Lute of the Madrigal

When Rowena was a small goblin, her dreams of a bard’s life were filled with magic and wonder—a big stage lit by will-o’-the-wisps, a large crowd cheering her name, creatures dancing late into the night…. Beautiful dreams that inspired her to strike out on her own, determined to become a successful musician.

The reality?

Well, the reality is not as glamorous as Rowena expected.

Mud cakes her boots, soaking into her last pair of threadbare socks. Rain water soaks her skirts and blouse straight through to her skin, and she shivers despite the warm spring air. She had been busking in the town square in Woldyn when the storm rolled in, playing with an enthusiasm she did not feel, hoping to convince at least a few people to part with any spare change they might have in their pockets. Instead, the weather convinced them to part from their outdoor activities. Rowena had to shove her lute with reckless haste into its smooth leather case, scoop up her coin pouch, and run for cover. Her clothes weren’t spared the cold lashing, but at least her lute remained mostly dry.

Peering out from under the town square’s gazebo, Rowena spots the dark grey thunderheads moving swiftly east, revealing the late-afternoon sun. The downpour only lasted twenty minutes, but it left Rowena in a dour mood that wouldn’t be the best accompaniment to her music. Her grandmother always told her, “Playing while angry makes those who have to listen angry. Is that what you’re hoping to give to your audience?” Rowena knew it wouldn’t earn her any supporters if she played in such a state.

Her stomach growls, protesting its emptiness. She had skipped lunch to save some coin and it would be a few hours before any inns or taverns would serve dinner. Could she afford a small loaf of bread from the baker? Opening her coin pouch to count the day’s earnings, her fingers scrape the bottom of the bag to reach what’s left of her money. There’s the two silver pieces she started with this morning, and—her hungry stomach sinks in despair.

Five copper pieces.

The bakery would have to wait. Rowena stares at the metal discs as if they might somehow multiply from sheer will. Combined with the silver, she can eat for three more days. A week, maybe, if she only eats one meal per day…. It’s only a week. She can last a week with one meal a day. Rowena was already miserable after skipping the last few mid-day meals. What difference would it make to be miserable skipping breakfast as well?

The weary bard sighs, clenching her fist around her last hopes of achieving… something. Something bigger than her future would be if she had stayed in the goblin villages surrounding the Sandovar Cliffs.

Anxious thoughts swirl in Rowena’s mind as the possibility of returning home looms, ever-present. She is not ready to give up yet, but the past three months of travel wear heavily on her. Nothing prepared her for the bone-deep exhaustion of using every bit of her energy just to be offered a chance.

If there is one thing Rowena has learned as she has traveled, it is that no town has a shortage of bards. Every inn and tavern has its pick. Many of them fight over the most well-known names, snatching up the best to lure customers to their doors.

A thriving population in a country at peace means many Nimran children are free from pre-destined roles as apprentices to their parents or as soldiers. An entire generation is able to pursue livelihoods in creative interests—like music. As much as she is a beneficiary of living in a world with choice, Rowena sometimes wished a few less people chose barding.

A young goblin woman with no experience performing outside of her isolated hometown never makes the top of any proprietor’s wish list. Most Nimrans haven’t even seen a goblin since the wars. Her people mostly keep to the cliffs and away from magic, terrified of one day seeing another tyrant wield dark powers of destruction.

Having no luck securing paid opportunities, Rowena would have to shuffle off to find an empty street corner to play on. These spots are also scarce—an overabundance of bards leaves little that anyone has not tried to gain success—and are closely guarded territories, shifting as bards come and go from each town.

To be cut-throat enough to stake out and defend a busy street corner is not in Rowena’s nature. She prefers to settle wherever she can, believing her musical ability and a little perseverance are enough to carry her through.

Her near-empty coin pouch is proving to her otherwise.

Securing the pouch back to her waist and adjusting the top layer of her skirts to obscure it, Rowena decides what to do next. The owner of The Fickle Cat Tavern told her earlier to try going to Ashwood. He’d said it was only a few hours’ walk north from Woldyn. There should be enough light for most of the journey if she leaves now.

Strapping her lute case across her back, Rowena dredges up the last of her hope and sets out to try her luck elsewhere.

The only inn in Ashwood looks as if it has seen better days. Grimy windows obscure Rowena’s view of the interior. Bits of rotted lumber look like they might chip away with the brush of a light breeze. Rowena can just make out the remnants of gold lettering on the sign hanging above the door.

