Bardess of Rhulon Read online

  “She’s not a stray,” Meg protested. “I know you need help around here. Your charming personality has chased away three barmaids in the last six months.”

  “I miss my daughter, Ellie,” Digby said roughly. “She knew how to help out around here.”

  “Of course you do,” Meg agreed. “But your daughter moved away last year with her new husband to their farm, so I know you could use someone to help out.”

  “I could use another helping hand,” Becky commented.

  “We do just fine,” Digby blustered.

  “Then you do all the cooking and cleaning and see how fine it is! All you do is keep watch in the bar and count coin, Digby.”

  “I do my fair share woman!”

  Becky harrumphed and insisted, “When it suits you. You scared off our last barmaid a week ago.”

  “She was not very mannerly to our customers. Bad for business.”

  “Rose is well brought up and educated,” Meg added. “She’ll work hard for you.”

  Digby grunted and glanced over to Rose on the bench and sniffed. “She looks a bit too delicate. My daughter Ellie was strong and could even lift the beer kegs without aid. This tiny girl couldn’t lift a pewter mug of my fine ale without toppling over. I can’t use her here! Besides, those Dwarf folk make me nervous. You can never see them proper unless you look down.”

  “Oh Digby,” Becky chastised. “You don’t like anyone. I know you miss our Ellie, but her place is with her husband now. Rose is a poor maiden all alone in a strange new country. She doesn’t have any folk here. We have to help her! You saw how pretty and sweet she is. She looks gently reared. It would be good for us to help her.”

  “No we don’t have to help anyone!” Digby crossed his arms stubbornly. “And she’s foreign. Too small to be of any proper use and I wager she can’t even speak our tongue!”

  Rose had had enough and purposely marched over to table; she picked up the great pewter mug of cider from Digby’s hand and held it aloft firmly to display her strength. “As you can see I am quite strong. I can lift heavier things too. Trays. Chairs. Pillows. The list is endless. I also speak and read five languages. To be frank, I’m a terrible cook, but I can help wait tables and clean up. More importantly, I’m a trained Bard, taught by Belenus Aylecross of Rhulon. He has sung for kings and I was his favorite pupil. I can sing, tell stories and encourage patronage for your fine establishment. Consider this, Master Digby. I am from Rhulon and a woman bard—a rare commodity. Long ago, they use to call our caste Bardess, but we faded from prominence due to a demand for pie making apparently. Surely that will bring the curious to your door. As my master Belenus once told me, the curious are often quite thirsty.”

  “Ah, see now Digby, she can sing too! That would class up our ale house and attract some fine folk,” Becky urged.

  “Fine folk make fussy demands,” Digby grumbled and took back his cider from her tiny hand. “And where’s your lute or harp? Don’t bards have fancy instruments to pluck upon?”

  Throughout everything Rose suffered since she began her journey—kidnappers, hunger, the stark loneliness of the road, she had remained stoic and brave. But the loss of her precious lute pierced her deeply. This reminder shattered her reserves.

  Rose burst into tears.

  Digby’s expression crumbled. Immediately contrite, he shoved his grimy kerchief at her, which Meg gently deflected. “No! NO! No weeping now! Please don’t cry! It’s bad for business! Meg, please make her stop!”

  “What can I do?” Meg shrugged, sipping her cider.

  “I’m so sorry,” Rose sniffled, “I had a lute! Truly, I did! It was a beautiful lute too. A gift from my Bard Master, Belenus! I hate crying! Weepy girls always annoyed me.” She wept uncontrollably now. Running away, missing her family (even her mother), Belenus, the lack of food, sleeping in trees, and the fright of being kidnapped by loathsome slavers gushed out like a raging flood.

  Flustered, Digby wiped his sweaty face. “Meg, please stop her from weeping. Folks be staring now. It’s bad for business!”

  Becky snapped him on the shoulder with a towel, scowling. “Men always say the wrong thing and then expect us women folk to fix it!”

  “Those wretched men stole my lute and tossed it into the woods when they kidnapped me. I have no idea how to even find it again. I’m so sorry. I’ve always prided myself on not being a useless fainting maiden. I’m tough. Really. I’m hearty. I’m hard as nails!”

