by Pati Nagle
Everyone turned to look. A darkwood board—near black, a rod high, and almost an armspan across—leaned against the theyn’s house. A gasp of admiration ran through the gathering. It was a handsome prize, well worth the effort of a day’s work. Darkwood grew only in Fireshore, many days’ travel from Seaknoll. It was precious, and the piece the theyn offered was enough be made into a fine chair, or a table-top.
Or a lute.
Kimri drew an awe-filled breath. A lute made of darkwood! None such existed. Darkwood was notoriously difficult to work, for it was very hard and very strong. It would take a long time to make a lute of it, but the thought of doing so filled her with excitement. What a voice such an instrument would have! She could imagine hearing it now—strong, deep, vibrant.
She straightened her shoulders, hugging her lute tightly. She would try for the prize.
Reshali raised both hands, lifting her staff into the air. “Go you now and celebrate the day. A midday feast will be laid here in the circle; until then, keep Midsummer’s blessings in your hearts, and may spirits be with you this day.”
The theyn swept the air with her staff and opened the circle. The townsfolk dispersed, talking of the challenge. Mihali disappeared into the lodge, no doubt to cook up something delicious in her kitchen. Barinan, looking thoughtful, strolled north into the forest.
Kimri knew where she must go. Stopping only briefly at her house to collect parchment, pen and ink, and a jug of cool tea, she went down the sea trail to the beach.
A brisk breeze played counterpoint to the sun’s heat. Kimri kicked off her shoes to walk barefoot in the sand. Its surface was warm, but as she dug in her toes the sand beneath was still cool and slightly damp. The tide was going out, which meant she could work here all day if she wished.
She went to the foot of a sand hill she favored, sheltered somewhat from the breeze yet still offering a view of the sea. It was a popular place for gathering around a fire of an evening, as attested by bits of charred driftwood bestrewing the sand.
Kimri made herself comfortable with her writing board beside her, the parchments weighed down by her inkwell and a stone. She laid her lute down, leaned against one of the logs that the townsfolk had hauled hither for seats, and gazed out at the sea.
A song for Midsummer. Simplicity itself. She would sing of summer’s joys, of flowers and ripening fruit, grain heavy on the stalk in inland fields, long days and star-scattered nights.
Every year just after Midsummer a star-storm occurred, and Kimri loved to lie out and watch the streaks of light fly across the night sky, falling into the sea. She had watched the shower last year with Novhan, still giddy from their cup-bond.
She swallowed, fighting heartache, and reached for her lute. The first chord she strummed was out of tune; she stopped to adjust the strings. When at last the chord rang true she sought for a melody, but the notes rambled and would not form a structure.
Summer. Summer wine and friends to share . . . she tried to wrap a tune around the thought. The first result was too simple, another attempt too awkward. This should be a song that flowed, one that everyone could sing. She tried a different mode, only to produce a melody that sounded mournful.
Annoyed, she put down the lute and rubbed at her face. This should be an easy task for her.
She had been a bard for over a century; her skill was known throughout Eastfæld. She had been courted by the Bards’ Guild, the keepers of ælven history. She had been offered a place at the palace in Hollirued by the governor himself. She was sought after to perform at celebrations throughout the realm, enough that she could live comfortably wherever she wished. She had chosen to dwell in Seaknoll, because the wild ocean winds inspired her.
Today their inspiration was lacking. She looked out at the water, searching for the dark head of a seal or the small, quick form of an otter. All she saw were sea-birds, circling endlessly over the waves.
She hugged her knees, resting her chin on them, frowning at the sea. Why today, of all days, had the wild music she heard in the winds fallen silent?
If inspiration fails, then practice. She could not recall which of her teachers had told her that, but it had served her well through the years. With a wry smile, she picked up her lute and began to play.
She ran up and down the common modes, then went through the more unusual modes, fingers dancing on the neck of the lute and over the sound hole. With each new mode she listened for the tingle in her heart that would tell her this was the home for the song she wished to make. Nothing came.
Stifling a sigh of irritation, she played through the Sun Song, then the Moon Song, then her own most recent composition, an elaborate expansion of a common dance tune that had won praise when she played it in Hollirued. It seemed lifeless today, flat and mechanical.
She thrust the lute from her, pushing its belly into the sand. Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes. She wiped at them angrily and stared out to sea again. The tears would not stop. They were not merely because of her standstill; they were also for Novhan.
With this realization, the tears flowed more freely. Kimri gave into them with a gasping sob, pulling up her knees once more and burying her head in her arms.
Why had he not returned? Did he mean this to sever their partnership? Why do it so cruelly, when all he need do was to tell her?
She wept herself breathless. When finally drained of grief, she sat quiet, gulping air and listening to the sea birds’ falling cries.
Stillness. A place of calm, from which she listened and felt, not yet ready to look again at the world. She heard the sea’s endless song beneath the twitter and mew of the birds; felt the sun’s layered warmth on her scalp and on her thighs, reflected up from the sand around her. Tasted salt and deep water on the breeze.
Summer. Bountiful joy. Her heart was not in the right place to wreak this song.
Well, then, she must make some other.
