Crucible (27 page)

And perform she would. If she could not dazzle the council with her musical ability, she would impress them with her sheer determination.

Despite her bravado, her stomach knotted at the thought. Her best chance had always been to amaze the Master Bards with her skillful harp playing and talented singing. Now, with her injured shoulder and croaking voice, she had neither.

She was reduced to plucking chords and humming. It was humiliating—but she would bear it. Better five minutes of wretchedness on stage than to be the last of her yearmates still at the Collegium.

“But what will you play?” Ryk frowned. “You could accompany me, if you'd like.”

She shook her head. It was kind of him to offer, and she was certain she could fit in a bass line to his gittern playing, but in her heart, she knew that would be cheating. Besides, she didn't want to hurt Ryk's chances of advancement to full Bard status.

Whatever she played tonight, she'd have to take the stage alone.

“I'll manage,” she whispered.

“I need to get ready,” Ryk said. “Should I ask Genna to come help you dress?”

Shandara nodded. She had a russet gown with bright embroidery at the hem and sleeves that she would not be able to don one-handed.

“All right.” Ryk gave her a careful hug. “And if you change your mind, let me know.”

She smiled at him. “See you in the hall,” she whispered.

As soon as he left, she turned her attention back to her harp. Worry scrabbled at her mind with sharp claws, but she pushed it away. She must think of
something
to perform.

She began plucking chords—a simple line that reminded her of a lullaby her mother used to sing. Experimentally, Shandara hummed the melody. What emerged from her throat was an odd, nasal sound, but for some reason she could make more sound with her mouth closed than when she tried to sing.

It was closer to the noise a bee would make than an actual singing voice, and she winced at it. But she must play. Even though this rough, half-accompanied lullaby would win her no prizes. And no Scarlets, either.

But she had promised Master Tangeli.

So, then. Grimly, she bent her head and began to hum. At least her left hand played true, moving smoothly through the chord changes. She even managed a little echo of the melodic line at one point. It would have to do, though her performance would be as raw and basic as any first-year Trainee's attempt.

• • •

From her place at the side of the stage, Shandara looked out over the assembled listeners. The hall was decked with greenery and candles, the audience a kaleidoscope of gray and rust, moss green and blue. Where the Master Bards sat, bright Scarlet grouped in clusters like holly berries, and a dazzling white splash in the middle of the throng denoted the Heralds. Here and there, the emerald of the Healers dotted the crowd. Shandara saw Master Adrun sitting with his peers.

He had visited earlier that day, repossessed his sling, and cautioned her to spend at least two more weeks doing the gentle exercises he had given her before trying anything more strenuous. She sighed and lifted her right arm two inches, stopping when she felt a twinge. If only her injury had been simpler to Heal.

Onstage, a fourth-year Trainee was just finishing her piece, a flute arrangement of one of the Vanyel Song Cycle ballads. The audience applauded, and Bard Vivaca, the master of ceremonies for the evening, announced the next performer.

“Ryk Tayard,” she said. “Playing his own composition, ‘Bright Dancer.'”

Holding his gittern by the neck, Ryk strode on stage, bowed, then sat on the stool set out for the performers. He gave his strings a quiet strum to check their tuning, tweaked one of the pegs, then lifted his head and began.

A flourish of notes leaped from beneath his fingers, and Shandara nodded, her foot tapping in time to the sprightly rhythm. Ryk had composed the piece after watching the Companions in their field one summer afternoon. They had known he was there and had shown off, tossing their silvery manes and racing like streaks of light back and forth over the green summer grasses.

She could see them in her mind, evoked by Ryk's Gift. A flash of blue eyes, the high whinny that almost sounded like laughter, the warm confidence that, as long as the Companions and their Heralds rode the land, all would be well.

When Ryk finished, the applause was loud and long. To no one's surprise, the Heralds were most enthusiastic, calling out their approval. Ryk bowed, and Shandara's stomach tightened.

Her turn.

The concert was supposed to build to the most advanced student, and she wished that they had put her much earlier, with the first or second-year students. But
no—she was last. And what an anticlimactic ending it would be.

