Mercedes Lackey & Rosemary Edghill - The Bard - 03

Spirits White as Lightning

by Mercedes Lackey & Rosemary Edghill

ONE:

THE SIMPLE GIFTS

The Spirits White as Lightning

Would on my travels guide me

The stars would shake and the moon would quake

Whenever they espied me

—Tom O' Bedlam (traditional)

Sir Eric Banyon, the Queen’s Knight, known as Silverflute wherever soldiers of fortune gathered

together, strode manfully through the thronging crowd, determined to leave the memory of his

disgrace at the hands of the foul Frenchman Black Levoisier behind him as surely as he had left

the dastardly minions of his Great Enemy in his dust. . . .

Eric dodged around a bicycle messenger just dismounting on the sidewalk, then grinned, startling the bike

messenger into an answering smile. Heh. Banyon, m’lad, you ought to go in for writing Hysterical

Historicals in your off-hours. He actually was striding—though not exactly “manfully”—through the

noontime crowd, heading for the subway and home. His classes at Juilliard were over for the day and no

rehearsals (for once!) were scheduled for this afternoon. He could practice as well, or better, at home

than in one of the practice rooms, anyway. And he was determined not to sour a perfectly good day with

the memory of one jealous teacher trying to make a fool out of him in front of the entire class. Well, all

right—maybe not the entire class. Just most of it. And anyway, Levoisier hadn’t succeeded, though he’d

certainly done his best.

Missing his midterm last winter (he’d been off saving the world, necessary though it had been) had given

Professor Rector the chance he had been hoping for all term. He’d failed Eric, banishing him from

Introduction to Music Theory with unprofessional glee. Fortunately, Eric’s work in his other classes and

in ensemble had been good enough that he had been given the opportunity to make up the lost Music

Theory credit during summer term, and he had taken the chance to add a few more courses in order to

lighten next fall’s course-load. Still, this hadn’t quite been the way he’d envisioned spending his July and

-August, which was out on Fire Island with a pitcher of virgin margaritas by his side. And Levoisier made

Ethan Rector look like a prince of transpersonal fairness by comparison.

Parisians. Feh. Paris would be such a lovely place without all the Parisians in it, Eric thought

grumpily. And the man had certainly been on form today, baiting Eric unmercifully in hopes he’d lose his

temper. Once he’d lost it, the professor would have taken him apart in a cool and scientific dissection

rendered without benefit of anesthetic.

Levoisier had begun with sarcastic comments about Eric’s depth of experience—on the RenFaire circuit.

(Why did they always obsess about that? It couldn’t be jealousy.) Not exactly a concert-hall

environment, as the professor had repeatedly pointed out. Nor were the customers who so praised his

playing sober . . . or necessarily bright . . . or able to distinguish Bach from Bacharach . . . or a flute from

a clarinet. Certainly even an idiot with three tunes in his repertoire could win acclaim on the RenFaire

circuit—which only proved, to Eric’s mind, how little Levoisier knew about the RenFaire circuit.

As the professor had expounded on each and every way in which he felt that Eric resembled half-drunk

Fairegoers—at exhaustive length—Eric stood there silently. Every single word was calculated to get Eric

to explode with temper.

And that would have worked, once, but Eric was a far different person now than anyone that the

professor had ever encountered before, at least within the hallowed halls of academe. He had waited,

quietly and calmly, until the professor grew frustrated by Eric’s lack of agitation, embarrassment, or any

other identifiable emotion.

When Levoisier finally ran out of insults, Eric had simply said, “The Review Committee and the Entrance

Committee were satisfied with my performances, Professor, as are the rest of my teachers,” and sat

down again. And at that blessed moment, the change-of-class bell sounded, and he was free.

Not as satisfying, perhaps, as telling the professor off would have been. Not nearly as satisfying as

pointing out the professor’s own deficiencies as both a musician and a teacher—many of which Eric had

already heard for himself during faculty recitals. Yehudi Menuhin, the professor was not.

Yahoo Menudo, maybe.

But the point wasn’t to get the better of the arrogant Frenchman. The point, in fact, was not to even

bother with making a point. The point was to take what was good, leave what was bad, and pass

through all the name-calling and innuendo like the wind through the grass.

