The Robin And The Kestrel

'Give me reason why I shouldn't kill you, girl!'

She watched her audience of one as closely as she had ever watched any audience; had she seen the spirit start with surprise at hearing his own words?

She responded as Rune.

'I've come to fiddle for you, sir _'

Kestrel came in_and again, his voice was not a booming and spectral one, as Wren usually sang the part, but in that deliberate imitation of the Ghost's true disembodied whisper.

'_Oh have you so?

Then fiddle, girl, and pray you fiddle well,

For if I like your music, then I'll let you live to play_

But if you do not please my ears I'll take you down to Hell!'

The cowl nodded, ever so slightly. And the pressure of magic eased off.

Now Robin concentrated on the music, and not the Ghost. She had his attention. Now she must keep it.

The song was a relatively short one, meant for a Faire audience that might not linger to hear an extended ballad. The last verse came up quickly.

At last the dawnlight strikes my eyes, I stop and see the sun_

The light begins to chase away the dark and midnight cold_

And then the light strikes something more, I stare in dumb surprise_

For where the Ghost once stood there is a heap of shining gold!

Then she and Kestrel swung into a double repeat of the last chorus, laughing and triumphant.

I'll play you high, I'll play you low

For I'm a wizard with my bow

And music is my lifeblood and my art

And every note I sing will tame your heart!

They finished with a flourish worthy of Master Wren himself. The Ghost regarded them from under his hood with a speculation and surprise that Robin felt, just as she had felt the fear he had tried to force on her.

'Well,' it whispered, the voice now coming from beneath that cowl and not from every shade and shadow in the clearing. 'So, the little fiddler girl survived. Did she thrive as well as survive?'

There was more than a little interest in that question. And not a hint of indifference. He remembered Rune, and he wanted to know about her.

'She continues to thrive, sir,' Robin said boldly. 'Your silver bought her lessons and instruments, and brought her to the Kingsford Faire and the Free Bards. She got a Master from the Free Bards, and then more than a Master, for she wedded him and earned her title of Master and of Elf-Friend as well. They sing for a King now, and wander no more.'

'A good King, I am sure,' came the return whisper. 'She would settle for naught else, the bold child who dared my hill.' Then amazingly, something that sounded like a hint of chuckle emerged from beneath the cowl. 'It is, I trow, hard to find a rhyme for 'silver'_and that 'heap of shining gold' tells me why, on a sudden, a fool or two a year has come to dig holes in my hill when they never did before.'