  “There, there, my sweet,” Becky consoled her, hugging Rose tight to her massive bosom. “Of course you can stay with us. You can have Ellie’s old room. No need to cry anymore, dear. We’ll look after you.”

  Digby waved his hands, surrendering to the circle of determined women. “Alright, alright—you may stay. You’ll work here for board and room, plus tips, on a trial basis. No barding, missy. We don’t need no bard.”

  “But I can sing and tell stories,” Rose protested between sniffles.

  “Let’s see how you do at washing dishes and serving my ale first,” Digby insisted.

  “Meg’s one of our oldest friends and she wouldn’t bring us this girl unless she thought she was worth the trouble.” Becky finally released Rose and stood back, looking down at her, shaking her head. “Poor thing, you’re so thin. Are you hungry? I bet you and Meg ain’t had more than a measly crust of bread so far today, have you? Let me bring you girls something to nosh on.”

  “Oh, thank you,” Rose whispered, the thought of food calming her. “I’m starved.”

  “I could eat,” Meg smiled.

  When Becky and Digby went to fetch them some food, Rose wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “I’m so sorry, Meg. I don’t know what happened to me.”

  “Delayed shock,” Meg remarked calmly, pushing a mug of cider her way. “I think you needed to cry, Rose. Being brave can only take you so far.”

  “I still feel silly,” Rose sniffed, climbing onto the chair. It felt strange to do this, and made her feel like a four-year-old again. She would have to adjust to this too.

  “You’re not silly. Besides, I think your breakdown might have helped cement your place here. Digby is a good soul but he’s stubborn as an old badger and a coin pincher. He has a soft heart but pretends otherwise.”

  “Thanks, Meg. You’ve helped me so much. I just wish he would let me perform.”

  “You will. Just give it time. Drink some of this cider until the food comes. Becky is a good cook.”

  Indeed, Becky served them all a fine breakfast of fried potatoes, eggs, bacon, fluffy biscuits with blackberry jam and butter, and real fresh coffee that did not taste like swill!

  Rose hungrily ate the magnificent spread, hoping her manners were not too barbaric. She imagined what her mother would say.

  “Don’t gobble like a pig, Rose. Why did the gods curse me with such a strange child?”

  Why indeed, Mother, Rose thought, and then resisted another urge to break into tears. Her mother was far away. As was her father and Pea—no more regrets, she told herself firmly.

  The coffee was such a blessing and not at all bitter. Hot and dosed generously with cream, it flooded her with much needed warmth and soothed her. She loved coffee! Digby and Becky became busy with patrons and the two young women were left to themselves.

  “You need to write to them,” Meg mumbled between bites.

  “Who?” Rose replied, a little tense.

  “Your parents! Your Bard Master! Let them know you are alive and safe. It will make you feel better.”

  “I know,” Rose sighed and nodded. “I was hoping to have more victorious news when I wrote them other than my new career as barmaid. Also, well I—”

  “Go on,” Meg prodded.

  “I am not sure what to say. They must be furious with me. What do I tell them?”

  “Let’s start with basic truth. You’re alive and well, living in White Thorn. You need not tell them about your more tragic or interesting adventures, at least not yet. But no matter what, you need
to do this. They must be worried sick about you. A forced marriage is never a good bargain for any maiden, but you escaped that. Now it’s time to be kind and forget the past. Forgive them, Rose.”

  “I know, I will,” Rose agreed. “I promise.”

  “Good,” Meg nodded, digging into her potatoes with gusto.

  As they ate and her mind calmed, Rose noticed little things, like the dense smell of ale in the tavern, the peeling white paint on the walls, and that Meg never took off her gloves—even to eat. When they met in the cage, Meg was wearing gloves and Rose never saw her remove them. She wanted to ask about it and though she felt a kinship with her, hesitated to intrude.

  She touched the black armband Meg gave her. She noticed several of the patrons wore mourning bands for their lost prince. He must have been loved.

  “Maybe if I offer to sing for free, he will let me perform?” Rose said, smearing jam on her biscuit.

  “Now you’re beginning to understand old Digby,” Meg laughed.

