The evening began on a melancholy note, a song of exile on her lips. Because there was no one listening who could be inadvertently influenced by her lamentation, Telyn made no effort to suppress the building spell.
It was just as well that she was not playing for her supper tonight—a room full of sobbing patrons would have upset the tavern keepers, and left her purse lighter than the bard might have hoped. She allowed the bittersweet tendrils of her song magic to flow across the small clearing and wind around the long shadows that rose into the stars on either side of the deserted forest road.
The graceful syllables of the old language, nearly forgotten to all but bards and scholars, seemed to elicit a mournful counterpoint in the sighing of the wind through the branches. Springtime breezes were ebbing after the sunset, but something else rode the wind in the darkness: a low, throbbing pulse, like a distant drum.
The odd sensation broke upon her skin and raised the hair on the back of the bard’s neck. Telyn’s fingers faltered on the strings of her harp, and she stilled the resulting discord with a touch. She listened intently, her sorrow displaced.
This strange, soundless percussion had been with her since the road had entered the southwestern fringes of the Wood earlier in the day. In the absence of sunlight, Telyn now found herself reflecting on half-remembered tales of vengeful phantoms and haunted groves, where the trees would cry aloud in warning. These were stories best suited to chill autumn nights when the veil between worlds was thin, and not to early spring nights such as this. Cautionary tales, they spoke of those who had dared to enter the forbidding Wood with evil deeds against their souls, and never made it out of the trees, meeting judgment at the hands of merciless spirits.
Telyn hoped that the stain on her own soul would fade in time, and she could not suppress a shiver in response to the faint echo of that strange vibration in the air. It had been a year ago...just a single turn of the wheel, but the twin burdens of shame and sadness were still heavy in her heart.
A snort from the grey horse tethered to the wheel of her small wagon distracted the bard from her reverie. Her faithful companion in exile, Bessa, was uncannily astute about two-legged affairs, and knew the bard as well as any person might. In spite of her low mood, Telyn grinned at the mare’s reproachful look and dashed an impatient hand over her damp eyes. She was almost eighteen, and no longer a child. It was foolish to weep over things she could not change.
“You’re right, Bessa,” she said aloud. “It’s much too beautiful a night to be counting my regrets.”
Telyn placed the harp carefully into the waxed leather case that protected it from harm. The horse turned its attention to the bag of oats sitting beside the wagon and nuzzled it with hopeful interest. Slapping the mare’s withers affectionately as she passed, the bard lifted the lid of the weatherproofed wooden box built beneath the seat of the wagon, which housed her precious instruments.
Beneath the folded winter cloaks and extra blankets that cushioned her pipes, bodhran, and smaller flutes, the less aesthetic relics of her training in the service of the Sildan King glinted dully in the firelight. It was highly unlikely she would need one of the weapons tonight. The tree-shrouded paths, haunted groves included, were far safer than the streets of the King’s own city due to the fierce reputation of the Tauron Order: elite Wood-born soldiers who patrolled the main roads crisscrossing the edges of the Wood. She suspected that at least some of the stories of ghostly vengeance learned at Emrys Harpmaster’s knee during her apprenticeship were due to the Tauron’s legendary skill.
But Telyn paused over the blades, drawing out a sheathed dagger. Her jaw set as she slid the weapon from its sheath. A dagger had saved her once, but the cost had been very high. The bard snapped the blade back into its scabbard before the threatening memories could fully surface and replaced it in the box beside the sword. She lifted the leather harp case and stowed it carefully as well before shutting the lid.
Bessa butted her head against Telyn’s thigh impatiently, and the bard grinned, making a determined effort to set this unwelcome melancholy aside. She poured a measure of oats on the new grass, and as the horse began to munch contentedly, Telyn scratched Bessa behind the ears and whispered, “Make sure you earn those oats and warn me if anything unfriendly comes our way, my girl.”
Turning back toward the fire, she froze.
A hooded figure stood on the other side of the flames.
Telyn crouched instinctively, her wild thoughts returning to phantoms for a fleeting moment. Her eyes slightly dazzled by the firelight, she could make out the curve of a bow rising behind the shoulder in a back sheath, but could not see if the figure was more immediately armed.
The individual quickly held empty hands toward her, palms up, in a gesture of peace. The voice that issued from the shadows of the deep hood was male, and apologetic. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
As her eyes readjusted to the firelight, the bard recognized the unusual, deeply hooded cloak and forest-green garb, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
“To what do I owe the presence of the Tauron?” Telyn smiled cautiously at the cloaked figure, recovering her composure.
“I caught the scent of your fire. When I came to investigate, I heard your song. Its sadness drew me here.” The warden paused as Telyn grimaced, blushing. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“No, you aren’t intruding. I’m simply embarrassed that there was a witness to my self-pity,” Telyn admitted guiltily. “I had just been thinking that I was lucky not to have an audience, and lo! Here you are!” She laughed, and added, “I hope that there isn’t an entire squadron of wardens sobbing out there in the Wood.”
