Andre Norton - WW - High Hallack 06 - Song Smith

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Prologue

Life as a songsmith, a forger and singer of tales, seems to the

uninitiated (that is, those who have never tried it) to be a most

carefree existence, full of travel, romance and perhaps (only

now and then, for spice) a little danger. In truth, it seldom

reaches such memorable heights, being mostly work like unto

any other.

One listens, one remembers, then one wrestles with words

and musical notes to hammer all into a coherent whole, hop-

ing fervently that the finished product will elicit smiles instead

of frowns, or, worse, yawns. One learns to count the night's

takings from the clinks in the harp case, discerning the clear

ring of silver from the thud of bronze and copper or (fortune

2 ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

be praised) the weighty, rare whisper of gold—all by sound

alone. One spends nights huddled under the lash of rain, or

stinging snow, with perhaps naught but a pocket of sullen fire

to hold back the hungry night. One leams to heat brook water

and sip it slowly in lieu of real food, trying thus to fool an

empty belly. ...

No, my lords and ladies, gathered here in this age-held

citadel to hear the songsmith and sip your wine, the life of a

bard is hardly carefree.

There are times, though, when the music and the tale are

worth it all. Then the tune flows like the ripple of a fine horse's

mane, words spring nearly unbidden to the singer's lips. Such

a time is now, following the toasts and congratulations that

accompany a day of ceremony, high feasting and joy, here in

such a lordly keep. Now, after the singing of some of the

oldest, best tales, it is time for the birth of a new one... a tale

that songsmiths will hold in special honor, for reasons soon to

be made clear to you.

So ... an opening chord-sweep, a strum to mimic the sound

of wind harrying a cold, early spring mist in the backwater

alley of a darkened waterfront, and the new tale opens. . . .

One

Years of salt spray borne by fierce winds had encrusted the

walls guarding the steep lane leading up from the wharves,

painting dirty white splotches on the age-blackened stones.

The Way of the Empty-Netted Fisher was nearly deserted in

the last wan illumination of sunset; only one of its many

shadows possessed any substance.

That dark-cloaked, slight figure was already so unsteady

from two months at sea that when a bitter cold, salt-tinged

blast swept by, it staggered, nearly falling. The hapless way-

farer skidded on the slimy cobbles of the stinking, refuse-

covered Way, only saved from a fall by the tall,

gryphon-headed quarterstaff that served as a walking aid as

ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

well as a weapon. The traveler huddled into the half-shelter of

an ancient archway to brace against another gust of wind,

long-fingered hands clutching a worn hand-harp case and a

much-mended backpack against the icy thrust of the coming

storm.

Ahead a dim light beckoned, promising shelter from the

wind and soon-to-fall sleet. As the harper neared that flicker-

ing beacon, it revealed itself to be a ship's lantern, barely

sheltered enough that its flame still lived, hanging outside a

hulking, dark-timbered building. Even above the whipping

breeze, sounds of tipsy revelry inside were clear.

The traveler eyed the inn with its accompanying tavern

warily, realizing that The Dancing Dolphin was no accommo-

dation that anyone with a reasonably well-filled purse would

seek out for a meal, much less lodging. Beneath the much-

faded lettering on the swinging sign, an improbable greyish

shape sported among wildly tossing waves. The harper

grimaced, but there was no arguing with the light weight of the

purse carefully tucked down inside a sea-stained leather jerkin.

Forcing the door open against a particularly strong wind-

bluster, the songsmith stumbled into the taproom. Raucous

laughter andshouted arguments made a deafening din. Eyeing

the tavern-master, the dark-cloaked traveler picked a cautious

way across a floor made nearly as treacherous as the alley

outside by slopped wine and greasy, skittering bones.

The tavern-master, a thin, red-nosed man with a balding

pate and hair-tufted ears, turned at the tug on his sleeve.

"Your pardon, sir," the stranger murmured, indicating the

hand-harp case. "Would there be any objection to a few songs

by the fire for your customers tonight?"

The tavern-master's eyes were on a level with the harper's as

he eyed the stranger; then, abruptly, he nodded. "Not as long

as you're willing to pay for your bed and board like anyone

else, minstrel."

