“Blast it all to Darkness!”
Kevin rummaged through the mess on floor and table till he found a replacement string. This was ridiculous? All Master Aidan had to do was say the word, and King Amber would gladly name him the royal bard. They could be living in the royal palace right now.
And wouldn’t that be grand? Kevin pictured his Master in elegant Bardic robes, people bowing respectfully as he passed. He would be a major power in court. And his brave young apprentice would be a figure of importance too ....
“Right,” Kevin muttered. “And pigs could fly.”
His Master had tremendous musical talent, no doubt about that; every time the old Bard took his own well- worn mandolin and showed the boy how a song should be played, a little shiver of wonder ran through Kevin, and with it a prayer: Ah, please, please, let me someday play like that, with such grace, such—such glory! Of late he had begun to hope that his prayers, if not answered, had at least begun to be heard. But even Ada insisted Master Aidan was also an adept at Bardic Magic ....
I don’t understand it! If I had such a gift, I’d be using it, not —not hiding it away in the middle of nowhere!
Oh yes, “if,” Kevin thought darkly. It wasn’t as though every Bard had the innate gift for Bardic Magic, after all. Master Aidan seemed to believe he possessed it, had assured Kevin over and over that in some bardlings the gift blossomed fairly late. But surely if he was going to show any sign of magic, it would have surfaced by now. After all, he was nearly a man! Yet so far he hadn’t felt the slightest angle of Power no matter how hard he’d tried. To him, the potentially magical songs his Master had taught him remained just that:
songs.
The bardling gave the lute an impatient strum, then winced. Sour! Lute strings went out of pitch all too easily.
As he retimed them, Kevin admitted to himself that yes, he did take a great deal of joy in creating music, and in creating it well. But aside from that music, what did he have? Of course it was true that a musician seldom had time for much else; if he was to succeed at all, a musician must give himself totally to his craft. Kevin could accept that But did the rest of life have to be so—drab? What did he do from day to day, really, but run his Master’s errands like a little boy, keep all those old manuscripts dusted, see the same dull town and the same dull people?
I might as well be apprenticed too—a baker!
“Kevin,” a weary voice called from across the hall, and the bardling straightened, listening. “Come here, please.”
“Yes, Master.”
Now what? Maybe he was supposed to order their supper from the innkeeper? Or go find out from Ada exactly when their wash would be done?
But when the bardling saw the old Bard’s pale face, his impatience slipped away, replaced by a pang of worry. He had never known the Master as anything but a white-bearded old man, but surely he’d never seen him look quite this tired. Quite this ... fragile.
It’s because he never goes out, Kevin tried to persuade himself. Never even gets any sunlight, cooped up in here with his books. “Master? Is—is something wrong?”
“No, Kevin. Not exactly.”
But a hint of fire flickered in the man’s weary blue eyes, and Kevin tensed, all at once so wild with hope he nearly cheered. “You’ve found what you were looking for!”
“Alas, no.”
“Then ... what is it? Are we going somewhere?” Oh please, oh please, say yes!
“We? No. boy. You.”
Kevin felt his heart thunder in his chest. Yes! At last something new was going to happen! “You w-won’t regret this!” he stammered. “Just tell me what the quest is, and I—”
The old Bard chuckled faintly. “I’m afraid it isn’t a quest, my fine young hero. More of an errand. A longer one than usual, and further away than most, but an errand never the less.”
“Oh.” Kevin struggled to keep the disappointment from his face. I should have known better. Just another stupid errand.
