New chapter is live.
Settle in, take your time, and let’s see what waits in the dark 🖤
✦
Late May, evening.
Scoia’tael free camp near Flotsam.
Marek’s private tent.
“Ha…
ah…
mm.”
Marek let out a long yawn.
The afternoon’s alchemy research was finished.
Today’s material had been gathered specially by Toruviel: memory roses, said to grow only in an elven ruin somewhere in Flotsam Forest.
Judging by the name and the surviving records, they were a magical medium for the mind.
Unfortunately, he had no formula in hand that could use them properly, so he could only run preliminary tests.
Of course, behind the beautiful name and appearance there was also an elven love story, along with all the appropriate mystical traits.
They withered if not watered with blood or sold to someone else.
They never withered if given to a beloved.
Dreamlike nonsense, in other words, though useful nonsense was still useful.
Marek tucked the memory roses into the Bottomless Herb Satchel, stretched, and prepared to attend the festival.
After more than twenty days of rough food, he was looking forward to all the roast meat he could eat.
Tonight, the Scoia’tael held a local festival to welcome the coming summer.
Men and women sang and danced around bonfires beneath the stars, then chose those they liked and went into the tents.
If they woke the next morning still pleased with one another, they might become a couple.
If one night proved enough, they simply left the tent and went looking for a second encounter.
That, too, happened often.
Angoulême, who had spent the afternoon detained beside him with a book, saw Marek stand and happily sprang up after him.
She gave a bright whistle.
The harrier on its perch let out a low cry and hopped onto the special rest fixed to Angoulême’s shoulder.
It affectionately pecked at her hair, and she stroked the feathers at its chest in return.
The wild girl had run around while Marek made potions and taught formulas.
After becoming friendly with the elves’ falconers, she had somehow caused a young hawk to recognize her as its person.
And so she had received Catherine, a beautiful golden harrier.
According to the elves, even among their people, a young bird choosing its person was rare.
To be honest, having an uncannily perceptive hawk that understood you was unbearably impressive.
Marek had run off the next day to try as well.
Regrettably, no bird wanted anything to do with him.
Watching girl and hawk look so pleased with each other, Marek wondered, not for the first time, whether Angoulême needed more lessons in discipline.
While he was considering it, the tent flap lifted.
Ciaran aep Easnillen, Iorveth’s chief lieutenant among the Flotsam Scoia’tael, entered.
The handsome young elf bowed to Marek.
“Master Alchemist, the festival is about to begin.
Lord Iorveth sent me to invite you.”
Then, thinking Marek had not noticed, he gave Angoulême a quick wink.
Well, well.
Marek had not expected someone with hair like dry straw, a flat backside, a flat chest, a thick waist, and short legs to be so popular.
Marek had underestimated how easily Angoulême drew attention.
He also realized they had never discussed practical contraception, an omission worth correcting before it mattered.
***
Late May, night.
Scoia’tael free camp, central clearing.
There were more than a thousand elves.
The summer festival was far livelier than Marek had imagined.
The roast meat smelled excellent.
The dancing was beautiful, and the passion was unrestrained.
The last two, naturally, had little to do with Marek.
He was human, and Iorveth’s guest.
If he did not step into the dancing himself, no one would come pull him in.
Angoulême, on the other hand, grinned foolishly once drunk and mixed into the crowd of elves without any trouble.
With her little cap on, she blended in perfectly.
It reminded Marek of Vergen, where she had vanished just as easily among dwarves and no one had thought it odd.
That sort of easy affinity was probably a talent.
Amid the noise, Iorveth sat beside Marek with a cup of wine.
“Not going down to dance?
This is a free occasion.
No restrictions.
If two people like the look of each other, that is enough.”
Marek glanced at him, half mocking himself and half joking.
“That is exactly why I suspect it won’t work for me.”
Iorveth raised his cup toward Marek’s unremarkable face.
“Have confidence.
Once people drink enough, the eyes blur.
What wouldn’t work before starts working.”
Marek hid a laugh in his own cup.
“I didn’t expect this side of you.”
“It is a festival.” Iorveth drank deeply.
“Long ago, the summer festivals were ten times larger than this.”
Marek felt the words become difficult to answer.
He drank his spiced ale and chose silence.
