“Sorry Lord, but it’s Kenneth. He’s asked for you and the Lady.”
Reluctantly Wiz put down the stick of charcoal and stood up, feeling his back creak and his thighs ache from sitting in one position on the hard bench too long. “What is it?” he asked. “More trouble?”
Donal regarded Wiz seriously. “I think he wants to sing a song,” he said.
“A song?” Wiz asked incredulously. “He takes me away from my work to sing a song?”
Donal’s face did not change. “Please, Lord. It is important.”
As they stepped out of the hut, Wiz realized it was mid-morning. The air was still chill, but no longer iron-hard. The sun was warm even as the earth was cold. Spring was on its way, Wiz thought idly as Donal led him to the courtyard. Shiara was already there, sitting on the stump used to chop firewood, her stained and worn blue cloak wrapped firm around her, but the hood thrown back and her hair falling like a silver waterfall down her back.
Kenneth stood facing her. He was holding a small iron-stringed harp Wiz had never seen before. From time to time he would pick a string and listen distractedly to the tone.
Music,
Wiz thought. In all the time I’ve been here I’ve never heard human music. His resentment dulled slightly and he pulled a small log next to Shiara for a seat.
Shiara reached a hand out of her cloak and clasped Wiz’s hand briefly.
“You may begin Kenneth,” she said.
Kenneth’s expression did not change. He struck a chord and a silvery peal floated across the court and up to the smokestained peak of Heart’s Ease.
“Now Heart’s Ease it is fallen
for all the North to weep
And the hedge witch with the copper curls
lies fast in prison deep”
His voice was a clear pure tenor and the sound sent chills down Wiz’s spine. There was loss and sadness in the music and the pain Wiz had felt since that terrible night Heart’s Ease fell came rushing back with full vigor. Instinctively he moved closer to Shiara.
“And none can find or follow
for there’s none to show the way
and magic might and wizards ranked
stand fast in grim array
There’s neither hope nor succor
for the witch with copper hair
for the Mighty may not aid her plight
deep in the Dark League’s lair
Where the Mighty dare not venture
the meek must go instead
for shattered hearth and stolen love
and companion’s blood run red.
There’s the Lady called Shiara
with blue, unseeing eyes
whose magic’s but a memory
but still among the wise.
There’s a Sparrow who’s left nestless now
bereft by loss of love
whose land lies far beyond his reach
past even dreaming of
With neither might nor magic
their wit must serve in place
and wizard’s lore and foreign forms
twine in a strange embrace
But the fruit of that embracing
is nothing to be scorned
and the hedge witch with the copper curls
may yet be kept from harm
And if there’s no returning
the witch with flame-bright hair
the price of a Sparrow’s mourning
be more than the League can bear.”
Kenneth’s voice belled up over the harp and the song was strong off the ruined stone walls behind.
“For there will be a weregeld
for life and hearth and love
though worlds may shake and wizards quake
and skies crash down above.
Aye, there will be a ransom
and the ransom will be high
for the blood-debt to a Sparrow
the League cannot deny.”
He stopped then, lowered the harp and bowed his head.
“Thank you, Kenneth,” said Shiara. And Wiz stepped forward to embrace the soldier roughly.
“The mood was upon me, Lady,” Kenneth said simply. “When the mood is upon me, I must.”
“And well done,” said Shiara, standing up. “Thank you for the omen.”
“So, Sparrow,” she sighed. “We go soon. Do we go tomorrow?”
“I don’t know Lady,” Wiz protested. “I’ve still got some spells to tune and . . .” Unbidden a quotation from his other life rose in his mind. There comes a time in the course of any project to shoot the engineers and put the damn thing into production. He raised his chin firmly.