Twang! The unmistakable sound of a gittern string breaking echoed through the Bardic Collegium’s wood-paneled rehearsal room, accompanied by youthful laughter.
Bard Shandara Tem kept her smile on her face despite her exasperation, and she glanced to her left, at the soprano section of the Bardic Trainee Ensemble.
“Would you like assistance tuning, Jaya?” she asked the red-faced girl sitting up front.
“I know how to tune up,” the girl said. “Honestly. I think the string was just weak. But, if you could help me put on a new one?”
Shandara nodded and took the gittern. Like most Bards, she had a solid acquaintance with most instruments, though her main proficiency was on the harp.
Quickly, she restrung the top course of Jaya’s gittern and handed it back to the girl. Already, the babble in the room was growing louder. Too long an interruption, and the two dozen members of the ensemble would veer into cheerful chaos. Many of them were of an age where teasing denoted signs of affection, and with the Vernal Equinox approaching, the intensity of their young emotions was almost overwhelming.
“Trainees!” Shandara pitched her voice to cut through the noise. “Focus, please. We only have a week before the performance.”
She hadn’t chosen to lead the ensemble’s rehearsals, but the Bard who directed the Trainees had been called away on a family emergency.
“You’re best suited to take over,” her mentor, Master Bard Tangeli, had said with a brief, sympathetic smile. “The Trainees have been working hard for their performance at the Spring Fair this month. We can’t disappoint them.”
Or their families, of course. Parents of the Trainees often made a special effort to attend the Fairs and cheer their offspring on. Seeing their students perform was a high point, and it was up to Shandara to make sure the ensemble was at their best.
Given the general disorganization in the rehearsal room, however, Shandara wasn’t sure her charges were equally dedicated to their upcoming performance. The amount of foolery and shenanigans she’d witnessed in the past two weeks was impressive, even for Trainees with an overabundance of romantic longings.
In addition to suspiciously regular incidents of instruments going awry, the tried-and-true practice of switching sections to fool the new director (it hadn’t taken Shandara long to sort them all back out again), and sheet music getting ridiculously shuffled, the sopranos had managed to fall an entire measure behind during the last rehearsal, and the piece had dissolved into giggles.
The main instigator seemed to be a boy named Edwold. The moment Jaya’s string broke, he’d bent over with laughter. With an inward sigh, Shandara turned to him. “Edwold, I think we should go over your solo section.”
In her limited experience, she’d found that nothing was better guaranteed to settle young spirits down than putting them to work. Edwold was one of the two soloists chosen for the performance. His high, clear voice was perfectly suited to the descant lines in the closing ballad of the performance.
The grin fell from his face.
“I don’t feel well, Bard Shandara,” he said, a slight shake in his voice. “Can’t we do it next rehearsal?”
She studied him. He’d gone pale, and though she knew he was a consummate actor, it seemed as though he was telling the truth.
“Very well,” she said. “I’ll hear you tomorrow. Now, everyone, let’s try ‘The Sparrows Aloft.’ Jaya, the first chord, if you will.”
The girl strummed a tuneful chord, the Trainees settled, and soon the strains of the celebratory piece filled the air. Shandara kept a close watch on Edwold, but he remained perfectly well behaved for the rest of the rehearsal.
She had no doubt that on the morrow, however, he’d be back to his mischievous ways.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do about Edwold,” Shandara said, taking a thoughtful sip of tea.
She and her friends, Healer Tarek and Trainee Lyssa, had gathered in her rooms for dinner and were companionably seated around her small, round table. A cozy fire crackled in the hearth, taking the cold edge off the air as they finished up their meal.
“He’s just a boy,” Tarek said, mopping up the last bit of sauce on his plate with a hunk of bread. “Probably sweet on that girl Jaya, and worried about embarrassing himself at the Spring Fair. He’ll settle down.”
“I hope that’s the case. But I can’t help feeling it’s something more.”
