reins over her head. Then again so were people.
Dayn waited for the next villager. A sandy-haired woman made her way up the dry and dusty road. Three young boys buzzed around her like hornets. They all carried empty buckets and seemed to be intent on beating each other to death with them. The woman was oblivious to it all, the calm in the middle of a storm. She was not old yet, but the years of hard work had made her tough and lean. Unlike most of the others, this woman didn’t glance away. She looked him directly in the eye and nodded. Dayn would bet anything she had a sharp tongue hidden behind her cynical grin.
“Excuse me, good lady,” Dayn accosted her. “I was wondering if you could tell me what all the empty buckets are for.” Dayn’s deep, rich voice often put people immediately at ease. He was told it had a soothing quality. It was an asset in his line of work. This woman was no different than most. She looked at the lute strapped across Dayn’s back, and her expression softened a bit.
“G’day, stranger,” she said. “You must be wanting something if yer callin’ me a lady.”
Dayn smiled. He was right about her sharp tongue. “I’m not looking for anything more than a kind word from a friendly face. I’m not from these parts. I have heard there is a festival going on, but I don’t know what for.”
“Aye, stranger. ‘Tis in honor of Paladine.” She said the word as if it left a sour taste in her mouth. “Every year after spring planting we gather at the temple for the god’s blessing.”
“We get to stay up all night,” the oldest boy piped in.
“And build a big fire,” the middle one added.
The youngest hid behind his mother’s skirts. Dayn noticed the boy had his hand wrapped in a dirty bandage. The dark stains from old blood were still showing through it.
“The temple grounds are filled with berry bushes,” the woman continued. “Everyone stays up the night, and at dawn we get to pick as many berries as we can eat.”
“And the buckets?”
“Some fools expect to bring a bucket home, but most berries never get past their mouths.”
“Indeed,” Dayn said, then turned on his most charming smile. “I don’t suppose you know where an honest man might sing for his supper?”
“A storyteller, are ya?” She eyed the lute. “I figured as much. No one’s got much to give away around here, lad, but I imagine someone would put up a fine bowl o’ stew if yer singing were as good as yer speaking.”
“That’s all I ask. Food for my belly and a song in my heart.”
“Yer young yet, you’ll soon find you need more than that to get by in this world. Come with me. I’ll show you the way.”
“Indeed.” Dayn said, and followed his new friend up the hill.
The woman, Jayna by name, led Dayn into the temple grounds. The temple was small but beautiful. The white stone was flawlessly smooth and looked very old. It was built on the top of a hill with a wonderful view of the pastures and farmlands below. The temple had a small monastery for the clerics in the back. Their freshly plowed gardens were slowly being overwhelmed by the hordes of berry bushes all around.
The people had gathered around a fountain in front of the temple. There were perhaps forty families, more women than men. The Chaos War had seen to that. Everyone was chatting softly among themselves, and even the children were playing quietly. The mood was rather dark for a festival. Perhaps Dayn could do something about that.
Dayn headed for a berry bush. A little fruit seemed just the thing to cut this beastly heat. The bushes seemed to thrive in this oven. They were brimming with dark green berries. He grabbed a berry and was about to eat it, when he heard a lovely voice.
“You’re not going to eat that?”
Dayn turned around and was smitten immediately. The voice came from a girl of eighteen or nineteen. She had long, raven black hair bound up in a beautiful bun, fixed with a wooden comb. A few long strands had come free, mischievously hanging in front of her deep, dark eyes. She brushed one strand away and hooked it behind her ear. She was pushing a steaming cart. Dayn could smell the soup simmering inside.
“We can’t eat the berries until dawn. It’s Paladine’s way of reminding us that good things will come to those who wait.”
“Really?” Dayn said with a smile. He carefully balanced the berry back on the leaves of the bush.
“Actually,” the girl said, “it’s mostly a way the clerics can keep the people from earing all the berries before they get enough for themselves.”
“I understand perfectly. Is there any way you could spare a bowl of soup for a starving artist?” Dayn asked.
The young woman leaned back on her heels and crossed her arms. Her expression told Dayn that this was a small community. She knew him for a stranger; she probably knew each of the people around the temple by name. Her delicate black eyebrows raised, and her warm smile became a bit more distant.
“I give a free bowl of soup to everyone who gives me two free coppers,” she said.
Dayn smiled. “I could sing for you,” he offered.
The girl leaned forward and put her hands on the edge of the cart. One of those errant strands of black hair came loose and sloped along the side of her smooth chin. Dayn felt he could write a ballad on those provocative, rebellious hairs alone.
“If I gave soup for a song, I’d have everyone in town caterwauling at my cart and no money to take home to my father.”
Dayn laughed. “I wasn’t thinking of caterwauling at you.” His voice worked its special charm. The girl leaned back from her aggressive stance and regarded him with new interest, although she was by no means convinced.
“The gods forbid I should ever be caught caterwauling,” Dayn said. He unslung his lute and stroked the neck lovingly. With a sidelong glance at the girl, he said, “I suppose I may have caterwauled once or twice, but I assure you it was only late at night after too much ale.”
The girl raised one eyebrow, as if to say, “You may continue.”
“Perhaps we can come to an agreement. I will sing you a song, and if you think it worthy of a bowl of that fine stew I smell, then I will eat this night. If not, I shall move along and never bother you again.” Dayn extended his hand.
She paused a moment longer, then spoke. “Very well, bard.” She took his hand. “You seem very sure of yourself. Sing as you may.”
Dayn knew that showmanship was all part of singing professionally. Many things made a successful bard, so said Dayn’s father. A good voice was important. A long, solid memory was invaluable. Deft fingers were a must. Empathy for the audience could mean the difference between being the local hero or being run out of town. But timing. . ah, Dayn’s father said, it all came down to timing. Timing was a skill no bard could live without. A singer could have the most ragged whiskey-voice and the most fumbling of fingers, he could sing the most banal and boring song, but if he sang it at the right moment, the audience would cheer.
So Dayn took his time tuning his instrument. The girl, who said her name was Shani, set up her cart and stirred her soup, but so far there weren’t any customers. Dayn smiled at the girl between plucks and asked about the soup business as he turned the pegs. By the time Dayn finished tuning his lute, a few villagers with nothing better to do had clustered around the cart.
“What would you like to hear, Shani?” the young bard asked.
“Something to make people hungry.”
“My songs usually work better on the heart than on the belly, but I will give this one a try.”
There were many songs Dayn could have chosen. It had crossed his mind to sing a wooing song of romance for young Shani. He was fairly certain she would have enjoyed that, but Dayn needed more than an audience of one if he were to make money in this town. He decided to stick with a song of spring.
Dayn began the song by simply humming. He caught Shard’s eye and smiled before he turned to face the few others who had gathered. Once he was certain they were paying attention, he began strumming. His voice soon rose to meet the lute. The song told of the hard cold days of winter. Dayn’s voice was quietly passionate. The few villagers grinned and looked at one another, pleased. A group of kids ran screaming past. Dayn smiled and let the uproar pass. He sang of the dark, lonely winter, and the people nodded. Life had been hard lately, leaving most of
