CHAPTER 26
Back in the room she’d taken to sharing with Andus Carek that evening, Idgen Marte removed her sword from her belt, pausing reverently to hold the scabbarded length for a moment in her hands, when a sight almost caused her to drop it.
Recovering, she set her weapon down carefully, almost apologetically, and stared warily at the case that leaned against the far wall. It was an ordinary lute case, in most ways like the one Andus Carek carried.
Only his was down in the taproom, open at his feet, as he played local folk tunes for the villagers. She’d admired the way he weaved from one into another, marveled at how quickly he picked them up from snatches that were hummed at him, or from someone who played a few scattered and breathy notes upon an old flute.
Now she stared hard at an instrument that shouldn’t be there.
“If you want to save the world, Shadow, you have to learn to love it again.” Mol’s voice startled her, but Idgen Marte retained her composure and turned slowly to face the doorway and the girl standing in it. She resisted the urge to cross her arms and kept her face even.
“What d’you mean,” she rasped, trying too hard to keep her voice as even as her features.
“You know what it means,” Mol said. “It is a truth that Allystaire has grasped and you have not.”
“What of Torvul and Gideon, then? Are ya’ preaching to them on things best left alone?” Idgen Marte almost winced at the way the words came out, but the girl only shook her head.
“Torvul has never ceased loving. If anything, his weakness might be that he loves too much, and can be too devastated by loss. Gideon did not know, until we found him, that he could or should love anything. But he is learning. And you could help him.”
“I’d do anythin’ t’help that boy,” Idgen Marte said. “But it’s Allystaire who’s got the knack of teachin’ him.”
“And is it riding, running, fighting, and the trades of war and leadership that you believe Gideon truly wishes to learn?”
“I think those are the things he needs t’learn,” Idgen Marte said. “I’d add in skulking, general skullduggery, decent swordplay—all Allystaire can teach him there is how t’butcher a pig in armor—and mayhap a bit o’cardplay.”
“Isn’t there something else? Something you know the boy wishes to learn?” Mol looked meaningfully at the lute case.
“He could ask me his own self if there was somethin’ he wanted me t’teach him,” she muttered.
“Except you know he will not,” Mol said. “For he does not know that you could teach him, and because he is too timid to ask, too conditioned never to display desire or curiosity or weakness.”
“Music’s not a weakness,” Idgen Marte protested.
“Tell that to yourself, Shadow,” Mol said solemnly. “I know what was taken from you, Idgen Marte. I know the pain it causes you to be so near it with Andus Carek here. And yet you cannot help but listen, cannot help but draw near.”
“You can’t know,” Idgen Marte said suddenly, sharply, her voice low and harsh. “It was all I’d ever wanted, and—”
“All I’d ever wanted was to be an Innkeeper’s daughter, and be an Innkeeper in turn. To learn the brewer’s craft and the subtler arts of giving the folk someone t’turn to, and offering travelers a safe place. I’ll never do any of that, and my father was taken from me,” Mol said. “Do I love him less? Do I love this place and its people any less, for all that I can no longer be the girl I was, or the woman I intended to be?”
“I had worked at it since I was a child.”
“How long do you think Torvul worked at his craft in order to serve the people who banished him? How many years did Allystaire turn men into knights under the approving eyes of the man he adored like a grandfather? The plans all of us made, Shadow, were taken from us. Much was given to us in return, true. But there are things that can be reclaimed out of our old lives, and for the better.”
“I can’t sing, Mol,” Idgen Marte said, almost too quietly to be heard. “I can’t. I won’t tarnish the memory of the voice I had by trying now.”
“Could Allystaire—”
“Don’t you think I’d thought o’that? I asked, Mol. I asked Her, when we held our vigil. She told me that some things became a part of us too deeply for Her gifts to change.”
“Plenty sing who shouldn’t,” Mol quipped. “And you don’t need your throat t’play the lute.”
“I was never as good a lutist as I was a singer,” Idgen Marte protested. “Not sure it’d feel right t’do one without the other.”