She raised her head, gazing out across the sea, now a deep blue-green with the sun overhead. What kind of song could she make in such a mood?
Only one kind.
She reached for her lute. It was warm—nearly hot—to the touch, and she had to retune the strings again. She strummed a chord softly, then played a few notes in the mode that she had earlier rejected, fingers barely whispering across the strings as she tried to catch the feelings that gripped her and bind them into music.
A distant note rang in reply; the summoning chime from Seaknoll, calling the townsfolk to the midday feast. Kimri frowned, deciding to ignore it though she had not broken fast. If she stopped now she might lose the wisp of a song that had finally come to her.
She played a phrase that rose and fell like a gentle wave, returning to where it had begun. The next lilted, rising higher, with long notes like the sea birds’ wailing. Returning to the first phrase, then a final descending line.
Yes. She played it all again, several times to secure it in her mind, then took a breath and played the first line slowly, seeking words to weave into it. She found them in her aching heart, and let them flow forth.
When the birds of summer have returned
And the nights are shorn by the mighty sun,
For the gentler moonlight I yearn
And the touch of my loved one.
A new stave, with a different tune, quickly followed, then a third stave to the original melody. The song spilled from her now, a song of loneliness and hurt, resolving toward sorrow-tinged acceptance. She paused to write down the first triad, even as another was forming in her mind. She scribbled and smudged the ink on the page in her haste to capture the form and return to playing.
The second triad began easily, but the final stave perplexed her. The rhymes would not fall into place, and the feelings that seemed like to burst from her heart would not be rendered into words.
She went back to the beginning and sang the song through, hoping to continue to a resolution. The final stave was still not right. She fought with it a while, then set the lute down a
nd reached for her tea.
It had warmed, sitting in the sun. She drank it anyway, then left the jug in the sand and stood up to stretch her stiffened limbs. A walk would do her good. She strode toward the receding waves, then ran when she hit the packed wet sand, stopping to stand where a wave would wash her feet.
The cold water made her gasp, rushing around her ankles and nearly up to her knees before retreating, sucking the sand from beneath her feet as it went. She walked north along the water line, dancing back up the beach to avoid being drenched by the higher waves.
Her song refused to end, which likely meant that the ending she had been aiming at was wrong. She had thought to set the last stave in winter, balancing the opening, expressing the cold and darkness of the fallow season.
Too dark, perhaps? She was often drawn to dark themes—so much that Novhan had told her he sometimes feared for her—but it was not a sick fascination that drew her. A bard might play in many modes, but for most there was one that rang more strongly in the soul than all the rest. For Kimri that mode was bittersweetness, the courage that overcame darkness, despite loss.
That was the trouble. Her song expressed the loss more than the hope.
Her mouth twisted in a wry smile. Present mood reflected in the music. Understandable, but as an artist, she must mold the raw material of her mood into something finished. She must add a spark of light to it—whether or not she felt lightness—to make it complete.
She turned to go back to her lute, and was surprised at how far up the shore she had come. Surprised, also, at how far west the sun had dropped.
A tinge of anxiousness smote her. She must finish by sundown to have a chance at claiming the darkwood.
Not that this song would win it for her. She plopped down next to her lute, sighing. This song was not the Midsummer froth she had envisioned. Doubtless it was too heavy for the occasion, but she had no time to frame another, and besides, she wished to finish what she had begun.
She picked up the lute, strummed it, then played the melody, thinking through the staves silently, hoping to find the ending words. They continued to elude her, though she struggled until the sun had nearly set. Despairing, she rose and walked slowly back to Seaknoll.
The townsfolk were already gathering, bringing armloads of wood for the Midsummer bonfire, which already stood hip-high in the center of the public circle. That was not the most impressive addition, however.
Kimri stopped to stare in amazement. A new structure stood at the southern side of the circle, the summer quarter: an arch, built of stone. No trace of it had been there in the morning. Kimri marveled, for it stood near a rod tall. The stones were not shaped but they were fitted well, and the arch looked solid. Someone had hung a garland of starflowers upon it.
Mihali joined her. “Wonderful, is it not? Barinan built it.”
“All in a day!”
Mihali nodded. “Reshali was highly impressed. She has already commissioned him to build three more, for the other quarters.”
Kimri nodded, unsurprised. It was good work, and arches at the quarters would enhance the circle. She bit her lip, thinking Barinan’s work would be difficult to surpass.
Well, no matter. Her song was not what she had planned, nor was it even finished. Perhaps she would not sing.
The town chime rang out, summoning all to the circle for the sunset ceremony. Mihali darted away into the lodge and returned moments later with a cloth-covered tray.
Kimri held her lute close and turned to watch Reshali come out of her house once more. The theyn traced the circle, greeting the ældar at each quarter as she had done that morning, then stood at its center beside the unlit bonfire.
“Welcome, one and all. As we celebrate the ending of the year’s longest day, we continue to rejoice in the gifts of summer’s bounty. Mihali has an offering to make in honor of the ældar of the south.”
