stories are true?" he said
incredulously. "You really have befriended a fairy?"
Fox folded his arms. "You don't know
Vishni. If you did, you'd understand."
"I understand perfectly," Nimbolk
said. "And I suspect that I know this fairy, even sight unseen, far
better than you do."
Chapter 10: Chaos
Vishni strolled past the Cat and Cauldron, her fingers casually brushing
the ivy that climbed the stone wall. Her fingers traced the hidden
indentation where some of the mortar had worked loose. If Fox had
sent a message, one of the street urchins who ran errands for them
would have pressed a small flat stone into the gap. A drop of clear
liquid, another of Avidan's small marvels, would reveal the message
written on it.
But there was no message.
A burst of laughter spilled through
the open window. Vishni sighed. She was supposed to go right back
to the Fox Den. It was too dangerous for her to be out, now that
they knew there was a sorcerer about.
On the other hand, if she went into
the Cat and Cauldron, she'd no longer be out .
This excellent reasoning brought a
smile to her face. She pushed through the door into the pleasant
chaos of Heartstone's most famous storyspinner tavern.
Several people called her name as
she entered, and someone caught her hand and pulled her into the
circle of dancers forming in the center of the room.
She spent a happy hour or so
whirling and skipping to the music of a wheel fiddle and hand drum.
Dancing was good. Like stories, it had pattern and purpose. It kept
chaos at bay.
By the time the fiddler finished his
set, Vishni was ready for a cup of mead and a story. To her
delight, Black Svaria took the stage.
Most people in Sevrin had fair
hair, ranging from pale blond to light brown. Red hair was
uncommon—or at least, it was uncommon until the City Fox's admirers
discovered herbal dyes—and truly dark tresses were exceedingly
rare. Black Svaria's short cropped, raven-wing hair was only one of
the reasons she stood out. She stood only slightly above average
height, but her warrior's frame made her appear tall and imposing.
And she was, beyond doubt, the best storyteller Vishni had ever
heard, even if the fairy didn't quite understand some of the bawdy
ballads that made the humans nudge each other and snicker. But
Black Svaria was also a traditional skald who could declaim ancient
tales in ringing, rhythmic speech. Oddly enough, Vishni liked those
best.
The skald settled down, a
wire-strung harp on her lap, and struck a chord.
"In the depths of a winter whiter
than death, the wolves came.
"Over the frozen sea they came,
running, running, too many to count.
"In the village the people ran who
still had strength to run.
"All but one: Hronolf stood to
sword-greet what the wolves fled."
Vishi sank into the tale with a sigh
of pure bliss. After Hronolf met his destiny, she clapped until her
hands tingled.
A stocky man dropped into the empty
chair. He put two cups of mead on the table. "Rindor Finn or
Shenmist?"
"You named the cups?"
He chuckled and tipped his head
toward the group of storyspinners sitting at a table near the bar.
"Guess you didn't hear the talk. They say Rhendish has the
northland's greatest bard as a guest. I've heard lots of names
tossed around, but those folk say it's got to be one of those two.
Rindor Finn or Shenmist."
Well now, this was interesting. Vishni had
improved enough tales in her time to know when someone was building
a new one from the ground up. When that happened, the real story
was not in the what, but the why.
"Rindor Finn," she said.
The man nodded. "That's what most
people say. It's odd, don't you think, that Rhendish isn't giving
out the man's name?"
"Not really. I don't suppose the
adept is obliged to provide the island with a guest
list."
"Ha! True enough. But word is he's
thinking of holding a storyspinning festival in the man's honor.
Maybe he's thinking the mystery of it will be more of a
draw."
"It might," said Vishni.
incredulously. "You really have befriended a fairy?"
Fox folded his arms. "You don't know
Vishni. If you did, you'd understand."
"I understand perfectly," Nimbolk
said. "And I suspect that I know this fairy, even sight unseen, far
better than you do."
Chapter 10: Chaos
Vishni strolled past the Cat and Cauldron, her fingers casually brushing
the ivy that climbed the stone wall. Her fingers traced the hidden
indentation where some of the mortar had worked loose. If Fox had
sent a message, one of the street urchins who ran errands for them
would have pressed a small flat stone into the gap. A drop of clear
liquid, another of Avidan's small marvels, would reveal the message
written on it.
But there was no message.
A burst of laughter spilled through
the open window. Vishni sighed. She was supposed to go right back
to the Fox Den. It was too dangerous for her to be out, now that
they knew there was a sorcerer about.
On the other hand, if she went into
the Cat and Cauldron, she'd no longer be out .
This excellent reasoning brought a
smile to her face. She pushed through the door into the pleasant
chaos of Heartstone's most famous storyspinner tavern.
Several people called her name as
she entered, and someone caught her hand and pulled her into the
circle of dancers forming in the center of the room.
She spent a happy hour or so
whirling and skipping to the music of a wheel fiddle and hand drum.
Dancing was good. Like stories, it had pattern and purpose. It kept
chaos at bay.
By the time the fiddler finished his
set, Vishni was ready for a cup of mead and a story. To her
delight, Black Svaria took the stage.
Most people in Sevrin had fair
hair, ranging from pale blond to light brown. Red hair was
uncommon—or at least, it was uncommon until the City Fox's admirers
discovered herbal dyes—and truly dark tresses were exceedingly
rare. Black Svaria's short cropped, raven-wing hair was only one of
the reasons she stood out. She stood only slightly above average
height, but her warrior's frame made her appear tall and imposing.
And she was, beyond doubt, the best storyteller Vishni had ever
heard, even if the fairy didn't quite understand some of the bawdy
ballads that made the humans nudge each other and snicker. But
Black Svaria was also a traditional skald who could declaim ancient
tales in ringing, rhythmic speech. Oddly enough, Vishni liked those
best.
The skald settled down, a
wire-strung harp on her lap, and struck a chord.
"In the depths of a winter whiter
than death, the wolves came.
"Over the frozen sea they came,
running, running, too many to count.
"In the village the people ran who
still had strength to run.
"All but one: Hronolf stood to
sword-greet what the wolves fled."
Vishi sank into the tale with a sigh
of pure bliss. After Hronolf met his destiny, she clapped until her
hands tingled.
A stocky man dropped into the empty
chair. He put two cups of mead on the table. "Rindor Finn or
Shenmist?"
"You named the cups?"
He chuckled and tipped his head
toward the group of storyspinners sitting at a table near the bar.
"Guess you didn't hear the talk. They say Rhendish has the
northland's greatest bard as a guest. I've heard lots of names
tossed around, but those folk say it's got to be one of those two.
Rindor Finn or Shenmist."
Well now, this was interesting. Vishni had
improved enough tales in her time to know when someone was building
a new one from the ground up. When that happened, the real story
was not in the what, but the why.
"Rindor Finn," she said.
The man nodded. "That's what most
people say. It's odd, don't you think, that Rhendish isn't giving
out the man's name?"
"Not really. I don't suppose the
adept is obliged to provide the island with a guest
list."
"Ha! True enough. But word is he's
thinking of holding a storyspinning festival in the man's honor.
Maybe he's thinking the mystery of it will be more of a
draw."
"It might," said Vishni.
Similar Books
