by Pati Nagle
Jharan drew Giradon into the circle, asking his opinion on a point of protocol. The loremaster launched into an statement and held forth at length on the subject. As he listened, Jharan smiled.
He had surmised correctly. All Giradon truly wanted was an audience. Providing him with opportunities to display his knowledge should be easy enough; in fact, they would allow Jharan to go on quietly with his own duties.
With the business of governing. He looked around the chamber, still amazed at the dizzying changes of the past few days, but no longer intimidated. As the door opened to admit Shilonan, Felisan and a smug-looking Mithrali, and Surani, he smiled.
This new life suited him better than he had expected. Taking Surani’s hand, he led her to the council table and took his place in the governor’s chair.
First Love
Eliani stared at the bard Ishanen, drinking in every nuance of his expression, every tone of his voice. One was allowed to stare when a bard was performing.
At table it was discourteous. She had managed to be a little more discreet during the feast her father, the governor, had arranged to welcome the visiting bard, though not enough for her cousin, Luruthin, who had more than once nudged her beneath the table.
Luruthin sat beside her now, eating pine nuts, cracking the shells with his teeth while the bard sang. Eliani shot him a glare but knew it would do little good, so she chose to ignore him and returned her attention to Ishanen.
He was tall and lithe, with a voice like honey. He sat with his back to the great hearth at one end of the feast hall, pale hair glinting gold in the fire’s flickering light. He had his instruments around him—harp, drum, flutes, and the lute in his lap—and his audience, the most honored folk of Highstone and nearby Clerestone, surrounded him in a larger half-circle.
Eliani had seen very few Southfælders in her short lifetime. All of them had fair hair and rich, brown eyes. Their exotic looks intrigued her, and in Ishanen they were combined with grace and talent. In the space of an afternoon she had gone from being intrigued to being half in love with him.
He was a member of the Bards’ Guild in Glenhallow, the largest city in Southfæld and the second largest in any ælven realm. Eliani had never visited Glenhallow, or indeed any part of Southfæld save for the Midrange Valley, where her father had once ridden with her when he was teaching her about the Midrange War. Midrange was within a day’s ride of Highstone and only just within Southfæld’s northern border, so Eliani felt it did not count as a visit to the realm.
She dreamed now of going to Glenhallow with Ishanen when he returned to his home. Unlikely, her more cynical self concluded. She was only twenty-nine come Evennight, and her father would not approve her leaving home so young. He would want her to stay in Highstone until she reached her majority, at fifty.
She would die if she had to wait that long for love.
As Ishanen sang, she yearned for him to hold her, to teach her the ways of love. A bard must know a great deal about love, for it was the subject and the inspiration of so much great music. She wished she could sing, so that she might join Ishanen, her voice blending with his even as their souls met in an understanding of their shared destiny.
But alas, she had no musical ability to speak of. Her singing was more enthusiastic than precise, and though as a rule she ignored Luruthin’s protests whenever she was inspired to warble out a tune, she knew instinctively that she had nothing like Ishanen’s gift, and had best not demonstrate that lack to him.
Ishanen concluded his song, and nodded and smiled in response to the gathering’s applause. He set down the lute and took up his harp, a beautiful instrument carved of whitewood, with vines twining up its curved front. Ishanen strummed a chord and Eliani shivered with delight.
Luruthin turned his head toward her, then laughed under his breath. “This is sudden.”
Eliani glanced at him and whispered back. “What?”
“Your interest in music this evening.”
Eliani glared at him. “My father is partial to music.”
“But usually you are less so. Perhaps it is more the musician than the music that appeals to you.”
“Shh!”
Ishanen had raised his hands to the strings. As he began to play, Eliani breathed a soft sigh.
His hands danced in the air, pulling rippling waves of sound from the harp. His face, deeply shadowed by the firelight behind him, took on an air of tragedy as he sang of a maiden whose lover went away to war, leaving her to weave a silken robe while she waited for his return. The robe became two robes, then five, then ten, and the warrior lover still did not come home.