  * * *

  Wrapped in a hooded purple cloak, Crimson, the changeling, scurried through the woods, enjoying the freedom of night. Moonlight was strong and guided her path to the ancient deserted graveyard outside the city. The old chapel on top of the hill was an ancient building long abandoned of worshippers. The roof caved in and the walls crumbled, entwined by ropes of vines, weeds, and heavy moss. Once it had been a temple to one of their light gods. These humans so love the light, even when they are wicked, she thought. Now, this forgotten place was her refuge of evil.

  Crimson enjoyed the irony of making this once sacred place where humans had prayed to Ursas and Ishar, a den of darkness. Humans were so odd. They go the trouble of building a fancy temple of stone and carve the gods of their imagination. Priests sanctify their temples and say mass within hallowed walls. Humans offer coin and flowers at the altar in sweet sacrifice. Then, when their sacred houses become inconvenient, they are forgotten. The stone statues of their gods abandoned to become victims of bird crap and squirrel nests.

  Crimson salivated at the thought of fat squirrels, for she hungered for raw meat. Perhaps later she would hunt. The old chantry was on a high hill and from here she looked down upon the city of White Thorn, she saw many lights, spoiling the darkness and so many humans! The temptation to wreak havoc on them was strong. She loved to torment human folk, but she had a mission of high import.

  Crimson had her own God to serve, and he was not made of stone. Her God was true. Her God lived—the new Goblin King! And he gave her an important task.

  Crimson stepped gingerly through piles of leaves and chunks of stone until she reached the undercroft door in the floor. She pried it up and climbed down into the murky pit with its welcome smells of mold and decay. The old crypt, once crowded with the rich tombs of the nobility, was now a shambles of dusty coffins and scattered bones, except for one thing that Crimson tended to.

  She lit the lamp and examined the large snowy cocoon on a stone crypt bed in the center of the hollow. The former occupant was a jumble of ancient broken bones on the floor. Crimson scrutinized the pale, feathery shell, smelling the enchantment burning around it. She removed her glove and touched the cocoon firmly with her grey, clawed hand. The heartbeat was still strong. Her red amulet shimmered with the magic again. The bonding surged throughout her body. Good. Her human mask was secure again. She looked down at her hands, which resumed the pale smooth skin so prized by people.

  Crimson then walked to the altar, a circle of obsidian glass on the floor framed by red ochre. A mirror of dark magic that shimmered when she gazed into its shadowy fathoms and touched the glass. She recited the incantation in hissing whispers, though no one would hear in this forsaken place deep in the ground. The mirror flamed and this always startled Crimson, who gasped with reverence as her God’s face became clear in the mirror’s fire. The proud brow and flaming scarlet skin, the obsidian eyes! She bowed her head to the ground in reverence, shivering with joy.

  “Speak Crimson of Mordok,” the deep voice demanded. “What have you to report of our enemy?”

  Shaking with joy and fear, Crimson rose and looked into the black eyes of Morziel. “They suffer, as you commanded. Prince Justin is dead. It was so easy. I sabotaged his saddle. May I come home now, Master?”

  “Not yet. Wreck more havoc. I want the human realms disrupted and in chaos before I rise to war on them.”

  Crimson gazed upon the image lovingly. “Your will be done.”

  The fire dimmed and the magic subsided. Soon the old crypt was as damp and cold as before. Crimson remained until dawn, caressing the obsidian glass in longing and worship, before she slunk back into the world again. Soon it would be sunrise, and Crimson must walk among the humans again.

  * * *

  Fallon Gansis, bored by Crimson’s worship, distracted himself with his other mirrors in the vast windowless chamber. Images of people and places flashed before Fallon as Crimson caressed each dark glass.

  One of his shadow mages entered the mirror chamber, a whisper of dark robes. The mage stared at the groveling changeling, shaking his head. “I am still confused as to how this changeling is useful? They are not very reliable.”

  “It is not use, but loyalty, that I am testing. She thinks I’m her goblin king. The goblins are stirring again and I smell their wickedness, even in this lonely desert tower. I love chaos, and Crimson is providing it in subtle ways. It’s a pity. She would be invaluable if she were not so stupid. If she knew what I truly was, Crimson would be terrified. What did you want?”

