Seasons, page 9
He took his place at the front, a light in his eyes that boded trouble. Shandara caught Lyssa’s gaze. The girl glanced at Edwold, then back, her brow furrowed. Clearly something was afoot. Ah, well, the only way to uncover it was to forge ahead.
“Jaya, the chord please,” Shandara said.
The girl complied, and Shandara was glad to see that at least the instrument was behaving today. Even if there was a spate of muffled giggling from some of the boys.
She counted off, and the ensemble began. The song was a lovely composition about the bond between a Herald and her Companion—perfect as a finale for their Spring Fair performance. The full choral parts softened, and Shandara gestured to Edwold.
He opened his mouth for the first bars of his solo.
Croak. The unmistakable sound of a bullfrog sounded from somewhere about his person. Probably the pocket his hand was tucked firmly in. Shandara narrowed her eyes.
A half-dozen answering ribbits and croaks sounded from the back of the soprano section. The music dissolved, the melody lost under shrieks of laughter.
“Edwold.” Shandara kept her tone stern, though she had to admit it was an amusing prank. Amusing—if they didn’t have a performance looming in two days. And if it weren’t abundantly clear that Edwold was trying desperately to keep from performing his solo. “Please show me what’s in your pocket.”
The boy pulled out his hand. He held a fat brown frog with a green head, its long legs dangling down on either side of his palm.
It croaked again, blinking at the sudden light. For such a small creature, it produced an astonishingly loud sound. Again came answering noises from some of the other boys. The Trainees started to giggle again. Shandara waved her hand for silence, keeping her gaze fixed on Edwold.
“I’m sorry,” he said, with false contrition. “I was out in the meadow before lunch with my friends. The frogs must have crawled into our pockets somehow.”
“Somehow,” Shandara said dryly. “Perhaps you and your co-conspirators can take them back to their preferred habitat. Now.”
With a broad grin, Edwold nodded. “If you say so, Bard Shandara.”
He jerked his head, and three other boys rose from the back of the ensemble. Their trousers were all muddy at the knees—no doubt from their frog-catching efforts.
“Ribbit,” one of the boy’s pockets said.
“Go.” Shandara waved at the door. “When you return, we’ll run the Ode again.”
“Of course, Bard Shandara.” Edwold gave her a jaunty wave and led his crew out of the room.
“Come back right away!” she called after their retreating backs. She had the sour suspicion they’d dawdle until rehearsal was over.
Drat. She shouldn’t have said they’d practice the Ode.
From the back of the room, Lyssa gave her an eloquent look, eyebrows raised. Clearly, the girl had sensed something. Shandara could hardly wait to find out what it might be.
But first, they had the remainder of a rehearsal to get through.
“Trainees, while we wait for Edwold, let’s run ‘The Sparrow Aloft.’” Shandara raised her hands.
With the worst miscreants gone, the ensemble quickly settled. Soon, the sweet strains of voices interwoven with gittern and flute filled the room. They were a talented bunch. When they focused.
As she’d suspected, Edwold and his friends timed their return to coincide with the end of rehearsal.
“I’m sorry,” he said, sounding completely unrepentant. “The frogs got away outside the Common Room, and we had to chase them down.”
“Hm.” Shandara stared at him a moment, then looked to Lyssa. Should she ask the boy to speak with her?
Lips compressed, Lyssa gave a slight nod. Clearly she’d sensed something. Edwold’s behavior was more than just boyish pranks. Whatever was amiss, it was high time they uncovered the problem.
“I expect dress rehearsal tomorrow to go smoothly,” Shandara said. “It’s our last scheduled practice. And I’m sure the rest of the Trainees would be unhappy to give up their free morning at the Fair because I had to call an emergency rehearsal the day of the performance. Do you understand?”
Edwold gulped, the smile falling from his face.
“Yes, Bard Shandara,” he said meekly, dropping his gaze—but not before Shandara glimpsed something that looked like panic in his eyes.