Eliani felt tears rising as Ishanen sang of the weaver’s despair, though she knew the story. When the maiden had woven ten robes, she carried them to the battlefield and learned that her lover had died in the war, whereupon she shredded the robes into ribbons and tied them around the conce that had been placed in his memory.
A sharp “crack” to her right made her glance at Luruthin. He looked back, apologizing with his eyes as he removed a pine nut shell from his mouth, then offered her the bowl of nuts. She frowned and turned her gaze back to Ishanen.
He sang with such beauty, such passion. Eliani’s breath caught in her throat and she brushed away the wetness from her eye as he concluded the final verse. She burst into applause the moment the last chord faded away.
Luruthin tossed a handful of shells into the fire, set the bowl in his lap, and brushed his hands, which might be seen as applauding. Eliani ignored him; likely he was trying to goad her. He had always teased her, ever since they were both children, and showed no sign of stopping even though he was now past his majority.
One would think a member of Alpinon’s Guard would have more dignity, more gravity. One might wish it, indeed.
Ishanen put down the harp and picked up his drum. Standing, he began to play a lively rhythm, recognizable as a popular dance. Folk jumped up from their seats and formed a circle out in the hall, clapping along with the drum. Ishanen’s voice rang out, clear and true, cutting through all the noise to sing the dance’s melody.
Luruthin grinned and stood up, setting the bowl of nuts on his chair. He held out a hand to Eliani.
“Come and dance.”
She shook her head, watching Ishanen.
“But you love to dance!”
“Not tonight.”
Luruthin was silent for a moment, then muttered something she did not catch as he strode off to join the growing circle of dancers. She glanced after him, momentarily regretful. She did love dancing, but Ishanen would only be here for a few days. She did not wish to miss a moment of his performance.
She moved to a chair closer to the bard, now that nearly half the company had gone away to dance. Ishanen did not see her; his eyes were closed as he held the drum high and played it while he sang.
He swayed with the rhythms he was playing, a smaller version of the dance. His robe of pale sage green draped along his limbs as he moved. Eliani yearned to touch him, to be enfolded by those long arms, to feel his warmth against her. Never before had she longed so strongly for the sensations she had only heard about.
The dance ended in a roar of cheers and applause. Ishanen opened his eyes and smiled at the dancers’ approval. His brow gleamed slightly from his exertions.
Eliani applauded where she sat, and when Ishanen resumed his seat and glanced at her, she smiled. His answering smile was more polite than warm, but still it raised a little thrill within her chest.
He took up a flute and played a long, mournful melody while the company gradually returned to their chairs. Eliani remained where she was, and no one challenged her for the seat. She knew it was greedy of her, but she could not help it. She wanted to be close to the bard.
Ishanen played and sang long into the night, and Eliani hung upon every note. Toward midnight some of the guests began to depart; she could hear her father’s voice at the front of the hall quietly bidding them farewell. Still, many stayed on to h
ear the master bard from Southfæld whose presence here in Highstone was such a rare treat.
Governor Jharan had sent Ishanen from the court at Glenhallow to Highstone as a gift to his old friend, Governor Felisan. Eliani’s father adored music; he was always urging minstrels to come to Felisanin Hall, but a bard of Ishanen’s gifts was far superior to the musicians who usually performed there. Indeed, some of the local minstrels were in the audience, and Eliani knew that Ishanen had agreed to meet with them while he was here and teach them some of Southfæld’s traditional music.
She wished she had enough talent to attend those sessions. She played a little on the flute, but poorly.
The circle around the bard grew smaller as guests took their leave. Luruthin pulled two empty chairs out of the way and drew a third closer. Eliani spared only a glance for him, enough to notice that he had not retrieved his bowl of nuts, for which she was thankful.
