The Bard's Blade

by Brian D. Anderson

  He heard Farley’s voice behind him. “That’s enough.”

  “Your friend’s lost his mind,” the guard growled. “Get him out of here before I crush his damned skull.”

  A pair of hands lifted Lem up and pulled him away from the cages.

  “Are you insane?” Farley demanded. “Or are you wanting to get yourself killed? What’s gotten into you?”

  Lem, still trying to catch his breath from the brutal kick, was for the moment incapable of speech. He could do nothing but watch helplessly as the cage containing his uncle slowly trundled out of sight around the next corner. With all the strength drained from his body, he staggered back until he sat down heavily on the retaining wall, his head in his hands.

  Shemi! How?

  There was only one possible answer. His uncle must have followed him.

  “You need to tell me what’s wrong.”

  Lem had almost forgotten that Farley was still standing beside him. He wiped his eyes and looked up. “I need your help.”

  Farley regarded him for a long moment and then nodded. “I’ll help if I can. You can tell me about it when we get back to the troupe. But right now we need to leave. Your display has attracted quite a lot of attention.”

  He lifted Lem to his feet, and they made their way through the throng of onlookers. While moving along, Lem could hear numerous mutterings thrown in their direction, mostly along the lines of heretic and northern scum. Each voice fueled equal measures of his despair and anger. He wanted to strike out … to throttle each and every person that spoke.

  The walk back to the troupe felt as if it took hours. Farley led him into his own tent and sat him down at a small table near the bed. Unlike the others’, his living space was neat and had decent furnishings. Not luxurious, but certainly comfortable.

  After pouring Lem a cup of wine, he sat in the chair opposite. His voice was sympathetic, his expression kind. “Now, then, why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

  With unsteady hands, Lem drained the cup, wine spilling from the corners of his mouth. He slammed the cup on the table, puffing and gasping from drinking too fast, yet repeating this once Farley poured him a second.

  “I need you to help me free one of the prisoners,” said Lem, once calm enough to speak.

  Farley blinked several times. “You want me to do what?”

  “Please. I’ll do anything you ask.” His tears returned.

  “Why?”

  Lem nearly confessed everything. Only a tiny voice in the back of his mind stopped him. “I know one of them. He … he’s family. My uncle. He’s like a father to me.”

  Farley steepled his fingers under his bottom lip. “I see. And this uncle … does he have a name?”

  “Shemi.”

  “Shemi,” he repeated in a low voice. “And he is dear to you, you say?”

  Lem nodded.

  “Without knowing his crime, I can’t say for sure I can do anything. If it’s severe, it will cost a substantial amount of gold to buy his freedom. Perhaps more than I can afford.”

  That buying Shemi’s freedom was even a possibility caused Lem’s heart to leap in his chest. “Please. Will you try?” He sobbed with relief. “He was the old man in the middle. With long gray hair.”

  Farley nodded and rose to his feet. “I’ll see what I can do. No promises, though. I’m not making myself a pauper over this. And you’ll work off every copper.”

  “I will. You have my word.” Hope swelled. “Thank you. I will never forget this.”

  “Don’t thank me yet.” He handed Lem his new clothes. “I may not be back before the show starts. This sort of business takes time. And I expect you to match last night’s performance. So get your head on straight. You hear me?”

  Lem nodded vigorously. “Yes. I promise. It will be even better tonight.”

  Farley heaved a sigh. “Very well. Now get going. I need to see how much gold I have to spend.”

  Lem stood and started toward the exit.

  “You do realize that you’ll owe me a big favor,” Farley called after him.

  Lem nodded over his shoulder. “I’ll owe you two.”

  While heading back to his tent, his mind was barely able to contain what had occurred. Not for a moment had he considered that Shemi might follow him. Why would the old fool do such a thing? It was madness. He knew that Shemi loved him. But to leave Vylari?

