach her Bardic potential.
Someone in a nearby practice room was playing a difficult run of notes on the gittern, over and over. To Shandara’s ear, there was no improvement from one try to the next. Much like her attempts to master her Gift.
As she trudged up the stairs to the third floor dormitory, the dinner bell rang. Not that she was hungry—but if she didn’t make at least a token appearance, her friend Ryk would worry. He fretted entirely too much about her, and now that most of their yearmates were gone, he fussed at her even more.
Her chest tightened with the knowledge that he would likely receive his Scarlets soon. Maybe even after the Midwinter Recital. And then she would be completely alone.
Oh, stop it, she told herself. Self-pity was no use to anyone, and she didn’t begrudge Ryk his inevitable success. It was just that she was going to miss him when he went.
Her room smelled of beeswax candles and the dried herbs strewn inside her mattress. The familiar scent soothed her, taking the edge off her unhappiness.
Dinner would help, too—and perhaps there would be pocket pies. She could do with a little sweetness in her day. Shandara tucked her harp into its corner beside her bed, then turned and went back down to brave the cold courtyard.
She waited inside the Bardic Collegium’s entryway for a moment or two to see if Ryk would come, but there was no sign of him. Likely he’d already headed over to the dining hall. Their schedules did not often mesh, but she knew he would save a seat for her.
The cold air stung her face and stole her breath the moment she stepped out into the deepening twilight. A few snowflakes drifted past her, but the afternoon flurries seemed to have passed.
Across the stone-paved yard, the larger Herald’s Collegium was a comforting bulk, its many windows glowing golden. Shandara hunched her shoulders against the bitter wind and increased her pace, her fingers already chilled.
. . . Shandara . . .
It was a whisper on the wind, accompanied by a sleet-filled gust. Shandara whirled, then lost her footing on a treacherous patch of ice. Snow blinded her, and she cried out, arms windmilling in a vain attempt to regain her balance.
“No!”
She pulled in a panicked breath, the cold air invading her lungs. Her feet slid out from under her, and down she went on the unyielding paving stones.
She landed hard on her right side. Bright pain blossomed through her arm and shoulder, and she lay there a moment, stunned. Snowflakes gathered on her lashes, pricked her cheeks.
“Shandara!” One of the third-year Trainees rushed over. “Are you all right?”
“I think . . . I need a Healer,” Shandara blinked back the tears of pain blurring her vision.
In what seemed like moments, she was surrounded by a circle of concerned faces. Some were lit by the glow of the Collegiums’ windows, others were shadowed. The chill of the paving stones seeped into her body, but her shoulder hurt so badly she was not certain she could sit up.
“Should we move her?”
“Wait for Healer Adrun.”
“Let me through!” That was Ryk. He knelt beside her, his brown eyes wide. “Shan, what happened? Where did you land? Did you break anything?”
His breath sent a frosty plume into the darkening air. Shandara managed a weak smile, then regretted it as her arm pulsed with pain.
“I tripped,” she said. “Fell on my right side. Maybe broken.” Her voice cracked on the last word.
It was a musician’s worst fear: injuring a hand or arm and being unable to play. While it was true the Healers at the Collegium were some of the best in the land, they could not mend every injury. At least, not instantly.
“Here.” Ryk pulled off his cloak and folded it into quarters. “Can you lift your head?”
“You’ll be cold,” she said.
“You’re the one lying on the stones. Hush now.” He slipped the makeshift pillow under her cheek. The wool was rough against her skin and smelled faintly of wood smoke.
“Make way.” Master Tangeli pushed through the crowd, his lips pressed together with concern. “Give her some space.”
“Indeed,” a deep voice said. “Everyone, move over.”
The crowd surrounding Shandara shifted as Master Healer Adrun strode to her. His emerald green clothing was a bright contrast to the rust and scarlet hues of the Bards. He knelt on the icy stones, then held his hand over her body and closed his eyes in concentration.
“Well, young lady,” he said after a moment, opening his eyes. “You’ve torn your shoulder and fractured your forearm. That was quite a fall. Glad you didn’t hit your head—those are always difficult injuries to heal. Let’s get you inside where it’s warm. Then a round of Healing. Sit up—carefully. There you go.”
Ryk moved to her left side and supported her as she unsteadily rose to her feet. At least the snow had lessened somewhat, the flakes now swirling gently around her, as if in apology.
Master Tangeli nodded at her. “I’ll be in to check on you soon, Shandara. I hope your injury is not too grievous.” He raised his voice. “Everyone, thank you for stopping—but the cooks won’t be happy if we are all late to dinner.”
The crowd dissipated, leaving Shandara, Ryk, and Master Adrun to head back to the Bard’s dormitory. Slowly, with much wincing on her part, they managed the journey up to the third floor.
“Sit on the edge of the bed,” Master Adrun said. “Easy, now. That’s it.”
Shandara breathed shallowly and stared at her colorful quilt, trying to calm herself so that Master Adrun could work with her body’s natural energy flow. Still, her mind would not stop leaping from pain to fear to worry, then circling back again.