The Troubadour Inn

The name is promising, even if the outward neglect gives a less hopeful impression. The muffled sound of hands clapping in time comes from inside the building. There are at least a few patrons enjoying the establishment, which gives her hope.

Squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin to a more confident level, Rowena pushes the door open. Inside, a half-dozen people stomp their feet and sing merrily to a bombastic tune. An elven bard sings of the hero, King Broward, bravely fighting the dark villain, Frederick, the goblin sorcerer. With every bloody slash of the king’s sword, full cups punch into the air, liquid sloshing over their lips and onto the floor. When the death stroke falls, the small audience rises to their feet, cheering as if the king were slaying his foe right here in the tavern.

Rowena stops just inside the threshold, appraising the eleven bard’s performance. He’s not a poor musician, but the loose way he strums his lyre as he sways nearly off his feet suggests he’s more interested in the fun than in the music’s art.

Carefully, Rowena swings her lute case from her back and sets it against the bar. Reaching up to rub her right shoulder where the strap had dug in and pinched her skin during the walk from Woldyn. Somehow, wearing the lute for hours at a time while playing is almost pleasant compared to carrying the lute for hours trudging from town to town. Rowena climbs onto a stool to rest her aching feet and flags down the barkeep.

An older woman with an inviting smile and long grey hair swept from her face comes over to greet Rowena. “Welcome to The Troubadour.” Pulling a sparkling clean glass from the shelf and placing it in front of her newest guest, she fills it with water. “I’m Ingrid, the owner of this establishment. How can I help you, lass?”

Ingrid’s hospitable charm permeates the air around them and Rowena can’t stop the smile tugging at her lips.

Tucking stray hairs behind her ear, she begins the practiced speech she gives at every inn and tavern she inquires at. “Well, I was hoping to play here, if you have availability.…” Rowena trails off, glancing over at the elf—now playing a bawdy tune that would make most people blush.

“Oh, deary. Royden there just signed on with me for the next two weeks. Otherwise, I’d take you up on your offer in a heartbeat.” Though the rejection still stings, Ingrid sounds more sincere than anyone else Rowena has come across so far in her journey. “My late husband was a bit of a musician himself. He enjoyed hiring new bards.” The older woman’s face shifts then. Her bright smile doesn’t leave, but it turns almost wistful at the mention of her husband.

Tears sting the back of Rowena’s eyes as she reaches for the glass of water, attempting to soothe the anguish clutching at her throat. The weariness and frustration over the last few months had taken its toll, piece by piece, and Rowena felt herself beginning to crumble beneath the weight of it all. The young bard’s long dark hair tumbles forward over her shoulders, covering her pointed ears, and hiding the green skin of her face.

“Th-that’s okay. I-I’ll just take a room if you have one, please.”

A few hot tears escape, running down her cheeks. She knows she can’t really can’t afford a room if she wants to have anything to eat on her walk home to the Sandovar Cliffs. She should ask to stay in the stable she saw outside, but Rowena wants to enjoy one thing before she ends her journey. One thing that might make going back to her parents a touch less devastating.

Her parents had been hesitant to let her leave. The goblin village was safe. The goblin village had no magic. They wanted her to succeed, yes, but they were also terrified of what the world could do to their only child. Rowena remembers her father’s pleading eyes as he held her sobbing mother while they said their goodbyes. “Please be safe, Rowena. We’ve lost so much…. We can’t lose you, too.” She almost went back inside their cottage right then. But she’d needed this—needed to at least try. The young goblin had no other plan for her life if she couldn’t be a musician.

Rowena hadn’t been completely ignorant of the lingering distrust and apprehension the other creatures of Nimra held whenever they saw a goblin. Elves, dwarves, giants, and humans all lost loved ones to Frederick’s power and malice, but she also believed nothing would change if the goblins continued to isolate themselves. Frederick’s war on Nimra had ended fifty years ago.

Warm hands come down upon Rowena’s shoulders, breaking into her spiraling thoughts. A tingling sensation flows through her entire body, relaxing all of her exhausted muscles. Her troubles seem to lift, bringing an incredible sense of euphoria that the young goblin has never experienced before. The unnatural joy quickly morphs into alarm, tension forcing her body into a rigid vigilance. Magic! It must be!

Spinning the stool, Rowena pulls out of the clutches of those wicked hands and turns to face Ingrid. The memory of her parents’ fearful faces rushes to the front of her mind.

“What are you doing?” Rowena’s fear escalates her voice to reach a volume she’s almost never used. It’s nearly a screech. “Were you using magic on me?”

