The little he had heard of the harpa prior to this trip branded them as dishonest thieves. That reputation did not comport with what he had learned in just a few days of personal exposure. Indeed, he found himself in admiration of these four.
The older woman, and thus the leader of the caravan, was an industrious sort named Summersong Maple. She could not have been far into her twenties, but she commanded the other three with a confident tenderness normally associated with aging mothers. Where Meadow was cute, Summer was an exotic beauty, with sharp features and dark hair. The confident, cheerful way she carried herself reminded Yohan of the best officers he had served under. Not tall, but self-assured to the point of intimidation. Yohan noticed how the other soldiers avoided looking her way, afraid of getting caught.
Her mate was a reserved young man named Patrik. Yohan did not know whether the same laws of marriage applied to their people and so avoided using the term husband, but their close association was clear to all. Every order from Summer was delivered with a warm smile, and received with the same. Witnessing that relationship forced Yohan to recall his own contentious behavior with Jena, and wonder how things may have turned out differently if they had treated one another with greater respect.
The last, and eldest, trader was a large man who went by the name Silvo. Thick and heavy, as ugly as the women were pretty, Silvo kept his reddish cheeks clean-shaven, although a little facial hair would distract from the oversized nose and uneven blue eyes. Appearances aside, the man had a magnetic personality that was hard to resist. A storyteller and jokester, his deep voice was a main attraction of the caravan’s fun-filled nights.
Along with the music. And the dancing. These were the true gifts of the harpa, the things Yohan most admired about them, and knew he would never forget.
These things touched him in much the same way as the tiger had, forever altering him. With every reason to resent their lot, these people embraced it instead. They celebrated life with an enthusiasm that shamed his own petty unhappiness. He had much to learn from them, yet was too daunted to begin.
“They’re doing the sadida tonight,” Brody said excitedly. “Come on, they’re starting soon.” He grabbed Yohan’s arm as he stood. As if Yohan needed encouragement. He would not miss this for all the wine in Liniza. They hurried back toward the wagons.
Sunset blazing behind him, an audience of soldiers before, Patrik clapped out a steady beat with his hands. A small wooden fiddle rested in his lap, for later.
After a few moments, Silvo added his own clapping, turning his hands one way then another as his foot kept time. Yohan watched Ledo and Bostik tapping their own feet in rhythm, unconsciously, their eyes riveted to the two stationary dancers standing with bowed heads and outstretched arms.
As one, Silvo began singing and the women began moving, waving their limbs and twirling their bodies to each nonsensical syllable. The broad, forced smile on Silvo’s face was part of the show, and he appeared so strained to maintain it that Yohan thought the portly man might fall from his seat. But his exertions were nothing compared to Meadow and Summer, whose movements alternated between precise and frenetic. Both wore their hair loose, creating long light and dark blurs that mixed with the drifting sparks of the campfire. The two began in parallel but soon flowed in wholly unique patterns, leading the viewer to assume the motions were improvised. Then, with no cue or forewarning, their dancing would become synchronized again. They fluidly moved in and out of these two styles, and all the while the two men propelled them onward with the music, both clapping and one singing.
Then Patrik raised the fiddle to his chin, nodded once, and brought the bow to strings. Soon Silvo joined him, and the musicians stood together. They began to careen about as chaotically as the dancers, stamping their feet and swinging their shoulders about wildly as they played, kicking up small clouds of brown dirt, handheld bows gliding with dazzling rapidity, eyes closed and faces twisted in manic exaltation. Yohan wondered how they managed not to trip and fall or stumble into one another, but the rhythmic rapture guided their feet as well as their hands.
Most of the soldiers were clapping along, and many were tapping their toes. Yohan looked down and realized he was one of them. He stopped, forcing himself into the soldier’s stance. His feet resisted for a moment, then obeyed.