Her father came and sat beside her, smiling when she looked up at him. He rested an arm across the back of her chair. She loved him, but could wish that he had not chosen this moment to embrace her.
At last, only kin remained listening to the music: Felisan and Eliani, Luruthin and his parents from Clerestone. They were not immediate family—Suthini’s mother and Felisan’s father were siblings—but beside Eliani they were the nearest kin Felisan had save for a sister who had gone to live in Fireshore, and he had invited them to stay at Felisanin Hall during Ishanen’s visit.
The fire had burned down to embers. Ishanen sat curled around his lute, head bowed as he frowned slightly in thought. At last he began a final song: “Skyruach,” a ballad commissioned by Governor Jharan, a tribute to the many who fell defending Southfæld at the battle that had concluded the Midrange War.
Eliani glanced at her father, for he had been in the battle along with Jharan. He listened, but his gaze seemed distant and he did not smile.
Ishanen sang with eyes closed once again. Thus freed from fear of embarrassing him, Eliani stared to her heart’s content, memorizing the planes of his face, the subtle colors of his skin, hair, and clothing. Pale colors, all. Only his eyes were dark, and they were hidden.
When the song drew to a close, no one moved or made a sound for a long moment. At last Felisan removed his arm from Eliani’s chair and leaned forward.
“Thank you, Ishanen. You have given us a rare gift this evening.”
The bard opened his eyes and smiled. “It has been my honor.”
“We will let you rest now, for we expect more tomorrow.”
Ishanen’s smile widened to a grin. “I believe I know a few more tunes.”
Suthini and Lurudon stood, and Luruthin joined them. While they exchanged goodnight wishes with Felisan, Eliani stepped toward the bard.
“May I help you carry your instruments to your guest house?”
Ishanen gazed at her, seeming to debate the offer. At last he gave a nod.
“That is kind of you. Thank you.”
Giddy with delight, Eliani could not stand still. “I will fetch your cloak.”
She dashed to the hearthroom and through it to the small chamber where visitors’ belongings were stored, and fetched the only cloak remaining. It was silver colored, a cloth so fine and soft it felt like the feathers of a bird. She folded it carefully over her arm and carried it back to the feast hall, taking care not to let it touch the floor.
Ishanen was putting his flutes into a padded cloth case. He had already covered the lute and the harp in similar cases. They must all have been made by the same person, for they were all of a like green fabric, adorned with silver beads. Ishanen tied the flute case closed and glanced up at Eliani as he slid the drum into a padded satchel.
“Thank you.” He took the cloak from her and put it on, then held out the satchel and the flute case. “Will you carry these?”
Eliani slung the satchel across her shoulder and held the flutes with both hands, knowing she must neither grip them too hard nor drop them. Ishanen settled the lute case at his back and picked up the covered harp. He stepped toward Felisan, who was still talking with the others. The governor turned and saw Eliani, then glanced at the bard.
“Let me have an attendant help you with your instruments.”
“I can do it!”
Eliani stared intently at her father, silently imploring him not to interfere. One brow twitched upward slightly as he looked to Ishanen.
“Perhaps someone could help you with the heavier things.”
Ishanen bowed slightly, his arms full of the harp. “Thank you, but I can manage, with your daughter’s assistance.”
Eliani’s heart beat painfully hard. He wanted her help!
“Well, good night then, Ishanen. Rest well, and thank you again for the music.”
Eliani led the way out of the hall, through the hearthroom and out into the star-scattered night. Autumn’s chill was in the air and she wished momentarily that she had brought her own cloak, but excitement bore her on toward the high stair that descended from Felisanin Hall to Highstone’s public circle. She glanced back at Ishanen, his hair made paler and eyes darker by the night.
“We could go around by the road if you do not want to take the steps.”
“Thank you, but I believe I can manage.”
Eliani preceded him down the stair, careful to keep both the drum case and the flutes from bumping against the rock wall. The steps were broad enough that two could walk abreast, but burdened as they were it was safer to go separately.
