Andre Norton: Songsmith

She began the opening notes to the song about the poor young chambermaid who encountered a sailor with designs upon her virtue (though, of course, he protested that he intended honorable marriage). The verses unrolled amid guffaws from the sailors as the pretty maid accepted the sailor’s praises of her beauty, along with his many gifts, but through misadventure and misdirection managed to remain chaste— until one day the sailor (determined to succeed at long last) came home from a voyage only to discover that at that very moment the girl was off being married: she’d used for her dowry the gifts he’d given her!

Eydryth was smiling herself as she sang the chorus the last time:

“Thank you, thank you for your attention.” She stood and bowed, sipping her ale, as they toasted her, clapping. More coins rang into the harp case. After her listeners had dispersed, Eydryth counted the night’s takings. There was plenty to pay for a private room, dinner and breakfast, plus journey funds for several days.

The tavern-keeper showed her to her room, a small, bare loft beneath the overhanging eaves. After stowing away her harp case and pack beneath the wooden bedstead, Eydryth laved her face and hands in the icy water she found waiting in the ewer, then went in search of a late supper.

The tavern was deserted of all but the overnight guests by now, so she had the entire board to herself. At her request, Mylt the tavern-master brought her a late supper. Eydryth was pleasantly surprised by the hot bowl of creamy lobster chowder, vegetable pasty and respectable vintage he set before her, and ate with a good appetite. “My thanks, sir. This is excellent fare.”

The little man nodded. “My own recipe. Guests will excuse much in the way of accommodations if the food be good and the beer well chilled. You’re welcome to bide another day, songsmith. It’s a rare bard who can hold my customers enthralled the way you did tonight.”

“Thank you, but no, I must be on my way with the morn,” she replied, taking a sip from the goblet of wine. “Tell me,” she asked, with studied indifference, “how many days’ journey to Es City itself? I’ve a fancy to see it.”

“Walking?” Mylt asked, and at her nod considered for a moment. “At least four, more likely five. ’Tis a full two days on horseback.”

“Good roads?”

“Aye, and well-patrolled, too. Koris of Gorm is a just man, but not one to coddle outlaws, and they stay far off the main roads these days.”

“Koris of Gorm… Hilder’s son,” Eydryth said, remembering the history she’d learned aboard the Osprey . “ ’Tis said that he, for all practical purposes, now rules Estcarp, with his Lady Loyse. And that the witches concern themselves with little but regaining their waning magic.”

Mylt lowered his voice, even though the two of them were alone in the taproom. “Even so,” he agreed, “but it is not something to speak of loudly. During the Turning many years ago, a goodly number of them died or were left burned-out shells—but there are some that still hold the Power.”

“The Turning?” Eydryth ventured.

“When Duke Pagar of Karsten sought to invade from over-mountain, the witches gathered together all their might and magic to shake the spine of the earth itself. The mountains dividing Karsten and Estcarp shook and fell, while thrusting up into other heights. The invaders were wiped out in a single night of destruction, and all the trails to Karsten destroyed.”

“It must have been terrible.”

“Aye, that’s certain. I was little more than a lad, then, but even so, I remember that day. It was as though a shadow lay over the entire land… a shadow you couldn’t see, only feel. That shadow pressed upon all living things, like a fist that would grind us all into the earth, it weighed so heavy…” The tavern-keeper shivered at the memory.

Eydryth made haste to steer the conversation back to her purpose. “But you said some of the witches still retain their Power?”

“Aye, if the accounts I hear be true. But they have turned away from ruling Estcarp, even as you said. They no longer govern our land; Koris does, he and his Lady Loyse, aided by their friends and battle-companions, the outlander, Lord Simon Tregarth, and his wife, the Lady Jaelithe.” The tavern-keeper glanced around him nervously, making sure they were still alone. “Did you know that she used to be one of the witches?”

Eydryth did know, but she feigned surprise, eager to learn all she could. “ Really ?”

He raised a hand in a half-pledge. “Truth. Before she was wife, she was witch. After they were wed, she bore her lord children, so theirs was a true marriage—and yet—” He glanced around, then leaned so close she could smell his sour breath, see the blackened pores studding his nose. “—and yet, she still wields the Power! Even though she be no maiden!”

Eydryth summoned an appropriate expression of astonishment, though she was hardly surprised; her own mother, Elys, had not lost her Power with her maidenhead, either.

“They say that the other witches have never forgiven the Lady Jaelithe for lying with her lord, and yet not losing her gift. They regard it as a betrayal,” Mylt finished.

“Perhaps they envy her,” the girl ventured.

The tavern-master chuckled coarsely. “Not the witches of Estcarp, songsmith! To them, the men of this world are something to be barely tolerated, not desired!”

“Tell me, Mylt… do the witches ever… help people?” Eydryth busied herself scraping the last drops of chowder from her bowl.

“ ’Tis said they do, from time to time. Blessing the crops and suchlike, calling storms during dry times, soothing wind and wave to protect ships in their harbors.”

“What about smaller magics… healing and such?”

“Aye, they do some of that, too. Simples and potions and amulets against fevers…” He poured the last of the wine into the songsmith’s goblet, then carefully stacked dishes onto the serving tray. “Will you want more, minstrel?”

“Thank you, no,” Eydryth said, finishing her wine and rising to take her leave. “Good night.”

“A good sleep to you, songsmith.”

With a final nod to her host, Eydryth started up the stair to her garret. Her steps were slow; she was so wearied by her long day that even the few sips of Mylt’s wine had made her limbs feel as though they were weighted by such brightly colored fishing sinkers as decorated the walls of The Dancing Dolphin. The floor beneath her battered leather boots seemed to move rhythmically; she might still ride the ocean’s swells aboard the Osprey . When she reached her chamber, the young woman dragged her outer garments off and burrowed beneath the coarse woolen blankets, too tired to search out her night shift.

Sleep was reaching for her with leaden arms when her eyes flew open. I forgot! But by the Amber Lady, I’m so tired … She sighed, throwing the bedclothes aside, as she reached for the gryphon-headed quarterstaff lying near to hand on the rough wooden boards. Drawing it to her in the darkness, she fumbled with her other hand for the amulet that she bore around her neck, hidden. The amber and amethyst of its fashioning felt warm and familiar in her hand, as she traced the lines of Gunnora’s symbols—a carven sheaf of ripened wheat bound by a heavily laden grapevine.

“Lady,” she whispered, “I seek Your help on my quest. I pray that You protect those I love, those who live within the Gryphon’s Citadel. Protect Lady Joisan and her lord, Kerovan. Protect their daughter and son, Hyana and Firdun. Most of all, I pray You, protect my father. Help me find someone who can heal him, so that Jervon may be himself again, after all these years. And Lady…” Her soft words faltered in the darkness. “Please… let me find my mother, the Lady Elys. She has been gone from us so long… Protect her wherever she may be, You who are mindful of those who carry life…”