“Shandara Tem, playing ‘Evening Lullaby,'” Bard Vivaca said.

Forcing a smile onto her face, Shandara stepped onto the stage. At least she was able to carry her harp by herself, although a bit awkwardly. She set the instrument down before the stool and then took a seat.

A few of the students leaned over, whispering to their friends. She could imagine what they were saying—what a pity that Shandara was reduced to performing a basic lullaby, how embarrassing it must be for her . . .

Her cheeks flamed, and she squeezed her eyes closed for a moment, trying to focus. She was not sitting in the center of a stage, in the palace, in Haven. Instead, she imagined she was home: the bright braided rug in the center of the living room, the smell of smoke curling up from the hearth, her mother stroking her hair back from her forehead.

Shandara opened her eyes, set her left hand to her harp, and played the introductory line. Just a simple pattern of five notes. Nothing flashy, nothing even close to demonstrating her talent. At the end of the introduction, she began to hum. The harp sang under her hand, the chords ringing out and supporting the raspy tone swelling from her throat.

The wood vibrated against her shoulder, and she breathed, letting that feeling settle all through her until her entire body was an instrument, a vessel for the song. There was nothing else she could do—she was not concentrating on difficult fingering, or infusing words with emotion. There was only the simple pentatonic melody. So unimpressive she nearly wanted to weep.

She did not dare to look at the audience and see their pitying looks. Instead, she thought of the twilight sky, orange and russet at the western horizon. The first, diamond-bright stars winking in the deeper velvet overhead. The soft brush of sleep at the end of a long and satisfying day.

The audience was quiet. Too quiet.

Shandara risked a glance up, and her hand faltered over the strings. The entire front row, and the second, and the third, had their eyes closed and seemed to be asleep. Farther back in the audience, people were yawning and resting their heads on their friends' shoulders.

She was putting the entire Collegium to sleep. Was this buzzing resonance she felt inside of her the full manifestation of her Bardic Gift?

She could not believe it. It was too simple. Yet the proof lay before her, slipping into slumber even as she watched.

At the end of the last phrase, Shandara let the harp strings ring instead of damping them with her hand. Slowly, the last thread of sound faded into the quiet hall. Only a few people remained awake—most of the Heralds, Healer Adrun, and the Master Bards. They watched her, varying expression of surprise or satisfaction on their faces. The rest of the audience snored on, showing no signs of waking.

Oh, no! She had never made a single person fall asleep, let alone a hall full of listeners. What now?

She sent a panicked glance to Master Tangeli, and he waved his hand in a circle, motioning her to play more. Shandara drew in a deep breath of understanding. Much as she wanted to creep off the stage and leave everyone slumbering through the night, it was not an option. Her music had made them sleep, and so her music must rouse them.

No matter how embarrassed she would be when they awoke. Imagine—putting the entire Collegium and court to sleep. She would never live it down.

So then, she would play something lively. A jig. Cautiously, she raised her right hand, just high enough to reach the strings. Her shoulder did not complain as she plucked out the melody. As long as she confined her motion to one small area, she could manage.

The lilting tune floated over the audience, and
Shandara added her left hand in a percussive bass line. The candle flames danced, and the crowd began to stir. Feet thumped in rhythm, and then a few people started to clap. Soon, the room was awake again, nearly everyone clapping along. Luckily, the Bards had good rhythm, and were able to keep even the most random members of the audience in time.

Shandara brought the tune to a close, and the rhythmic clapping diffused into true applause. From his seat among the Master Bards, Master Tangeli nodded at her. She could not meet his gaze.

“Thank you all for attending the Midwinter Recital,” Master Vivaca called, striding onto the stage. “What a night of entertainment! Please join the Bards for refreshment in the Common Room.”

Shandara clumsily picked up her harp and hurried offstage. Her shoulder ached, her temples throbbed, and her throat felt rough and scratchy. Above the heads of the milling audience, she saw Ryk searching for her. She could not stand his sympathy—not now, when he'd ended the evening in triumph, and she'd fumbled so badly.

