The Song of Wandering Hearts

Rhaetheis kept her focus on her lyre, her magical wooden left hand cradling the delicate instrument as her deft fingers moved along the twelve gut strings. Its long, elegant heartwood arms were adorned with her family’s heraldic knotwork; the precise, interwoven lines meant to remind her of duty. Of obedience. The sound box held a circular opening framed by carved ivy and dandelions; they were meant to remind her that her family saw her as a failure. She was wild and untamable, like weeds. Her father had meant the gift as a warning; it was her duty to support her family and follow his orders.

Yet she loved it as if it were her oldest friend. She polished the heartwood until it glowed, replaced its strings with ceremonial tenderness, and carried it with her through the many roads she wandered. The scratches along its grain were small, but each one held a story she could recall if she wished. A beautiful map of the life she claimed for herself, proof that she couldn’t be bound. It brought her great relief, especially in times like these.

Her body was tense, her back rigid. She couldn’t help it. Rhaetheis could hardly relax when she was at a ball full of nobles.

If she glanced up, she would see an illusion stronger than any she could cast, even with her fullest, most dreadful power. Genteel ladies in elegant gowns of silk and gossamer were twirled by imperious men in monochrome suits. They swirled around the floor under glittering enchanted lights, stirring up ghosts of the past. She could almost hear her father reminding her of how useless she was. There were always chains underneath the glamor. Political plots, whispered behind ornate fans. Malicious machination, murmured in isolated alcoves.

“You’re tense,” Qivaris remarked on the obvious beside her.

Rhae startled. His voice was a sonorous hum, flat and mechanical, but she’d learned to read the care in it. Seven feet of broad, blue-tinted metal, perched on a chair that he dwarfed. Anise had tied a black bow around his neck to make him more presentable and less intimidating. However, it only made him look more absurd and out of place. The gesture was kind, but just the sight of him made the corners of her mouth turn upward.

“I’m fine.” She lied.

The triangle chimed in Qivaris’s massive hands. Ting, ting, ting. Perfectly on beat. Unfortunately, Qivaris had no musical talent, so Anise gave him a symbol to keep the beat. It did, however, also make him look even more ridiculous in this situation. There were only three more beats until the song concluded. Then she could rest.

When the music stopped, Anise raised her hand with a flourish of silk and command. “Fifteen minutes. Use them well.”

Rhae set down her lyre with exaggerated care. Her left hand fumbling with the strap. Lag, lag, catch. The enchanted wood refusing to obey. She sucked in a breath through her teeth and forced herself to move slowly. Deliberately, as if the delay were intentional. Maybe no one would notice.

She pulled on her gloves to hide her magical prosthetic. The arm was made of delicately carved oak, with runes etched into the grain all the way up her arm to aid in channeling magic. People tended to stare when they saw it, so it was better to keep it hidden. She couldn’t afford to draw too much attention. Well, more than she already had by coming to the ostentatious ball.

The servant’s station was tucked into a side hall, away from the ballroom’s overwhelming pageantry. Plates of hors d’oeuvres and flutes of bubbling champagne gleamed on the side table. Rhae could almost hear her stepmother’s disapproval; that wretched woman believed that servants should eat in the kitchen. And they certainly shouldn’t enjoy the luxurious foods meant for their patrician guests. Perhaps this was just another way for the duke to demonstrate his wealth.

Rhae grabbed a flute of pink champagne and drained it quickly in a way that bordered on unladylike. She tossed a piece of the fine finger food into her mouth, but it turned to ash on her tongue. She forced herself to swallow the food. Her stomach had been twisted into knots all night. Since the food did little to ease her tension, she drained another flute of champagne.

“You’re mired in thoughts,” Qivaris remarked as he loomed over her, his amethyst eyes unblinking. “Overanalyzing.”

Rhae paused as she reached for another flute of champagne, anything to dull her nerves. He wasn’t wrong. “I’m anxious.”

“You’re perspiring.”

That was Qivaris’s gentle way of pointing out that she wasn’t being entirely honest. “I’m stressed.” She corrected.

“What’s the difference?”

“Perception?” Rhae offered uncertainly. She wasn’t sure if she even knew the answer, or if she wanted to know.

“Are you sure you want to leave?”

Rhae nearly choked on her third flute of champagne; she glanced around to make sure the troupe hadn’t heard them. Thankfully, they were busily chattering away on the far side of the room. They were thrilled to have been invited to a ball by a duke. This wasn’t a world they knew the way she did. They were enamored by the opulent halls of nobility. The duke’s estate was especially grandiose, with paintings so old they probably belonged in a museum instead of a private collection. Such wealth and power were poison.

“We have to!” Rhaetheis insisted loudly. She quickly lowered her voice, not wanting to draw attention. “We can’t stay. The troupe has finally found a patron.” Traveling with them had been safer than Rhae and Qivaris going along as they had before. But a patron meant more traveling; it meant performing on a real stage and setting down roots. The troupe would become devoted to their patron’s tastes and whims. Patrons paid for instruments, tools, clothes, food, and lodging. What more could you want?

