The Bard's Blade

by Brian D. Anderson

  “And you chose Harver’s Grove? Did you hit your head?”

  “I … I figured it was as good a place to start as any.”

  “Well, you’re brave, I’ll give you that. Not too many folks from your parts care to visit Ralmarstad, let alone the outlands. And by yourself, no less.”

  “I was actually sort of curious about the Thaumas.”

  At once Martha’s expression hardened. “Why would you want to know about them?”

  He searched his mind for an answer, her sudden change in demeanor unsettling. “No reason. Just curious.”

  “The Thaumas aren’t ones to go asking strangers about. They’re no friends of the Archbishop, and too meddlesome for their own good, if you ask me.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I’m not upset. And to be honest, their business is their business. But that doesn’t mean I’d go around asking about it.”

  “Do any live here?” He knew he should let the matter drop, but he couldn’t help himself. He had to know more. And at least, unlike Durst, she seemed willing to talk.

  “Not here in Harver’s Grove. Maybe in Lobin. But I doubt it. They stay clear of Ralmarstad.” She had the stern look of a parent scolding an unruly child. “You take my advice and leave them be. Go shining a light on yourself and see what happens. You’ll be in front of the Hedran as quick as that.” She snapped her fingers.

  Whatever the Hedran was, Martha’s warning tone and dire expression said he didn’t want to find out the hard way. “Don’t worry. I was only curious. Last thing I want is to get in trouble.”

  This seemed to satisfy her. “You just keep your head down, and you’ll be fine.”

  For the rest of their meal, Martha went on to tell him about Harver’s Grove in the days before the mines closed. Nothing of particular interest or importance, but for Lem, each bit of information was crucial to his survival, and he knew his next objective must be to study the history and geography of Lamoria. Learning about it through short conversations would take a lifetime. So finding books would be a priority.

  “Is there a library in town?” he asked, while helping her to clear the table and douse the stove.

  “A library? We’re lucky to have a place to buy cloth. You might find a few books around town in one of the shops. But that’s about it.”

  This was disappointing. But he would not let it deter him. In fact, even from this short conversation, he felt more at ease.

  After helping Lem gather together a few cleaning supplies, Martha took his arm and they exited the kitchen. No sooner were they beyond the door than a rumble of thunder in the far distance produced an irritated frown on the old woman. Lem could see the sky had already turned dark gray with the threat of heavy rain soon to come.

  “I had better get home,” she said. “And you had better get ready for your first performance. Storm’s coming. The place will be filled tonight.” She gave his hand a squeeze. “Good luck.”

  Lem returned to his room, ignoring the growled insults from Durst as he passed. He spent the next hour cleaning and putting his few things away in the dresser. By the time he was finished, he could hear intermittent thunderclaps and the rain pounding hard on the roof. There was a small leak in the far corner of the room, but the floorboards beneath this were rotted away, allowing the water to simply pass straight through to the ground below.

  An easy fix, he thought, now set on making his accommodations as clean and comfortable as possible.

  Seeing the fruits of his cleaning efforts lifted his spirits considerably. Sure, it was still shabby, but the smell was almost gone, and that alone was enough to elicit a smile. Perhaps he would find a way to make it here after all.

  He was in need of a good cleaning himself, and was about to seek out some bathwater when a loud bang at the door and a shout from Durst to Get your sorry ass out here and play denied him the opportunity.

  He had brought a few sets of clothes along with him, though nothing fine enough for a public performance; at least, not by his standards. Lem had always taken great pride in his appearance when he played, but in his hurry to leave, packing finery hadn’t seemed practical. After a short consideration, he chose a well-fitted pair of black pants and a white, open-collared linen shirt. A groan slipped out on realizing that his only boots and belt were those in which he had traveled. Both were badly stained and worn. Nonetheless, they would have to do.