"Certainly." The stranger shook back the hood of the dark

cloak, revealing a mass of curling black hair, cropped short.

Small silver hoops winked from both earlobes, "I'll begin—"

"A wench! An' a likely-looking one at that, Mylt! By the

Hounds' Teeth, where'd you find 'er?" A hand descended on

SONGSMTTH

the traveler's shoulder, jerking her half about to face a heavy-

shouldered fisherman with a wind- and ale-reddened face.

His rough handling pulled her dark cloak open, revealing

the silver ornament lying pendant on the breast of her laced

overjerkiri. As the man took in the meaning of that symbol, he

stepped back, dropped his hand. "I didn't know—didn't

see—" Clumsily, he touched thick fingers to his forehead in

apology. "Yer pardon, songsmith. . . ."

The bard graciously inclined her head, her fingers going to

the sign of her calling . . . three interlinked circles, each with

a flattened, pointed side—stylized finger and thumb picks, for

use with a hand-harp. "I'll begin now," she said to the tavern-

master, as though the interruption had not occurred.

Carrying her harp case over to the bench by the fire, the

songsmith opened it, drawing forth a much-used instrument.

It was of old-fashioned design, carved from aged cherry wood,

its scrolls and frets enhanced by a silvery blue metal shimmer-

ing faintly in the firelight. Resting the harp across her lap, she

drew three picks out of the inner pocket of her red tunic,

slipping them onto her thumb and first two fingers.

She began tuning the instrument. Hearing the soft strains,

the twelve fishermen, eight Sulcar sailors and two grizzled old

Falconer marines present in the common room ceased talking

and quietly, respectfully, gathered near the fire.

"Draw nigh, sirs!" Mylt the tavern-master loudly urged.

"Pay heed to a wandering songsmith who has graciously

agreed to provide us with entertainment this stormy eve. Give

heed to the Lady—" He hesitated, realizing he'd neglected to

ask the bard's name, and she whispered, with a wry smile,

"Eydryth of Kar Garudwyn."

". . . the Lady Eydryth of Kar Garudwyn!" Mylt finished

with a flourish. A polite silence fell.

Eydryth began playing, a rollicking, toe-tapping tune, lim-

bering her fingers while sizing up her audience. All male, and

most of them sailors or fishermen. Sea-songs would go well,

then, tales of lost loves, of sweet-voiced sirens and of noble

deeds. Perhaps a bawdy one to finish, making them laugh,

even as they tossed coins into her harp case. . . .

"Give heed, kind sirs, to a tune taught me aboard the Sulcar

6 ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

ship Osprey," she said, hoping fervently that the cold damp-

ness of this day's sailing had not thickened her voice. "It

concerns a force of men gathered by one of your legendary

heroes during the K-older War, one Simon Tregarth. I give you

'The Riving of the Border.' "

Eydryth began singing, softly at first; then, as her voice

warmed up, her contralto rang out, filling the smoke-thick-

ened air with clear, true notes:

We pledged fair Estcarp's bounds to hold

We men who ride with Tregarth's band

That witches might, with knowledge old,

Avenge the wrongs done in our land.

Of Falconer blood and elder race

We ride, united by one will—

To keep the invaders from this place;

Send sword and falcon forth to kill!

As she finished the second verse and began the third, the

young woman glanced quickly from face to face. Her audience

was leaning forward, all conversation forgotten. Tension

eased from her as she realized that the people here in the Port

of Eslee were equally susceptible to the "spell" cast by flying

fingers and trained voice as were the folk overseas in High

Hallack or her home in spell-shrouded Arvon. She hoped

they'd be as generous with their coin offerings; it had taken

nearly everything she'd earned on her travels through the

Dales to pay for the long voyage aboard the Osprey.

Both fourth and fifth verses went even better. By now the

men were nodding in rhythm to her song. Eydryth finished the

ballad with a last triumphant, clarion strum, and they

thumped their tankards on the board appreciatively. "An-

other, minstrel! Another!" One of the Sulcar sailors, massive

and fair as were all his race, shouted bull-voiced over the

others, "A Sulcar tune, songsmith! Give us a song for the Sons

of Sul!"