But staying in one place for long meant potentially being found. If not by her family, then Jenyd. Worse was what would happen if anyone found out what was wrong with her, and she promised to help Qivaris. He’s saved her life and given her a second chance by crafting her prosthetic arm. She would do everything in her power to help him.

“I do not think Anise or the others would hurt you.” Qivaris cut to the heart of the matter, wrenching Rhae from her thoughts.

Rhaetheis shook her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she said more to convince herself than Qivaris. “They’ll start asking questions.” Questions Rhae knew she couldn’t answer. “And tonight is the perfect night. They’ll get drunk celebrating after our performance. We’ll have the perfect opportunity to slip away.”

“Without saying goodbye?”

Rhae nodded. “It’s better this way.” She must seem cruel and cold, which was ironic considering she was standing next to a Krigmoss, more commonly known as a War-forged. They were a race of sentient machines that most races didn’t understand. “We could put them in danger or worse.” She couldn’t bear for them to look upon her with hatred and disgust like Jenyd had.

Qivaris scanned her face carefully, but if he had any further objections, he silenced them with a slow nod. Rhae didn’t hide her relief, and Qivaris jerkily patted her head. As awkward as the movement was, the sentiment behind it was heartwarming. They were in this together.

“Rhaetheis?” A winsome voice called.

She turned to find Portia hovering nearby with shining grey eyes and flaxen curls tumbling over her shoulders. She was sweet, painfully sweet. The kind of girl who didn’t have to keep moving so the ghosts of the past didn’t catch up.

Rhae’s throat tightened; Portia had always been so kind. So gentle. Sometimes late at night, Rhae found herself imagining what it would be like to stay. To let herself be loved. To stop running. But she had imagined such things before. Twice. And she’d been wrong both times.

“Anise says we have five minutes left,” Portia said. “And- And the duke requested that you sing. Specifically you.”

Her stomach lurched. “Me?”

“He said he noticed you.” Portia blushed. “He said you were the best performer.”

Noticed. A chill ran down her spine. Nothing good ever came from being noticed, especially by someone in power. You should always be careful of who takes notice, and how much they see. What if they saw her for what she was? A monster, a murderer, dangerous, unworthy.

Rhae forced a smile. “I see…”

“What will you sing?”

Knowing nobility, they would want a tale of courtly love, but that hardly narrowed things down. Rhae was familiar with hundreds of such tales. She had read hundreds in her family’s library when she should have been studying history or ancient languages. Maybe if she’d paid more attention in lessons, she wouldn’t have been so naive.

“I’ll sing the Lais of Aveline and Bhok.” Rhae finally replied.

Portia nodded, beaming, and disappeared to let Anise know.

Rhae pressed her hands to her face. Her left palm was cold, even through her glove. Wood, not flesh. She could feel the phantom ache of her missing arm, and a reminder of her fate that she could never truly ignore. Perhaps her body was simply succumbing to her fraying nerves.

“Will you be alright?” Qivaris asked.

“Yeah.” She needed to finish the night on a stronger note than ever. Rhae was a coward. And she was leaving tonight.

Anise signaled that their break time was up, so they returned to the platform to play. But this time, the nobles gathered around them to listen to and watch the performance, rather than being part of the atmosphere. Rhae’s chest tightened under the crowd’s discerning gaze. She had performed for taverns full of rowdy travelers of various races. This was nothing. And yet she couldn’t help but remember the way her family’s cold eyes seared into her.

Rhae removed her gloves before them, earning some gasps at the sight of her prosthetic. She lifted and cradled her lyre carefully, resting her cheek on one of its arms. Anise counted them in. The song began with Ishaan’s cello; low and almost mournful, settling heavy on the soul. Rhae counted the beats. Two measures of rest. Then she and Portia started to play, the lyre and flute, weaving a delicate melody over the bass.

One measure before she started to sing.

The song flowed sweetly from Rhae’s lips. Her voice was melodious, light, and lilting like a flittering bird in spring.

I sing of Aveline, with sun-kissed hair,

And Bhok, the brave, with a heart laid bare

A promise pledged before a golden throne,

A love forging a future all its own.

To Hotspur’s halls, a horror fell,

An obsidian beast from the very hells.

Its breath did blight brook and bone,

And the King trembled upon his crumbling throne.

Then from the North, a stranger came,

Bhok the slaver of monsters with fearsome fame.

His blade was iron but bearing steel.

An oath upon his lips to make darkness heel.

“Oh, King,” Said he, “this blight I’ll slay,

And drive the terror of your land away,

But when the fiend is truly dead,

I ask for no bright gold,” he pled.

“But for your daughter, fair ’n bright,

To be my heart’s own guiding light.”

Rhae felt the magic stirring in her chest; warmth, a pull, a hunger she knew too well. She held it fast, forced it down, but a thread leaked anyway. A sweetness in her voice that wasn’t natural. A warmth that made the nobles lean forward, eyes soft and dreamy.