Lyssa shot her a glance, her sweet face concerned. “My Empathy is getting stronger as my training progresses. If you’d like, I could come listen to the rehearsal tomorrow—and pay special attention to Edwold.”
“Would you? I’d appreciate any insight you might have.” Shandara reached over and squeezed her young friend’s arm.
Lyssa was a Mindhealer, a rare Gift. If anyone could ferret out what was at the heart of Edwold’s troublemaking, it would be her.
“Speaking of the Spring Fair, is there anyone you’re planning on attending with, Lyssa?” Tarek gave her a wink.
The girl made a face. “All the boys my age are silly. A group of us girls are planning to wander about together.”
“Wise,” Tarek said. “I don’t blame you in the least. I was impossible at that age.”
“Only a handful of years ago, as I recall,” Shandara said, teasing him.
Tarek put a hand to his chest. “Me? Never. You’re thinking of my friend Ro. Who, as I’ll remind you, is now happily wed.”
Lyssa cleared her throat and gave Tarek a significant look. “Married. And he’s your age.”
“He finished at Collegium before I did,” Tarek said. “Besides, the expectations are different for lordlings.”
Shandara noted the tips of his ears had reddened. She, too, was a little uncomfortable with Lyssa’s not-so-subtle urgings toward matrimony. While Shandara was very fond of Tarek, they were both young yet—and he was still finding his footing as newly minted Healer. For now, she was content with their relationship. If, in the future, they were ready for more, well, they would face that decision together.
“After the Trainee Ensemble performs, I’ll be free to wander the Fair with you,” Shandara said, glancing at Lyssa and then Tarek.
“I wouldn’t want to interrupt the cooing of you two lovebirds.” Lyssa gave them a smug look. “Besides, Tarek, you’re a lordling, too.”
“I’m a Healer first,” he said, his voice clear with conviction.
Shandara sent him a warm smile. He’d had his own difficult journey, and she was glad to have been able to help along the way. Lyssa, too, had struggled with her Gift.
“Come with us after the concert,” Shandara said, turning to the girl. “Spring Fair is about celebrating all the connections between people, don’t forget. Friends and family count just as much as romantic interests.”
Tarek gestured with his piece of bread. “Absolutely. And speaking of family, you can use us as an excuse to escape yours, any time.”
“Thank you.” Lyssa’s tone turned serious. “You two know you’re my real family here in Haven.”
Shandara leaned over and squeezed the girl’s shoulders. “We know.”
“She’s just angling for us to buy her a half-dozen pocket pies at the Fair,” Tarek said, his grin showing he didn’t mean it.
“Well, of course.” Lyssa blinked innocently at him. “Isn’t that what families are for?”
The next afternoon, as promised, Lyssa arrived at the rehearsal room as the Trainee Ensemble was gathering. She took a seat in the far corner and opened a book. A few of the young musicians glanced at her, but since she was clearly there with Shandara’s permission, her presence was noted, then dismissed.
Wondering what the day’s mischief might be, Shandara called the group to order.
“Let’s start with the ‘Ode to a Companion,’” she said. “Are you ready for your solo, Edwold?” Might as well begin with putting the lad in the spotlight and see what happened.
“Yes, Bard Shandara,” Edwold said, jumping up.
He took his place at the front, a light in his eyes that boded trouble. Shandara caught Lyssa’s gaze. The girl glanced at Edwold, then back, her brow furrowed. Clearly something was afoot. Ah, well, the only way to uncover it was to forge ahead.
“Jaya, the chord please,” Shandara said.
The girl complied, and Shandara was glad to see that at least the instrument was behaving today. Even if there was a spate of muffled giggling from some of the boys.
She counted off, and the ensemble began. The song was a lovely composition about the bond between a Herald and her Companion—perfect as a finale for their Spring Fair performance. The full choral parts softened, and Shandara gestured to Edwold.
He opened his mouth for the first bars of his solo.
Croak. The unmistakable sound of a bullfrog sounded from somewhere about his person. Probably the pocket his hand was tucked firmly in. Shandara narrowed her eyes.