The music and dancing ended abruptly, replaced by cheering and laughter. Performers and audience began to mix. Yohan watched Kelsey place her hand on Patrik’s arm to get his attention. Her words were inaudible, but the trader nodded and the two of them stepped away from the crowd to begin dancing together. Summer and Bostik joined them, and Yohan saw an intimate glance pass between the two lovers before giving full attention to their respective partners. Clearly, they would have preferred to be with each other, but the spirit of the harpa compelled them to share their joy with others.
Silvo showed some of the soldiers how to set a beat with their hands, then added his fiddle to the medley with another gregarious smile.
“Soldier Yohan, will you dance with me?”
Somehow, Meadow had approached without his noticing. Either she was born to sneak, or easy living was weakening his perception.
“Perhaps another time,” he replied.
She smiled. “All right, then.”
Brody joined them. “Yohan is shy like a bird, Fairmeadow. Give him time to get used to you, then he’ll sing like a lark. In the meantime, dance with me.” He led her away with a laugh, leaving Yohan alone to ponder his indecision.
“Private Yohan?” came a harsh voice.
He turned to face the newcomer. “Aye, Corporal?”
Mercer’s face was a perpetual unhealthy red, visible even in the firelight. “As you aren’t dancing, how about doing something useful?” While he spoke, bits of the Naru tobacco he frequently chewed dribbled over his lower lip. “One of those mongrels is set up in my tent like it’s his own personal castle. Lure it out or kill it.”
Yohan could hear the cur growling as he neared the tent. He glanced around for the other, saw it observing him from a safe distance. He had no idea what the harpa named these two—probably Happygrin and Sunshineheart, or some such nonsense—but the soldiers had taken to calling them Spite and Malice. Malice was the bitch he could see watching him, which meant Spite was the mean male whose silhouette Yohan could see through the tent’s thin siding.
With music in the background, Yohan sat cross-legged in front of the open flap, letting the dogs see that he meant no harm. He had no fear, either, and relied upon their ability to sense that. There was no hurry. The dancing would continue for hours, and Yohan could not return to it tonight. He found it confusing. Emotion-stirring, when his emotions had no desire to be stirred.
If he had any sort of singing voice, he might have tried a tune. Instead, he decided to tell the dogs a story. He considered other animals he had known, and thought of two in particular.
“Have I ever told you of how beasts saved my life?” The response was increased growling, and not just from inside. Malice had moved closer, her teeth bared in a sneer, a scar running across one eye. He looked at her, smiled sadly, then stared down at his hands. “One was a horse, Ofero.” His voice caught on the name, and for the first time in days saw the same mental image that he had carried in his mind for so long. It was the model for a piece of sculpture he had whittled. A crude, cheap, useless gesture.
“The other was a white mountain tiger. A magnificent creature, really. It gave us food when we were dying.” He paused. “It gave me hope when I was lost. Let me tell you about it…”
The story was as much for his own sake as theirs. He needed to relive this one last time before he could move on, and he lost himself in the telling, losing track of the minutes, not knowing when the first dog placed her head on his thigh, when he began to stroke the thin black fur, when the other joined them, when it licked the tears from his cheek. He knew only when he was done. The purging complete, he was ready to move forward.
Yohan w
ould have rejoined the dancing then, but he heard them finish in a final crescendo of cheering. That was all right. There was always the morrow, and he felt as content as he was capable of.
“You need to see this,” Brody said. “Meadow is telling fortunes.”
“Does that sound like the sort of thing that would interest me?” Yohan asked. “I thought you knew me better than that.”
Brody grinned. “Shut up and come along.”
The harpa already had her first dupe lined up. Ledo stood before her, watching as she shuffled a deck of cards with one hand while straightening the corners of a blanket on the ground. She was sitting cross-legged, Spite and Malice resting comfortably on either side. Spite lifted his head at the approach of newcomers, then stood up and paced over to Yohan, who squatted to scratch behind a crooked ear.
