Chapter V
Young Love
Head buried in his hands, Kevin moaned, “What am I going to do?”
“Eat,” Naitachal said without a trace of sympathy. “Then perform. That is what common minstrels do, isn’t it? And we are common minstrels, are we not?”
“Yes, but I—she—I—”
“That is the young woman gardener, is it not? The gardener who is also, it appears, Count Trahern’s daughter. The one with whom you argued so strongly.” Naitachal paused, then added with just the faintest touch of delicate elven malice, “My, what strange judgment you humans show.”
Kevin looked sharply up at that, glaring at the elf. “How was I to know who she was? You saw what happened. She looked and acted like—like a filthy gardener!”
“Hey,” a servant two seats to the right complained, “watch it. I’m a gardener.”
“Sorry,” Kevin said rightly. “I didn’t mean any insult.”
He heard the faintest of chuckles from Naitachal. “Awkward situation, isn’t it?” There still wasn’t much sympathy in the elven Bard’s voice. “The sort of awkwardness that seldom happens to nobility. Only to…common minstrels.”
Kevin winced. “You’re not going to let me forget my mistake, are you?”
“Minstrelsy wasn’t my idea, now, was it?”
“At least she hasn’t recognized me yet. I…uh…don’t suppose you’d care to lend me your hood?”
“And reveal to everyone that a Dark Elf sits among them?” Naitachal murmured drily. “Not a chance.”
“Ah. No. Of course not.” Kevin shook his head ruefully. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“That much seems clear.”
“All right, all right, you were right about the whole thing and I was wrong. Naitachal…what am I going to do?”
The bright blue gaze softened slightly. ‘Why not just go up there and confess the truth to the young lady and her father?”
“How? Without looking like an idiot? More of an idiot than she already thinks me, I mean,” Kevin added bitterly. “Besides, you saw what happened earlier between Gwenlyn and me.”
“To paraphrase what I said a moment ago, you two didn’t exactly seem to be getting along.”
“Ha! She has the sharpest tongue I’ve ever heard: I swear, she could give Tich’ki lessons!”
“And you, of course, were the model of gentility.”
Kevin ignored that jibe as best he could. If only he could just quietly sneak out of here…no, that was ridiculous. Even if he got out of the hall, he could hardly sneak out of the betrothal. Might as well make the best of this uncomfortable situation. Maybe Gwenlyn had just been short-tempered because of the heat and—and—
“And maybe swine can soar,” Kevin muttered.
“They’re roosting in the trees right now,” Naitachal said. “Waiting to hear us perform. Courage, my friend. Into battle we go.”
Ah well, maybe she wouldn’t recognize him.
Not a chance. Kevin saw her indigo eyes widen as he approached and waited for her to tell the world he was the lout who’d stomped all over her herbs. But she said nothing. Probably waiting for me to make a fool of myself all over again.
Well, he wasn’t about to oblige her. Kevin swept down in as elegant a bow as he’d seen a minstrel perform. “My lord, my lady, thank you for the most gracious kindness of your hospitality.” Was that suitably minstrel-like? “But now my partner and I would try to repay you, at least to the best of our humble abilities.”
He saw twin spasms of distaste cross the faces of both the count and his daughter; too late, Kevin realized they must be thoroughly bored with such flowery nonsense, the sort of thing they’d hear from every courtier seeking favors. Wonderful. Another blunder.
Nothing else to do now but play. Kevin ran a hand over the strings of his lute, then made hasty, delicate refinements to the tuning; lutes went out of pitch fairly easily. Beside him, he could hear Naitachal doing the same with his small harp.
“The Lover True,” Kevin murmured to him as the elf finished, and they broke together into the opening chords. As they finished the introductory measures, Naitachal gave a little dip of the head, saying as plain as words, You take it.
Good enough. As he’d reached his majority, Kevin’s voice had darkened ever so slightly into a deep tenor that still secretly delighted him. As he sang the gently tender verses, he subtly studied Gwenlyn for a reaction. She wasn’t pretty, not by the bland, conventional standards. No, there wasn’t anything bland about her at all, least of all those incredible eyes.