A half-dozen answering ribbits and croaks sounded from the back of the soprano section. The music dissolved, the melody lost under shrieks of laughter.
“Edwold.” Shandara kept her tone stern, though she had to admit it was an amusing prank. Amusing—if they didn’t have a performance looming in two days. And if it weren’t abundantly clear that Edwold was trying desperately to keep from performing his solo. “Please show me what’s in your pocket.”
The boy pulled out his hand. He held a fat brown frog with a green head, its long legs dangling down on either side of his palm.
It croaked again, blinking at the sudden light. For such a small creature, it produced an astonishingly loud sound. Again came answering noises from some of the other boys. The Trainees started to giggle again. Shandara waved her hand for silence, keeping her gaze fixed on Edwold.
“I’m sorry,” he said, with false contrition. “I was out in the meadow before lunch with my friends. The frogs must have crawled into our pockets somehow.”
“Somehow,” Shandara said dryly. “Perhaps you and your co-conspirators can take them back to their preferred habitat. Now.”
With a broad grin, Edwold nodded. “If you say so, Bard Shandara.”
He jerked his head, and three other boys rose from the back of the ensemble. Their trousers were all muddy at the knees—no doubt from their frog-catching efforts.
“Ribbit,” one of the boy’s pockets said.
“Go.” Shandara waved at the door. “When you return, we’ll run the Ode again.”
“Of course, Bard Shandara.” Edwold gave her a jaunty wave and led his crew out of the room.
“Come back right away!” she called after their retreating backs. She had the sour suspicion they’d dawdle until rehearsal was over.
Drat. She shouldn’t have said they’d practice the Ode.
From the back of the room, Lyssa gave her an eloquent look, eyebrows raised. Clearly, the girl had sensed something. Shandara could hardly wait to find out what it might be.
But first, they had the remainder of a rehearsal to get through.
“Trainees, while we wait for Edwold, let’s run ‘The Sparrow Aloft.’” Shandara raised her hands.
With the worst miscreants gone, the ensemble quickly settled. Soon, the sweet strains of voices interwoven with gittern and flute filled the room. They were a talented bunch. When they focused.
As she’d suspected, Edwold and his friends timed their return to coincide with the end of rehearsal.
“I’m sorry,” he said, sounding completely unrepentant. “The frogs got away outside the Common Room, and we had to chase them down.”
“Hm.” Shandara stared at him a moment, then looked to Lyssa. Should she ask the boy to speak with her?
Lips compressed, Lyssa gave a slight nod. Clearly she’d sensed something. Edwold’s behavior was more than just boyish pranks. Whatever was amiss, it was high time they uncovered the problem.
“I expect dress rehearsal tomorrow to go smoothly,” Shandara said. “It’s our last scheduled practice. And I’m sure the rest of the Trainees would be unhappy to give up their free morning at the Fair because I had to call an emergency rehearsal the day of the performance. Do you understand?”
Edwold gulped, the smile falling from his face.
“Yes, Bard Shandara,” he said meekly, dropping his gaze—but not before Shandara glimpsed something that looked like panic in his eyes.
“Good. Please see me in my rooms in fifteen minutes.” She turned to the rest of the ensemble. “Don’t forget the work we put in today with dynamics, everyone. And tenors, please go over your parts, especially the exposed sections. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”
She turned back to Edwold, but he was already gone, slipping out with his friends ahead of the rest of the students.
The last of the Trainees filtered from the room. Lyssa tucked her book under her arm and came to stand beside Shandara. The petite blonde’s head barely came up to her shoulder, and Shandara blinked at the reminder of the girl’s youth. Lyssa carried a maturity beyond her years, due in large part to the burden of her family’s expectations, as well as her Gift.
“We should talk in your rooms before you meet with Edwold,” Lyssa said.
“Certainly.”
Shandara led the way through the halls of the Bardic Collegium and tried not to worry. Whatever was wrong with Edwold, they had a mere two days to set things to rights.
