Edwyn McReid
“It’s a right misfortune that ya got that mark thing.” The farmer said, louder than necessary. His name was Olyvar, and it was his farmhouse that Edwyn was staying at. It was convenient, seeing as though his home was little more than a day’s walk from The Royal City. His hospitality was bountiful, and he served great food, but he did not possess an “indoor voice.”
“Why’s that?” Edwyn asked, swallowing a spoonful of stew. Olyvar’s dining room was small, but comfortable. His ever-quiet daughter and son sat at the table, but Olyvar and Edwyn spoke for them and then some.
“Why, if you were a normal fuckin’ bard, I’d ‘ave you marry my daughter, I would!” He said, cackling. Edwyn glanced at Olyvar’s daughter. She couldn’t have been older than fifteen. The bard chuckled, uncomfortably.
“Aye, sir. A damn shame.”“A damn shame, he says!” Olyvar was practically wheezing with laughter. Though Edwyn didn’t find his statement particularly funny, he had to laugh. The farmer’s laughter was infectious. “I ever tell you that my wife’s sister was a marked? Or was it her aunt? I dunno.”
“Oh, wow. Did she ever find her Destined?” Edwyn asked, genuinely curious. He would not have taken this profession if he did not like stories. Stories he could relate to, stories of the destined, were especially interesting, as of late.
“Naw. Fever took her before a festival.” He quieted down, clearing his throat. Not exactly the sort of story he’d been hoping for. “Ran in the family, it did.” He glanced at the table’s only empty chair.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to-”“Ah, don’t worry about it, lad.” He brightened up. “It was a few years past, anyway.”
And so they ate. Outside, the light dwindled. Edwyn had stayed with the farmer for two nights, now, and didn’t intend to stay a third. True to his word, when everyone had finished their food, he stood and turned to collect his things.
“You sure you don’t want to stay another day or two?”
“Oh, I’m sure. The Festival won’t wait for me.” Edwyn smiled.
“Besides, you’ve been too good to me, Oly. I fear if I stay I may become properly spoiled.”“Oh, nonsense!” Olyvar sat, smacking Edwyn on the shoulder. “Wait, Edwyn. You sure you feelin’ alright? You seem right quiet, compared to yesterday.”
“I’m fine, Oly. Really.” Edwyn said, giving a reassuring smile.
“It’s nothing, really. I’m just...nervous.” “Nervous? All the stories you told me, and you’re nervous?”
“Outrunning bandits and finding the pre-destined love of your life are different matters entirely, Olyvar.” Edwyn sighed.
“I mean, think of how many Marked are going to be there. One of them, one of them, is my destined. The odds are tall, Oly, and I’m-”“Edwyn.”
“Yes?”“Do me a favor. Go to that festival and find a lady you fancy.”
“Isn’t that what-”“Forget all that talk about odds and chances and unlikely-ness. If the Six will it, you’ll find yer destined. If not, you still get to meet some pretty girls. Oh-ho-ho, I envy you, lad.”
“Right.” He said, smiling unconvincingly. Olyvar had more faith than he. It was easy, to talk of trusting in the six to deliver him to happiness. In his experience, the Six rarely gave happiness. Edwyn saw his Gods, not in people who were living a fairy tale, but in people who found happiness out of misfortune. Edwyn had faith that he wouldn’t come out of this festival feeling jaded and cheated, but he still hoped he find his
one. It was only natural, he figured. Romanticism was a part of his job.
“Listen. When that festival is over you come right back here and tell ol’ Olyvar about what happened, eh? Yer always welcome here.”
“Of course.” Edwyn slung his bag, and his lute over his shoulder. His horse was waiting in Olyvar’s stable. He bid Olyvar farewell once more, waved to the farmer’s children, and set off. He’d saddled his horse earlier. All that was left to do was get on his back and set off. He hesitated a second, looking at the old farmhouse. Edwyn had met all sorts of people, many he considered friends, some who didn’t like him so much, and a few he’d probably forgotten. He didn’t think he’d ever forget about the old farmer who opened his home, and offered advice of questionable merit.
“C’mon Fritz. Yah!” He snapped the reins. The horse neighed indignantly, as though offended, but he started to move. The sun had set fully, by now. The road was dusty, and the wind was whipping. Edwyn sighed. Realistically speaking, he should’ve left Olyvar’s house sooner. By the time he arrived in The Royal City, the taverns and inns would be full to bursting. Still, he couldn’t turn down the company. Hopefully, he’d run into a caravan on the way. He wasn’t
alone, he supposed, but Fritz wasn’t the talkative type.
“Pardon?”“I said it four times already. We’ve got no rooms.”
“What do you mean you have no rooms?”“I mean, we’re full to bursting. With
paying customers.”
“I thought all the marked were guaranteed accommodations.”“They are if they came from the official summons and on the coin of the king. For all I know, you’re just an enterprising minstrel with a lucky birthmark.” The imposing innkeeper had a presence about him that made even Edwyn feel the need to hold his tongue. A scarred face, hardened from years of dealing with rable far worse than penniless bards. Edwyn had been hoping that his mark would get him a free room.
“I’ll play here for free. I’ll give you all the money I collect!” Edwyn offered. It seemed like a fair deal, to him. Sometimes, he raked in a decent amount of coin. The Inkeeper, however, just laughed.
“Look, kid, I don’t know what it’s like out in the sticks, but bards are in no short order, here. I’ve got two staying here right now. You can’t throw a pebble without it hitting the head of some lute-jockey.” The Innkeeper sighed, and Edwyn realised that he must’ve looked pitiful. “Listen, I’ve got a storage room. It’ll be cramped, but I’ll rent it to you half-price. Deal?” Edwyn thought, for a moment. Half-price wasn’t so bad, and it wasn’t as though he needed a lot of space. Chances were, he’d slept in places far more harrowing than a storage room. He nodded.
“You have yourself a deal, sir.” Edwyn smiled.
Unfortunately, for Edwyn, ‘penniless’ was not hyperbole. He needed some coin. So, he exited the tavern and walked up the street. Even here, in the poorest part of the city, the streets were cramped. He’d been to The Royal City before, once or twice, but he’d never stayed long. It just wasn’t profitable. There was no money, not when there was a bard in every tavern, every night.
He sat down on his bag, finding a nice spot at the mouth of a dingy alley way. He retrieved a cloth sack and placed it on the ground in front of him. When he was satisfied, he readied his lute and strummed a bit. No one so much as glanced. He was not deterred. Though his lute was scarcely audible above the din of conversation and footsteps, he played on. When he found a rhythm he was comfortable with, he started to sing. A few people glanced, and one or two even stopped to listen. He tried to ignore the lack of coins in his sack. Eventually, someone would come along with a heart full of pity for him and drop a coin.
Right?