The eyes that right now were sparking with something approaching contempt. Kevin finished his song to enthusiastic applause—save from her. Hers was slow and deliberate enough to be blatantly sarcastic.
“You didn’t like the song, my lady?” Kevin asked wryly.
“Very pretty, minstrel,” she said without expression.
“Not as—”
“Oh, please. You’re not going to say, ‘Not as pretty as you,’ are you?”
“I was about to say,” Kevin lied hastily, “not as pretty as the song itself.”
“Ah, clever. The minstrel is more graceful with his words than he is with his feet.”
“I could say, my lady,” Kevin began with a desperate stab at gallantry, “that I was clumsy only because your beauty dazzled me.”
“That’s rot.”
“Gwenlyn!” Count Trahern whispered in disapproval, and she glanced his way. “But it is rot, Father. I was covered with dirt and wearing my oldest clothes.” Gwenlyn turned back to Kevin. “I hear false praise enough from your betters, minstrel. I don’t choose to suffer it from you, too.”
Fighting back sharper words, Kevin said carefully, “If you consider my words, my lady, you’ll see I didn’t actually cast false praise on you.”
Dark brows raised in surprise. “No,” she admitted drily after a moment, “you didn’t. I could say ‘how flattering’.”
Her sarcasm stung. “If you want flattery,” Kevin exclaimed in a sudden burst of impatience, “you aren’t going to get it from me. A rose with too many thorns isn’t going to have too many admirers.”
“A rose with too many thorns,” she snapped back, “retains its freedom.”
“Freedom to wither on—”
“That’s enough!” Count Trahern cut in angrily. “I’ve tried to make excuses for creative foolishness, but minstrel, this nonsense has gone too far!”
“I didn’t mean—” Kevin began, only to be interrupted by Gwenlyn’s indignant, “Father, I can take care of myself!”
But the man silenced them both with an angry wave of his hand. “I cannot allow a commoner such license. Minstrel, you surely know you cannot be allowed to insult a woman of noble blood like this. My regrets, but I must ask you to leave before I am forced to—”
Oh, curse it all! “But I’m not a minstrel,” Kevin admitted reluctantly.
“What are you, then?” Gwenlyn’s voice dripped scorn. “A Bard?”
“Exactly!” Too late to stop now. “I am also not a commoner, but Count Kevin, your—the one who—the one who accepted your portrait.”
“So much for dashing disguises,” Naitachal murmured, with just a touch too much amusement in his voice for Kevin’s liking.
Count Trahern and Gwenlyn both were sitting bolt upright with shock. “The portrait,” the man whispered fiercely to his daughter, “his portrait. Let me see it.”
“Do you think I carry it with me?” she hissed back.
Kevin sighed. “I know I don’t look particularly noble right now. I don’t feel particularly noble. But I can at least prove my friend and I really are Bards.”
Count Trahern raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Do so.”
With a wary glance at Naitachal, who looked the very image of innocence—if innocence were shrouded in solid black—Kevin lifted his lute once more and began the gentle song known as “Quiet Friendship’s Melody,” which held within it the possibility of soothing roused emotions and allaying suspicions. Naitachal added his harp’s counterpoint to the soft, intricate melody but nodded at Kevin, signalling him once again to carry the words. As he sang their gentle simplicity, the young count felt Bardic Magic rousing within him, warm and heady as wine, and had to fight with himself to keep the power of the spell-song at only half-strength. He wanted to soothe the count and his daughter, not ensorcel them! Kevin saw Count Trahern settle back in his chair, saw even Gwenlyn’s fierce blue stare soften, and dared a small smile.
But just as the magic was taking full control, Gwenlyn shot to her feet with a frantic, “No!” Her shout was fierce enough to break through Kevin’s Bardic trance. Startled, he lost his hold on the song and the fragile spell, and the music faltered into silence. Before he could recover, Gwenlyn raced from the room.
“What did I say?” Kevin asked in confusion, dazed from the suddenness of the spell’s breaking, struggling to reorganize his thoughts. “What did I sing wrong? I didn’t mean her any harm.”