“You’re right,” Lyssa said, settling cross-legged in one of Shandara’s upholstered armchairs and propping her chin in her hands. “My Empathy was definitely prickling during rehearsal. Edwold is distressed at the thought of performing his solo. That’s why he’s been doing everything he can to avoid singing it.”
“Distressed? In what way?” Shandara paced before the window, unable to settle. “Can you tell, specifically, what the problem is? Stage fright?”
Lyssa shook her head. “I didn’t get a sense of fear. More like an immense sorrow . . . and guilt. I think he wants to perform—he’s proud of being chosen for a solo—but an even bigger part of him is swamped with sorrow at the thought.”
Shandara let out a deep breath. Failure to prepare the Trainee Ensemble for the Spring Fair performance would reflect badly on the entire Bardic Collegium—which meant she had to get to the bottom of Edwold’s troubles as soon as possible.
“Is there anything else you can tell me?” Perhaps the boy had lied somehow in order to gain the solo—but that didn’t make sense.
The students were hand-selected for the honor, and Shandara had heard Edwold sing before. He was talented, with a clear, sweet voice that hadn’t yet deepened—a good choice to sing the part.
Perhaps that was it. “Do you think his voice is changing, and he’s afraid to admit it?”
Lyssa firmed her lips in thought, then slowly shook her head. “I don’t think so. His reaction felt . . . older, somehow. Not recent.”
“Well, thank you.” Shandara gave her friend a weary smile. “You’ve helped give me a direction to go, anyway.”
“Of course.” Lyssa jumped up. “Good luck talking to him!”
“Stay for a cup of tea?” Shandara went over to set the kettle beside her small hearth.
“No—Edwold will be here soon, and it’s better if you talk with him privately, I think.”
“You’re right.” Much as Shandara would have liked Lyssa’s support, they didn’t need to outnumber the boy.
Shandara gave the girl a hug as she left, then went to fix herself a cup of tea. And one for Edwold, too. As she was pouring hot water over the minty leaves, a soft knock came at her door.
“Come in,” she called, setting down the kettle.
Edwold peeked around the oaken planks, anxiety clear in his expression. “You wanted to meet with me?”
“Yes.” She gestured for him to come in and take a seat. “Tea?”
“All right.” He took the cup she offered, then perched awkwardly on the edge of the same armchair Lyssa had inhabited. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I didn’t say you have,” Shandara said mildly. “Although the frogs were a bit much, I think. And I’d prefer the instruments to stay in tune.”
Edwold swallowed and glanced down at his tea, but he said nothing in his own defense.
“You’re a talented singer,” Shandara continued, trying to feel her way forward. “I think Bard Alvee made a good choice, picking you for a solo, and I look forward to hearing you actually sing it. Are you ready for the dress rehearsal?”
At that, Edwold looked up, and she saw that same flash of panic cross his face.
“I . . .” His voice choked, then fell to a whisper. “I want to sing the solo. But I can’t.”
“Why not?” She kept her voice soft. Her Empathy was humming sympathetically with the force of his distress.
He shook his head, his expression miserable. “I just can’t.”
“Please, tell me why.” She leaned forward, trying to project reassurance. It wasn’t the first time she’d helped a young Trainee face what seemed an insurmountable problem. “Maybe I can help.”
Edwold closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, they were filled with the shine of sorrow. With a ragged breath, he set his cup aside, then clasped his hands tightly in his lap.
“My . . .” He glanced at the floor, then back at her. “My family will be at the Spring Fair. They’re coming to Haven from our village on the coast. And I can’t sing in front of them. I thought I could, but . . .” He blinked furiously to keep the tears back.
Had Master Tangeli been aware that beneath Edwold’s cocky exterior, the boy was struggling? It would explain why the Master Bard had appointed her to take over the ensemble.
She studied Edwold, trying to get to the heart of the matter. “Why can’t you sing for them?”
