Privately she thought it was a pretty silly song. Why on earth any man would put up with the things that lady did to him, and all for the sake of a “kiss on her cold, quiet hand” was beyond her. Still, she put all the acting ability she had into it, and was rewarded by a murmur of approval when she’d finished.
“That voice—I’ve seldom heard one so pure at that late an age!” she overheard as she packed up her instrument. “If he passes the third day—you don’t suppose he’d agree to become castrati, do you? I can think of half a dozen courts that would pay red gold to have him.”
She smothered a smile—imagine their surprise to discover that it would not be necessary to eunuch her to preserve her voice!
She lingered to listen to the last of the entrants, then waited outside for the posting of the results.
She nearly fainted to discover that she’d moved up to second place.
“I told you,” said a quiet voice in her ear. “But are you still sure you want to go through with this?”
She whirled, to find the minstrel Talaysen standing behind her, the sunset brightening his hair and the soft shadows on his face making him appear scarcely older than she.
“I’m sure,” she replied firmly. “One of the judges said today that he could think of half a dozen courts that would pay red gold to have my voice.”
“Bought and sold like so much mutton? Where’s the living in that? Caged behind high stone walls and never let out of the sight of m’lord’s guards, lest you take a notion to sell your services elsewhere? Is that the life you want to lead?”
“Trudging down roads in the pouring cold rain, frightened half to death that you’ll take sickness and ruin your voice—maybe for good? Singing with your stomach growling so loud it drowns out the song? Watching some idiot with half your talent being clad in silk and velvet and eating at the high table, while you try and please some brutes of guardsmen in the kitchen in hopes of a few scraps and a corner by the fire?” she countered. “No thank you. I’ll take my chances with the Guild. Besides, where else would I be able to learn? I’ve got no more silver to spend on instruments or teaching.”
“There are those who would teach you for the love of it—welladay, you’ve made up your mind. As you will, child,” he replied, but his eyes were sad as he turned away and vanished into the crowd again.
Once again she sat the hard bench for most of the day, while those of lesser ranking performed. This time it was a little easier to bear; it was obvious from a great many of these performances that few, if any, of the boys had the Gift to create. By the time it was Rune’s turn to perform, she judged that, counting herself and the first-place holder, there could only be five real contestants for the three open Bardic apprentice slots. The rest would be suitable only as Minstrels; singing someone else’s songs, unable to compose their own.
She took her place before the critical eyes of the judges, and began.
She realized with a surge of panic as she finished the first verse that they did not approve. While she improvised, she mentally reviewed the verse, trying to determine what it was that had set those slight frowns on the Judicial faces.
Then she realized; boasting. Guild Bards simply did not admit to being boastful. Nor did they demean themselves by reacting to the taunts of lesser beings. Oh, Holy Three—
Quickly she improvised a verse on the folly of youth; of how, had she been older and wiser, she’d never have gotten herself into such a predicament. She heaved an invisible sigh of relief as the frowns disappeared.
By the last chorus, they were actually nodding and smiling, and one of them was tapping a finger in time to the tune. She finished with a flourish worthy of a Master, and waited, breathlessly. And they applauded. Dropped their dignity and applauded.
The performance of the final contestant was an anticlimax.
None of them had left the tent since this last trial began. Instead of a list, the final results would be announced, and they waited in breathless anticipation to hear what they would be. Several of the boys had already approached Rune, offering smiling congratulations on her presumed first-place slot. A hush fell over them all as the chief of the judges took the platform, a list in his hand.
“First place, and first apprenticeship as Bard—Rune, son of Lista Jesaril of Karthar—”
“Pardon, my lord—” Rune called out clearly, bubbling over with happiness and unable to hold back the secret any longer. “—but it’s not son—it’s daughter.”
She had only a split second to take in the rage on their faces before the first staff descended on her head.
They flung her into the dust outside the tent, half-senseless, and her smashed instruments beside her. The passersby avoided even looking at her as she tried to get to her feet, and fell three times. Her right arm dangled uselessly; it hurt so badly that she was certain that it must be broken, but it hadn’t hurt half as badly when they’d cracked it as it had when they’d smashed her fiddle; that had broken her heart. All she wanted to do now was to get to the river and throw herself in. With any luck at all, she’d drown.
But she couldn’t even manage to stand.
“Gently, lass,” firm hands took her and supported her on both sides, “Lady be my witness, if ever I thought they’d have gone this far, I’d never have let you go through with this farce.”
She turned her head, trying to see through tears of pain, both of heart and body, with eyes that had sparks dancing before them. The man supporting her on her left she didn’t recognize, but the one on the right—
“T-Talaysen?” she faltered.
“I told you I’d help if you needed it, did I not? I think you have more than a little need at the moment—”
“Th-they broke my fiddle, Talaysen. And my lute. They broke them, and they broke my arm.”
“Oh, Rune, lass—” There were tears in his eyes, and yet he almost seemed to be laughing as well. “If ever I doubted you’d the makings of a Bard, you just dispelled those doubts. First the fiddle, then the lute—and only then do you think of your own hurts. Ah, come away lass, come where people can care for such a treasure as you—”
Stumbling through darkness, wrenched with pain, carefully supported and guided on either side, Rune was in no position to judge where or how far they went. After some unknown interval however, she found herself in a many-colored tent, lit with dozens of lanterns, partitioned off with curtains hung on wires that criss-crossed the entire dwelling. Just now most of these were pushed back, and a mixed crowd of men and women greeted their entrance with cries of welcome that turned to dismay at the sight of her condition.
She was pushed down into an improvised bed of soft wool blankets and huge, fat pillows, while a thin, dark girl dressed like a gypsy bathed her cuts and bruises with something that stung, then numbed them, and a gray-bearded man tsk’d over her arm, prodded it once or twice, then, without warning, pulled it into alignment. When he did that, the pain was so incredible that Rune nearly fainted.
By the time the multi-colored fire-flashing cleared from her eyes, he was binding her arm up tightly with thin strips of wood, while the girl was urging her to drink something that smelled of herbs and wine.