“Will I be well enough to perform at the Midwinter Recital?” she asked as the Healer held his hands above her shoulder. “I play the harp,” she added, in case he did not know.
Master Adrun shot a glance at the instrument in the corner. “Harp? That takes a much larger range of motion than, say, a flute.” He frowned. “You’ve torn a tendon, I’m afraid. Even with Healing, I have to advise two weeks of rehabilitation. It’s unlikely you’ll be able to play much of anything before then.”
“But I have to—”
“If you attempt to use your shoulder too soon, you could permanently weaken the joint, making you vulnerable to future injuries.” He shook his head. “Not a risk a Bard should take.”
He was right, though she hated to admit it.
“But you can still sing,” Ryk said with an encouraging smile. “You can accompany yourself with your left hand, and just let your right arm rest in your lap. Think of it as a challenge. You can show the Bardic Council that you can overcome obstacles and still perform.”
“I suppose. But my composition depends on the interplay of left and right hand, as well as my voice. There’s no way I can perform ‘Valor.’”
“It’s your piece,” Ryk said. “I’m certain you can come up with a new arrangement.”
His faith warmed her and steadied her conviction. She could do it, rework the song. The vocal part would have to carry the piece, but she had an excellent voice. And it would prove to the Council that she was a flexible musician, able to adapt to the unexpected; surely a most desirable quality in a Bard.<
br />
“Take a deep breath and hold it,” Master Adrun said.
Shandara bit her lip at the flash of pain in her right shoulder.
“I’ve done what I can for now,” the Healer continued. “For the next two days, keep your shoulder as immobilized as possible. I’ll send a sling over, and will be back to check your progress tomorrow. For now, rest. And don’t forget to eat. You’ll find yourself quite tired from the Healing.”
“I’ll bring you a tray,” Ryk said.
“Thank you.” She gave her friend a grateful smile. Already, as Master Adrun had predicted, weariness washed over her.
As soon as they left, Shandara lay back on her bed. Her shoulder throbbed, but it was not the same searing pain as when she’d fallen on the courtyard stones. She closed her eyes for a moment, and it seemed that between one breath and the next, Ryk was there.
He helped her sit, and held the tray for her while she awkwardly spooned up her stew with her left hand. As soon as she finished, she yawned, her eyes lidded with lead.
“Good night,” Ryk said with a smile, standing and taking up the tray. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Night.”
His sympathetic smile never leaving his face, he closed the door quietly behind him. Stifling another yawn, Shandara pulled the quilt over herself with her left hand. Undressing just then would be too difficult. Tomorrow, Genna could help her. But now sleep sang its sweet, compelling song to her. She followed that melody down into the warm dark.
• • •
“I can’t believe it.” The words came out in a croak. Shandara blew her nose for the hundredth time, and regarded Ryk glumly over the curve of her harp.
The candles on her dresser flickered gaily, in sharp contrast to her mood, and already she wished she could crawl under the covers and stay there until morning. She did not know how she could possibly get through the Midwinter Recital.
“Don’t even try to speak,” Ryk said. “You sound dreadful, like a swamp frog. I’ll go tell Master Tangeli you won’t be performing tonight.”
“I have to,” she whispered. “A Bard doesn’t go back on her promises.”
She’d given her instructor her word. Not once, but twice, reassuring him after her injury that she was still going to play at the recital.
Ryk shook his head, his shaggy brown hair falling into his eyes. “Everyone will understand. Not only are you playing one-handed, but now you’ve lost your voice!”
“It’s my last chance.”
She couldn’t bear to watch Ryk don his Scarlets and leave. It wasn’t absolutely certain that he would, of course. But Master Tangeli had strongly hinted that all the senior Trainees who performed at the Midwinter Recital had an excellent chance of earning their full Bard status. Shandara suspected it was why he’d extracted her promise to perform.
And perform she would. If she could not dazzle the council with her musical ability, she would impress them with her sheer determination.
Despite her bravado, her stomach knotted at the thought. Her best chance had always been to amaze the Master Bards with her skillful harp playing and talented singing. Now, with her injured shoulder and croaking voice, she had neither.
She was reduced to plucking chords and humming. It was humiliating—but she would bear it. Better five minutes of wretchedness on stage than to be the last of her yearmates still at the Collegium.
“But what will you play?” Ryk frowned. “You could accompany me, if you’d like.”
She shook her head. It was kind of him to offer, and she was certain she could fit in a bass line to his gittern playing, but in her heart, she knew that would be cheating. Besides, she didn’t want to hurt Ryk’s chances of advancement to full Bard status.
Whatever she played tonight, she’d have to take the stage alone.
“I’ll manage,” she whispered.
“I need to get ready,” Ryk said. “Should I ask Genna to come help you dress?”
Shandara nodded. She had a russet gown with bright embroidery at the hem and sleeves that she would not be able to don one-handed.
“All right.” Ryk gave her a careful hug. “And if you change your mind, let me know.”
She smiled at him. “See you in the hall,” she whispered.
As soon as he left, she turned her attention back to her harp. Worry scrabbled at her mind with sharp claws, but she pushed it away. She must think of something to perform.