  He unwrapped his balisari and made sure the strings were properly tuned, then set off toward the common area. As he walked, he felt his anxiety building. He was always nervous before a performance, though this was typically offset by excitement. He loved to play for an audience. The way they responded to the music, the joy he could see in their eyes and hear in their cheers, was intoxicating. Not this time. This time there was pure dread. Not that he doubted his abilities. But he had only ever played for his own people. He knew what kind of music they enjoyed. He could look at a crowd and tell what they were in the mood to hear. This would be different. What if they did not like Vylarian tunes?

  As the door to the common room opened, he saw Martha had been correct in her forecast. The tavern was filled to bursting, with every table and every inch of space at the bar occupied. Still more customers were standing in the gaps between the tables, drinking and laughing. He could see Durst behind the bar, his face slick with sweat as he moved about, shoving mugs in front of thirsty customers. Three servers, two young men and a girl he had not seen earlier, were darting about carrying trays filled with mugs and pitchers. Lem was impressed at how even when twisting and turning their way through the dense crowd they managed to keep from dropping their cargo of spirits, setting each down and then nimbly darting back to the bar for more.

  Zara appeared from behind a tall man who, with head thrown back and ale spilling grotesquely from the corners of his mouth, was attempting to drain his mug in one enormous swallow.

  “Ah, there you are,” she said. “Are you ready?”

  Lem forced a smile, doing his best not to appear anxious. “Yes.” He looked around but could see no obvious stage or dais. “Where do you want me?”

  She flashed an impish grin. “That is a question I can answer later tonight.”

  Lem flushed. “I mean, where should I play?”

  Zara laughed, amused by his embarrassment. “You are adorable. They’re going to love you.” She pointed to an area off to his right, where a few extra lamps had been hung from the rafters. “You’ll be over there.”

  Before Lem could move, she let out a sharp whistle. “Durst! Get Lem a stool and clear him a space.”

  Lem wished she hadn’t. Zara ordering the bartender about on his behalf was certain to deepen Durst’s growing resentment.

  Lem threaded his way through the crowd, hugging his balisari close. Durst had come from behind the bar and unceremoniously jerked a stool from beneath a young man, sending him crashing to the floor. The youth scrambled up, furious, but upon seeing who had robbed him of his seat, decided that standing was just fine. Durst clearly had a reputation.

  “You had better be good,” the big man remarked, shoving the stool near the wall. Lem could only nod, his throat dry.

  Taking his seat, Lem placed the instrument between his knees. At first no one paid him any attention as he strummed a few chords. This was enough to realize that the jostling of the crowd had knocked it slightly out of tune. Straining his ears to hear over the clamor of voices, he made a few final adjustments.

  “Play already!” someone shouted.

  “Yeah, play!” another joined in.

  As he considered what to play first, more jeers and taunts were directed his way from the increasingly impatient crowd, making it difficult to focus. Looking up, he saw Durst standing behind the bar, grinning with clear satisfaction at the crowd’s reaction. He took a long breath. Rather than intimidating him further, the sight of the brute deriving so much pleasure from his situation had the opposite effect. Determined to wipe the grin
off Durst’s face, a quiet calm washed over him, settling his nerves to a manageable level.

  Closing his eyes, he allowed his fingers to pluck out a tune that he had learned from the old man who had given him the last of his formal instruction. After all this time, he still enjoyed playing it, and the song was frequently requested when he and his friends were lazing beside the Sunflow.

  The sound of the crowd faded as his hands glided freely over the strings. Before he realized it, he was smiling. He could picture home in his mind. Every detail was clear, from the flickering lights in the water darting about on their mysterious journey downriver, to the feet of his friends kicking at the sand as they twirled and jumped in time with the melody.

  As if something within his soul commanded it, he began to sing. The words came out effortlessly, each syllable conjuring up feelings of bliss and merriment. The song swelled and ebbed, then swelled again, rising to a climax that had beads of sweat forming on his brow.

  After the final note was struck, there was dead silence, broken only by the distant roll of thunder.