He met Meadow’s eyes. Lovely, astonished eyes. Then he noticed the other soldiers staring at him, as well. He shrugged. “Animals like me. Don’t ask me why.”
Meadow looked down at her work, flipping three cards from the deck and laying them on the blanket.
“Why three?” Ledo asked as he sat across from her.
“Each man walks three paths at once,” she replied.
“Each man?” Ledo asked.
“Aye. Each woman walks two. Women are not so confused as men.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” He leaned forward, eagerly anticipating the first card. “So, let’s see it.”
“Not so fast,” Meadow corrected. “First, a question. What does Soldier Ledo seek more than anything?”
He considered. “Does happiness work?”
She smiled. “Truly. Nothing more pure beneath the moon and stars.” She reached to the first card, paused for dramatic effect, then flipped it over. “A black map. Interesting.”
“Absolutely fascinating,” Ledo said flatly. “Do you want to tell me what it means?”
“The map represents exploration. Curiosity. Discovery. But the black means it is unwanted. An exploration forced upon you, not a discovery of choice.”
Ledo stroked his chin. “If you say so. How about number two?”
She flipped the second card. “The blue scroll. Knowledge. Understanding.” She smiled at the dim-witted soldier. “This jibes nicely with the first card. I told you it worked.”
He scratched his temple. “And the third?”
She turned over the last one. “Red plague. Sickness. Disease. But not yours. Someone close to you.”
Brody took an exaggerated step away from the man. Yohan smiled at the humor, but neither Ledo nor Meadow seemed to notice.
Ledo looked like he had swallowed an entire lemon. “Your pardons, Sister, but that hardly seems like me,” he said at last.
Meadow looked as confused as the soldier. “The cards are correct, but I sense the truth in your words.” Her brow furrowed in thought. “I wonder if you are a conduit for another…”
“A what?”
Then she scooped the deck of cards back into her hands. “It’s nothing. Sometimes the cards attune themselves to the wrong person. Allow me to try again,” she requested.
“Nay. But mayhap one of these other flats will take a chance.” He stood up.
Meadow looked imploringly at Yohan. He hesitated, torn between helping and resisting the superstitious nonsense.
“Happily,” Brody said, then filled Ledo’s place as quickly as the other abandoned it. He flashed a warm smile at the girl. She returned it, glanced once more at Yohan, then focused on laying three more cards.
“And what does Soldier Brody seek more than anything?” she asked.
For once, the garrulous private remained silent. Contemplative, or hesitant.
To be a Swordthane. But he dares not say that aloud, for fear of ridicule. “Glory,” Yohan volunteered.
Brody nodded. “That will do.”
Three cards later, and this reveal was even more dubious than the last. The happy soldier stared down at his own fortune, then laughed. “You see that, Yohan? There’s glory for you. I’m going to be king.”
The blue battle standard symbolized victory. The black dagger meant betrayal. And the blue crown was obvious.
Yohan would have felt better for his friend, if not for the look of horror on Meadow’s face. An expression that said she had lost all faith in her own abilities. He felt a surge of sympathy for her, and could think of only one way to help.
“Read mine next, Sister?”
She looked at him, startled. So did Brody. “Are you sure?” they asked in unison.
Yohan nudged his friend aside and sat, facing her. “Please?”
She watched the cards as she shuffled with both hands. Her hair drooped in front of her eyes, hiding them from his sight. But not her smile.
“Now, what does Soldier Yohan seek more than anything?”
He had been considering this for the last minute, but still did not have a good answer.
A purpose. I had one, and now it’s gone.
He shook his head. “Nothing, really.”
“Love,” Brody said.
Yohan glared at his friend, who clapped him on the shoulder.
Meadow looked at him quizzically. “Love, is it?”
He nodded and watched as she flipped the first card—a blue lyre.
“Happiness,” Meadow said, and grinned.
“Where did Ledo get to?” Brody asked. He raised his voice, calling out to the emptiness. “Hey, Ledo! Yohan got your happiness.” Then he laughed and slapped his friend’s shoulder merrily.