She forced that thread into a harmless shape. A friendship spell and nothing more. She had to control it.

The fearful king gave his royal word,

A promise spoken, deeply stirred.

So Bhok went for the mountain’s gloom,

And sealed the beast in stony tomb.

He returned triumphant, bloodied ’n sore,

And kneeled before the throne once more.

But the King glared with a heart of ice,

To grant the prize would not suffice.

“Your strength is great,” the false King spake,

“But for my child, a greater quest you’ll partake.

Across the salty ’n spuming sea,

You’ll bring the Griffin’s Emerald to me.

Prove your worth is more than might,

And Aveline shall be your bride.

A deadly deed, the courtiers knew,

A dire, desperate, ’n treacherous due.

But Bhok, for love, would not be swayed,

And towards the storm his course was laid.

Now Aveline, in her tower tall,

Watched his ship become a speck so small.

She saw the lie, the lethal cost,

“He sends my love to be lost!”

No gilded cage her soul could keep,

Into the waiting world she leaped.

Cloaked in grey with dagger keen,

To save Bhok she stole away unseen.

She thought of Aveline in her tower. Looked away. Bound by her duty. Told who to be, what to want, who to love.

It reminded Rhae so much of herself.

She thought of how viciously her father would punish her for perceived mistakes. She was music-oriented while her older siblings were noble warriors or priests. Honorable. Useful. Being a bard was shameful compared to them, even when the mines dried up, and they relied on her to support their extravagant lifestyle. Then she was suddenly valuable but never loved.

She found his vessel tempest-torn,

His mighty strength battered ’n worn.

Her hand reached out, his grip she caught,

And from the doom her father wrought,

She pulled Bhok from the jaws of fate,

And made their stolen love their true estate.

And yet, Aveline didn’t wait for a hero. When the hands of fate threatened to rip her from the arms of her love, she climbed out the window herself. She chose. Rhae envied her. Aveline wasn’t performing courage; she was courageous. She refused to accept tragedy and took her fate into her own hands.

Rhae had never been brave. Running was all she knew. She wished she were more like Aveline. But she was a coward.

So now they wander, wild ’n free,

Bhok ’n chosen royalty.

His sword her shield, her heart his home,

No longer for crown or gold to roam.

So let all hear ’n understand,

The power of promise ’n steadfast hand.

Love will find a way, or make its own.

From the moment a faithful vow is sworn.

The music gradually faded after Rhaetheis finished singing. The applause was thunderous. With a glance, she could tell the spell had worked. They were enchanted. If the troupe hadn’t somehow secured the duke’s patronage, then she likely helped secure the interest of another noble. Even when the spell faded, they were a capable troupe and could easily prove themselves on their own. She looked at Qivaris, who gave her a reassuring nod.

For a moment, her eyes locked with the duke’s. He didn’t look like he was under an enchantment. If the spell had failed, he would know. Yet, the duke made no move to apprehend her. No accusation. No guards. He was watching her like a cat watching a mouse; still, patient, calculating. An icy dread settled upon her heart. While bardic magic wasn’t uncommon, he suspected that she was something more… She shook the thought from her head. Her paranoia was getting to her again; he might just think her spell was a foolhardy attempt to secure his patronage. She hoped anyway.

The crowd didn’t demand an encore, so the troupe returned to performing the normal classical music the nobles preferred. Rhae was glad because she could already feel the cost of her dark power building like pressure behind her eyes. The ball continued late into the night, spilling into the next morning. By then, the ache had grown into a dull, persistent migraine.

The troupe returned to the duke’s servant annex to celebrate. Everyone celebrated and cheered to their success! They downed bottles of cheap wine and mead. Even Anise was drinking a lot, and she usually looked after everyone else. They should be proud! They giggled about the ridiculous fashions of the tittering ladies and vainglorious lords.

Rhae tried to ignore the migraine thrumming at her temples; she wanted to focus on this moment: the laughter, the warmth, the love. They were good people. They had welcomed her without question, without suspicion. They made her feel, for a little while, like she belonged. She wished for them to experience nothing but happiness and goodness.

She wished she could stay too. Wished she could tell them the truth. But she couldn’t drag them into her nightmare, not when they finally had everything they could ever want. She didn’t have the right to ruin this momentous occasion by telling them about her departure. So instead, when they had succumbed to their drunken slumber, she slipped Anise a letter. Just a few words. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough, but it was all she had.

Rhae gathered her things and slunk away as the faintest light of dawn crept into the sky. Qivaris followed; silent, steady, ever present. They melted into the waking city. The streets still quiet, shopkeepers only beginning to stir. No one noticed them.

Wanderers again, she was glad of it. At least that’s what she told herself. And yet, as they retreated under the shattered green moon, a fractured crescent with smaller tears trailing behind, she felt like a flower petal caught in the wind. The purple and blue moons were not visible; they lay beyond the horizon, but they would be sleeping under them in the coming days.