“It . . . wouldn’t be right!” he blurted out, his voice catching. “My brother was supposed to be the Bard—not me. He was going to come to the Collegium, and be amazing, and make everyone proud. I stole his place. He should be here, and instead, I am—”
He broke off with a choked sob and scrubbed his forearm across his face. The misery rolling off him made her heart catch with mirrored sorrow.
“How old are you, Edwold?”
“Twelve.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, next month.”
“And what happened to your brother?”
He sniffed and looked away, out the window toward the view of the Companion’s Field. Shandara didn’t press him. She leaned back and took a sip of tea, letting the silence lie easy in the room.
Several minutes passed, and Edwold seemed lost in his unhappy thoughts.
“When I first came to the Collegium,” Shandara finally said, “everyone had such high expectations of me. Instead, I felt like I was moving backward. All my yearmates got their Scarlets, and I was still waiting for my Gift. For quite a while, I believed I was here by mistake.”
“But I am!” Edwold turned to face her. “It was supposed to be Kendry.”
“There’s no rule that says siblings can’t attend the Collegium together,” Shandara said gently. “I’ve heard you sing, and you’re very good. I’m certain you have the other talents necessary to become a Bard, as well. We don’t admit people who don’t belong here.”
“Kendry was better,” Edwold said. “And now, because of me, he’s—he’s dead.”
Shandara blinked. Not what she’d expected the boy to say. No wonder Edwold was filled with guilt and sorrow.
“What happened?” she asked gently.
“Two years ago, the spring before Kendry was going to come to the Collegium, we were playing by the sea—we live near Kelmskeep—and the cliffside fell.” He gulped, then continued. “We were down at the beach, and Ken noticed it first. I was closer to the cliff, and I wasn’t paying attention. He yelled at me to run, but I didn’t hear. So he . . . he ran in and pushed me out of the way of the rockfall. And it crushed him.”
Tears were rolling down the boy’s face, and Shandara couldn’t keep her own eyes dry.
“Oh, Edwold. May I give you a hug?” She opened her arms.
He nodded and scooted closer, letting her squeeze his shoulders. “Kendry was the best singer I’ve ever heard. My parents and sister are coming to the Spring Fair for the first time, and when they see me, when they hear me sing, they’ll remember that it’s supposed to be my brother. That he died because of me. They’ll hate me for it!”
The boy’s grief was tangible, and Shandara had to draw several breaths before she found her own balance. Surely everyone had told the boy it wasn’t his fault and that his family didn’t hate him, but emotions didn’t listen to reason.
“It’s tragic that Kendry died,” she said. “But it doesn’t mean you have to deny your own Gift. Do you really think he would have wanted that? Or that your family blames you?”
“It’s not fair.” Edwold looked up at her, guilt shadowing his eyes. “I shouldn’t be happy when he’s gone. And I don’t want my parents to think I don’t care about . . . what happened.”
“Is the anniversary of your brother’s death during the Spring Fair festivities?”
He nodded mutely, and Shandara felt another pang for the boy. The Vernal Equinox was supposed to be a time of joyful celebration of all the bonds of love. But maybe, despite the tragedy of his brother’s death, she could help Edwold see that act of heroism for what it was.
“Why did Kendry push you out of the way?” she asked.
“To save me.” He looked down at the floor.
“Yes—but why?”
“Because he was supposed to watch out for his little brother?” His hands were squeezed together so hard that his knuckles were white.
“Plenty of people are supposed to take care of others but don’t. Kendry made a choice to save you. I think he must have loved you very much.”
Edwold sniffed, then glanced up at her. “He shouldn’t have.”
“Shouldn’t have saved you or shouldn’t have loved you?” She tightened her arm around his shoulders. “He did both. Do you think he would have been able to sing after watching you get crushed by a falling cliff? To go off to Collegium carrying the knowledge that he’d failed his little brother, failed his family?”
“I . . .” Edwold pursed his mouth.
Shandara waited, letting him work through the ramifications of her question. Her heart hurt for him, for the whole family, but refusing to shine wasn’t the answer to the darkness of sorrow. It never was.