  He opened his eyes, half expecting to see a host of mocking and angry faces glaring back at him. But to his relief, they were staring at him with uniformly dumbfounded expressions. And not only those nearby; every patron was turned in his direction. Even those on the far side of the tavern were giving him their complete attention.

  Then, just one man sitting at the bar began hooting and clapping. At this prompting, the rest of the tavern erupted in wild cheers and whistles, the stomping of feet shaking the entire building.

  More, they cried. More. More.

  He glanced over to the bar. Durst sneered back at him, then spat demonstratively onto the floor. Lem, euphoric from the crowd’s reaction, could only smile brightly back, triggering the man’s face to flush crimson and lips to twist up into a snarl. Lem wasn’t trying to provoke him, but for the first time since leaving Vylari, he felt truly confident. It was the same feeling he had when he played back home. It was partially the reason he loved music: the way it connected with people, creating joy, sorrow, mirth, and every other emotion the heart could possibly hold. When he played, he was the shepherd and the people, his flock.

  A groundswell of relief passed through him. He knew that wherever he went and whatever happened next, he could always find joy in his balisari. And maybe he would survive in this harsh world after all.

  6

  STRANGE MEETINGS

  Beware those who would corrupt your spirit with false gods. For their evil will lay claim to your soul and you will be forever lost.

  Book of Kylor, Chapter Six, Verse Ten

  Mariyah sat bolt upright, trembling violently and gasping for air. For a moment she could not remember where she was, the desire to flee nearly overcoming her reason. The pop of an ember snatched her attention.

  “Again?”

  On the far side of the smoldering embers, Shemi was propped up on one elbow, his face awash with concern.

  It took several seconds before she could form a reply. “Yes.”

  The nightmares had begun the day they’d crossed the border of Vylari and had become increasingly more vivid and terrifying.

  “Was it the man in the mist?” Shemi’s joints cracked in protest as he sat up, wincing from the stiffness in his muscles.

  “I … I think so. The worse it gets, the harder it is to remember.”

  Shemi reached over to the pouch beside him and retrieved a small piece of cloth. “This will help,” he said, tossing it over.

  Mariyah unwrapped a tiny brown-and-red root, about the size of the tip of a finger. Shemi had found it the day after they’d crossed the barrier. Topin root would relieve pain from overworked muscles but also served as a mild sedative. She had refused the offering initially, knowing Shemi would likely have the greater need for the remedy. But this time she popped it into her mouth, the bitter taste causing an involuntary grimace. Washing it down with a drink from her waterskin, she nodded to Shemi and lay back down.

  “Thank you. I’m sorry I woke you.”

  Shemi smiled warmly. “It’s all right, my dear. It’s almost dawn anyway.”

  In truth, it was still a few hours away. “We should try to get some more sleep,” she said, though unsure if it was possible.

  Shemi, though quite fit for his years and extremely proud of this fact, was testing his limits on a daily basis. He settled back down on his blanket. “Maybe just a bit longer.”

  The stress of leaving Vylari was, of course, the likely culprit for the nightmares. Mile after mile of joyless travel, each step carrying them farther from Vylari, kept them wrapped in a cloak of despondency, exacerbating their fatigue and leaving them with a relentless edge of anxiety. Were there anyone to bear witness, their passing would have undoubtedly elicited pity. But there was no one. Not a soul. And no sign of Lem, either. They had tried to find his trail, looking for signs of his passing in every blade of grass or broken twig, but to no avail. Though in a forest so vast, it was soon apparent that they had little hope of this. And as the days came and went, her fears began to multiply that the forest stretched out forever, that they would never find Lem, that this had been all for nothing.

  Was it a mistake? Perhaps Lem did not love her as much as she thought. Had she risked everything to find a man who did not want her?

  Mariyah tried to cast aside these thoughts. She knew better. But they continued to plague her. Shemi would scold her for despairing should she speak it aloud, and he would be justified in doing so. Lem loved her unconditionally. He had left because of his love; not to hurt her, but to protect her. The part of herself that was rational understood this. But at night, under a foreign sky, surrounded by a world about which she knew nothing, being rational was difficult.