“Forgive me,” Iorveth said, realizing his misstep.
“I made you uncomfortable.”
He stood, clapped twice to draw the clearing’s attention, and raised his voice.
“Since we are happy tonight, I will play a tune for everyone.”
The clearing roared in approval.
Iorveth took a long flute from his belt and began to play.
The melody turned and rose, clear and bright.
The elves seemed to know it well.
Once someone started, they gathered themselves into rings, arms around shoulders, and hummed along in low voices.
For a long while, the song washed through the camp.
Still under its spell, Marek suddenly sensed danger.
Angoulême’s face was flushed with drink, and her excited eyes had fixed on him with a dangerous shine.
He did not stop her in time.
She shouted, “Iorveth’s music was amazing!
Since everyone is so happy tonight, how about we let Bard Marek play us something too?”
Back in the taverns of Vergen, when the mood had taken him, Marek had played the lute once or twice.
On those nights, the drinks had been free, and the male dwarves had thrown him out for seducing dwarven women.
By the heavens, he had not had that thought for even one second.
Dwarves, however, seemed deeply convinced that every other race coveted their women.
In any case, Angoulême’s next swimming session would be twice as long.
Marek endured the attention of the entire clearing with quiet resentment.
Then the clapping began.
Iorveth led it with an amused, ambiguous smile.
Clearly, Angoulême’s announcement had delighted him.
An alchemy master, a witcher apprentice, and now apparently a bard?
This had to be heard.
Ciaran handed Marek a lute.
Marek accepted it and tuned the strings with practiced hands.
He had not understood the lyrics, but the melody had stirred homesickness all the same.
It reminded him he was a stranger.
Familiar movements woke familiar memories.
More than a year had passed since he came here.
How was everyone he had left behind?
Perhaps because he had sunk too deeply into memory, he took too long.
Murmurs began spreading through the quiet clearing.
Iorveth frowned.
He had joined the teasing because Angoulême claimed Marek could play, not because he wanted to embarrass a guest.
He was just about to step forward and rescue the situation when Marek brushed two fingers across the strings.
Seven opening notes rang out.
Iorveth froze.
The clearing fell silent.
Seven notes, and the listeners were drawn into Marek’s world.
There, he wanted to tell a story.
The beauty of the beginning did not fail afterward.
The music flowed like water, full of hope and longing, like a father’s warm gaze and a mother’s gentle expectation passing through every heart.
As the melody rose and fell, Iorveth withdrew from the center of the clearing and climbed onto the branch of a beech.
He could feel his eyes growing wet, and that was not a sight anyone needed to see.
At last, the song ended.
“This piece is called Home Beyond the Sky,” Marek said amid thunderous applause.
“I hope everyone finds the person they want tonight.”
His ordinary face seemed luminous in that moment.
He bent in a graceful bow and withdrew.
In the crowd, Toruviel’s eyes were fixed on him, bright enough to be frightening.
Marek fled back to his tent through countless heated looks.
His mind was perfectly clear: he intended to sleep.
His only regret was that he had gone nearly a month without warm milk before bed.
Goat’s milk was acceptable despite the smell, but it did not satisfy him.
After stretching, he fell onto his bedroll and slept like a child.
Until he discovered he could not move.
His first instinct was to make a sound and call for help.
“Quiet.”
The person pinning him down was Toruviel.
Her voice was softer than anything he had heard from her before, breathed into his ear and making it itch.
Then she covered his mouth.
In shock, Marek understood.
There was one kind of breach guest-right did not treat as a breach at all: a woman slipping into a man’s tent at night.
In certain cultures, apparently, it passed for a rather generous form of hospitality.
In other words, even if he could cry for help, no one was likely to come.
Realizing that, he made the only choice that would not turn the night into bloodshed or a diplomatic incident.
He stopped trying to shout.
Unfortunately, Bard Marek’s tent did not grow peaceful after that.
More than ten minutes later, Toruviel’s sharp rebuke broke the silence.
“Get out.
Can’t you see I’m busy?
Go line up outside, one at a time, in order.
Do young people know nothing of manners now?”
For the record, Marek’s mouth was still very thoroughly covered.
✦
✦
✦
Want to keep going?
I hope this chapter gave you another reason to stay with the story.
There’s still plenty ahead, and things are only starting to unfold.