“Good. Please see me in my rooms in fifteen minutes.” She turned to the rest of the ensemble. “Don’t forget the work we put in today with dynamics, everyone. And tenors, please go over your parts, especially the exposed sections. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”
She turned back to Edwold, but he was already gone, slipping out with his friends ahead of the rest of the students.
The last of the Trainees filtered from the room. Lyssa tucked her book under her arm and came to stand beside Shandara. The petite blonde’s head barely came up to her shoulder, and Shandara blinked at the reminder of the girl’s youth. Lyssa carried a maturity beyond her years, due in large part to the burden of her family’s expectations, as well as her Gift.
“We should talk in your rooms before you meet with Edwold,” Lyssa said.
“Certainly.”
Shandara led the way through the halls of the Bardic Collegium and tried not to worry. Whatever was wrong with Edwold, they had a mere two days to set things to rights.
* * *
• • •
“You’re right,” Lyssa said, settling cross-legged in one of Shandara’s upholstered armchairs and propping her chin in her hands. “My Empathy was definitely prickling during rehearsal. Edwold is distressed at the thought of performing his solo. That’s why he’s been doing everything he can to avoid singing it.”
“Distressed? In what way?” Shandara paced before the window, unable to settle. “Can you tell, specifically, what the problem is? Stage fright?”
Lyssa shook her head. “I didn’t get a sense of fear. More like an immense sorrow . . . and guilt. I think he wants to perform—he’s proud of being chosen for a solo—but an even bigger part of him is swamped with sorrow at the thought.”
Shandara let out a deep breath. Failure to prepare the Trainee Ensemble for the Spring Fair performance would reflect badly on the entire Bardic Collegium—which meant she had to get to the bottom of Edwold’s troubles as soon as possible.
“Is there anything else you can tell me?” Perhaps the boy had lied somehow in order to gain the solo—but that didn’t make sense.
The students were hand-selected for the honor, and Shandara had heard Edwold sing before. He was talented, with a clear, sweet voice that hadn’t yet deepened—a good choice to sing the part.
Perhaps that was it. “Do you think his voice is changing, and he’s afraid to admit it?”
Lyssa firmed her lips in thought, then slowly shook her head. “I don’t think so. His reaction felt . . . older, somehow. Not recent.”
“Well, thank you.” Shandara gave her friend a weary smile. “You’ve helped give me a direction to go, anyway.”
“Of course.” Lyssa jumped up. “Good luck talking to him!”
“Stay for a cup of tea?” Shandara went over to set the kettle beside her small hearth.
“No—Edwold will be here soon, and it’s better if you talk with him privately, I think.”
“You’re right.” Much as Shandara would have liked Lyssa’s support, they didn’t need to outnumber the boy.
Shandara gave the girl a hug as she left, then went to fix herself a cup of tea. And one for Edwold, too. As she was pouring hot water over the minty leaves, a soft knock came at her door.
“Come in,” she called, setting down the kettle.
Edwold peeked around the oaken planks, anxiety clear in his expression. “You wanted to meet with me?”
“Yes.” She gestured for him to come in and take a seat. “Tea?”
“All right.” He took the cup she offered, then perched awkwardly on the edge of the same armchair Lyssa had inhabited. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I didn’t say you have,” Shandara said mildly. “Although the frogs were a bit much, I think. And I’d prefer the instruments to stay in tune.”
Edwold swallowed and glanced down at his tea, but he said nothing in his own defense.
“You’re a talented singer,” Shandara continued, trying to feel her way forward. “I think Bard Alvee made a good choice, picking you for a solo, and I look forward to hearing you actually sing it. Are you ready for the dress rehearsal?”
At that, Edwold looked up, and she saw that same flash of panic cross his face.
“I . . .” His voice choked, then fell to a whisper. “I want to sing the solo. But I can’t.”
“Why not?” She kept her voice soft. Her Empathy was humming sympathetically with the force of his distress.
He shook his head, his expression miserable. “I just can’t.”