“We both should have lived,” the boy finally said.
“Of course you should have.” She gave him a sorrowful smile. “But that’s a perfect dream of something that didn’t happen. Kendry didn’t save you so that you could be sad all your life.”
Edwold drew in a shaky breath and then bobbed his head. “I guess . . . I understand.”
“Will you be able to perform the solo, or should we try and find someone else?”
“I think . . .” He bit his lip. The grief in his expression slowly faded, replaced by worry-tinged resolve. “I think I can do it. I’ll try.”
“No more tricks to avoid singing?” She raised her brows at him.
A faint smile tugged the corner of his mouth. “They were good ones, though.”
She shook her head. “Very creative, I’ll give you that. Now, go practice. I’ll see you at dress rehearsal.”
“Thank you.” He leaned in, gave her a squeeze around the middle, then rose and headed out the door.
Slowly, Shandara finished her tea. She wasn’t entirely sure she’d helped Edwold enough—the boy had been carrying a heavy burden, and that couldn’t be easy to set down, even taking into account the resiliency of youth.
They’d know soon whether he’d be able to put aside the guilt and sorrow, stand tall, and let his voice ring out. She hoped, for all their sakes, that he was strong enough.
“Is your ensemble ready?” Tarek asked as he and Shandara strode out of the Collegium gates toward the Spring Fair.
“Maybe.”
Shandara adjusted the carrying strap of her harp and squinted at the bright pennants hung around the perimeter of the Fair. The day was chilly, but the sunlight carried a welcome warmth—which would help keep the instruments in tune once the Trainee Ensemble took the stage. One less thing to worry about.
Delicious smells from the food vendors wafted through the air, and the sound of laughter rang over the babble of the crowd. Many of the attendees wore ribbon-bedecked love tokens in their hair or pinned to their clothing, and the mood was merry.
The gaiety only underscored Shandara’s anxiety. She hadn’t gone into detail with Tarek, but the dress rehearsal had been less than ideal.
A bad dress rehearsal means a good performance, she reminded herself, trying to believe the old adage was true.
It wasn’t just Edwold’s shaky solo that had her concerned, though that was the pinnacle of her worry. He’d had to stop halfway through ‘Ode to a Companion,’ his voice choked with tears, and his tension had infected the rest of the ensemble.
Tempos were all over the place, despite Shandara’s keeping time at the front of the group. The flutes squawked, the tenors missed their entrance, the altos were flat. The entire rehearsal had been altogether dreadful.
She’d ended it with a bright smile and words of encouragement she didn’t quite feel. Especially not at this moment, making her way to the large stage set in the center of the Fair. Her stomach knotted as she saw the members of the Trainee Ensemble milling about at one side.
“You brought your harp.” Tarek nodded to the instrument she carried.
“Yes.” Moved by an impulse she didn’t quite understand, Shandara had grabbed her lap harp on the way out the door. “We didn’t practice with it though, so . . .” She trailed off in a shrug.
“Don’t worry. I know the performance will go wonderfully.” Tarek gave her a smile so full of confidence, she didn’t have the heart to contradict him.
They reached the stage, and Shandara was surprised to see Lyssa waiting there among the other Trainees. Edwold stood beside her, a shadowed look in his eyes.
“Hello, Lyssa,” Shandara said. “Is everything well?”
“I think so.” The girl gave her a crooked smile. “I’ve been talking with Edwold.”
Shandara glanced at the boy.
“She said maybe she could help,” he said, shuffling his feet. “If you don’t mind, Bard Shandara.”
“Not at all.” Shandara’s tension eased down a notch. She wasn’t sure what Lyssa might be able to do, but just having the girl there was a relief.
“I told Edwold I’d sensed he was having trouble, during rehearsal,” Lyssa said. “With his permission, I’ll be standing by to lend my support during the performance. Maybe my Gift will be able to help.”