Be Teflon. That’s the only way to handle guys like this. He’s insecure, ignorant, and arrogant. Just

let everything slide right off until he gets tired of not getting a rise out of me. By then he’ll

probably have gone far enough to expose himself as the trivial goon that he is. That might take the

full eight-week summer session, but Eric didn’t mind—while Levoisier was heckling him, he wasn’t

picking on the younger and more inexperienced students, who were not equipped to deal with him. The

bastard had already reduced Midori to silent tears before he’d turned on Eric.

Well, let him wear himself out on me. Levoisier doesn’t know half of what he thinks there is to

know about me. I have a black belt in Verbal Aikido, you arrogant Frog.

Levoisier’s appointment wasn’t an insoluble mystery. Eric knew why Juilliard had such a miserable

excuse for a teacher on its staff this year. Levoisier was no great shakes as an interpreter of music, but he

was a brilliant technician. Even Eric was willing to admit there was a lot he could learn from the man, if he

ever decided to stop humiliating the students and elected to teach. And even at his worst, he was

teaching valuable things to his students.

Though he knows it not. Though he intends it not.

It was a cruel, cold world out there, a world singularly lacking in first-chair jobs in fine symphony

orchestras and prestigious traveling ensembles, recording contracts, solo tours, and praise—and full of

cruel critics and low-end positions teaching in schools or playing in little city orchestras under conductors

who themselves had failed to make the cut for a high-end professional musical career. Trial-by-Parisian

might harden some of them to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. The students at Juilliard were

fairly well equipped to deal with professional rivalry and even sabotage from other students, but they

weren’t ready for the real world of real people and the fact that most of them were doomed to eke out a

living playing in the Tacoma Sousa Band.

Or playing harps in hotel lobbies, pianos in cocktail bars, clarinets at weddings, and yes, flutes at

RenFaires. Anything that Levoisier can throw at them isn’t half of the abuse they’ll get out there.

Or, in the dark of the night, what they’ll give themselves.

What had triggered today’s attack, he suspected—given that Levoisier had first gone after Midori, then

him—was the results of the placement auditions for the summer-session orchestra. Eric (and Midori) had

been placed in second chair.

Now, Eric hadn’t heard Midori’s audition, but there was something that no one, including the Audition

Committee, knew about Eric’s. He would never get first chair, because all during his audition, he had

been sending out a thread of Bardic magic.

No matter how good I am, you won’t give me first chair, the magic had whispered, carried along on

the wings of Debussy. I don’t need the experience, and you should give it to someone else.

In fact, at the end of the audition, one of the committee had taken him aside, apologetically, and had said,

“Banyon, you deserved first chair, but frankly, we can’t give it to you. You don’t need—”

“—the experience,” Eric finished, with a grin and a toss of his long chestnut hair. “No worries, Doctor

Selkirk. Frankly, what I need is a lot more experience in backing and supporting another flautist. They

also serve, and all that.”

Doctor Selkirk had sighed with relief and shook Eric’s hand. “I knew we hadn’t made any mistakes in

readmitting you, Banyon. If running around in tights and floppy shirts on weekends would give our

students that kind of maturity, I’d assign it as a course.”

Eric grinned to himself again. It’s not as if I need experience in front of an audience. I rather doubt

that I’m ever going to face a more hostile audience than a flock of Nightflyers, or a pickier one

than an Elven Bard and Magus Major. And it’s not fair to the kids to make them compete with me

for something I don’t need or want.

The New York streets simmered with summer heat, and the kind of glare found when the only thing to

take the sun’s rays is stone, and glass, and more stone. His local friends told him that August would be

even worse—if they got a really hot spell, even the blacktopped streets would go soft underfoot. He

hadn’t believed it at the time, but now Eric was just as glad that he’d spent the time last winter setting up

bomb-proof spells on all his apartment windows: now, when he opened them into muggy July heat, he

got arid January cold. It was a more elegant solution than nursing a power hog a/c along with Guardian

House’s cranky electrical system. His computer and stereo systems were already major power hogs, not

to mention his pet microwave; he’d learned he had to shut down every other appliance in the place when

he vacuumed. An air conditioner would have been the final straw. When Guardian House had been built

back in the first decade of the 20th century, all those appliances hadn’t even been distant dreams.

He was looking forward to getting home, opening all the windows, and maybe coaxing Greystone down

into joining him for a glass of something cold. It wasn’t likely anybody would miss the gargoyle if he

deserted his post—not in a sweltering afternoon in July.