She was rewarded with a low chuckle from the depths of the hood. “My comrade isn’t far away, but too far to feel the effects of your music, I think.”
“Then he’s fortunate.” The bard shook her head in self-deprecation. “I owe you amends for subjecting you to that. Are you thirsty? I have a small amount of some rather good wine, or fresh water.”
“Water would be most appreciated,” the warden agreed, entering the circle of firelight as Telyn reached into the floorboard of the canvas-covered wagon to produce a crockery jug. He thanked her and hefted the container, drinking deeply, his face still hidden in the shadows of his hood.
“You were singing in the old language,” he remarked, corking the jug and returning it to her. “I didn’t know bards still spoke it. One rarely hears it any longer, even in the Wood. L’nathair a ta. My name is Mithrais. I’m Westwarden of the Tauron.”
“L’nathair ta, Mithrais,” Telyn responded to the archaic greeting with a delighted smile. “Telyn Songmaker.” She bowed theatrically as she returned the jug to the wagon. “I studied at the court of the Sildan King for the last three years, mastering my art, but I’ve been learning the language since I was a child. My tutors were very thorough.”
“You must have studied with the Royal Bard, then. Is Taliesin truly as arrogant as I’ve heard?” Mithrais asked, innocently sending an arrow home to her core.
Telyn forced herself to smile, and answered in a falsely bright tone, “Worse, I daresay.” Cocking her head, she phrased her next question with careful levity. “I mean no offense, Mithrais, but I know that the Tauron pride themselves on their stealth and concealment in the Wood. Is it the custom to remain hidden at all times?”
He said with amused embarrassment as he lowered the deep hood, “I’m sorry. Please understand that it’s been months since I’ve been in anyone’s company but my fellow wardens.”
Telyn found herself staring. The eyes that turned to her were rendered a luminous, wolf-like green by the firelight, rimmed in dark lashes. His dark hair was caught at the nape of his neck with a silver clasp and pulled loosely back to reveal slightly pointed ears. Both physical traits unmistakably revealed a heritage that was more than human. The reclusive inhabitants of the Wood were directly descended from the fair folk, sharing a common bloodline with the Sildan royal family. In Belthil, the capitol city, the telltale features and greater stamina of the once-powerful mystical race had all but been bred out. Telyn had met few of the Wood-born, in whom the attributes of their ancestors were still strong and prominent.
“Is your destination outside the western Wood?” Mithrais asked her. Telyn blinked, startled out of her fascination, and answered him.
“Yes. I’m traveling to Rothvori.”
“Rothvori is three weeks journey from Belthil. What brings you so far from home?”
Telyn flinched inwardly. He had wounded her again without knowing he did so, but it was she who had opened the door to sorrow with the strings of her harp. “I’ve come to perform at the invitation of Lord Riordan. As for home, there it lies.” She indicated the wagon with a nod.
Mithrais, glancing pointedly at the intricate tattoo that circled her wrist, seemed unconvinced. “You wear the crest of the Sildan King. Doesn’t that mean you’re honor-bound to the royal household?”
“I always shall be, however, King Amorion has allowed me to travel where I wish.” Telyn forestalled the next inevitable question with one of her own. “How is it that you know so much about court?”
Mithrais stiffened a little, and he grimaced. “My own instruction was very thorough.” He declined to elaborate, but Telyn’s curiosity was piqued by the silence that followed.
“I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” the Westwarden finally said. “Be watchful, Lady Bard—there are many on the road tonight due to the spring celebrations, and few Tauron here in the western Wood. We try to keep our eyes and ears open, but we can’t be everywhere at once.”
“I can take care of myself. Besides, I have Bessa.” Telyn nodded toward the mare, which raised her head at the mention of her name, snorted, and went back to searching the grass for any missed grain. “She’ll warn me if anyone is about.”
“She didn’t warn you of my approach.” The warden was dubious.
“But you weren’t a threat to me, were you?”
“No.” Mithrais appeared to be considering something, but said only, “Good night then, Lady Bard.”
She watched Mithrais disappear into the forest, a silent apparition among the darker trunks of the trees, until she could no longer see him. She let out her breath in a long sigh, and Bessa whickered gently.
“Oh, yes, I agree,” Telyn told her. “Most interesting. I told you the Wood would be lovely this time of year.”
She returned to the ring of stones and raked the coals of the fire in preparation to turn in for the night. It would be an early start for her on the morrow if she were to reach Lord Riordan’s keep by midday, where the May Eve festivities would be in high swing.
She reflected on the warning the Tauron Westwarden had given her and opened the box beneath the wagon seat once more, locating the familiar hilt of her sword by touch. Placing it within easy reach beside the pallet that was her bed, Telyn settled into the nest of blankets. It was probably best to be prepared, but of all the ways the night could end, Telyn least expected the Fates to choose for her a song of battle.