As evening shadows crept over the river, other, even more elusive musicians began to sing. Mournful and mocking, the cry of wolves came from mountain caverns and forest glades. In Kartakass wolves were as plentiful as seabirds, and nearly as bold. The people lived in dread of night attacks. Even aboard ship, in the center of a broad river, no one felt truly safe. Each night torches were lit before the sun disappeared, and the crew set watch for any creature that might swim for the boat. Larson had never seen this happen, but many a night he had seen the eyes reflecting back torchlight from the not-too-distant shore. Sometimes they were so numerous that it seemed a cloud of watchful red fireflies stalked them along the river.
The sky had faded to silver when Larson's boat docked at Skald. Dock hands sang as they secured the boat. The urgent rhythm of their work song sped their movements in a race against the approaching darkness.
Larson joined the stream of latecomers hurrying for the city gates. Once inside Skald, he made his way down the cobblestone streets, taking in his new surroundings with the trained eye of a storyteller. He saw little to suggest the presence of a festival. Skald looked much like any other large village: rows of sturdy wooden structures topped by thatched roofs and decorated only with bright blue or green shutters. The buildings huddled together, silent and wary. Each narrow window was shuttered and barred from inside, so tightly that not a bit of light escaped.
Then he turned a corner, and the Fireside Feeshka Inn shone like a beacon in the center of a large, stone-paved courtyard. The inn was a vast and sprawling complex, crafted of thick stone and crowned with deep red tiles. Light streamed from its narrow, tiny-paned windows, and the sound of music and laughter beckoned Larson.
Inside the inn, chaotic merriment ruled. A dozen or so musicians played a reel. Everywhere small circles of dancers kept time with the rollicking tune. Even the doves perched on the steeply pitched rafters broke into occasional swirling flight. Barmaids with wheat-colored braids carried trays laden with mugs and steaming trenchers of beet soup. The air was fragrant with the mixed tang of borscht, sourdough bread, and meekulbrau, a bitter local brew distilled from berries. Small tables were scattered here and there so that patrons could enjoy the simple fare in comfort. On one of these tables, a woman danced in an uninhibited testimony to the meekulbrau's potency. Larson smiled and began to ease his way through the crowd toward the bar.
There was but a single discordant note to mar the revelry. Near the bar, a solitary man slumped over a table, staring at his hands. Larson noticed a glint of silver between the man's fingers. As he took a stool at the bar, Larson studied the lone figure with a mixture of sympathy and curiosity. His face was sharp-featured and strikingly handsome, but lacking animation, with skin nearly as pale as the thick, graying blond hair that spilled carelessly over his shoulders. He did not move; he barely breathed.
The barkeep tapped the meekulbrau Larson ordered and slid the mug toward the bard with a flourish. Larson thanked him and nodded toward the solitary man.
"Who is that? "
"Him? That's old Quintish."
This news turned Larson's first sip of meekulbrau into a sputtering cough. "Not the bard Quintish!" he said, as soon as he could speak.
"See you anyone here who isn't a bard?" the barkeep retorted. "Even I've been known to tell a tale or two. "He raised a single eyebrow, inviting further inquiry.
"I hope you'll share your stories with us," the young man murmured absently. He left his mug on the bar along with a few coins, and hurried over to the bard's table.
Larson made his introductions with a deep bow. "I have been searching for someone like you for years, Master Quintish. "He nodded to the empty chair. "May I?"
He waited politely for a response. When none seemed forthcoming, he took the empty seat and carefully placed his viol on the table. Quintish's eyes settled on the instrument, and he gently stroked the polished wood with fingers that were tapered and supple. "What do you want from me?" he asked without looking up.
The voice was a thin, dry whisper, and Larson struggled to hide his dismay. This was the master he had long sought?" Will we have the honor of hearing you sing later this evening?" he asked tentatively, hoping he had been misinformed.
Quintish turned his gaze to the tavern window, as if an answer could be found there. The sky had darkened to black velvet, and the moon had yet to rise. "No, you won't hear me," he said emphatically.
The man's voice was stronger this time, and in it Larson heard the resonant bass timbre for which the bard Quintish was famed. The young man leaned forward eagerly. "If you no longer perform, Master, surely you still teach?"
Regret — the first emotion that Quintish had shown — flickered in his eyes. "No, no more students. "As if eager to end the discussion, he resumed his study of the silver object.
Larson glanced at it, wondering if therein lay the key to the bard's strange behavior. He held out a hand. "I'm very fond of silver jewelry. May I see it?"
Quintish's hand clenched possessively, and for the first time he met Larson's eyes. He recoiled, as if shocked by the unfamiliar act of making contact. Larson smiled encouragement, and after a moment the older bard relaxed. His eyes seemed to take on more focus, and he handed his treasure to Larson.
It was a small locket. Larson opened it to find a skillfully rendered miniature of a woman. The painting was faded by the passage of years, but Larson could see that she was a Vistana, a beauty with rippling dark hair and enormous black eyes.
"My Natalia," the bard said simply. "She died one night bearing my son. The babe followed his mother ere morning broke."
"I'm sorry," Larson said awkwardly. There seemed nothing to add. He closed the locket and handed it back.
Quintish nodded acknowledgment, and a strange light dawned in his eyes. "I'm going to her soon," he said with certainty.
"But you said — "Larson broke off, for the bard was no longer listening. As he studied the older man, he noted that Quintish apparently paid little heed to much of anything but his ancient sorrow. Not only was the master bard distracted and unkept, he was painfully thin.
Larson caught a passing barmaid's elbow. He ordered borscht and bread for Quintish, and asked for an empty goblet. When the meal came, Larson produced a small flash from his travel bag.
"This is a specialty from my homeland," he said cheerfully. "In the monastery where I trained, the priests kept bees and brewed a fine mead — dry and full and scented with raspberries. "Larson carefully poured a measure of the brew and, cupping Quintish's hands around the goblet with his own, he helped him take a sip.
The strong drink seemed to rally Quintish, for he emptied the goblet and avidly devoured the soup. When the meal was finished, however, the older bard turned his attention back to the locket. Larson made a few attempts at conversation. Finally, regretfully, he crept away and left Quintish to his sorrowful meditation.
"That was kindly done," observed a silver-toned voice at his elbow.
Larson spun and looked into a woman's upturned face. Like most natives of Kartakass, she had fair hair and delicate features. Her pale face was dominated by dark blue eyes, as vivid as violets blooming in snow. She nodded toward the grieving bard.
"It is a sad thing. At last winter's solstice, Master Quintish was brilliant. Now he has forgotten all he knew of music and lore. What is left for such a man?" she said with deep compassion.
"Has he seen no physician, no priest?"
The girl gave a short burst of humorless laughter. "There are few of either in Kartakass."
Larson thought of the pendant he wore under his tunic: the symbol of Oghma, patron of bards. It had been given him in his tenth year, when he first came to train at the monastery. "Perhaps I can do something for him."