All he had to do was make it through the subway alive. Though most of the cars were air-conditioned to

pneumonia levels, only some of the stations had any pretense to climate-control at all. Fortunately, the

Lincoln Center stop was one of them. Can’t let the aesthetes and yuppies fry, after all.

Eric joined the stream of humanity descending the steps into the subway, whistling a Bach gigue to purge

his brain of any remaining taint of irritation with Professor Levoisier. There was nothing like Bach to rev

up the old right brain and let logic take over from emotion.

He let the flow of traffic take him along towards the turnstiles. Hey, it’s Friday. I’ve got a whole

weekend in front of me, the sun is shining, nobody wants to kill me, and there’s not a single crisis

Underhill or Overhill that needs sorting out. That thought put a bounce in his step. Maeve had been

born and Kory and Beth were planning to bring her for a visit. If the weather held, maybe they could

make a run up Long Island and see how the other half lived. And if it didn’t, well, if you couldn’t find

something to do in New York on a weekend, you were in pretty sad shape.

And when they go back Underhill, if Ria isn’t up to her sculpted eyebrows in Bizness, I might even

get her to go out with me to some New-York-Magazine-Approved event. So maybe I ought to have

a look for something she might not ordinarily go to. Not that Ria’s actually a party animal at the

best of times. How could someone who looks like she looks be such a grind? It’s one of Life’s

Great Mysteries.

He turned his mind back to the question of finding something fun he could tease her into attending.

Anything musical was a good bet, but it would have to be both competent and something she wouldn’t

have thought of for her—

Something teased his ears as he passed the turnstile. A string instrument—

Banjo?

And a very, very familiar tune.

’Tis a gift to be simple, ’tis a gift to be free, ’tis a gift to come ’round where we ought to be—

Someone was playing a banjo in the subway.

That wasn’t all that unusual. Eric had heard everything from bagpipes to string quartets to old-fashioned

One Man Bands playing on subway platforms throughout the city. Busking was permitted in the New

York subway system and on the city streets as well, but it was a peculiar form of busking. You had to

have a license, and you only got the license by passing an audition.

It was a pretty good system, actually. The ears of the public weren’t assaulted by talentless musicians,

licensing kept down the territory wars for the best spot, and the beat and transit cops weren’t put on the

spot by having to bust a player who was doing the public a favor by being there. Eric didn’t know all of

the licensed buskers—New York was a bit bigger than any Faire pitch he’d ever worked—but he

thought he was familiar with most of the ones who set up near Lincoln Center on a regular basis and he

was sure that none of them played a banjo. The pleasantly jangling notes ricocheted off the echoing tile

walls of the subway, the echoes providing a depth and richness to the music that was the reason so many

musicians—including Eric—liked to play here. Something else teased his inner ear as well, as he

approached the platform.

Magic.

Nothing overwhelming, just a gentle little lilt, a Bardic lilt to the tune, something to tease a little money

from the pockets of the passers-by, but only by those who had it to spare. More of a reminder, really, to

be courteous.

If you like what you hear, and can spare the money, drop a coin or two—if not, pass on, pass on.

. . .

And no one with a New York City busking license was a Bard. Except, of course, him.

A sense of urgency hit Eric in the gut: not only did he want to catch this unknown Bard and find out who

he was, he wanted to get to him before he was busted! He hurried towards the platform. The transit

cops, who were supposed to enforce the busking licenses, could be along at any moment. Some of them

were inclined to turn a blind eye towards the occasional violator, if he was good, if the cop in question

liked that particular kind of music. So how many of them like bluegrass?

Eric shoved his way towards the cluster of people around the source of the music, and shouldered his

way into the magic circle, ignoring the indignant looks of the two he squeezed in between. “When true

simplicity is gained, to bow and to bend we shall not be ashamed—” his mind supplied the words to

the tune.

The busker was a tall young man, built like a linebacker. Eric took it all in with a single glance. Blond.

Longish hair, jeans, faded blue work shirt—and that indefinable something that said “not from around

here” to city-trained eyes. He had an open, friendly face and piercing blue eyes, which held a promise of

friendship out to the entire world, if only the world was wise enough to accept it. His banjo case was

open at his feet, money in it, as he ran leisurely fingers through the intricate patterns of the old song. An

old Army surplus duffle bag rested at his heels.

And the banjo— The banjo—glowed. Not that anyone other than Eric or an elf would have seen the

glow. The strings were a network of silver-fire, and blue afterimages danced along the pattern of the

busker’s darting fingers.