“I cannot make you do it,” Mol said, with a shrug. “I contracted with the peddler to purchase the thing; do with it what you will.” She turned to go, then paused and turned back, a solemn little figure in her sky blue robe.
“There’s going to be dark times coming, Idgen Marte,” the girl added. “Hard times. You haven’t needed to be urged to take what joy you can find; you’ve been willing to do that on your own, and I admire you for it. But the injury that was done to you so long ago can only be made fresh, can only continue to hurt you, so long as you let it. Put your hands to strings again, and you may find it a healing grace. Goodnight, Shadow.” With that, the girl glided out of the door.
Idgen Marte sat heavily down on the bed and stared at the cased lute.
* * *
“Not a word of a lie,” Allystaire was insisting. “My first tourney at Wind’s Jaw after being knighted, the pairings drawn by my father, and of course he set me against himself. Broke seven lances with that stubborn bastard, and him aiming for my head or my neck at every pass.”
Harrys and Norbert sat at a table with Allystaire, Gideon, and Torvul, the lot of them drinking brandy from small cups. The taproom, filled with the sounds of Andus Carek’s gentle strumming, was suffused with the warmth of bodies and fire, and Allystaire could read weariness at the day’s work in the lot of them. Gideon, most of all, for the boy kept starting to nod off and fall forward, then jerking awake and pulling himself suddenly straight.
“Buncha stupid Freezin’ nonsense,” Harrys muttered, “ruinin’ perfectly good lances by puttin’ blunt tourney heads on ‘em in the first place, then breaking them. Not to mention the men and horses that die.”
“It has its problems, yes,” Allystaire admitted. “But at its most pure, it is the best sport known to man.”
“Known to nobleman,” Harrys grumped. “I’m a better rider and often a better lancer than most, and have I ever been in a tourney?”
“Can’t have ya shaming all the knights in front of the lasses they hope to woo,” Torvul put in. “Not that our Allystaire here likely ever pitched any woo at a tourney lady.”
Allystaire bit back his response by sipping at his brandy, and he spied Mol coming his way. The conversation drifted away from him as she gestured, and he stood to meet her and follow her to the door and then outside.
The night was black as coal, the stars and a sliver of moon were bright, and the air was sharp with cold, if not the bone-lashing cold of winter.
“What is it, lass,” Allystaire asked, watching his breath cloud.
“Three days,” Mol said. “In three days, make sure your morning exercises take you out along the west road. Far along it.”
“How far?”
“You’ll know.”
“Can you tell me anything more?”
Mol turned to face him, and the night offered just enough brightness to read the sadness in her features. “I would if I could, Arm. Only that we will face a storm, and I can only see its edges.”
“Rede saw something as well,” Allystaire said. “He spoke—according to Andus Carek, anyway—of Braech’s Dragon Scale berzekers. I thought I had seen them, ordinary men, if strong, but I am told it is not so.”
Mol shook her head. “It isn’t. I know little of them, and I want to know nothing more.”
“Whatever we must, Mol. That is always the answer.”
“I thought we did what we could before we did what we must,” she teased.
“That, too,” Allystaire said, smiling.
She turned to him, and took one of his hands in both of hers. “You will bear any burden,” she murmured. “These are the words you have said, about you and your knights. Is it true?”
“Do you even need to ask?”
“No,” Mol admitted, as she pulled his arm around her thin back and stepped against him. “It has been that way since you rode into the village and saved me. But those who will follow you…”
“I will not take them if I think they would quail,” Allystaire replied.
“Yet they are merely men, and not you.”
“I was merely a man when I found you, Mol.”
“That it was the Mother, and not Braech, or something worse, that saw greatness in you, is a small miracle.”
“There was no greatness in me, then. Only anger and pride.”
Mol pulled away from him and let go his hand. “Be proud and wrathful in full measure when you must be. The time will come. Three days. The western road.”
