Magic's Promise

He took the first, of a dark wood that glowed deep red where the light from the open door struck it, tightened a string, and sounded a note, listening to the resonances.

'For you, or for someone else?'

'Someone else,' he said, listening to the note gently die away in the heart of the lute.

'High voice or low?'

'High now, but I think he may turn out to be a baritone when his voice changes. He's my nephew; he's Gifted, and he is going to be a fine Bard one day.'

'Try the other. That one is fine for a voice that don't need any help, it's loud, as lutes go - and all the harmonics are low. The other's better for a young voice, got harmonics up and down, and a nice, easy action. That one he'd have to grow into. The other'll grow with him.'

Vanyel looked up in surprise at the old man.

Rolf gave him a half-smile. 'A good craftsman knows how his work fits in the world,' he said. 'I got no voice, but I got the ear. Truth is, the ear is harder to find than the voice. Though I doubt you'd find a Bard who'd agree.'

Vanyel nodded, and picked up the second lute, this one of wood the gold of raival leaves in autumn. He tightened a string and sounded it; the note throbbed through the wagon, achingly true. He tried the action on the neck; easy, but not mushy.

'You were right,' he said, holding the chosen instrument out to the luthier. 'I'll take it. No haggling.' He looked wistfully over at the other. 'And if I didn't already have a lute I love like an old friend. ...'

Rolf waggled his bushy eyebrows, and grinned, as he took the golden lute from Vanyel and began carefully replacing it in its bag. 'Care to try a friend of a new breed?' He nodded at the gittern-shaped objects.

'Well . . . what are those things?'

'Something new. Been trying gitterns with metal strings, 'stead of gut; you tell me how it came out.' He laid the chosen lute carefully down on his bunk, and stripped the case from the first of the gitterns. 'I keep 'em tuned; this one is a fair bitch to demonstrate if I don't. Hoping to get to Haven one day, show 'em to the Collegium Bards.'

'Great good gods.' Vanyel's jaw dropped. “Twelve strings? I should say'

'Fingers like a gittern. That one's like it; the other has six. Use metal harpstrings.'

Vanyel took it carefully, and struck a chord -

It rang like a bell, sang like an angel in flight, and hung in the air forever, pulsing to the beat of his heart.

He closed his eyes as it died away, lost in the sound; and when he opened them, he saw Rolf grinning at him like a fiend.

'You,' he said, sternly, 'are a terrible man, Rolf Dawson.'

'Oh, I know,' the old man chortled. 'It don't hurt that the inside of this wagon's tuned, too. That's one reason why them student lutes sound as good as they do. But that lady'll sound good in a privy.'

'Well, I hope you're prepared to work your fingers to the bone,' Vanyel replied, snatching up the leather case and carefully encasing his gittern. 'Because when I take her back to Haven and Bard Breda hears her, she will send packs of dogs out to find you and bring you there!'

Rolf chuckled even harder. 'Why d'you think I pulled her out and had you try her? You're going to do half my work for me, Herald Vanyel. With you t'speak for me, an' that lady, I won't spend three, four fortnights coolin' my heels with the other luthiers, waitin' my turn to see a Collegium Bard'

Vanyel had to chuckle himself. 'You are a very terrible man. Now - you might as well tell me the worst.'

'Which is?'

He felt a twinge for his once-full purse. Well, what else did he have to spend money on? 'How much I owe you.'