An enchanted banjo?

There were legends of enchanted instruments in the ancient days. The traditional songs were full of

examples. Flutes made from a Bard’s bones. A harp strung with the hair of a murdered girl—

No, that’s a bit too grisly. Nothing like that here. More like . . . an enchanted sword, forged for a

paladin. I didn’t know there was anyone left Overhill who could do work like that.

Not that he knew, yet, that the banjo had been made here. But if it were elvenwork, he would have

sensed that, and Eric’s Bard-trained senses caught no trace of Otherworldly craftsmanship here, just

innate human magic.

A stir caught his attention—the glimpse of a uniform hat down by the turnstile. The transit cops.

The busker finished his song and coins and a couple of bills dropped into his banjo case, accompanying a

spatter of applause. And in the pause, Eric pulled out his busking license and propped it in the side of the

banjo case, very visibly, then got out his flute. He opened the flute case and put it behind the banjo case,

and began fitting his instrument together as he stepped to the side of the very surprised banjo player.

“You need a license to play down here, friend—I’ve got one, and you just became my partner,” Eric

muttered under his breath just as the transit cops reached them. “So, ‘Unquiet Grave’?” he said, louder,

as if he and the stranger had been duetting for some time.

The stranger nodded, and they both began—quite as if they had been duetting for some time.

Mind, “Unquiet Grave” wasn’t Eric’s tune of choice, but it was the only Appalachian piece he had been

able to think of on the spur of the moment. Plaintive and just a little on the spooky side, it wasn’t one

calculated to haul in the cash. But that was all right; it made some of the audience clear off, giving the

transit cops a good look at the two buskers—and Eric’s license.

And giving Eric a good look at them, just as he nodded to the banjo player to wrap it up. He sighed with

relief; they were people he knew, who weren’t going to quibble that his license was for himself alone and

not with a partner.

“Top o’ the marnin’ t’ye, constable,” he said in his best “Faire-Irish” accent. Officer Zielazinski laughed.

“More like afternoon, isn’t it, O’Banyon?” the transit cop jibed good-naturedly. “Who’s your partner?”

The banjo player answered before Eric could fumble. “Hosea Songmaker, sir, at your service,” he said in

slow syllables sweetened with the honey accent of the hills and deep with respect. Eric could sense the

touch of Bard-magic here, too: I am no threat to you; I will cause no trouble. . . . He supposed a man

as big and physically intimidating as Hosea Songmaker’d had plenty of use for that particular charm more

than a few times in his life, and it made him like his new partner all the more.

Zee laughed, responding unconsciously to the touch of the benevolent magic. “Not from around here, are

you! Well, you stick with Banyon; he’ll show you the ropes. He’s pretty street-smart.”

The two transit cops moved on, back to business; there were more important matters to claim their

attention in the subway than a couple of licensed buskers.

When they’d gone, Hosea gave Eric a sidelong glance, followed by a slow smile. “Reckon I owe you

one,” he said. Eric laughed.

“Just want to keep a good musician out of trouble,” he replied easily. “How were you to know you need

a license? Listen, let’s collect a take while the collecting’s good, and I’ll tell you all about what you need

to know afterwards.”

Hosea nodded, and combed back the long blond hair that flopped down into his eyes back with a set of

strong, brown fingers. “Old standard?” he suggested, and played the first few notes of “Foggy Mountain

Breakdown.”

Eric nodded. Everybody knew that one—the Lester Flat and Earl Scruggs classic had been the theme

song to the movie Bonnie and Clyde. And while it was written for banjo and fiddle, there was no reason

he couldn’t take the fiddle part.

“Then—how about we follow straight into ‘Devil Went Down to Georgia’ and ‘Mama Tried’?” Eric

countered. There. I’m not just a Celtic purist, you know.

“Right.” Hosea’s eyes lit up slyly, and Eric suspected he was about to be given a run for his money.

Hosea surged into the opening bars of the “Breakdown,” his fingers blurring on the strings. Eric barely

made his entrance in time to take the melody away from the banjo and carry it.

Hosea, like many an Irish player at the Faires, had a wicked sense of humor and liked to accelerate the

pace of an already fast piece with each successive pass. But Eric was ready for him—not that it was all

that difficult for a Bard to figure out what another Bard was going to do next. By the time they segued

into “Devil Went Down to Georgia,” they’d hit light-speed. The crowd around them was thicker than

before, and people were grinning and tapping their toes to the Charlie Daniels standard.

