“I wonder,” the Bard murmured to himself. “Can it be ... so soon?”
He moved slowly to the window. Kevin followed, looking over the man’s shoulder at a laughing group of folks on horseback clattering into the courtyard, surrounding two gaudy red and blue wagons. The riders’ cloaks and tunics fluttered in the wind, their many colors so bright he could have sworn they were cut from scraps of rainbows. The man who seemed to be the leader, driving the first wagon, wore a robe that edit-’ tiered like the sun itself.
“It's just a troop of minstrels,” Kevin began, but his Master was already calling out the window: “Berak!”
The leader glanced up, his sharp-featured, green-eyed face suddenly alert. “So it was your Summons, old man!” he yelled back. “You’re still alive and kicking, I see!”
Kevin gasped, but his Master only laughed. “And you’re still the same disrespectful soul as ever! Come up here, if you would.”
Berak brought his whole troop with him, twenty men and women and their offspring, all with sharp, suntanned faces and bright, wild eyes. Chattering and laughing, they filled the small room almost to overflow, their gaudy clothing making it look even shabbier than it was.
Berak held up a hand for silence, “What would you, old Bard?” he asked, making the man a fantastic bow.
The Bard didn’t seem at all disturbed by the curious stares. “A favor, Berak, if you would. My apprentice here, young Kevin, needs to travel to Count Volmar’s castle—”
“A far way for such a child,” a woman murmured, and Kevin gave her an indignant glare.
“Exactly,” his Master said. “I doubt you restless butterflies will be staying here longer than one night.”
“Not in this dull town!”
“Then since your route seems to be taking you along the North Road anyhow, if you might happen to see your way to the count’s castle, and take Kevin with you when you go ... ?”
For a moment, the Bard’s eyes met Berak’s fierce green gaze.
Almost, Kevin thought in sudden confusion, as though they’re exchanging secret information.
But in the next moment Berak laughed and bowed another of his intricate bows, and Kevin told himself not to be ridiculous. The man was nothing more than a common minstrel.
“Of course, old man,” Berak said. “Kevin, bardling, we leave at sunrise tomorrow!”
Whether I like it or not. the boy thought drily.
That night, the troop of minstrels sang for their supper, standing to one side of the open fireplace, the gaudy colors of their clothing turned muted and glowing by the flickering firelight. Kevin listened to their music for a long time, trying to figure out exactly what they were doing. No two singers seemed to be following the same tune, and the two harpers, three fiddlers and one flutist all seemed to be playing their own melodies as well. And yet somehow all that wild sound managed to blend into one whole, intricate song. He couldn’t say whether or not it was a beautiful song, he couldn’t even say whether or not he liked it, but the bardling had to admit it certainly was interesting.
he innkeeper and his wife didn’t seem to know what to make of the music, either, nor did their guests. When the troop had finished, there was a fair amount of applause, and everyone agreed they had earned their dinners, but Kevin suspected from their uncertain glances that the rest of the audience was as confused as he.
“How did you like it?” The old Bard had appeared so suddenly at Kevin’s shoulder that the bardling had to bite back a yell—
I’m not sure ... I mean, it was music, all right, not just sound, but ... well ... it was wild. Like something the forest would sing, if trees could only—I mean—I’m sounding stupid, aren’t I?”
His Master chuckled. “No. Not at all. You sound like a youngster who’s suddenly realized that the world’s a good deal wider, with a good deal more strangeness in it, than he ever suspected.” He patted Kevin’s shoulder. “Come along, bardling. The night’s growing late, and you must be up early in the morning.”
Kevin stood in the courtyard of the inn, dad in good, serviceable tunic, breeches and boots, the whole thing covered by a woolen cloak, its warmth welcome in the chilly morning air. His lute was in its waterproof traveling case, slung across his back, because no Bard, not even a bardling, ever traveled without his instrument.
All around the bardling, the minstrels were chattering and scuttling about, somehow never getting in each other’s way, reloading their wagons, scooping up giggling children, tightening a saddle girth here, readjusting a pack there. But Kevin didn’t really notice all the bustle. He was too busy staring at the animal placidly looking back at