Mihali unveiled her tray, which bore a hundred tiny cakes, each crowned with a ripe summer berry. Smiling, she passed among the gathered folk, inviting each to take a cake. Kimri picked one up and took a bite. The cake tasted of mead, and faintly of spices, and it was filled with a cream that held the scent of sunfruit blossom. The berry’s juice danced over it, a perfect harmony of sweetness and tart.
“Mmm!”
Kimri’s enthusiasm was echoed throughout the circle. Mihali rejoined her, the tray now empty. She set it aside, quietly beaming.
“Mihali, that was wonderful!”
“But not lasting.” The lodge-keeper glanced at Barinan’s arch.
“Gone, but not forgotten. You will have requests for more before the eve is done.”
Reshali raised her staff. “Thank you, Mihali, for the excellent fruit of your labor. We see Barinan’s work here at the south. Has anyone else a work to offer for the challenge?”
The theyn looked directly at Kimri. Her throat felt dry of a sudden. That was normal, the small thrill of fear that arose every time she debuted a new piece, but this piece was not whole.
Suddenly she longed to sing it, though. Her dismay over Novhan’s absence welled up inside her, and she yearned to give it voice. Gripping her lute, she walked to the center of the circle.
A murmur of anticipation went through the crowd. There were no chairs, and none might leave the circle to fetch one during a ceremony, but Barinan set a stout log upright to make a seat for Kimri. With a fleeting smile of thanks, she settled on it and checked the tuning of her lute.
She strummed the first chord, and at that very moment a nighthawk’s cry pierced the evening. A small gasp went through the circle.
They would not like this song. And what would she do about the ending?
Sing the beginning over again, perhaps. It was weak, but better than nothing.
Yielding to the impulse that drove her, she strummed the first chord.
When the birds of summer have returned . . .
The townsfolk listened in rapt silence. As she sang the first triad, her sadness of the morning reawakened, lending a raw edge to her voice. She heard a restless stirring among the gathering but ignored it; she was caught up in the song and its story, and would have no distractions.
All her pent fears and doubts poured forth. Her fingers bent the strings as they rang, darkening the notes, bringing a whisper of uncertainty into the tune. The doubt and fear that haunted her had crept into her music.
That she would not tolerate. She was a bard, a singer of songs, a weaver of tales. This tale must end, and in defiance she chose to end it with a difference.
As she moved into the final triad, she raised her voice, fingers brushing the lute strings.
When the birds of summer are at rest
And the light dwindles upon the sea,
A new flame kindles in my breast
As my love comes home to me.
In a moment’s inspiration she shifted the mode on the final chord to one that rang with hope and light. The chord floated on the evening air, borne aloft by the silence of the listeners. Kimri gazed at the ground, not daring to look up.
The stillness seemed too long. No praise or applause. Had she shocked them? Had the song been too dark for Midsummer?
Someone approached; she heard shoes grating softly on the ground. She looked up just as Novhan knelt before her. He took her hand in his and pressed a kiss into her palm.
At last the crowd gave voice, cheering. Novhan grinned and pulled Kimri to her feet, embracing her there in the circle, before all Seaknoll. She clung to him with one arm, her lute clutched in the other as her heart filled with joy.
“You came back!”
“Of course I did. And I have much to tell you.”
Reshali stepped forward. “Let the bonfire be kindled!”
Kimri hastened to move away, for tradition called for khi to be used to kindle the fire, and she did not wish her lute to catch as well. She watched from the edge of the circle, standing with Novhan beside Barinan’s arch, their arms about each other.
He had ret
urned. All her worry had been wasted.
But no—it had given her a new song.
The townsfolk raised their hands toward the bonfire, sending khi into the dry wood. Flames woke in the center of the pile, and quickly engulfed all. Another cheer rose into the night, along with golden sparks seeking to join their silvery kindred in the sky.
Reshali concluded the ceremony, then opened the circle and sent Kimri, Mihali, and Barinan away to await the decision of the citizens. Novhan followed them into the lodge, where Mihali brought out cups and an ewer of mead.
Kimri set her lute aside and accepted a cup gratefully, her throat dry from tension and from singing. She sipped, then looked up. “This is the mead that was in the cakes!”
“Aye. Dendri’s blackberry mead.”
“Ah! It was perfect!”
Barinan quaffed his mead and reached for the ewer. “Have you any more of those cakes?”
Mihali’s cheeks dimpled as she smiled. “I kept back a handful.”
“What must I do for one?”
The dimples deepened as Mihali glanced sidelong at him. “Come and help me carry, strong one.”
Kimri watched them away. Novhan turned to her, kissed her hands, then folded her in his arms. She leaned back to look at him.
“Why did you not send a message? I thought you must be angry—”
“No, no! I kept thinking the Council would end soon, but new issues arose every day. There is trouble in Fireshore . . .” He smiled, brushing a strand of her hair back from her face. “Kimri, I mean to go back to Hollirued.”
“But you have only just come home!”
“This Council is debating important matters. I did not want to miss any of it. I would have stayed, except that I think you should witness it as well.”
She frowned. He knew that she disliked the crowded complexity of Hollirued.
“You are a bard. Your gifts are needed to record these events.”
“There are plenty of bards in Hollirued.”
“But none with your voice.” He kissed her cheek. “Come back with me. Only until the Council disburses.”