Count Trahern shook his head. “Nothing was wrong, save, perhaps, my daughter’s fancies. You sang most wondrously fair, Count Kevin. And yes,” he added wryly, “I do believe you are who and what you claim; I felt the power of your song.” Almost apologetically, the count added, “My daughter is a fiery spirit; I can’t always understand what moves her. Go after her. Speak with her. See if, perhaps, you can soften her heart.”
Oh. Of course. Just what I want to do. Kevin glanced at Naitachal, uneasy about leaving a Dark Elf—Bard or no Bard—alone among possibly hostile strangers. But Naitachal, still virtually radiating elven amusement at human foolishness, waved him on.
Human stupidity, rather, Kevin thought drily. I don’t even want the woman.
But he couldn’t very well say that to her father. “I can only try,” the young count said evasively, and set out after Gwenlyn. After some quick questions to various guards and servants, he finally caught up with her on the castle ramparts. She was staring fiercely out into the surrounding forest.
Now, what? Kevin wondered doubtfully. “My…uh…lady.”
She turned sharply to him, her eyes so wild with rage that for a moment he was sure she was going to try tossing him over the rim. “How dare you!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“How dare you not tell me who you were right from the start! What were you trying to do? Let the silly girl make a fool of herself?”
“No, I—”
“That’s exactly it, isn’t it?”
“Why would I want to do a thing like that?”
“Why? Because you wouldn’t be the first! Men don’t like women who aren’t properly meek, do they?”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever—”
“No, no,” Gwenlyn rushed on, “all they want of a noblewoman is that she not be noticed except as—as a prize to be shown off like a pretty, brainless brood mare!”
“I would never treat a woman like that!”
“Ha! You certainly aren’t going to treat me like that!”
Gwenlyn broke off to catch her breath, then continued in a slightly calmer voice, “Look you, I know I have a sharp tongue. But what other weapon is there for someone like me? You don’t really think you’re the first of my would-be suitors, do you? The others have come wooing my father’s wealth and status practically since the day I was born. But all of them raced away the minute they found out they couldn’t cow me—after each one of them did his best to humble me. And that’s exactly the path you were following!”
“No!”
“Yes! You wanted me to make a fool of myself so you could laugh at me and be oh so superior!”
A stab of sympathy shot through Kevin. “I’m sorry you think that way. But I swear I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Oh no, of course not,” she drawled. “You were playing that ridiculous false role because you were trying to make me feel at ease.”
“I was trying,” Kevin said with as much self-control as he could muster, “to give us both a chance to know each other without rank getting in the way. But I can see that isn’t going to work out.”
“On the contrary,” Gwenlyn snarled. “It’s worked out all too well. I’ve already learned I’d as soon link my name to—to a dog baying at the moon as marry you.”
“How poetic. And I would much prefer to hear that dog howl at me than listen to one more word from Your Thorniness.”
“Oh, be wary of my thorns, indeed!”
They broke off, glaring at each other. “Better to know how we feel about each other now,” Kevin said at last, “before it’s too late.”
“Much better. And since we do know it, you have no excuse to linger here. So go!”
“Gladly!”
Kevin bowed his curtest bow and stormed off, swearing under his breath. Curse the woman, curse his own stupidity, curse this whole idiotic business! Part of him still couldn’t help but feel sorry for Gwenlyn, trapped in the snare of her social status as she was. But he didn’t love her, he was most surely never going to love her, and he doubted the prickly creature would ever let herself love anybody. Besides, just because he pitied her it didn’t mean he wanted to tie himself for the rest of his life to someone who would as soon stab him with words as kiss him!
Now, isn’t this a lovely mess? Kevin mused bitterly. I don’t want her, she doesn’t want me, but I can’t simply break off this almost-betrothal, not without offending Count Trahern.
And that would be a most perilous thing to do. Offending such an important noble, Kevin knew, would almost certainly trap him in the midst of who knew what political tangles.
The young count let out his breath in a long sigh of frustration. Right now, he’d give anything to be back in the old days, out on the road with Lydia, Tich’ki and the others with an open world of adventure ahead. But swordplay or Bardic Magic wasn’t going to help him now. He’d once fought bandits and the undead and triumphed, but there wasn’t anything he could do to get himself out of this more prosaic peril. In fact, Kevin thought dourly, there was only one tiling he could do right now. And by all the Powers, he meant to do it: go home