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One of the street-players plucked an instrument much like a fiddle, but it was shorter than those I was familiar with. He used a small bow and glided it over the strings. He caught my eye as he played, smiled, and when his playing finished, he made his way through the crowd.
“You play?” he asked.
I searched for the ulterior motive in his gaze, some reason why he’d isolate me from the crowd, but found only kindness. “A similar instrument, yes. You’re very skilled.”
He offered me the fiddle. “Try?”
I’d been waiting for an excuse to get involved. I took the instrument and tested its weight, getting familiar with its feel. When he handed me the bow, he made no mention of my three fingers or how they might impede me. I plucked a few strings, then scattered a quick tune into the air, attuning myself to its flighty notes. Being lighter than the instruments I’d learned on, this little fiddle leant itself well to movement.
“It is, indeed, a beautiful thing.”
I attempted to hand it back, but the kind stranger shook his head and smiled some more. “Play.” He stepped back and bowed.
“If you’re sure.” He didn’t have to ask twice. I hadn’t played since Arin’s court, and the moment I stroked the bow across the strings, my heart sang for the loss of my love of music. I coaxed a slow, sultry tune from the instrument. It drifted in waves and seduced its way into the hearts of those nearby. It seemed fitting in this hot, crowded, loud, and colorful place. And while I became aware of crowd’s attention turning my way, I didn’t play for them. I played for me, and the more I played, the more the music enveloped me, and the more my heart soared.
This might be my last chance to express the truth of me. And Arin was right. I’d never wanted to be the bad player in the game of courts. Neither had he.
I caught sight of the smiles, the glittering joy-filled eyes, and then the dancers, and soon I was among them, lost to the music, to its control and its freedom. Arin was there, his face in the crowd, blue eyes bright and grin brilliant. Draven was there too. The stoic warlord smiled a little. We had our differences, but he was a good man, a good friend in a world where friends were few, and good men rare.
Another face caught my eye—one not smiling—but as I spun, coming back around to find the hooded male, he’d vanished, swallowed by the dancing crowd.
The tune came to its natural end. I raised the fiddle and bow, breathless, quivering, but so alive, and the applause roared like a breaching wave. Handing the fiddle back to its owner, I thanked him.
He grasped my arm. “The passion lives within you. Never lose it… Makes you strong.”
I thanked him again, and while trying to riddle out his prophetic words, I ambled back to Arin’s side.
He threw an arm around my shoulders. “You are beautiful when you play.”
“Am I not beautiful at all other times?”
He laughed and when the pair of us stumbled toward Draven, the warlord rolled his eyes, keeping his grin. “And on that note, it’s time we eat.”
Dinner, I’d forgotten. I had no coin. I’d only had a few moments to make my excuses, when Arin slipped clinking coins into my trouser pocket. Where he’d gotten it, I had no idea. It meant I wouldn’t have to ruin our evening, and his glittering blue eyes told me he knew it.
We found a nearby outdoor eatery, where the music still played and a crowd bustled at the bar area, bringing with it a celebratory atmosphere even our grumpy warlord could not resist. It was a fitting end to our interesting expedition across the desert.
We raised our glasses, toasting to new horizons and new beginnings, and with the moon high overhead, the moment of Draven’s leaving arrived too soon. He lost his smile and cast his gaze toward the exit.
We’d had our differences, he and I, but we also couldn’t have made it this far without him.
I stood, chinked my cup with his, and gripped his shoulder, peering into the man’s warm, kohl-defined eyes. He was a handsome bastard, I’d give him that. “I wish you luck, my friend, and fewer sandworms on your return journey.”
“And you. Don’t let Pain take your spark, Lark.”
I grinned. “We’ll make a poet out of you one day, Warlord.”
He gripped my arm, we said our silent goodbyes, and I left Arin and Draven to their farewells, giving them space to speak alone.
Draven had saved Arin; he’d been there for him when my actions had almost ruined all of us. He deserved a proper goodbye.
Mingling with the crowd at the bar, I sipped my cool wine and caught sight of the hooded man—the same unsmiling man who had been among the crowd when I’d played earlier. He seemed familiar. I studied his face in profile, assessing why he’d caught my eye a second time. He looked up, and his glare locked with mine a few beats too long to be casual.
He knew me.
Which meant he likely knew Arin.
Arin and Draven remained at the table, heads bowed close, unaware we were being observed. I turned my attention back to the unsmiling man. He’d left the bar and was several strides away, heading toward the open street and its stream of people.