He’d had the joy of working with another Bard only Underhill, with his mentor Dharniel. That was always

fun—if you could really use that word for anything to do with Master Dharniel—but it was nothing,

nothing like working with another human Bard! There was a level of spontaneity and creative spark here

that just wasn’t present when he made music with the elves, and it made all the difference. Eric closed his

eyes and gave himself over to the purest pleasure he’d ever felt outside of sex—and it certainly lasted a

whole lot longer than even the most athletic sexual adventure he’d ever had!

It wasn’t until he opened his eyes as he played the last flourish of “Mama Tried” that he realized they

were surrounded six-deep by a gaping, grinning, toe-tapping human audience of people who should have

been getting back to their jobs (or on to their lunches). The very moment they finished, money actually

began to snow, rain, and hail into the banjo case, a veritable Hurricane Andrew of coins and small bills.

Money that missed the case was scooped up and dumped into it by helpful hands, which was a small

miracle in and of itself, as applause followed on the monetary accolade.

“Got enough to hold you for the next day or so?” Eric muttered sotto voce with a nod at the case.

Hosea grinned and nodded, his hair flopping into his eyes again. “That’ll get me vittles and a bunk at the

Y for a couple days, while I study on what I’ve got to do next,” he replied. “Let’s give these nice folk

something to play ’em out on.” His fingers began to move on the strings again.

Of all the tunes that Eric would have suspected Hosea would chose, this would not have been one. He

listened as the banjo-Bard’s clever fingers picked out the deceptively lazy little “pink-a pink-a pink-a

pink-a pink (pause) pink-a pink-a pink-a pink-a pink (pause).”

Eric recognized it immediately, and knew the tune so well that his flute was at his lips and the soft notes

spilling out at exactly the right moment after that second pause. “The Rainbow Connection” from the very

first Muppet movie—how had Hosea known how much he liked that tune? And where had an

Appalachian mountain boy learned it?

I guess that only proves that we live in a globally connected world, when an Appalachian

mountain boy and a Juilliard student can recognize the same tune and play it like a couple of old

buddies.

Simple tunes are deceptive things; superficially easy to play, they are the very devil to play well. But in

the hands of not one, but two Bards, the very simplicity allows the heart and soul to shine.

When they finished, this time the reward was smiles as well as applause. Eric bowed with a flourish,

Hosea with a kind of foot-shuffling modesty. Eric was pretty sure that though Hosea was a practiced

musician, he hadn’t been playing for money for very long—at least not as a street musician.

“Ladies and gents, you need to get back to your jobs, I’m sure—” Eric announced with practiced

Faire-patter. Groans, and a chorus of “aaawwww!”—surely the greatest music to a musician’s

ears—greeted this announcement.

“—so in the interest of making sure you don’t get in trouble, my friend Hosea and I will be taking a break

now for a few hours. Thank you all, and we’ll be here off and on for the rest of the week!”

With no display of hurry, but with the efficiency of any busker who has sometimes seen his “take” vanish

along with the rear end of a petty thief, Eric shoved the banjo case over behind Hosea’s legs with his foot

while he scooped up his flute case and began taking his instrument apart and cleaning it. The crowd

dispersed—with a few generous souls lobbing a couple more handfuls of change at the case for good

measure as they left.

“This is half yours,” Hosea said, from a bent-over position, preparatory to doing something about the

“take.”

“Oh, just pull out enough for some lunch for both of us and I’ll call it quits,” Eric replied absently. “Fifteen

bucks should do it; that’ll leave you enough for bus fare to get to the Y and a street and subway map.”

Hosea looked up at him doubtfully, but seemed to sense that Eric was in earnest. He just shoved most of

the “take” into the duffle he’d had behind him, keeping out a handful of bills that he crammed into his

pocket. He placed the banjo lovingly into his case, and handed Eric his busking license back.

He moved very gracefully for such a big fellow; shortly he stood up with duffle and case slung over

opposite shoulders, looking very much at ease and entirely out of place.

“So—your name’s Banyon,” he said, giving Eric a slow and considering once-over with those piercing

blue eyes. “Is that a first name or a last?”

“Last. Eric Banyon, former RenFaire player, current Juilliard student, at your service,” Eric replied,

making a little bow that mocked his status as “Juilliard student.”