“Aye, Mol,” Allystaire replied. “I will remember.”
* * *
When Allystaire followed Mol outside, Gideon slipped away and dragged himself wearily up the stairs. Though he tried to keep his back straight and his shoulders from slumping it had been a long, wearying day. He could think of nothing but his bed, and hoped against hope that somehow, perhaps Allystaire would forget to wake him in the morning to run and ride and train.
He pushed open the door to the room he occupied, finally allowing himself to truly slump, to lower his head on to his chest. Then he snapped back up, eyes focusing on a far corner.
“You cannot hide from me in shadow, Idgen Marte,” he said. “I learned the Seeing Dark, remember?”
She muttered a curse and stepped away from the corner, holding something behind her with one hand, trying to block it from Gideon’s sight. “Should you still be using sorcerer’s tricks? Seein’ only in the light like a proper person?”
“I think it is not a sorcerer’s trick exactly,” Gideon said, “so much as an ability anyone with power could learn. It is simply about drawing what light is available to the receptors in one’s eyes.”
“So it’s something Allystaire and Torvul could learn?”
“I’d be shocked if seeing in the dark isn’t something Torvul could find a way to do anyway, but yes. Should I try to teach—”
“Cold, no!” Idgen Marte stepped closer, her scar-twisted grin tugging at the side of her mouth. “Too much fun making ‘em jump by sneaking up.”
“I’d be afraid that Allystaire would react to that with violence.” Gideon concentrated a moment, and the two lamps set on either wall flared to life, filling the darkened room with weak pools of light.
“Pfft.” She waved a hand dismissively. “He’s not fast enough t’hit me. And if he got lucky, he’d just heal me.”
Gideon tilted his head to one side. “You are remarkably cavalier about our Gifts.”
She lifted one eyebrow. “Am I, now? Says the boy who just used them to light his lamps.”
“I don’t mean it as a criticism. It is refreshing after all of Torvul’s self-conscious and self-satisfied myth-making, and Allystaire being so holy and severe. You are more willing to enjoy yourself.”
“Aye,” Idgen Marte said, sinking onto the narrow, creaking bed. “For all that he’s changed since he was Called, Allystaire remains the man he was raised to be. Severe is who he is, but it makes him the man we need. Try t’forgive him for it.”
“I know,” Gideon said, “and I don’t need to. If you think he is severe, it is because you didn’t know Bhimanzir.”
“Only as well as I want to,” Idgen Marte admitted. “It’s about enjoyin’ yourself that I’ve come. Are you?”
Gideon went and sat on one of the room’s only other pieces of furniture, a small chair that sat by the washstand. “I enjoy learning new things and being set puzzles, and discovering the limits of my Gifts. I did quite a wondrous thing today. I am still thinking on what exactly it all means, but it seems—”
“I don’t mean the work, boy. I mean in your own time, are you enjoying yourself? Are you findin’ any pleasure in the world?”
Gideon blinked once, slowly, and sat with his hands resting on his knees. “I’m not sure what you mean. I don’t have much time to myself, between Allystaire and Torvul.”
“Well,” Idgen Marte said, “that’s the first problem. Learn t’tell them no. Take time for yourself. And I do mean take it, Gideon, because they’ll never give it willingly.”
“I’m not sure what I would do with such time. Read. Perhaps sleep more.”
“Remind me t’make sure you start drinkin’ more,” Idgen Marte muttered. It didn’t seem a serious comment, so he let it pass and she continued. “Listen, is there anything you want to learn that I could teach you?”
Gideon blinked again, silent for a long moment. “Such as?”
“Well, how to talk t’the lasses, for one.”
“They’re afraid of me,” Gideon said. “And rightfully so. I’m not sure what you could teach me that would change that. Nor do I think I wish it to change.”
“You’d be surprised.” Idgen Marte let that hang a moment, then went on. “What about cards or dice?”
“I can grasp the maths involved in any such game rather quickly. Unless I needed to relieve the other players of their links I’d have no reason to play.”