“I hope so,” Edwold said fervently. He jerked his chin to the front of the stage. “My family is right there, front and center and I . . .” His expression folded, and it was clear he was battling back tears.
“I’ll be right here,” Lyssa said. “You’ll do fine.”
On stage, Master Bard Tangeli was thanking the previous group of Bards, who had showcased a lively set of dance tunes from the Rethwellan border.
“I know many of you are especially looking forward to the next performance,” Master Tangeli said. “The Bardic Collegium is pleased to present the Trainee Ensemble!”
Amid cheers, the students mounted the low stairs and filed onto the stage. The instrumentalists, including Jaya, took the chairs in the center, while the vocalists ranged behind them. Edwold stood in the front row, his face pale.
Tarek squeezed Shandara’s shoulders. “Good luck,” he whispered.
She gave him a tight nod, then strode onto the stage. A quick glance into the crowd showed her a dark-haired couple standing up front, with two younger children who bore a marked resemblance to Edwold. They wore cautious smiles, and the littlest girl waved excitedly as she spotted her brother.
Turning to her Trainees, Shandara gave them a heartening smile.
“Let’s give them our best,” she said, her voice pitched for the ensemble’s ears alone. “I know you’ll make your families proud.”
Her gaze landed on Edwold, and he gave her a faint nod. Still, she saw the misgivings in his eyes.
Before the group could give in to their restless nerves, Shandara lifted her hands, nodded to Jaya for the opening notes, and launched them into “The Sparrows Aloft.”
Despite a shaky start, the ensemble rallied, and soon the joyful chorus filled the air. Bright trills from the flutes and a lovely run from Jaya’s gittern embroidered the melody, and Shandara felt her heart lighten.
The second piece, an instrumental with wordless choral accompaniment, went equally well. The audience applauded and shouted encouragement, and Shandara’s smile to the group widened.
But “Ode to a Companion” was next. As the instruments checked their tuning, Shandara watched Edwold with concern. The boy’s eyes were shadowed, his face tense.
Shandara pulled her harp from its case and went to sit by Jaya, ostensibly to tune up, but also to be near Edwold.
“You can do this,” she said to him.
He swallowed and couldn’t meet her eyes.
“Ready?” Shandara called to the group. “Follow me from here, please.”
The whispering Trainees quieted, the silence spreading in ripples out into the crowd until they sat in the center of a hushed expectancy.
Shandara nodded to Jaya, then joined her on the intro. As her fingers plucked the harp strings, she concentrated on breathing with the music, on infusing the notes with assurance and directing it at Edwold.
The singers entered on cue.
Edwold blinked rapidly, swaying.
“Unlock your knees,” Shandara whispered urgently to him. He couldn’t pass out now.
The chorus softened, holding their note. Edwold opened his mouth.
No sound emerged.
Sing! Shandara thought at him. You can, I know you can.
Still he stood there, paralyzed. Another second more and the piece would fall apart.
Unless . . .
Hoping the ensemble would follow her, Shandara began to play loudly, ringing the notes of the melody line to give Edwold more time.
There was a stuttering moment as some of the singers followed her, and some didn’t. Then the piece settled, and Shandara was suffused with gratitude. No matter how fractious and silly the Trainees could be, they were true musicians at their cores.
Indeed, as she wound the melody around and back to the solo’s starting point, the ensemble coalesced, sounding even better than at any point during their practice.
A bit of color returned to Edwold’s cheeks.
This time, when they hit his cue, he opened his mouth and sang.
Clear and high, the verse soared above the crowd, telling of the connection between Companion and Herald. The audience listened, riveted, and Shandara sat back in relief.
A relief that was short lived.
Edwold reached the second stanza and shot her a panicked look. Too late, she realized that this section was the danger point. The verse about how the bonds of love could transcend even death was next—and Edwold was breaking.
His voice cracked.
He dragged in a fresh breath and tried again, but his voice fell short of the high, soaring melody. In the front row, his parents looked on with stricken expressions.