  The shadow mage bowed deeply. “Forgive me, Lord Gansis, but rich supplicants have come to pay homage and offer tribute to the Sorcerer of Hazda, in return for a few favors.”

  Fallon pulled his scarlet hood up, concealing his opalescent skin and white hair. He waved a hand and the obsidian mirrors fell silent and void as he strode out of the chamber.

  Chapter Eight

  Rose loathed waking at sunrise, unlike her mother who woke at first light with the energy of a demented hummingbird. Rose scoured the kitchen’s stone floor with pungent soap flakes and hot water. Kitchen duty was hard, but preferable to the vile task of washing the public privy closet. Surely, the forbidding Underworld of Hel was a befouled water closet, not fire and brimstone. The fetid odor was bad enough, but why can’t men aim? Was it the alcohol they consumed before staggering to the water closets to relieve their ale soaked bladders? Why couldn’t they flush? The metal chain was right there.

  Digby gave her his cleaning gloves when he handed her the bucket and a brush, she blanched. She was hesitant to touch them. “Don’t fret. I always boil them in soap flakes.” He told her. “I use them solely for cleaning the public water closets and nothing else. Wrap a scarf across your face to buffer the smell. I wouldn’t touch nothin’ either with your bare hands, if you know what’s good for you.”

  How comforting.

  Rose accepted these smelly trials, because the goddess Karta had not finished testing her. She had jumped into the real world to find her fortune and the Goddess of Fate was making her scour her way to worthiness. She just had no idea her journey would reek this much.

  Rose’s affinity for Karta began when she was only five, after she accidentally shattered her mother’s favorite teacup. She attempted to glue it back together, but it was hopeless. Rose prayed to Karta that day for her mother not to be angry with her. Rose tearfully confessed her crime and presented the sadly patched cup to her mother. Her mother told Rose it was all right and gave her a cupcake. Since that day Rose considered Karta her patron goddess.

  “Karta, I know you’re challenging me, but I would be grateful if you eased up just a little bit,” she mumbled softly. “My hands are red and cracked like the desert.”

  She wiped her sweaty brow and resumed her vigorous rhythm of circular scrubbing with the brush. Her scullery duties in the morning were lonely and to break the monotony, she had fallen into a pattern of singing to ease the dull repetition. After she scr
ubbed the last corner, she sat back on her feels and flexed her aching back. “Thank the gods that’s done, at least for today.”

  One thing had haunted Rose that she was almost afraid to pray to Karta about. She often thought about when she sang for Albin and Fendrel in the wilderness, and how they stopped and almost fell into a trance as she was singing. The moment was brief, but it stayed with her, like a curse she refused to acknowledge.

  She looked out the kitchen window and the sun brightened the sky. She hauled out the filthy bucket of water and dumped it in the gutter. She returned to her room upstairs and changed out of her filthy cleaning garb and washed off the grime. Goodness, but those flakes smell! She donned one of the dresses Becky had altered for her and went downstairs.

  She had finished brewing the coffee just as Becky walked into the large kitchen, yawning and her hair haphazardly pinned up.

  “Morning, Becky,” Rose said over her shoulder. “I made the coffee. I think I’m getting better at it.” She used the step box Digby made for her so she could reach things like the pot of bubbling coffee. She used the kitchen pads to lift the hot coffee pot and carefully poured the fresh brew into two cups. “How’s your hip this morning?” she asked with concern, noticing Becky’s stiff walk.

  “Better today, thanks love. It’s just my poor age creeping up on me.” She slowly sat down on the chair and then sighed with relief. She looked around the kitchen and smiled broadly. “Everything is so spotless. It looks wonderful, love. You’ve been such a help. Sit down for a spell and I’ll whip us up some breakfast.”

  “Thanks Becky. Let’s have our coffee first. Where’s Digby gone to?” Rose asked, smoothing her green skirt after she climbed onto the chair.

  “Oh, he’s already at the market. You know he’s so eager to get there early and haggle. Be prepared for loud complaints about the price of flour and sugar when he returns!”

  “Digby does that daily.” Rose sipped her coffee and added more cream. “It’s like a ritual, but I think he actually enjoys it. If prices dropped, I swear that man would be miserable.”