Idgen Marte sighed, and finally dragged forward the item she’d been hiding behind her legs, and Gideon felt a growing excitement as she laid it on the bed. Almost reverently, she undid the clasps holding the case closed and pulled the top back to reveal a lute.
It wasn’t of the same quality as that played by Andus Carek. Even Gideon could see that at a glance. And it wasn’t new, either, as the wood had a dullness that spoke of long handling. The pegs that held the strings in place were of different ages, different woods, and different colors, and there were no fancy inlays or metalwork.
“I’ve seen the way you act around music, Gideon,” Idgen Marte murmured. When she spoke so quietly, the rasping hitch in her voice was more pronounced. Often it seemed as though her voice was merely husky and deep. When she whispered, he realized, she couldn’t hide the fact that it was broken. “I’ve seen the way you stare at Andus Carek’s hands on the strings, like you’re amazed anyone could draw such wonders out of wood and gut and air.”
“He’s astounding.” The boy paused. “He is, isn’t he? Good, I mean? I’ve occasionally heard performers before, but none like him.”
“There are better,” Idgen Marte said carefully. “But they are damned few, and I doubt any of them are in the Baronies. He’s a master in the making.”
Gideon let out a long, soft breath. “How could anyone be better? It’s almost a kind of magic, of power. But I know it isn’t. I would feel if it were.”
“It is power, and it is magic, just not the kind you understand.” Idgen Marte’s hands hovered over the lute, then finally, after she took a deep breath, reached into the case and tugged it carefully free. “But I can teach you t’understand, if you’re willing.”
“But you don’t play. Wouldn’t Andus be a better teacher?”
“His name is Andus Carek, and he’d be insulted if you shortened it,” Idgen Marte reminded him. “And my guess is he’d not teach you. Further, you couldn’t afford his tutelage. If he did consent to do it, you and he both would have to head many hundreds of miles to the south, and enroll as master and student at the Towers, and that would be your life from then on. It’s unlikely you’d be accepted there because you’re far older than any of the other students would be at the start, and so you might make the trip for nothing. And after all that, I’d prefer to keep you around.” She took a breath. “Both of you.”
“That still doesn’t answer how you could teach me. I’ve never seen you play.”
With another deep sigh, Idgen Marte swung the instrument into her lap. She clenched her hands for a moment, and Gideon watched curiously as she lowered her head and bit her lip. Then, finally, her fingers unfolded and one hand reached for the tuning peg, while the other plucked lightly at the strings.
The first sounds that she coaxed from the lute were raw and jangly, but quickly she tamed the strings into something approximating tune, and strummed once or twice at the strings. Then she plucked forth a couple of chords, then individual notes, then, while Gideon sat entranced, a few snatches of a song.
It was something he’d heard Andus Carek play several times since the bard had arrived in Thornhurst. Idgen Marte didn’t play it quite as evenly; here and there a note sounded discordantly, or a run up or down the strings caused her to halt a moment.
She stopped suddenly. “That’s the first thing I’ve played in about as long as you’ve been alive. It was too slow, not quite in tune, and my fretwork and fingering both were despicable. The instrument needs a lot of work and if my old master had heard it, he’d garotte me with the chanterelle, if it didn’t snap when he tried.” She picked warily at the single highest string, wincing at the resulting note. “But did it prove that I could teach you?”
“Yes,” Gideon said quickly, leaning forward, eyes wide. “Would you?”
Idgen Marte nodded. “I would. But there’ll be conditions.”
“Anything.”
“It won’t be fun at the start. It’ll be learning fingerings for single notes, and care of the instrument. Then the odd scale. It’ll be a long time, weeks, before you’re even playing simple tunes.”
“But one day, I’ll be able to play that song.”
“With practice? Yes.”
“What’s it called, anyway?”
Idgen Marte set the lute back down in its case, and took her hands away from it reluctantly, fingertips stroking the wood for just a moment. “The Streets of Cansebour.”