A faint sense of misery began to permeate the air, and the crowd began to whisper.
Then, suddenly, Lyssa was there. She knelt on the stage before Edwold and grasped his hands.
“Sing,” she commanded.
Shandara nodded and played a ringing chord, pulling the fragmented ensemble back onto the beat. They could do this. They must.
Desperately, Edwold tried again. This time, a surge of warmth followed. He reached the first note. Then the second.
Shandara could not quite sense Lyssa’s outpouring of confidence and healing, the support that she lent Edwold, but it was there—visible in the straightening of his spine, in the increasing strength of his voice.
Once again, the ensemble rallied. Shandara led with her harp, her voice, keeping the chorus quiet enough that Edwold’s solo could soar.
They reached the final verse, and, with searing poignancy, Edwold sang—straight at his family.
Whatever else remains below,
We carry on, we carry on,
Remembering what is above.
We carry on with love.
The music swelled, the final chord holding, holding . . . until Shandara lifted her hand and swept it to the side. The ensemble cut off perfectly—not a single straggler or missed note.
A moment of awed silence followed.
Shandara looked at Edwold’s parents, their faces shining with tears. With approval. With love.
Then the audience broke into riotous cheers and applause. Lyssa slowly rose to stand, her face soft as she looked at Edwold.
“You did it,” Shandara said to him—to the whole Trainee Ensemble. “I’m so proud of you.”
She beckoned the boy to step forward and take his well-deserved bow. He did, his eyes bright, his smile wobbly about the edges.
“Thank you,” he said to her as he went back to his place.
Lyssa held her hand out to him, and he took it, the gesture all but lost as the other soloist took her bow, and the rest of the ensemble followed suit.
As they left the stage, they were already turning back into rowdy youths. Several of them stopped to congratulate Edwold, some by mussing his hair, others by offering to buy him sweets.
“Thanks, but I’m going with Lyssa to the pie vendor,” he said, a wash of pink across his cheeks. “After I see my family.”
Edwold’s sisters and parents rounded the corner of the stage, and there was no mistaking the gladness in their eyes. His mother went straight to him and enfolded him in her embrace.
“We are so very proud of you,” she said. “And I know Kendry would be, too.”
Edwold cleared his throat. “I sang it for you. For him.”
“We know.” His father’s voice held a somber note, but his expression was tempered with joy. “You honor his memory.”
He leaned over, drawing his whole family into his arms.
Shandara turned away, eyes pricking with tears, to find Tarek waiting for her.
“Nice work, Bard Shandara,” he said softly.
“Thank you.” She let out a breath. “For everything.”
“I bought you this.” He held out a white-ribboned token embellished with strands of silver. “It made me think of you—and the brightness you bring into the world.”
She did start crying then, as the emotions of the day overtook her. Tarek pulled her into a hug.
“I feel silly,” she said, the words muffled into his coat as she leaned into him.
“You can be as silly, or as strong, as you need to, Shan,” he said. “No matter what, I’ll be here for you.”
“I know.”
She snuffled a bit more, but the tears passed quickly. By the time she straightened and smiled at Tarek, she was filled with lightness.
“I’ll gladly wear your token,” she said. “As long as you’ll let me buy you one in return.”
He smiled down at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Nothing would please me better.”
“Ooh,” a girl’s voice broke in, “does this mean you’re handfasted?”
Shandara glanced at Lyssa, who stood just within earshot.
“Don’t you have a pie date?” Shandara asked archly. “I noticed you and Edwold holding hands.”
Lyssa grinned. “Exchanging pocket pies doesn’t mean anything. Not like love tokens.”
Tarek swatted at her, and she nimbly danced to the side, then went to join Edwold and his family.
Shandara watched her go, with a fond shake of her head.
“I could use a bite to eat,” she said, turning back to Tarek. “Let me just tuck my harp away.”
“Then we shall wander the Fair together.” He extended his arm. “My lady?”
She made him a curtsy, then threaded her arm through his. “Indeed, my lord. Indeed.”