But Hosea’s slow smile wouldn’t accept the mocking attitude. “Figured you had to be from around

there,” he said. “Some feller told me it was up that-a-way”—he waved vaguely at the ceiling—“and I

reckoned anybody could play like you was probably from there. Well, Eric Banyon, the cop said I was

to stick by you, so where do we find lunch?”

Central Park on a July day was as good a substitute for countryside as you were likely to find within fifty

miles, and a lot cooler under the trees than the city streets were. The park was a lot bigger, and had

more secluded places, than anyone but a native New Yorker would be likely to guess—a lot of them

avoided the Park anyway, fearing gangs and muggers. There had been a suggestion, a couple of years

back, that wolves should be reintroduced—a suggestion that wasn’t entirely a silly idea. Wolves would

do very well here if they could be kept in isolation, but it was inevitable that they’d crossbreed with feral

dogs, which in a few generations would only mean that there would be a resident pack of

slightly-more-lupine feral dogs in the remoter parts of the place. Probably not the best idea in the world,

given the unpredictable nature of lupine-canine crossbreeds. It was bad enough that coyotes had made

their way here and had a thriving pack up by the Reservoir: no garbage can—or stray poodle—was safe.

Eric and Hosea gathered hot dogs and drinks from one of the Sabrette’s carts outside the Park, and Eric

led his fellow Bard into one of those quieter spots more familiar to the bird watchers than to the Frisbee

throwers. There was, in fact, one of the bird feeders that the bird watchers maintained in this little bit of

half-tame wilderness, and when they finished their food, Eric watched some sort of tiny birds flitting to

and from it.

Hosea had clearly not eaten today, but he hadn’t wolfed down the four (!) hot dogs he’d gotten for

himself from the vendor. He’d eaten neatly and precisely, with not a crumb wasted or a bit of mustard

smeared. He finished his soda, folded up all the paper neatly, and stuck it and the can into his duffle with

the rest of his gear. No littering for this lad, evidently.

“So,” Hosea said at last, breaking the silence. “Where do I get me one of them licenses so I can play for

the folks without getting myself in trouble with the law?”

Eric explained the whole process while Hosea listened carefully. “The next audition isn’t for another three

weeks, though,” Eric concluded, and as Hosea’s face began to fall, he added quickly, “But don’t

worry—you can busk in the Park without one, and you can busk with me in the subway.”

“Ain’t you got classes?” Hosea asked doubtfully.

“I can work around them,” Eric replied, then chuckled. “Besides, look what we did in half an hour

together! There’s probably about a hundred bucks there—figure we hit the lunch crowd and the

commuters going home, we’ll take in more than enough to cover your expenses until you can get a license

for yourself. And you will,” he added, with certainty.

Of course you will. You’re a Bard, how can you not, if you put your mind and magic to it?

Hosea’s earnest gaze met his steadfastly. “You’ve been helping me because . . .” There was a long

pause, and for the first time Eric saw Hosea hesitate, as if he weren’t quite sure how to put the thought

into words. “Because of the music-magic. You’ve got the shine, too. Right?”

Eric hadn’t expected him to put it quite so bluntly, though after the first few notes he’d been pretty sure

that Hosea knew his own gift, and recognized Eric for a kindred soul.

“Well—yeah,” Eric admitted a little sheepishly. “Where I come from, we’re called Bards.”

“Bards.” Hosea rolled the flavor of the word over in his mouth and thoughts. “Like—back in the Druid

times?” He grinned at Eric’s raised eyebrows. “You reckon I’m right out of the hills, but we got libraries

there, too. And the Internet.”

Eric laughed, a little ashamed of himself for assuming Hosea was as simple as he looked. It wasn’t

precisely an act, Eric was coming to realize, but more of another defense against frightening people.

Hosea was almost painfully courteous. “No offense meant,” he said.

“None taken. So, I ain’t never met another Bard before, except my Grandma. She had the shine, right

enough. Guess I got it from her. I’m right glad you came to my rescue, Eric Banyon.” Hosea’s

friendliness was as infectious as his grin.

“Right glad I did, too—” How could he not respond? There was something about Hosea that not only

exuded trustfulness, but trustworthiness. He could no more have walked away from the guy than kicked

a puppy in the face.

