The Robin And The Kestrel

The ethereal strains of a harp drew Kestrel across the clearing and into the deeper forest beyond the immediate confines of the Waymeet. Dead leaves crackled underfoot, and the scent of tannin rose at his every step. This was no simple song; this was the kind of wild, strange, dream-haunted melody that some of the Gypsies played_though Robin never would, claiming she had no talent for what she called adastera music. She said it was as much magic as music, and told him it was reputed to have the power to control spirits and souls, to raise ghosts and set them to rest again.

Robin followed him under the deep shadows of the trees, as the bare branches above gave way to thick, long-needled evergreens, a voice joined the harp, singing without words, the two creating harmonies that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. This was music powerful enough to make even Harperus weep! The harpist must be a Gypsy, but who was the singer? It did not sound like any human voice....

The path they followed seemed to lead beside the stream that watered the Waymeet; it led through deep undergrowth, along the bottom of a rock-sided ravine that slowly grew steeper with every twist and turn of the path. The stream wound its way through a tangle of rounded boulders, but its gurgle did not sound at all cheerful, although it was very musical. It held a note of melancholy that was a match for the sadness in the music floating on the breeze ahead of them.

'Nightingale,' Robin muttered. 'She's the only person I can think of who plays like that! But who is the singer?'

They had their answer a moment later, as the stream and path brought them to a tiny clearing made by the toppling of a single tree that bridged the water. There, beside the tree, was the harpist, seated on a rock with her harp braced on her lap. And standing beside her was T'fyrr.

Not even the birds were foolish enough to make any sound that might disturb these two. The Haspur stood like a statue of gray granite in the twilight shadows of the forest, only his chest moving to show that he was alive, with his eyes closed and his beak open just enough to permit his voice to issue forth. Nightingale's eyes were closed as well, but most of her face was hidden in the curtain of her hair, as she bent over her harp, all of her concentration centered on her hands and the melodies she coaxed from the delicate strings.

Both of them were too deeply engrossed in the music to notice their audience_and Robin and Kestrel stopped dead to keep from breaking their concentration.

The song came to its natural end, a single harp-note that hung in the air like a crystal raindrop; a sigh from T'fyrr that answered it.

For a long, long moment, only silence held sway beneath the branches. Then, finally, a bell-bird sang out its three-note call, and the two musicians sighed and opened their eyes.

T'fyrr caught sight of them first, and clapped his beak shut with a snap.

'T-T'fyrr _' Kestrel said, softly, 'th-that was w-w-wonderful.'

The bird-man bowed, graciously. 'It was an experiment _' he offered. 'It was not meant to be heard.'

'But since it was...' The Gypsy that Robin had identified as 'Nightingale' cocked her head to one side.

Robin evidently knew her well enough to answer the unspoken question. 'As critique from two fellow harpists_you've found the best match to your harp and your music I've ever heard,' Robin replied. 'I know Kestrel agrees with me, and he's a better harpist than I am. That was nothing short of magical.'

Nightingales mouth twitched a little, as if she found Robin's choice of words amusing. 'Well, we had agreed, T'fyrr and I, that this song would be the last of our experiments this morning. And while my heart may regret that you found us and are about to make us cleave to that agreement, my hands are not going to argue.' She began flexing them, and massaging each of the palms in turn. 'A forest in autumn is not the best venue for a performance. It is very damp here, and a rock makes a chilly, and none-too-soft cushion.' Her eyes met Kestrel's, sharp and penetrating, and just a little strange and other-worldly. 'T'fyrr said that you would turn up eventually, and that you had some news?'

Once again, the two of them passed on their own news, with the added tales from Linnet's trio and some of the other musicians. 'We started out with only good news,' Robin concluded, ruefully, 'but we seem to have acquired news of a more sober flavor. I feel like a bird who just finished the last song of summer, and sees the first storm of winter coming _'

Nightingale nodded. 'And now you will hear why I am here, and not in my usual winter haunt. And I think I may have the answer you have been looking for, as to why there are fewer places for Free Bards, and Guild musicians crowding into our old venues.'

As Robin took a place on the fallen tree, and Kestrel planted himself beside her, Nightingale glanced up at T'fyrr. 'I think that some of what I have to say will affect you, my new friend,' she said. 'But_listen, and judge for yourself.'

When Nightingale had found her usual winter position as the chief instrumentalist at a fine ladies' tea-shop closed to her, taken by a barely tolerable Guild violist, she did more than simply look for work, she began looking for the cause. And just as Gannet had, she had found clerics from the Church posted on street-corners, preaching against 'immorality.' But unlike Gannet, she had listened to the sermons.