Anne Bishop - Shadows and Light

“A midday meal, if you’re serving,” Aiden said politely. “My lady is faint with hunger and could use a good meal.”

“Aiden,” Lyrra whispered, sounding embarrassed. She smiled weakly when the man stared at her, studying her face.

“We’ve beef stew today,” the man finally said. “It’s hearty. Sit yourselves down. I’ll fetch it.”

“Thank you,” Aiden said, leading Lyrra to a table close to the door. The men on the street were drifting into the tavern. If he and Lyrra had to try to run for it, he didn’t want to be trapped in the middle of the room.

The tavern owner returned with a large tray. He set down two bowls of stew, a small plate that held hunks of yellow cheese, and two plates that held thick slices of brown bread that were still warm enough to have the curls of butter melting into them. Last, he set down a small tankard of ale for Aiden and a cup of cider for Lyrra.

Lyrra quickly spread the butter over the bread and took a bite. “Mmmm.” She chewed slowly. Then she gave the tavern owner a bright smile. “Oh. This is wonderful.”

The man’s hard expression softened a little. “My wife will be pleased to hear it. She bakes the bread herself.”

Wondering if Lyrra was going queer on him or if she really was desperately hungry, Aiden spread the butter on his own piece of bread and took a bite.

Mother’s mercy, it was wonderful.

Lyrra dug into her stew, gave the spoonful several quick little puffs of breath to cool it, then took the first bite with unfeigned relish.

“You could write a song about this bread,” she said. She broke off a piece of cheese, then looked up at the tavern owner, who was still standing near the table watching them. “Aiden is the Bard. I’m the Muse. A poem might do for the bread, but a song would be better. What do you think?” she asked, turning to Aiden.

She’d gone queer on him, that’s what he thought. Maybe she was pregnant. Women could go a bit strange during that time.

Then he looked into her eyes and realized she’d been trying to send him signals—the same kind of subtle signals they used when they performed together. He’d missed them and didn’t have a clue what she was trying to tell him. Worse, her telling these men who they were hadn’t eased the tension in the room. If anything, the hostility had increased.

“What would bring the Bard and the Muse to our little village?” one of the men standing near the bar asked.

There was nothing friendly about the question, and the tavern owner continued to stand near their table, watching them instead of serving drinks and food to the other people in the room.

To give himself time, Aiden took a spoonful of stew and chewed slowly. “We’re just passing through.”

“Not many people pass through this way,” the tavern owner said.“Traveling the main road is easier.”

“This road headed northwest, so we took the chance that it would join with the road to Breton.”

“You’ve business with the baron there?” the man at the bar asked.

Aiden suppressed a sigh. Why couldn’t these men just let them eat in peace and leave? “Actually, we’re headed for Bretonwood to talk to Lady Ashk.”

A stillness filled the room. Then, as if a held breath was slowly released, some of the tension in the room eased.

“You keep heading up this road, it’ll take you in the right direction to reach Breton—and Bretonwood,” the tavern owner said. He turned away then, going back to his place behind the bar.

Lyrra let out a quiet, shuddering sigh.

Aiden saw the slight tremor in her hand when she lifted the next spoonful of stew. His belly was knotted with tension, so he ate slowly, resentful that neither of them could enjoy a good meal. And, he thought with bitter honesty, resentful that this village was pretty only on the surface.

“I think they’re scared,” Lyrra said so quietly he had to lean to one side to hear her.

“Scared of two Fae?” he asked just as quietly.

She lifted a piece of cheese to her mouth. Her hand partially hid her lips. “The little girl... She had woodland eyes. So did her mother. So does the tavern owner.” She popped the cheese into her mouth.

Woodland eyes. The one physical attribute that seemed common to anyone who had some kinship to the House of Gaian. Of course, not everyone who had woodland eyes was one of the Mother’s Daughters. Lyrra was proof of that. But if there were people in this village who had strong ties to the witches in the Old Place, and if they’d been warned about the Black Coats, that would explain why they were wary of strangers.

It didn’t make it any easier being on the receiving end of those cold, hard stares.

They finished their meal in silence, and Aiden felt grateful that the price wasn’t so dear as he’d expected. If the feel in the room had been different, he might have offered to pay for part of the meal with a few songs, but he didn’t think the offer would be welcome—and he didn’t trust the temper of these men.

When they left the tavern, the men followed them outside, watched them mount their horses.

Aiden pressed his heels into the dark horse’s sides. “Come on, Minstrel, let’s go.”

Minstrel just planted his feet and shifted his weight in a way that warned Aiden the horse had no intention of going anywhere.

Aiden leaned down, bringing his face closer to the horse’s ears. “Not now, Minstrel. We have to go.”

Minstrel wig-wagged his ears. His feet didn’t move at all.

Aiden felt the weight of all those hard eyes watching him.

He sat up and handed the packhorse’s lead rope to Lyrra, who looked at him with wide-eyed apprehension. Twisting around, he unbuckled one of the buckles on a saddlebag and pulled out the whistle he’d taken to carrying there.

Giving the men a weak smile, he said, “He expects a song before we start out.” Fitting his fingers over the whistle’s holes, he began to play a sprightly tune.

And Minstrel started trotting. In place.

Aiden had no idea why the horse had learned to do that— or why anyone would teach the horse to do that, but there they were, with him playing the tune and Minstrel trotting— and going nowhere.

He glanced at Lyrra, who had one hand clamped over her mouth to stifle the laughter. He glanced at the men, who were scratching their heads or rubbing their hands over their mouths. Their mirth filled the air, but they held the laughter in—probably, Aiden thought sourly, so they wouldn’t distract the horse.

He reached the last note of the song.

Minstrel planted his feet firmly in the street.

Lyrra was laughing so hard, her face had turned a bright red that was not a complement for her dark red hair.

The men watched him expectantly.

Feeling the heat rising in his face, Aiden stuffed the whistle inside his shirt and cleared his throat. “Uh... I guess that was the wrong tune.”

Minstrel bobbed his head as if in agreement.

It could have been worse, Aiden thought as he gathered up the reins. He could have done this at a Clan house and destroyed what little reputation I have left. Taking a deep breath, he began singing the traveling song.

He got through the first verse and the chorus.

Minstrel refused to move.

When he got through the second verse, he made a “help me” gesture with one hand. The men were laughing so hard, none of them could hit the right notes, but they sang the chorus with him.

Minstrel bobbed his head and trotted down the street.

Aiden was an embarrassed bard.

Minstrel was a happy horse.

If he hadn’t needed a Fae horse, he would have traded the music-obsessed animal for anything that could be saddled and carry a grown man.