“Please, tell me why.” She leaned forward, trying to project reassurance. It wasn’t the first time she’d helped a young Trainee face what seemed an insurmountable problem. “Maybe I can help.”
Edwold closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, they were filled with the shine of sorrow. With a ragged breath, he set his cup aside, then clasped his hands tightly in his lap.
“My . . .” He glanced at the floor, then back at her. “My family will be at the Spring Fair. They’re coming to Haven from our village on the coast. And I can’t sing in front of them. I thought I could, but . . .” He blinked furiously to keep the tears back.
Had Master Tangeli been aware that beneath Edwold’s cocky exterior, the boy was struggling? It would explain why the Master Bard had appointed her to take over the ensemble.
She studied Edwold, trying to get to the heart of the matter. “Why can’t you sing for them?”
“It . . . wouldn’t be right!” he blurted out, his voice catching. “My brother was supposed to be the Bard—not me. He was going to come to the Collegium, and be amazing, and make everyone proud. I stole his place. He should be here, and instead, I am—”
He broke off with a choked sob and scrubbed his forearm across his face. The misery rolling off him made her heart catch with mirrored sorrow.
“How old are you, Edwold?”
“Twelve.” He cleared his throat. “I mean, next month.”
“And what happened to your brother?”
He sniffed and looked away, out the window toward the view of the Companion’s Field. Shandara didn’t press him. She leaned back and took a sip of tea, letting the silence lie easy in the room.
Several minutes passed, and Edwold seemed lost in his unhappy thoughts.
“When I first came to the Collegium,” Shandara finally said, “everyone had such high expectations of me. Instead, I felt like I was moving backward. All my yearmates got their Scarlets, and I was still waiting for my Gift. For quite a while, I believed I was here by mistake.”
“But I am!” Edwold turned to face her. “It was supposed to be Kendry.”
“There’s no rule that says siblings can’t attend the Collegium together,” Shandara said gently. “I’ve heard you sing, and you’re very good. I’m certain you have the other talents necessary to become a Bard, as well. We don’t admit people who don’t belong here.”
“Kendry was better,” Edwold said. “And now, because of me, he’s—he’s dead.”
Shandara blinked. Not what she’d expected the boy to say. No wonder Edwold was filled with guilt and sorrow.
“What happened?” she asked gently.
“Two years ago, the spring before Kendry was going to come to the Collegium, we were playing by the sea—we live near Kelmskeep—and the cliffside fell.” He gulped, then continued. “We were down at the beach, and Ken noticed it first. I was closer to the cliff, and I wasn’t paying attention. He yelled at me to run, but I didn’t hear. So he . . . he ran in and pushed me out of the way of the rockfall. And it crushed him.”
Tears were rolling down the boy’s face, and Shandara couldn’t keep her own eyes dry.
“Oh, Edwold. May I give you a hug?” She opened her arms.
He nodded and scooted closer, letting her squeeze his shoulders. “Kendry was the best singer I’ve ever heard. My parents and sister are coming to the Spring Fair for the first time, and when they see me, when they hear me sing, they’ll remember that it’s supposed to be my brother. That he died because of me. They’ll hate me for it!”
The boy’s grief was tangible, and Shandara had to draw several breaths before she found her own balance. Surely everyone had told the boy it wasn’t his fault and that his family didn’t hate him, but emotions didn’t listen to reason.
“It’s tragic that Kendry died,” she said. “But it doesn’t mean you have to deny your own Gift. Do you really think he would have wanted that? Or that your family blames you?”
“It’s not fair.” Edwold looked up at her, guilt shadowing his eyes. “I shouldn’t be happy when he’s gone. And I don’t want my parents to think I don’t care about . . . what happened.”
“Is the anniversary of your brother’s death during the Spring Fair festivities?”
He nodded mutely, and Shandara felt another pang for the boy. The Vernal Equinox was supposed to be a time of joyful celebration of all the bonds of love. But maybe, despite the tragedy of his brother’s death, she could help Edwold see that act of heroism for what it was.