She began plucking chords—a simple line that reminded her of a lullaby her mother used to sing. Experimentally, Shandara hummed the melody. What emerged from her throat was an odd, nasal sound, but for some reason she could make more sound with her mouth closed than when she tried to sing.
It was closer to the noise a bee would make than an actual singing voice, and she winced at it. But she must play. Even though this rough, half-accompanied lullaby would win her no prizes. And no Scarlets, either.
But she had promised Master Tangeli.
So, then. Grimly, she bent her head and began to hum. At least her left hand played true, moving smoothly through the chord changes. She even managed a little echo of the melodic line at one point. It would have to do, though her performance would be as raw and basic as any first-year Trainee’s attempt.
• • •
From her place at the side of the stage, Shandara looked out over the assembled listeners. The hall was decked with greenery and candles, the audience a kaleidoscope of gray and rust, moss green and blue. Where the Master Bards sat, bright Scarlet grouped in clusters like holly berries, and a dazzling white splash in the middle of the throng denoted the Heralds. Here and there, the emerald of the Healers dotted the crowd. Shandara saw Master Adrun sitting with his peers.
He had visited earlier that day, repossessed his sling, and cautioned her to spend at least two more weeks doing the gentle exercises he had given her before trying anything more strenuous. She sighed and lifted her right arm two inches, stopping when she felt a twinge. If only her injury had been simpler to Heal.
Onstage, a fourth-year Trainee was just finishing her piece, a flute arrangement of one of the Vanyel Song Cycle ballads. The audience applauded, and Bard Vivaca, the master of ceremonies for the evening, announced the next performer.
“Ryk Tayard,” she said. “Playing his own composition, ‘Bright Dancer.’”
Holding his gittern by the neck, Ryk strode on stage, bowed, then sat on the stool set out for the performers. He gave his strings a quiet strum to check their tuning, tweaked one of the pegs, then lifted his head and began.
A flourish of notes leaped from beneath his fingers, and Shandara nodded, her foot tapping in time to the sprightly rhythm. Ryk had composed the piece after watching the Companions in their field one summer afternoon. They had known he was there and had shown off, tossing their silvery manes and racing like streaks of light back and forth over the green summer grasses.
She could see them in her mind, evoked by Ryk’s Gift. A flash of blue eyes, the high whinny that almost sounded like laughter, the warm confidence that, as long as the Companions and their Heralds rode the land, all would be well.
When Ryk finished, the applause was loud and long. To no one’s surprise, the Heralds were most enthusiastic, calling out their approval. Ryk bowed, and Shandara’s stomach tightened.
Her turn.
The concert was supposed to build to the most advanced student, and she wished that they had put her much earlier, with the first or second-year students. But no—she was last. And what an anticlimactic ending it would be.
“Shandara Tem, playing ‘Evening Lullaby,’” Bard Vivaca said.
Forcing a smile onto her face, Shandara stepped onto the stage. At least she was able to carry her harp by herself, although a bit awkwardly. She set the instrument down before the stool and then took a seat.
A few of the students leaned ov
er, whispering to their friends. She could imagine what they were saying—what a pity that Shandara was reduced to performing a basic lullaby, how embarrassing it must be for her . . .
Her cheeks flamed, and she squeezed her eyes closed for a moment, trying to focus. She was not sitting in the center of a stage, in the palace, in Haven. Instead, she imagined she was home: the bright braided rug in the center of the living room, the smell of smoke curling up from the hearth, her mother stroking her hair back from her forehead.
Shandara opened her eyes, set her left hand to her harp, and played the introductory line. Just a simple pattern of five notes. Nothing flashy, nothing even close to demonstrating her talent. At the end of the introduction, she began to hum. The harp sang under her hand, the chords ringing out and supporting the raspy tone swelling from her throat.
The wood vibrated against her shoulder, and she breathed, letting that feeling settle all through her until her entire body was an instrument, a vessel for the song. There was nothing else she could do—she was not concentrating on difficult fingering, or infusing words with emotion. There was only the simple pentatonic melody. So unimpressive she nearly wanted to weep.
She did not dare to look at the audience and see their pitying looks. Instead, she thought of the twilight sky, orange and russet at the western horizon. The first, diamond-bright stars winking in the deeper velvet overhead. The soft brush of sleep at the end of a long and satisfying day.
The audience was quiet. Too quiet.
Shandara risked a glance up, and her hand faltered over the strings. The entire front row, and the second, and the third, had their eyes closed and seemed to be asleep. Farther back in the audience, people were yawning and resting their heads on their friends’ shoulders.
She was putting the entire Collegium to sleep. Was this buzzing resonance she felt inside of her the full manifestation of her Bardic Gift?
She could not believe it. It was too simple. Yet the proof lay before her, slipping into slumber even as she watched.
At the end of the last phrase, Shandara let the harp strings ring instead of damping them with her hand. Slowly, the last thread of sound faded into the quiet hall. Only a few people remained awake—most of the Heralds, Healer Adrun, and the Master Bards. They watched her, varying expression of surprise or satisfaction on their faces. The rest of the audience snored on, showing no signs of waking.
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