  Clovis was sitting at the table, his instrument in his lap, plucking out a simple melody. Still wearing the same clothes from the previous night and with bloodshot eyes, he was not exactly looking his best. The moment he saw Lem enter, he stopped playing.

  Lem couldn’t fathom facing a confrontation with Clovis right now. As it was, the torrent of emotions had him barely able to form a coherent thought. “That was pretty,” was all he managed to say. “What was it?”

  Clovis shrugged. “Just something I wrote a few days ago.”

  “I was never much of a composer myself. I guess we all have our talents, though, right?”

  Clovis sneered. “Don’t try to make me feel better. I know Quinn told you about my failure at the Bard’s College. But I recognize true talent when I hear it. Even if I don’t have it myself.”

  “My mother once told me that music isn’t about how well you play. It’s about how it makes you feel when you play it.”

  “That’s easy for you to say. One night in Lobin and you’re famous straightaway.” He glanced down at his instrument with contempt. “I’ve been practicing most of my life. All I ever wanted was to play like you. Look at you—half my age and already as good as any of the bards.”

  “I’ve never heard the bards, so I couldn’t say. But I wasn’t lying when I said I liked your song.”

  “I’m sure you’ve written a thousand that make mine sound like a baying mule.”

  A laugh that Lem was unable to contain burst forth.

  “That’s right,” Clovis responded, shoulders sagging. “Mock me. I deserve it.”

  Lem held up a hand. “No. It’s not that. Quite the opposite, in fact. Where I’m from, it’s true that I’m well known for my playing. It’s also well known that I’m unable to write music of any worth. Believe me, I’ve tried. Many times. Yes, I could probably take your song and create variations on it. But that’s a long way from writing original tunes. Believe it or not, I envy your ability.”

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  “Why would I lie?”

  “To make me feel better.”

  Lem moved over to his cot and sat down. “I have to admit I was looking for a way to make peace with you. The last thing I want is to have problems here. But I’m not a liar. At least, not when it comes to music. If you asked me what I think of you as a player, I’d tell you that you are good. Not great, but definitely good. Do I think you could match me? No. Not if you practiced all day, every day, for the rest of your life. But the song I heard when I came in was better than anything I could write. That’s the truth.”

  Clovis looked again at his instrument, this time with affection. “Thank you. I believe you mean it. It’s just that you have no idea how hard I worked, only to fail. I’ve spent the last twenty years reliving the moment they expelled me from the Bard’s College. Twenty long years. I knew I wasn’t good enough. I’d watched others … like you … move on to heights I would never reach. I should have given up long before they made me leave. But I couldn’t accept the truth. I couldn’t accept my own limitations.”

  “But your compositions … surely they recognized your ability?”

  Clovis ran his fingers gingerly over the strings, a sad little smile on his lips. “I wasn’t interested in composing then. I didn’t write my first tune until I joined the troupe. That was five years ago.” He looked up, his sorrow fading. “You know, I write all the music for our plays.”

  “Is that right?” Lem was truly impressed by this. He had not been merely trying to reconcile with Clovis—he genuinely had no talent for composition. “How long does i
t take?”

  “For each song? Not long. A day or two. Writing the melody is the easy part. It’s orchestrating the piece for the flute and percussion that’s the challenge.”

  Lem needed a distraction while awaiting Farley’s return, so he was happy to listen as Clovis explained how he would watch the actors rehearse, trying out different melodies until chancing upon one that fit the scene. Later on, he would think about how to incorporate the other instruments into the piece.

  “Of course,” he remarked with a grin, “trying to get Quinn and Hallis to learn the new tunes is even harder than writing them. You think I’m hard to deal with? Try teaching anything to those two.”

  They talked on for an hour. Although skirting the subject of his home, Lem did reveal that his mother was his first instructor and that he was self-taught for the most part after that. On hearing this, Clovis had let out a frustrated moan, though it was without anger or jealousy. All he did was roll his eyes and say, “Of course, you taught yourself. You know, yesterday I would have really hated you for that.”