“Can we continue?” Yohan asked.
Meadow concealed her smirk and reached for the second, again pausing for effect before turning it over.
“A heart,” Brody said enthusiastically. Yohan felt the grip on his shoulder tighten. The other soldier was genuinely excited about this turn of events.
“A heart,” Meadow confirmed. “Love.” She was smiling at him, apparently as satisfied with the results as his friend.
Yohan could not help himself. “It’s black,” he said. “Unwanted, you told Ledo.”
Her smile faded a bit, but not entirely. “It could simply mean unexpected. One does not often find love where they look for it.”
I cannot argue with that.
“And the last card?” If I get my purpose, then I’ll believe.
Meadow was hesitant to finish the fortune. She knew better than he that the promise of the moment could be dispelled in an instant. Her hand paused, not for effect, over the final card. He watched her face instead of the card as she turned it, knowing that her reaction would tell him more than the picture it depicted. She drew her hand back, and closed her eyes.
“Another dagger,” Brody said. “What did that mean?”
“Betrayal,” Yohan said. “Red. Someone close to me.” He picked up the card for closer study.
Meadow reached out to touch his hand. “Not betrayal by someone close to you. Betrayal of someone close to you.”
Brody laughed. “It’d better not be me, Brother.” Then he winked at Meadow. “Thank you for your time, Sister. Your lovely, lovely time.”
Silvo’s full name was Silverson Goldthrush, as Yohan learned while the two of them prepared the eve meal.
“An impressive name, for an impressive musician. I am happy for the opportunity to tell you how much I enjoyed the sadida.”
Silvo chuckled. “You’ve been learning flattery from Soldier Brody, I see.” He pulled his hands from a pot of water and shook them dry. “Come. These tubers can wait a few minutes. Allow me to show you something, Soldier Yohan.” He led the way to the sleeping area, where the personal effects of the harpa were stowed in various bags and crates of different sizes. Silvo went directly to one mahogany box with ornate fastenings and bent over it.
Yohan’s attention was struck by something else, however. “Is that a bow?” he asked.
Silvo straightened and turned, eyes darting between Yohan and the curve of wood lying partially concealed beneath a loose pile of c
olorful garments. “Nay… That is to say, aye. We use them sometimes to hunt rabbits and small beasts for food. Come, Soldier Yohan, allow me to show you a miracle of the heavens.” He turned back to the box.
Yohan had grown up in Nurosterlend, rich in elms, yews, ash, and hazels. His home, a small village named Parca, specialized in producing arrows of fir. He knew a hunting bow when he saw one, yet had never seen one such as this. Even unstrung and only half-visible, this one was clearly thicker and longer than those familiar to him.
Yet Silvo was clearly uncomfortable with the subject, and Yohan had no desire to irritate the pleasant trader. In any case, both men were distracted by the object the harpa then lifted from a bed of straw.
It was an instrument Yohan had not yet seen used in the nighttime amusements—an elegant polished lute, exquisitely crafted, far more valuable than the campfire fiddles. Silvo plucked the strings once, smiled gloriously at the single note, then prepared to stow it back in its crate.
“May I?” Yohan asked.
Silvo was openly reluctant to hand it over, but the good manners of the harpa compelled him to. Yohan made certain to treat it with as much care and respect as his rough hands would allow. Even so, the friendly man’s anxious fidgeting became oppressively pronounced, so Yohan handed it back without the full examination he would have liked.
“When will we get to hear this?” he asked.
“Perhaps never,” Silvo replied. Then laughed. “Perhaps tonight. I play only when the craving becomes irresistible.”
There was no music that night, however.
Kelsey spotted the flames first, when they were nothing but a pale red glow on the darkening horizon. She pointed them out to Yohan, her arm aiming due south, farther along the rudimentary road used by caravans and naught else.
Hearts of Fire Page 6