Head down, she wrapped up her harp and hurried into the quiet halls. No one stopped her as she left the palace. The cold night air grabbed her breath, and she slowed down as she traversed the icy stones of the courtyard. Overhead, the stars were hard and brilliant, a scornful light that cared not for human fears and foibles.

The lamps flickered as she stepped inside the Bardic Collegium, and the air was hushed. Letting the solitude wrap around her like a blanket, she slowly went up the stairs to the shelter of her room. Exhaustion crashed over her like a wave. She lay down and a moment later was asleep.

Through her dreaming, she was dimly aware of Ryk cracking her door open and holding up a light.

“Yes, she's here,” he said to someone behind him in the hall.

The door closed again, leaving her in the solace of the dark once more.

• • •

When Shandara finally woke, sunlight filtered through the homespun curtains to form a wide band of bright light across the wooden floor. She took a deep breath and sat up, relieved to find her aches much abated. She swallowed, and realized she was parched.

And ravenous.

“Shandara?” Ryk tapped softly on her door. “Are you up?”

There was a happy note in his voice that told her he had cause to rejoice, and for a cowardly moment she almost didn't answer. But that was selfish—of course she would help him celebrate the fact that he'd gained his Scarlets.

“One moment,” she called, her voice still raspy but not the croak of the day before. Hastily, she pulled on her clothing, then ran a brush through her hair. Feeling marginally presentable, she called for Ryk to enter.

He burst in, a wide grin on his face. As she had suspected, he was wearing bright red—his customary leather vest now worked in scarlet, his breeches colorful and bright.

“Look at you!” Careful of her still-mending shoulder, Shandara hugged him, then stepped back. She smiled, rejoicing in her friend's promotion, and pushed down the prick of envy in her heart. “Congratulations—I knew you could do it.”

“I still don't quite believe it,” he said, grinning bright enough to rival the sunlight. “Oh, I brought you some breakfast.”

“You did?” The pang in her heart returned. Havens, she would miss him when he left.

Nodding, he stepped into the hall, and returned with a tray holding oatmeal, tea, and a fresh-baked scone. Her stomach rumbled in anticipation.

“Tell me,” she said, accepting the tray and sitting on the bed, “when did you get your Scarlets? After the concert?” She took a bite of scone, the pastry still warm in the middle, despite being carried across the courtyard.

“Yes,” Ryk said. “Master Tangeli presented them to me. He was looking for you, too, but you'd disappeared.”

“I wasn't feeling well.” No doubt he had something to say to her about how poorly she'd controlled her gift.

“You're better now, though?” Ryk still looked concerned. “Make sure to finish your oatmeal. Using the Gift takes a lot of energy, you know.”

“Using it as awkwardly as a raw beginner, you mean.” Shandara sighed. “I put the entire Collegium to sleep.”

“Indeed.” Master Tangeli spoke from the open doorway, a bundle tucked beneath his arm. “May I come in?”

“Please do.” Inwardly, she cringed.

She'd avoided her scolding last night, but it was time for the reckoning. And why Ryk sat there with his smile broadening, she could not imagine.

“As you might expect,” her instructor said, “I am here to deliver a lecture—and some words of advice. But before I do, I have something else to give you.”

“Stand up, Shan,” Ryk said, grabbing her tray and setting it aside.

A thin flicker of hope started up in Shandara's chest.
Oh, but surely not . . .

“Shandara Tem,” Master Tangeli said, his tone official, “it gives me great pleasure to present you with these.”

He held out the bundle he'd been carrying. She took it, with effort keeping her hands steady, and slowly unwrapped the brown cloth covering. At the first glimpse of bright red silk, tears sprang to her eyes.

“Truly?” she whispered, pulling out the colorful shirt. It seemed she had earned her Scarlets after all.

“Welcome to the ranks of the full Bards, Shandara,” her instructor said.

“Despite everything,” she said, her voice catching on the words.

Master Tangeli's gray brows rose. “Despite? Or perhaps because of it. Having your immense musical skill dampened was quite likely the best thing that could have happened. It forced you to stop relying solely on your ability and play from the heart.”