  Eventually, Hallis and Quinn arrived. Seeing the pair of them talking as friends at the table drew a soft laugh from both men.

  “I see you’ve decided to stop hating our young bard,” remarked Quinn. “That’s good.”

  “Sounds like Farley’s been spreading the word about you, Lem,” added Hallis. “Should be a big night.”

  The mention of Farley brought Lem’s thoughts rushing back to his uncle, and immediately his mood darkened. Quinn and Hallis joined them at the table, but he was no longer wanting conversation and had to force himself to seem interested.

  He glanced toward the tent entrance and frowned. It was still hours before sundown. Hours before he would know Shemi’s fate. At last he excused himself, saying that he needed to rest.

  “I’m still tired from last night,” he explained over their objections.

  “Come on, lads,” said Quinn, rising from his seat. “Let’s give the young bard some quiet.”

  After they exited, Quinn shot back inside for a moment on the pretense that he had forgotten something.

  “Whatever you said to Clovis, thank you,” he told Lem.

  Lem responded with a weak smile, then stretched out on his cot.

  He tried to close his eyes, but whenever he did, the image of Shemi’s battered face appeared. His mother would pray to the ancestors from time to time for help or guidance. Lem’s own prayers were rare, and when he did pray, he did not expect an answer. But now, he would try anything to save his uncle.

  By the time the sun was waning, the clamor of an eager audience waiting near the stage was so loud that it sounded as if they were right outside his tent. Clovis and the others returned just as he was unwrapping his new clothing. Within was a blue shirt with ruffled collar and matching trousers. Silver stitching and buttons were sewn down the side of each trouser leg and on the front of the shirt. The material was soft and bore a sheen that reflected the light, lending a faint aura to the outfit. Unfortunately, his old boots would be sure to diminish the overall allure, but left with no better option, all he could do was clean them up as best he could.

  By the time Lem stepped outside, his nerves were frayed, and he was desperate for news about Shemi. His eyes darted around, searching without success for a sign of Farley. As he continued to peer into the audience—which was at least twice the size of the previous night—he felt a hand touch his shoulder.

  An impatient Vilanda was standing behind him. For this performance she was wearing a black dress with a lace scarf tossed over her shoulder and another just like it tied as a sash around her waist.

  “Have you seen Farley?” she asked. “I know he was with you this morning.”

  “No. He left hours ago.”

  “Well, he had better get his arse back here soon.”

  As with every encounter so far, she seemed angry about something. And the way she spoke to Farley … it was as if she were the one in charge.

  “I’ll let him know you’re looking for him.”

  She flicked her wrist. “Don’t bother. He knows he’d better find me.”

  Following the same routine as the previous night, once the musicians were in place and the actors lined up beside the stage, she clapped her hands twice and the music started. This time Lem listened with more interest. Clovis was in fact very adept at setting a mood with his compositions. This one was dark and ominous, matching the slow and deliberate strides of Vilanda as she made her way to center stage.

  Tonight’s first play, Murder by Starlight, was a gripping mystery about a woman who had killed her husband after discovering his infidelity. Lem tried to pay attention, but could not stop himself from regularly searching the crowd for Farley. Knowing that it could be well into the night before he returned did not help his patience.

  You need to calm down, he scolded himself. You promised Farley a great performance. And you had better deliver.

  As the first play ended and the actors were taking their bows, the word bard could be heard floating throughout the crowd. The call was quickly taken up by more and more until thousands of people were crying it out in unison. The sound was deafening. Lem could feel it resounding in his chest as he stepped up onto the stage, balisari hanging over his shoulder. As loud as the audience’s chanting had just been seconds ago, it was nothing compared to the thunderous roar that now erupted in response to his appearance.

  He shut his eyes, waiting for the fervor to subside. It took more than a minute before they finally settled. Lem then opened his eyes, and at once his heart seized in his chest. Farley was standing right in front of him. What’s more, he was smiling. Lem felt as if an enormous weight had been lifted from his back, and for a moment he forgot the audience altogether.