Fortunately, the Sulcar sailors aboard the Osprey had

SONGSMITH 7

taught her a multitude of songs, since they sang constantly at

their work, and their music was easy for trained ears and

fingers to master. Eydryth closed her eyes as she strummed,

searching for the proper key. . . . There, she had it now.

"Very well, kind sirs. I give you 'The Fall of Sulcarkeep,'

which tells the tale of the great hero Magnus Osberic and how

he destroyed his own stronghold rather than let it fall into

Kolder hands."

The tune this time was in a somber, minor key, as befitted

a tragic tale. Eydryth began:

Wind and flame and earth and wave

Sulcarkeep, proud Sulcarkeep!

All sent to dig a trader's grave;

Sulcarkeep, lost Sulcarkeep!

" 'Tis built to ward," proud Osberic said,

"Sulcarkeep, strong Sulcarkeep!

There's none without permission tread

In Sulcarkeep, fair Sulcarkeep!"

She continued, losing herself in the music. Her tawdry sur-

roundings faded as the song bore her back into that ancient

stronghold, transporting her to the fateful night. Eydryth's

voice rose into an eerie wail as she described the desperate

battle throughout the doomed fortress:

Yet when the fog stole rank and thick

On Sulcarkeep, dark Sulcarkeep

Sent by a Kolder demon-trick

. To Sulcarkeep, cursed Sulcarkeep,

The trader knew his fate was nigh

In Sulcarkeep, strong Sulcarkeep

For Death came drifting from the sky

To Sulcarkeep, doomed Sulcarkeep.

With swinging axe and bloodied sword

Through Sulcarkeep, vast Sulcarkeep

They fought the mindless, soulless horde

Down Sulcarkeep, through Sulcarkeep.

8 ANDRE NORTON AND A.C. CRISPIN

The big sailor's face was saddened and grim now, and Eyd-

ryth wondered whether he had lost a father or uncle during

that terror-ridden night. It was almost as though she could see

the mighty Osberic in his bear's-head helm, his stained sword

dripping red onto the blood-slicked flags of the ancient strong-

hold. Her voice soared up into the final sad yet strangely

triumphant verses:

And when they reached the mighty heart

Of Sulcarkeep, proud Sulcarkeep

Then did witchmen and Sulcar part

In Sulcarkeep, damned Sulcarkeep

"With my own hand shall I lay waste :

My Sulcarkeep, dear Sulcarkeep!"

Said Osberic, "Now make you haste,

From Sulcarkeep, lost Sulcarkeep!"

So he unleashed the mighty power

In Sulcarkeep, proud Sulcarkeep

That made of stone a flaming flower;

Ah Sulcarkeep, Ah Sulcarkeep!

When she let the last, ebbing chord die away, there was silence

for a long moment; then, as though just waking from sleep, the

men stirred. The Sulcannan cleared his throat. "Well done,

minstrel. Never have I heard it sung better." A flash of bright

silver spun through the air, landing in the harp case. As

though the sailor's gesture were a floodgate opening, coins

spattered to join the first.

Eydryth nodded graciously, acknowledging their offerings,

then gave them "The Mosswife's Bargain." A lighter mood

prevailed as she spun out the skipping, skirling notes of "The

One-Spell Wizard." After a refreshing swallow of ale from a

tankard ordered by the Sulcannan (even though she was

thirsty, Eydryth dared not drink more—her belly was rum-

bling with hunger, and she needed a clear head to ferret out

answers to questions she dared not pose too directly), she sang

"Don't Call My Name in Battle." The song was one her father

had taught her, years ago—

SONGSMITH 9

Don't think of him, Eydryth told herself firmly, feeling a

catch in the back of her throat threatening to ruin the last

verse- After the singing's done, when you've money to journey

on, then you can call up Jervon 's face to mind. Then you can

think of your foster-parents, the Lady Joisan and her lord,

Kerovan. Then you can think of Obred, and your chestnut mare

Vyar, Hyana and Firdun and Kar Garudwyn itself, may Neave

protect those within its walls! But until then, you must sing, and

give no hint of what you seek, why you have traveled so far from

home. . . .