  The topin root helped; the dreams did not return once she fell back asleep. But when the dawn came, a headache made the dim sunlight sifting through the trees feel like tiny bits of glass in her eyes.

  Shemi was already up and humming an old tune her mother used to sing when she was young. Her eyes welled up with tears, and she turned hastily away, blinking rapidly to stop them falling.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Shemi. He held out a helping of dried fruits and a hunk of stale bread, the last of what was in his pack.

  Mariyah gave him a fragile smile. “Nothing. I was just thinking about home.”

  “Don’t you worry, lass. You’ll see it again.” Shemi plopped down beside her and placed his breakfast on his lap. “Once we find Lem, everything will be fine. Well … after I give him a good thrashing, it will.”

  Mariyah laughed for the first time since their departure. It felt good. “I get to beat him first.”

  Shemi put on an exaggerated frown. “You would deny an old man his simple pleasures?”

  “Would you be so discourteous as to step ahead of a lady?”

  Shemi snapped his fingers. “Like that.”

  This served to lighten the mood considerably. After finishing their breakfast and packing their few belongings, the two set out at a brisker than normal pace. Shemi pointed out several shrubs and wild berries neither had seen before, though they did not dare to taste them. Most of the small animals they ran across were nothing they hadn’t seen before, which led Mariyah to wonder whether beasts were able to pass through the barrier.

  By midday, the heat was becoming uncomfortable. Though for once, Shemi didn’t appear to mind, being too distracted with finding new plants and speculating about their possible uses to notice. Mariyah was not as interested in wild things, though she had always enjoyed the forest. Her mother would occasionally take her on a hunt—her father, not caring for it, would stay home. It was a special time for just mother and daughter that until now she had never fully appreciated. She had gone with Lem a few times, but it wasn’t the same. As much as she loved his company, and she did enjoy hunting with him, her mother’s absence was keenly felt. And never more so than now.

  The memory of fresh venison roasting over a
fire was making her mouth water. She had seen tracks several times. It shouldn’t be too hard to find one.

  “There!” said Shemi in a whisper, pointing through the brush.

  Mariyah had been so lost in thought that she had not noticed there was a road ahead. They ducked low and approached it cautiously.

  “Do you think Lem would have come this way?” she asked.

  Shemi knelt, examining the rough, deeply grooved surface. “No way to know.”

  “You told me the letter said the stranger was part of something called the Thaumas. Wouldn’t he try to find them?”

  “Probably,” Shemi replied. “But he would need to find people first. If he did come through here, it’s likely he would follow the road, hoping it leads to a town.”

  The road stretched out from east to west, vanishing in the distance with no indication of which way they should go. Certainly there was no way to know what direction Lem might have chosen.

  Mariyah closed her eyes, and after several seconds opened them again and said, “East. If he came this way, he would have gone east.”

  Shemi cocked his head. “Why do you say that?”

  “I know him,” she replied, to herself as much as to Shemi. “Lem always chooses left when he gets lost.”

  “Then left it is.”

  Mariyah proceeded at a slow walk, daring to allow herself a touch of optimism. If they reached a town, surely Lem would be easy to find. The balisari he carried would make him recognizable. She knew he would not have left it behind. Someone would have noticed him. What to do then could be dealt with later. Should they find it impossible to go home, at least they would be together.

  After about half an hour, the squeak and squeal of a wagon sent them scurrying back into the thick brush. From the west they could hear voices. One was deeper, probably male, and two were most certainly children. After a minute they could see a wagon drawn by two large animals that looked somewhat like cattle or oxen, though not as broad and lacking horns. Though the animals were an oddity, Mariyah’s attention was on the figure driving. He was rather burly, with a square jaw and unkempt red hair. He wore brown trousers ripped at one knee and a soil-stained white shirt. Two children, a boy who looked to be no more than six years old and a girl who appeared slightly older, were bouncing and laughing beside the man, presumably their father. The wagon was empty, or seemed so from their vantage point.