“Raptors, Passerines, Masters all, I give you the Owl!” Telleridge called, and the audience roared to their feet.
When the cheering and hooting died down, Telleridge held up his hand, snapped his fingers, and a lute appeared in his hand.
“Play for us, Bard,” said Telleridge. “And we will grant you guesting rights.”
As easily as that Tier could move.
Quickly, he considered his options and chose the one that appealed to him the most. He took the lute the Owl Master held out to him—a beautiful instrument to look at—but when he played a few notes he shook his head.
“Myrceria, lass,” he said, letting his voice find her wherever she waited in the darkness that disguised the further rows of the audience. “Hie you back to my rooms and bring my lute, please. This one your Masters provided is garbage for all it’s pretty.”
The problem with solemn ceremonies and young men, Tier knew, was that the urge to break the solemnity was almost irresistible. They greeted his informal request with a roar more spontaneous than the one they’d given Telleridge, if not as loud. As easily as that he took the crowd from the wizard and lessened the effect of the earlier ceremony in the minds of everyone present.
He wouldn’t have tried it if his cell were far away, but it should only take a moment to retrieve the lute—not long enough to make his audience restless.
“Bard,” called a young man. “I thought that an Owl could play any instrument.”
Tier nodded his head. “I’ve heard that, too. But no one ever said they would play any instrument just because they could.”
It wasn’t Myrceria, but one of the Passerines, who ran up with the lute from Tier’s cell. Tier took up the battered lute and sat on the edge of the stage, one long leg hanging over the edge. He’d only had her a night, but the lute felt like an old friend as he cradled her and coaxed her back into tune, again.
“Now,” he said, “What kind of song should it be?” He played a rippling series of scales so quickly it was hard to pick out the individual notes. “No,” he shook his head, “No one except another musician would like that.” He tightened a peg again to bring a string back into pitch. He’d have to watch that one, he thought, probably a new string.
“War songs sound stupid on a lute,” he said, picking enough of a familiar melody out that a few heads began to nod, “at least they sound stupid without a drum.”
“Play ‘Shadow’s Fall’,” said someone over the suggestions in the crowd.
Tier shook his head. It’d be a while before he used that story again. “No, everyone knows that. What about a love ballad?” He struck a few chords of a particularly flowery piece and laughed at the groans from the audience.
“Fine,” he said, “Try this one for size.” And he began the song he’d intended to sing from the very first.
It was a wickedly funny story of a lowborn killer who, on impulse, stole the clothes of a rich young man he’d been paid to kill and set himself up as a nobleman. Tier smiled to himself as he saw that the young men in the audience enjoyed rude double meanings and clever wording as much as the soldiers he’d fought with.
The lute, for all that it was battered, was easily the finest he’d ever played. Responsive and clear-toned, it sang out, complementing his voice and lending just the right accent to the words.
He started into the third verse, the crowd silent, muffling their laughter so that they wouldn’t miss a word. Even with such a fine instrument, it was difficult to get the volume he needed before this many people. With his encouragement, they joined in the final chorus, making the stage vibrate with the sheer volume.
He ended it with a flourish. He could sense the wizards moving forward, but he decided to end the performance without them.
“Now,” he said with a deliberately engaging grin. “Come join me for the feast and drink or two—and I’ll do my best to be entertaining.” Lute in hand, he jumped off the high stage, away from the wizards, and led the horde to an invasion of the bar in the back of the room.
CHAPTER 10
It was almost dark when Jes got back to the farm.
Gura greeted him from the porch and Jes ruffled his fingers through the wiry hair. The Guardian had been demanding today; Jes was tired and his head hurt. He tried not noticing that there was something wrong because he didn’t know if he could keep the Guardian under control this time if there was.
Rinnie hadn’t come out when Gura barked.
The Guardian also knew he was tired, and he was willing to wait until they knew for certain. So it was Jes who walked to the back of the cabin and saw that Rinnie had done a few hours’ worth of work before putting her tools away where they belonged.
Had Rinnie grown impatient and set out after Mother and Lehr? He didn’t think so, especially since she’d left Gura here. He followed Mother and Lehr’s tracks to the woods, but he couldn’t see anything that indicated Rinnie had come here today. The ground around the cabin was too packed-down for him to follow a trail there.
Reluctantly he gave way to the Guardian.
He shouldn’t have stayed so long watching the new temple, thought the Guardian unhappily. But he’d never seen anything like the taint that spread from the temple through Redern. He’d been worried about Hennea; the forest king had made him responsible for her safety, and there was nothing safe about the temple. The geas that bound her made it impossible for him to stop her from going in, but he’d stayed and fretted over it until Jes had convinced him that Mother would know what to do about it.
In wolf form, the Guardian looked for Rinnie’s scent along the edge of the forest, but Jes had been right. She hadn’t followed Mother.
He went back to the cabin. Gura flattened himself submissively, but the Guardian ignored him. Gura shouldn’t have let Rinnie go off alone. Dogs did not make good guards—they were taught to obey the commands of the people they guarded.
Rinnie’s scent was here, but it was difficult to pick out one trail from another. He needed Lehr for this kind of job. He lifted his head from the porch step and cast an irritated glance toward the forest; judging by the time Hennea had taken to get from the village to the place where something had happened to Papa, Mother and Lehr should have been back by now. As he turned his head he caught a whiff of an odd scent.
What had Bandor been doing at the farm?
He seldom visited his aunt—both the Guardian and Jes found the village distressful. There were too many people for Jes, and he got confused by their unguarded emotions. To the Guardian, there were too many possible threats. Even so, he knew Bandor’s scent of yeast, salt, and soap.
The sound of rapid footsteps made him blend into the side of the porch so that he remained unseen. The wind was coming from the wrong direction, so he couldn’t tell who it was until Hennea came out in the open.
One sleeve was burned away and blisters started at her fingertips and trailed up fire-blackened flesh to her shoulder. She slowed to a walk, staggering slightly as she came in sight of the cabin.
“Seraph,” she said. “Jes, are you here?”
The Guardian shook with the implied violence of her condition, even though Jes tried to soothe him with the observation that she might have done the damage to herself because the hurt was concentrated on the wrist the geas band had been on. Hennea smelled of anger, fear, and pain, and Jes was tired. The beast snarled silently.
Hennea gasped slightly, and the Guardian knew that she felt the dread of his anger.
“Jes,” she said, closing in on the cabin. “Jes, I need to talk to you. There’s none here to harm anyone. Please. I need to talk to you.”
A tear slid down her face, and she wiped it away impatiently. “Please. I need your help.”
If the forest king hadn’t given her to him, the Guardian could have ignored her; but she was one of his now. So he slunk away from the porch and let her see him clearly, though Jes would rather have resumed his usual form because he didn’t want to frighten her anymore than she already was. Jes liked Hennea.