  “Do you have him?” he called down.

  Farley nodded with a laugh, then gestured for him to begin playing.

  Lem wanted to jump from the stage and embrace the man. Farley had done it! He had saved Shemi.

  “Go on, then,” called a voice, snatching him back into the moment.

  Lem strummed out the first few notes. He had intended to play an old Vylarian lullaby. But it didn’t feel right. Not now; not when his heart was so joyful. He stopped playing midway through the lullaby’s introduction, and for a moment, Shemi was the only thing in his mind. There was no prophecy, no burning land, no fear. He was fishing with Shemi along the banks of the Sunflow, watching the stars pop out one by one until the entire sky was filled to bursting with celestial light.

  A single note rang out. Then a chord. A simple, almost childish introduction. It was a song he had learned only the year before. Its simplicity was due to its composer: a young student named Girald, who, while not very talented when it came to playing the balisari, like Clovis possessed a definite creative gift.

  Lem continued, improvising an intricate web around the basic melody, each note seeming to dance around the one before it until inevitably giving way to the next. By the time the song ended, he realized he was smiling from ear to ear. The crowd shared his joy, cheering and calling for more. But Lem was intent on only one thing. Not bothering to take a bow, he rushed from the stage, speeding past the actors, continuing at full tilt until he reached his tent.

  There, lying on his cot, was Shemi. Farley had disposed of his filthy rags and put him into a long nightshirt. But although Farley had also cleaned Shemi’s face of grime, the bruises were still quite pronounced. Shemi’s eyes were only half open as Lem knelt beside him.

  “Am I dreaming?” he asked, his voice barely audible.

  “No, uncle,” Lem replied, brushing back the hair from his face. Tears gathered in his eyes. He had never seen Shemi so helpless and weak. What had they done to him? “It’s me. I’m here. You can rest now. Everything is going to be fine.”

  “Mariyah,” the old man croaked.

  “Don’t worry about her,” Lem said. “Her parents will look after her.”

  Shemi shook his head. “No. You ha
ve to save Mariyah. Don’t let them take her.”

  It was as if cold steel had stabbed him in the gut. “What are you saying? Where is Mariyah?” Without realizing it, he had grabbed his uncle’s arms and was shaking him. “Answer me. Where is Mariyah?”

  “I couldn’t stop her,” he said. His eyes fluttered. “They took her. They…” His voice faded to nothing, and a second later his body went completely limp.

  Lem shook him again. “Shemi. Wake up. Tell me where she is.”

  It was pointless. The old man was unconscious.

  The tent flap opened, and Farley stepped inside. “You see? Everything worked out just fine.”

  Lem stood, pale faced and quivering.

  “This is the one you wanted?” asked Farley, confused by Lem’s distress.

  “Yes. This is Shemi.”

  “Then what’s wrong? You look upset.” He glanced over to the sleeping man. “Don’t worry. He’ll be fine. They beat him, but the healer I brought him to said it was nothing too serious. The tonic he was given will keep him groggy for a while. But he’ll be all right.”

  “I know I have no right to ask,” said Lem. “But I need your help again.”

  Farley gave him a sour look. “If it involves more coin, you can forget it. That old man cost me ten gold pieces. Good thing I got there before the ships docked or it would have cost me twice as much.”

  “Please. There is a girl. They have her.”

  Farley knitted his brow. “A girl? What girl?”

  “Her name is Mariyah. She’s being held as well.”

  “Not anymore, she isn’t. Most of the prisoners were shipped away this afternoon. If she was there, she’s already gone by now.”

  Lem felt dizzy. “No. I have to save her.”

  Farley crossed over and helped him to the table. “I think it’s about time you told me what’s going on here. Your uncle was imprisoned by the Hedran. So that’s what we’re talking about, right? A heretic? An apostate? Tell me when I’m close.”