“Why did Kendry push you out of the way?” she asked.
“To save me.” He looked down at the floor.
“Yes—but why?”
“Because he was supposed to watch out for his little brother?” His hands were squeezed together so hard that his knuckles were white.
“Plenty of people are supposed to take care of others but don’t. Kendry made a choice to save you. I think he must have loved you very much.”
Edwold sniffed, then glanced up at her. “He shouldn’t have.”
“Shouldn’t have saved you or shouldn’t have loved you?” She tightened her arm around his shoulders. “He did both. Do you think he would have been able to sing after watching you get crushed by a falling cliff? To go off to Collegium carrying the knowledge that he’d failed his little brother, failed his family?”
“I . . .” Edwold pursed his mouth.
Shandara waited, letting him work through the ramifications of her question. Her heart hurt for him, for the whole family, but refusing to shine wasn’t the answer to the darkness of sorrow. It never was.
“We both should have lived,” the boy finally said.
“Of course you should have.” She gave him a sorrowful smile. “But that’s a perfect dream of something that didn’t happen. Kendry didn’t save you so that you could be sad all your life.”
Edwold drew in a shaky breath and then bobbed his head. “I guess . . . I understand.”
“Will you be able to perform the solo, or should we try and find someone else?”
“I think . . .” He bit his lip. The grief in his expression slowly faded, replaced by worry-tinged resolve. “I think I can do it. I’ll try.”
“No more tricks to avoid singing?” She raised her brows at him.
A faint smile tugged the corner of his mouth. “They were good ones, though.”
She shook her head. “Very creative, I’ll give you that. Now, go practice. I’ll see you at dress rehearsal.”
“Thank you.” He leaned in, gave her a squeeze around the middle, then rose and headed out the door.
Slowly, Shandara finished her tea. She wasn’t entirely sure she’d helped Edwold enough—the boy had been carrying a heavy burden, and that couldn’t be easy to set down, even taking into account the resiliency of youth.
They’d know soon whether he’d be able to put aside the guilt and sorrow, stand tall, and let his voice ring out. She hoped, for all their sakes, that he was strong enough.
* * *
• • •
“Is your ensemble ready?” Tarek asked as he and Shandara strode out of the Collegium gates toward the Spring Fair.
“Maybe.”
Shandara adjusted the carrying strap of her harp and squinted at the bright pennants hung around the perimeter of the Fair. The day was chilly, but the sunlight carried a welcome warmth—which would help keep the instruments in tune once the Trainee Ensemble took the stage. One less thing to worry about.
Delicious smells from the food vendors wafted through the air, and the sound of laughter rang over the babble of the crowd. Many of the attendees wore ribbon-bedecked love tokens in their hair or pinned to their clothing, and the mood was merry.
The gaiety only underscored Shandara’s anxiety. She hadn’t gone into detail with Tarek, but the dress rehearsal had been less than ideal.
A bad dress rehearsal means a good performance, she reminded herself, trying to believe the old adage was true.
It wasn’t just Edwold’s shaky solo that had her concerned, though that was the pinnacle of her worry. He’d had to stop halfway through ‘Ode to a Companion,’ his voice choked with tears, and his tension had infected the rest of the ensemble.
Tempos were all over the place, despite Shandara’s keeping time at the front of the group. The flutes squawked, the tenors missed their entrance, the altos were flat. The entire rehearsal had been altogether dreadful.
She’d ended it with a bright smile and words of encouragement she didn’t quite feel. Especially not at this moment, making her way to the large stage set in the center of the Fair. Her stomach knotted as she saw the members of the Trainee Ensemble milling about at one side.
“You brought your harp.” Tarek nodded to the instrument she carried.
“Yes.” Moved by an impulse she didn’t quite understand, Shandara had grabbed her lap harp on the way out the door. “We didn’t practice with it though, so . . .” She trailed off in a shrug.