Mastering her sorrow, she strummed the opening chords to

"Keylor's Rage," feeling weariness threaten to overwhelm and

net her like a cloak thrown in battle, muffling, blinding. Two

more songs, she promised herself. Only two more, then I can

stop and pick up my coins, knowing I've given full'measure for

what's been paid.

"And now, kind sirs," she said, a few minutes later, muting

the last chord of "Keylor's Rage" with her palm, "a new song,

one inspired by the story told me about the Kolder-cursed city

of Sippar, on the Island of Gorm. Pay heed an' you will to

The Haunted City.'"

Eydryth hushed her voice into eerie, thrumming tones,

thinking as she did that Sippar—or what was left of it—lay

just across the bay, barely a day's sail away. "No children

sleep in Sippar now," she began:

No vessels ride her harbor fair;

No footstep sounds on street or stair,

For all lies turned beneath death's plow.

When Kolder to rich Sippar came,

They drank its life, then stole the cup,

And when the demon-time was up,

An empty city cried its blame.

'Tis said the city twice was slain,

First with the sword, then with the mind;

By warfare of an unclean kind

The unsouled walked its streets again.

10 ANDRE NORTON ANP A.C. CRISPIN

Another death did Sippar die,

When Simon Tregarth struck the blow

That laid the power-wielder low,

Then unlife settled with a sigh.

The corpses lay in silent speech,

Slaves from bodies freed at last

To bury with them all that passed;

No more to fight, no more beseech.

No ship now comes to Sippar's quay,

For none will step upon her shore

Though time has shattered every door,

The bravest let her shadows be.

Even as the final words whispered into the silence of The

Dancing Dolphin, Eydryth saw her listeners shiver, then sit

upright too quickly. The fellow who had accosted her when

she'd first entered the tavern actually looked over his shoulder,

as though a spectral hand might be descending to rest there.

Can't have them loath to walk into the night, she thought.

Something a bit bawdy will leave them laughing and free with

their silver, and I need have no fears about playing something

from High Hallack and them not understanding it... . A bawdy

is a bawdy anywhere. . . . "Now sirs," she called out, "for the

evening's last song, I give you 'The Chambermaid's Dowry.' "

She began the opening notes to the song about the poor

young chambermaid who encountered a sailor with designs

upon her virtue (though, of course, he protested that he in-

tended honorable marriage). The verses unrolled amid guf-

faws from the sailors as the pretty maid accepted the sailor's

praises of her beauty, along with his many gifts, but through

misadventure and misdirection managed to remain chaste—-

until one day the sailor (determined to succeed at long last)

came home from a voyage only to discover that at that very

moment the girl was off being married: she'd used for her

dowry the gifts he'd given her!

Eydryth was smiling herself as she sang the chorus the last

time:

SONGSMTTH 11

Oh, she was fine, that bonny lass

Like a fair ship upon the sea—

But oh! I rue the day we met

For how that maiden plundered me!

"Thank you, thank you for your attention." She stood and

bowed, sipping her ale, as they toasted her, clapping. More

coins rang into the harp case. After her listeners had dispersed,

Eydryth counted the night's takings. There was plenty to pay

for a private room, dinner and breakfast, plus journey funds

for several days.

The tavern-keeper showed her to her room, a small, bare

loft beneath the overhanging eaves. After stowing away her

harp case and pack beneath the wooden bedstead, Eydryth

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PrologueLifeasasongsmith,aforgerandsingeroftales,seemstotheuninitiated(thatis,thosewhohavenevertriedit)tobeamostcarefreeexistence,fulloftravel,romanceandperhaps(onlynowandthen,forspice)alittledanger.Intruth,itseldomreachessuchmemorableheights,beingmostlyworklikeuntoanyother.Onelistens,oneremembers,t...

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Andre Norton - WW - High Hallack 06 - Song Smith

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