Besides, it isn’t as if I need the money. Eric’s needs were met—and more—by Elven magic. He’d

gotten his busking license as much to help out some of the kids at Guardian House as to line his own

pockets—or, admittedly, for the joy of playing for a live and mostly uncritical audience. His last assist

had been to one of the dancers who lived on his floor—Amity was between dancing jobs and desperate

to find something to pay her bills besides waitressing or cleaning houses. Eric had suggested that she

bring a small square of “floor” with her down to the subway with him. He’d played, she’d danced, and

together they made enough to pay her bills until the next job came along.

“Well, reckon you can find me the YMCA?” Hosea continued. “Friend of mine back home told me that

was the place to stay when I got here; told me the rooms was cheap—at least, cheap as anything is here

in the big city—and pretty safe. Not that I’ve got too much to worry about. Folks just take a look at me

and just naturally think twice about making trouble, I guess.”

Eric grinned. Most people would leave a Bard alone, even if they weren’t sure why. And a Bard who

was six-four and looked like he juggled pianos in his spare time was even less likely to attract undesirable

attention.

He quickly thought about all the things he’d most needed when he first moved to New York. Bonnie and

Kit had been there to get him settled in, but he’d still spent most of the first month getting lost every time

he ventured out of his own neighborhood.

“First, we get you a street map, a bus-route map, and a subway map,” Eric decided. “That’ll help you

find your way around. Come on.”

A quick stop at a newsstand took care of those immediate needs, and for good measure, Eric picked up

a guidebook that would give Hosea a lot of reference points—not just the tourist attractions, but the

important buildings, the schools and libraries and other major landmarks. After that, it was no great effort

to get Hosea planted firmly in front of the nearest YMCA. Once inside, and only then, Hosea dug the

day’s haul out of the duffle and counted it—he might not be street-smart, but he had a lot more common

sense than a lot of people Eric knew.

They’d done better than Eric had thought. There was almost $200 there, even if half of it was in quarters

and dollar coins, and a lot of subway tokens.

“I’m good for a week—” Hosea said, tentatively. He raised his eyebrows questioningly, offering Eric his

share again as he paid for his room and took the key. Hosea didn’t have a credit card—no ID of any

kind but a driver’s license and a library card, both from someplace in West Virginia—so the room clerk

had asked for cash in advance. Hosea had paid for three days, after being assured he could extend his

stay if he wished.

“No worries,” Eric assured him. “Look—here’s my phone number and address, but I’ll come and meet

you back here—Sunday night, say. That’s day after tomorrow. We can run through some numbers and

set up a playlist. Then at noon break on Monday, wait for me at the main entrance to the school and

we’ll do a lunch gig.” He coughed, a little embarrassed. “I’d gig with you the rest of this weekend, but

I’ve got friends coming in—”

“Reckon friends got to come before strangers,” Hosea countered, with a grin. “You said that it’s okay to

play in the Park, right? So I’ll play in the Park. I’ll do all right. Don’t you worry none about me, Eric

Banyon. I’m a big boy and I can take care of myself. You go on and be with your friends.”

Relieved, Eric clapped him on the back—and had to reach a bit to do it. “One of these days—and

soon—they’ll be your friends too, if I don’t miss my guess. Okay, Hosea, I’ll be out here Sunday

night—about six. We’ll get something delivered for dinner, talk some music, and see what happens.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it,” Hosea said genially, then hauled his duffle up onto his back again as if it

weighed nothing and headed for the elevator, his room key jingling in his hand.

Eric just shook his head, watching Hosea go. He tried to imagine all the trouble this guileless country boy

could have gotten himself into within thirty seconds of arriving in the city, and couldn’t even calculate it. If

he wasn’t a Bard . . .

Well, he is a Bard, and he’ll be fine. And I need to get home and start cleaning before Bethie gets

there and has a fit!

TWO:

THE TREES THEY DO GROW HIGH

By turning himself into a cleaning tornado for a couple of hours—and by recruiting Greystone for things

like moving furniture while he vacuumed and then used the steam cleaner he’d borrowed from one of his

neighbors—Eric got the apartment up to Beth’s standards of hygiene, with all the windows wide open to

let in blasts of borrowed winter cold. He even sucked all the crumbs out of the crevices of the couch and

chairs—something he hadn’t done since before the last party. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have bothered

doing the Martha Stewart thing. The floor and most of the surfaces were clear, and what was the good of

Mercedes Lackey & Rosemary Edghill - The Bard - 03 - Spirits

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