She looked back at Ishanen as she neared the foot of the stair. He came carefully, watching his footing, moving with an unconscious grace that thrilled Eliani.
She walked beside him as they crossed the public circle to the guest house that had been given over to Ishanen’s use during his stay. Luruthin’s family had taken up the guest rooms at the Hall, and in any case, the guest house was more spacious, with a large front room where Ishanen would teach the minstrels on the morrow. Eliani wondered if he might allow her just to sit and listen.
She glanced at him, considering making this request, but her courage failed and she asked a less dangerous question. “Have you been to Highstone before?”
“Once, long ago. I was still an apprentice then. Oralan brought several of us here to play.”
“Oralan . . . I do not think I have met him.”
“Doubtless you have not. He has not been back to Highstone, and that visit was long before you were born.”
Eliani pressed her lips together, annoyed at the reference to her age. She was not so very young. More than halfway to her majority.
The door of the guest house stood open, and bright firelight gleamed out from the welcoming hearth. Eliani passed through the hearthroom into the main room, where a fire also burned. Candles stood alight in pewter holders on the large table at one end of the room.
Eliani set her burdens down and turned to help Ishanen, but he had already put his harp in a corner of the room. He took the lute out of its case and unfolded the small whitewood stand that had held it while he played other instruments up at the Hall. Eliani watched him prop the lute upon the stand, his long fingers gently clasping the fragile instrument.
He straightened and turned to her, smiling. “Thank you for your assistance.”
She nodded, her heart beating rather quickly. “Is there anything else you need?”
“I think not. Your father was right, I look forward to resting.”
“I could make you some tea . . .”
“That is kind of you, but I do not wish for tea just now.”
She stared at him, her chest rising and falling with each anxious breath. This was not the scene she had pictured as they walked hither. She had thought that being alone together they would fall into cozy conversation, discover tastes they shared, and realize their mutual attraction.
This was not so comfortable as her imaginings. This was awkward. She wished to stay, wished to further her acquaintance with Ishanen, but he was not at all encouraging.
She took a step toward him. “Would you like some company for a while? I would l-love to hear more about Glenhallow.”
“I will tell you more, perhaps, but not tonight.”
“Well . . . I enjoyed your singing. Especially the song about the weaver.”
He smiled, moving toward the hearthroom. “Thank you.”
“You know so much about love.” She followed him, wanting to stay close to him though she knew he wished her to leave. “I want to learn from you, Ishanen!”
He paused, blinking. “About music?”
She gulped a breath, knowing she did not sound nearly as mature as she wished. “About love!”
He gazed at her, then raised a hand to her cheek. His khi was warm and gentle; his skin smelled faintly of resin. Eliani stood absolutely still, scarcely daring to breathe.
Ishanen smiled softly as he cupped her jaw with his long fingers. “You are a lovely child, but I would not pluck a flower before it has fully blossomed.”
His voice was so quiet, almost a whisper, yet she heard all too well. She drew a ragged breath.
“I am not—“
“Patience, Eliani. Good night now, and sweet rest to you.”
Somehow she had come to the hearthroom doorway. Ishanen pulled back the drape and held it for her, leaving her no choice but to go out. She should wish him goodnight, but her throat had closed.
She darted out before the tears could slip down her cheeks. She did not want Ishanen to see them. An unhappy gasp escaped her throat as she ran out into the public circle.
“Eliani?”
Not the bard’s voice. Someone else had seen. Her face burning, she ran westward across the circle, between houses and up into the forest.
“Eliani!”
Luruthin. Her heart cringed and she sobbed, climbing the steep slope scattered with leaves and old needles.
“Eliani, wait!”
“Leave me be!”
She leapt for a pine branch and caught it, rough bark hurting her hands as she swung herself up into the tree. A short jump to the next branch around, then along it and onto the limb of a neighboring oak.
