Page 18 of Valdemar

“Marin Joiner has taken Rothas as a student as well,” he reported. “And gave him an instrument, the lute he made from Tayledras home-tree heartwood.”

His father smiled. “Sadly, that last means nothing to me, but I assume it’s quite a good instrument. But now I’m very curious, Rothas Sunsinger. We’ve heard all about your music, but we’ve never heard the music itself. Would you feel equal to demonstrating your talent?”

Rothas looked taken a bit aback. “I . . . don’t know how to play this lute well enough to sing with it,” he said awkwardly.

“That’s all right. I can play.” This was Beltran, who nodded at his own gittern propped against the wall behind the head table. “I can’t sing, but I can play.”

“But I don’t know any of your music,” Rothas objected, though it was obvious that the invitation had awakened his eagerness for an audience, something he probably had not had since he’d met Lythe.

“I can follow you,” Beltran assured him. Restil knew this was absolutely true; Beltran had demonstrated that quite frequently during the ten years they had all been here. It might have seemed unreasonably frivolous to concentrate on something as trivial as entertainment while scrabbling to survive—but Kordas (brilliantly, in his son’s estimation) understood that entertainment was even more necessary precisely when you were scrabbling to survive. You needed it to remind you why you were trying so hard in the first place.

Rothas got up from his seat—pausing to drink down a full beaker of herb tea first—and Beltran got up as well. They put their heads together while Beltran removed his gittern from its case and tuned it, there was a little bit of humming and nodding, and then they both turned to face the hall.

Please don’t let it be a love song,Restil prayed. Not only would a love song just make Rothas sadder, it would also likely redouble the number of people who were fancying him.

There are going to be a lot of angry husbands and betrotheds in Rothas’s life, I suspect.

But Rothas, showing an amount of good sense that Restil would not have given him credit for, broke out into the kind of song that tavern-keepers loved—a good, long, funny story song, bawdy without being vulgar, with a repeating chorus of “You never shall have me treasure chest. A maiden I shall die.” As near as Restil could tell, it was about a hedge-wizard pursuing a shepherdess who was having none of his sauce.

What astonished him was that a song that must surely have been in Rothas’s native language was now being sung in Valdemaran, and the rhymes, while not flawless, were certainly good enough for a tavern song.

Maybe he translated it while he was with the Hawkbrothers to distract himself.

His voice was everything Restil had expected and more. He had never heard a better singer, with a range that started with a solid tenor but actually moved down into bass notes. Clear, in perfect tune, and as mellow as honey. Loud enough to be heard all over the hall without straining. Within one verse, he had everyone clapping; in two, singing along with the chorus. And when he got to the end, he had everyone standing on their feet, cheering.

He was generous about the applause, too, not bowing until Beltran had taken his share of the approval. It took Kordas himself standing up to get everyone to quiet down.

“I remind you all, of a courtesy, that Rothas Sunsinger has not yet eaten. And that after that, he has a pressing engagement at sunset. So first, he will eat, and then, if there is time and he and Beltran are willing, he will sing a couple more songs. And his engagement takes precedence.” Kordas sat back down, having established that Rothas was not going to be taken advantage of, and the other two went back to the table.

After that, Kordas waited for Rothas himself to choose to speak, or not. Restil wondered at that a little, but reasoned that his father was assuming that Silvermoon would not have held anything important back—

And possibly he’s assuming that someone like Rothas, from a tiny village, hasn’t really had what you’d call an interesting life aside from getting cursed and lifebonded. And he’s probably right.Rothas certainly did seem to be a little awkward and shy once his performance was over. But he spoke politely and cordially when he was spoken to, though the glow that he had gotten when performing quickly faded. At least all he looks is melancholy, rather than about to jump into the river at the least provocation.

But he was certainly eager to perform again, because he rushed through his food (fortunately Beltran had already finished everything but the fruit they were having for dessert) and was able to sing three more songs before the sun touched the horizon. All three were a success, and indicative of his ability to correctly read his audience and respond with what they wanted. The first was a song about a hunter who encounters a talking deer and spares its life—Restil had the shrewd notion this song had its origin with an encounter with a young dyheli stag. The second was a spring planting song, with a typical chorus farmers could use to keep in rhythm while planting. The third was a comedic song about a traveling peddler who was outwitted by a clever housewife.

Not the sort of thing the highborn were used to hearing, but they seemed to enjoy the songs well enough. And the servants certainly enjoyed hearing something that wasn’t about the highborn for a change.

At the end of the third song, Rothas held up his hand to stop the applause. “You really must save your accolades for Beltran, who just managed to play four pieces he’d never heard before. I must go, but make sure you show how much you appreciate him.”

Well!Restil thought with approval, as Rothas galloped out of the Great Hall, lute in one hand, case in the other, heading, without a doubt, for the rooms he shared with Lythe, wanting to be there when she awakened, to prevent missing the tiniest moment of their brief time together. The applause followed him out the door, then continued for Beltran’s sake.

He glanced at his father for direction, indicating with a tilt of his head the direction of Rothas’s flight. His father shook his head slightly.

So give them their privacy, then go at full dark.

“Well?” Kordas said to the entire table when the applause had died down, and people went back to finishing their meals.

“Initial impression? Positive, at least of the boy,” said Uncle Hakkon. “Really, none of this would be an issue for us or the Tayledras to deal with if that stupid lifebond wasn’t part of it.”

“He’s the best musician I’ve ever heard,” said Sai. “If we can sort him out . . . and his Bardic Gifts are as strong as Silvermoon says . . . Kordas, you’ll have a hell of a weapon in your hands. He’ll be able to quiet a mob, or rouse them to murder.”

“He’s going to be strong enough to overcome even someone with shields and resistance, who knows what they’re contending against,” Koto said flatly. “Eventually. The potential is definitely there. So yes, a weapon, and a powerful one.”

“I like him,” Restil said simply. “I don’t think that’s his Gift at work either. I think he’s genuinely an affable fellow. I don’t know about the girl,” he added. “I’ve barely seen anything of her.”

“That’s where I come in,” said Delia, from the end of the table. “I’d judge her to be indulged to her detriment, but not spoiled as such. She’d learned her lesson long before she and the boy met. Now he’s all she can think of, and she’s deathly afraid she’s going to lose him to one of us.”

Koto snorted, but Isla shrugged. “It’s a legitimate fear,” she pointed out. “Look at how everyone here reacted to his performance! At the very least, because he is a Bard, she is always going to have to share him with his music and his audience, and she can’t really compete with either.”