Page 13 of Homeward for a Spell

Now Araphi understands. The man and Sage are work companions. Excellent, she can handle that. Not that she should be worried about it, since she won’t be doing more than fake flirting with Sage, and then wishing her well before she heads north.

Remy nods. “Well, Phi. We’ll be moving fast through rough terrain, and that isn’t the kind of mission that begs for a bard, you understand?”

“You haven’t heard her play,” Sage challenges the man, sounding annoyed on her behalf. Funny, since Sage has never heard her play either.

But Araphi seizes her chance before he can protest, hopping up to grab the lute from its resting spot by her chair. “Wait here, please, I’ll just be a moment.” She hurries to the bar, planting herself on an open stool. “Who’d like to hear a song?” she calls out.

No one replies.

She tries again, louder this time. Someone shouts at her to shut up, and a pint of ale goes whizzing past her head to shatter on the bar wall behind her.

This is all very usual stuff for a working bard, she imagines, and far lower stakes than a Clauneck dinner party. Araphi brushes a frothy spot of ale off her dress and whispers a quick spell of bardic enchantment, hoping some particularly bored deity is listening in through the planes. Then she calls out again, even louder this time: “Who’d like to hear a song?”

This time, thanks to the spell perhaps, the tavern grows quiet, all eyes on her.

Now, what should she play?

This is definitely not a ballad crowd, nor one so musically inclined they might appreciate more technically complex songs. So Araphi strums the first few notes of a popular tavern song, something bawdy and hilarious, and then she launches into it, fully aware that Sage’s eyes are trained on her. Araphi meets her gaze for a moment, and the look the ranger gives her is one of unmistakable desire. It makes Araphi’s knees tremble.

But she is a prize-winning bard, so she just winks at Sage and keeps playing. The notes tumble from her fingers in a breathless run, nearly tripping over themselves. Araphi’s practiced fingers guide the entire tavern through the four verses of the song. The joy of the music seeps into her as she plays, and her worries melt away. Sure, she’s supposed to be dress shopping this week for a wedding she’s come to dread, and her attendants will soon be looking for her, and yes, she most certainly made a fool of herself with Sage. But the song rolls through her, and everyone in the tavern is singing along. By the time Araphi’s done, her chest heaves from the effort, and a grin splits her face. The mood in the tavern is decidedly lighter after her performance. People clap her on the back, and someone shoves a full mug of ale into her hand as she makes her way back to where Sage and Remy sit.

When she stops in front of the table, Sage is writing something down and doesn’t look up.

“Well?” Araphi asks. She can’t keep her voice from trembling slightly, both from the delicious adrenaline of singing in front of a crowd and from the realization that she’s no longer pretending to care what Sage thinks. It isn’t even about the ranger—well, mostly it isn’t—so much as the opportunity in front of her. Hasn’t she always dreamed of a life like this? Getting by on her talents and passion, instead of by her family name? Now that she’s here, now that there’s a chance, she isn’t so eager to close the door on that dream, after all.

5

Sage

The audition began as a jest—a way for Sage to put off the plentiful work of preparing for their journey for a few more moments. Araphi can’t seriously intend to sign on now that she’s realized her mistake, but she had come all this way. So why not pretend to flirt with the beautiful and obnoxious party girl who pretends to flirt back?

There’s nothing make-believe about Araphi’s talent, though. She commands the room. Her face is as animated as any stage actress in Harrow, finely carved features shifting to match the lyrics of a ridiculous song about a pair of young lovers stumbling through the countryside one night, searching for a place to lie together. They flaunt their sexual talents in the first place they come upon, the temple of a minor devil—talents that Araphi narrates in great detail. The pair wake the next morning to find themselves cursed: one with a dairy intolerance, and the other with a tongue turned to cheese. Standard tavern nonsense that draws cheers as lewd as the lyrics from the crowded room.

But every time Araphi’s eyes catch Sage’s, it feels like a private serenade. Like Araphi’s voice, sweet and smoky at once, is a secret whispered into the shell of Sage’s ear.

The spell fades away as soon as the ballad ends. Probably it was part spellwork; songs sung by bards—real bards, and not just traveling players—are essentially prayers to one of Harrow’s gods or devils of art and revelry. If they’re pleased, they send their particular magic back in return. A talented bard can cast spells with their music, pouring their intentions into the melody and letting the gifted magic flow through them.

Perhaps Araphi Clauneck isn’t pretending, after all. Not about being a bard, at least.

She leaves the stage, and Sage bends over a scrap of parchment and begins to draw—in part to avoid meeting Araphi’s gaze as she approaches.

“Well, what do you think?” Araphi asks, sounding breathless and pleased.

Remy speaks before Sage can. “You can play, Phi,” he admits. “But I fail to see how that’ll help us in the woods, much as I love a good campfire sing-along.”

“Hang on.” Sage surprises herself by protesting. “Bards are more than that. They put a pretty face on a party of rough strangers,” she reminds him, resolutely not looking at Araphi’s unfortunately pretty face as she does. “A bard can charm our way out of fights before one begins. And it never hurts to have a little extra magic on our team, if fight we must. Besides, isn’t this my party?”

He turns on her then, studying Sage as a ranger might watch their prey, waiting patiently until their arrow has a clear path. She lifts her chin and stares him down in turn, refusing to squirm under examination.

At last, Remy relents with a quick, inscrutable smile. “As you say.”

“Correct me if I’m mistaken, Sage,” Araphi interrupts them, “but it sounds as though you want me to join your party, after all.”

“I am…sufficiently impressed to explain the adventure you definitely knew you were auditioning for.” She slides the map of Harrow she’s hastily drawn on a scrap of parchment across the table for Araphi to see. Sage points to the spot on the parchment where two twisting rivers nearly kiss in the Northlands. “Our party—thus far myself, Remy, our healer, our fighter, and our spellcaster—will be traveling here, to the Swallow. At least, that’s one of the names it seems to go by. It’s a rare natural canal that connects the Willowthorn and Halhazy rivers where they run parallel, right before the Halhazy turns east.”

Araphi frowns down upon the parchment, inspecting Sage’s drawing. “Why are there party hats in the Northlands?”

“What? No, those are mountains.”