The music and cheers abruptly stop. Silence settles over the inn’s dining room as the other patrons take in the scene. The air inside of The Troubadour thickens as if it is withholding the breaths of everyone in the room. Rowena doesn’t need to look around to know a dozen pairs of eyes are now on her. She reaches down below the stool, searching for the leather strap to her lute case as she prepares to try darting past the witch in front of her.

Ingrid’s warm demeanor vanishes, but her brow creases with worry rather than anger. Instead, the innkeeper slowly raises her hands, palms facing outwards in a gesture of peace.

“I apologize for scaring you. Many of my guests request my magic and I have become very free with its use over the years. I only meant to soothe your worries.”

The pounding beat of Rowena’s heart slows as she forces her breathing to return to normal. Staring at Ingrid, the woman’s expression reminds her of her mother when she worries about Rowena. The comparison brings a slight sense of comfort. There is no immediate threat here.

Seeing calm return to Rowena, Ingrid turns to the onlookers, hands on her hips. “Royden!” she says sharply, her words chiding, “I am paying you to play here for the next two weeks, am I not?”

The heavily inebriated bard’s spine straightens, and he plucks a few bright notes on his lyre. “Yes, ma’am! We were all concerned for you is all.”

“I appreciate that, Royden, but let me take care of my guests.”

With a flourish, the elf strikes up another bawdy tune that earns a cheer from the table closest to him. Everyone returns to their revelry except the largest man Rowena has ever seen. She’s never met a giant, but this man fits her childish imaginings of one as he comes to tower over her and Ingrid.

“That goblin girl isn’t causing you any trouble, is she Ingrid?” The man eyes Rowena with open distrust. The deep bass of his voice rumbles through the air like a warning before a large crack of thunder. As quickly as it came, Rowena’s tenuous sense of calm dashes away, replaced with trembling fear.

Ingrid’s hand whips out, her palm striking against the giant’s arm with a smack. Curiously, her voice keeps a playful tone as she smiles at him. “This young bard is a guest of this inn, Herschel. What would Garith have to say to you about being rude?”

“Alright, alright.” Herschel leans down to place a light kiss on Ingrid’s forehead, one eye still trained on Rowena. “You know my brother wanted me to watch over you when he passed. I’m just keeping that promise, Ingrid.”

The innkeeper turns her face up to Herschel, eyes softening. “I know.”

Seemingly satisfied by Ingrid’s assurances, Herschel returns to his seat. Ingrid looks back at Rowena as the scared young woman attempts to regain control of her sporadic breathing again. Rowena is still weary of the older woman, but Ingrid hasn’t tried to touch her again. Nothing is pointing to Ingrid’s earlier kindness as having been some sort of ruse.

“Well, would you like to stay the night? I have a room and can get a hot bath started.”

Any hesitations Rowena had left, vanish from her mind—the offer of a bath after months on the road rings like music in her ears.

After Rowena’s long dark curls lay combed and braided over her shoulder, Ingrid brings a hot bowl of stew to the room so that the young goblin wouldn’t have to go back to the dining area. The innkeeper also returns with a spare night dress, taking Rowena’s dusty clothing with a promise to have the meager rags clean by morning.

Though exhaustion pulls at her, Rowena can’t sleep. Her restless feet kick under the sheets. Meeting one nice person lit an ember of hope in her heart. It inspires her to spin up a hundred scenarios of how she can stretch her coins for a few more days. Does she really need to eat every day?

Rowena turns to fluff the feathered pillow but pauses when she notices the little leather book on the desk. Ingrid said it was a guest book to keep a record of the various visitors and had pushed it to the back corner of the table so Rowena could eat. Wrapping the sheet around her shoulders, Rowena clambers out of bed to have a look.

Flipping through the entries, she sees so many lives have passed through this room. Some guests wrote only their names and the date of their stay. Others wrote about brief reasons for their travel. A few of them even shared some gossip they’d heard, like the entry about the writer’s friend getting a maid with child. The friend’s wife—apparently not amused—fired all of their female house-staff and replaced them with young men.

One flowing script appears in the log, again and again, leaving behind beautiful poetry every couple of months. The words hold a natural melody, and Rowena’s fingers tap the desktop, itching for her lute strings as she reads.

Grabbing her instrument case, Rowena takes out the lute and softly plucks a couple of strings. She waits a few moments before continuing, listening for any sign of her neighbors having heard the noise. No angry knocks or shouts to “be quiet” come through, so Rowena lets her fingers fly, releasing the song her heart composed to the verses in the guest-book.

The first rays of the sun peek from the horizon by the time she falls back into bed and drifts off to sleep.