Chapter 7

Of Oak, Cider, and Song

> A red kraken of significant size was discovered and exterminated in Deepwater III of Westport’s southern wharf. The creature evaded detection for several cycles by culling prey from the shoreline at night. The incident resulted in the loss of eight score sailors and the destruction of three naval vessels, Class IV. Immediate requisition of materials is required to restore naval operational capacity.

>

> —Material Requisition Form No. CXIII-B

>

> Lucius Petrinus Libratus, Scribe, Magisterium of Maritime Affairs

The Stag and Lyre was renowned throughout Oakvale and its surrounding farms and timberworks, and for good reason, as far as Godfrey was concerned. Its reputation rested on three pillars: the well-constructed and surprisingly grand entertainment stage set into the wall opposite the bar, the unparalleled quality of Oakvale’s cider, and, perhaps most importantly, the Stag’s status as the only tavern in Oakvale.

The Stag’s stage was a marvel. Not for its size, though it was impressively large, nor even for the obvious craftsmanship that had gone into its rugged construction. No, the stage was a marvel simply because it existed. Oakvale was a sizable village, verging on a town, but it did not boast the kind of musical talent that would typically justify such an expansive platform. The stage occupied nearly half of the tavern’s working space, a luxury that seemed out of place in a venue where space could surely be more profitably used for additional tables and chairs. Godfrey often wondered why the original owners had bothered with such an extravagant feature, and equally why the current proprietors hadn’t torn it down to make room for more patrons.

And yet, despite this apparent impracticality, the stage remained—and it was Godfrey’s favorite part of his home.

The Stag and Lyre was packed to the rafters, the warm, amber glow of lanterns casting a golden hue over the throngs of villagers who filled every available space. The hum of lively conversation mixed with the clatter of mugs and the occasional burst of laughter, creating an atmosphere of jovial chaos.

At a sturdy oak table near the edge of the room, Aunt Alice and Aunt Katherine had managed to secure seats, though the same couldn’t be said for John, Tarlow, and Godfrey, who were left standing around them. The men didn’t seem to mind, at least Tarlow didn’t, as he was too busy recounting Godfrey’s latest training mishap with such enthusiasm that he was nearly doubled over in laughter.

“...and then, there he is, just traipsing up the middle of the path,” Tarlow chortled, wiping a tear from his eye, “Blind to the world, clearly still a little miffed about being whacked in the face by that sapling trap Hawker laid. Our boy is stumbling, nearly blind from the pine needles in his face, when all of a sudden—whoosh!—he’s dangling by his foot like a pheasant at market!”

John couldn’t help but join in, his deep chuckle adding to the mirth. “Seriously, Godfrey, we were taught that trap to catch rabbits and other small game. You’re supposed to lay pieces of food around the snare. Hawker actually put a small pile of food on the ground for you. It was supposed to be a joke!”

Aunt Katherine, ever the protective figure, attempted to stifle her smile as she jumped to Godfrey’s defense. “Now, now, you two,” she chided, though the mirth in her eyes betrayed her amusement. “It’s not every day a young man gets to learn humility in such a creative way. Our young Godfrey obviously just wanted to see the tracks Hawker had laid from a different perspective!”

Godfrey groaned, his face flushing with embarrassment as he recalled his less-than-stellar performance that evening. “You too, Aunt Katherine?” he muttered, wishing the floor would open up and swallow him. After Hawker had finally released him from the trap—after letting him dangle for what felt like an eternity, of course—Tarlow had immediately called for a celebration, declaring it was in honor of “Godfrey’s biggest fuck-up so far.”

Tarlow had even mentioned with a grin that he looked forward to many more such celebrations as Godfrey reached new lows in his training. When Aunt Katherine and Aunt Alice had heard, they had demanded to be brought along to hear the story.

Aunt Katherine, ever the motherly figure, looked like she had stepped straight out of a cozy fairy tale kitchen. She loved cooking, and had been a private cook for a noble family in Centria when she was younger. She was the kind of woman who could cook up a feast with whatever she found in the pantry and make it seem effortless. Katherine loved nothing more than to feed hungry people and fatten up those she felt responsible for, which for Katherine included every man, woman, and child in Oakvale, as well as a whole host of stray animals. She was generous to a fault, and often found herself sick for having helped Alric Windermere’s more infectious patients eat and drink. However, her talent in the kitchen, and her generosity, were not Godfrey’s favorite thing about his aunt. No, her best trait, in Godfrey’s humble opinion, was her wit; sharp as a blade in the hands of a seasoned warrior, and quick enough to leave Tarlow stumbling and gasping for air.

As a result, Katherine was loved in and around Oakvale with a ferocity that bordered on zealotry, and the Emperor should weep in his grave should she ever feel the need to form an army and march on the Capital.

Aunt Alice, in contrast, was all vibrant energy and infectious laughter. She had a habit of speaking her mind with a bluntness that could be disarming, but it was impossible to take offense when her kindness shone through in every word. She was a polished mirror of her husband John; where John was cold, calculated, and tactical, Alice was warm, direct, and absolutely tactless.

“Don’t let John tease you, Godfrey,” Aunt Alice stated with a gleam in her eye, coming to Godfrey’s defense, “He is just upset that I beat him at that silly little white-and-black square game.”

Godfrey’s eyes widened in surprise. “Wait, Aunt Alice, you beat Uncle John at chess?”

Now Tarlow’s interest was piqued, and he glanced between Alice and John, who seemed suddenly fascinated by the grain of the table. “Tell me everything, Alice.”

“Oh, is that what the game is called? Chess?” Alice replied, her blunt lack of interest apparent. “Ah well, I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything. Must have just been beginner’s luck.”

Godfrey and Tarlow gaped at Alice’s revelation, while John couldn’t help but yelp, “There is no luck in chess! It’s a perfect game of tactics and strategy!”

Alice’s eyes shifted to her husband, and she smiled warmly. “Oh, is that right, John? Well, no need to worry, my love! You did so well! You almost won one of the games, remember? Oh dear, here we go…”

Alice left it at that, her words leaving John spluttering, unable to find fault in any of them, just as a drunken cacophony erupted at a nearby table. The noise at the nearby table quickly escalated, with loud voices and raucous laughter echoing through the tavern. A group of farmers, clearly deep into their cups, had managed to coax one of their own onto the stage. The man, a stout fellow with a ruddy face and unsteady legs, teetered dangerously as he climbed up, his friends egging him on with slurred encouragement.

“Go on, Davie, give us a tune!” one of them hollered, nearly knocking over his own tankard in the process.

Davie, clearly more cider than sense in him at this point, grinned foolishly and took a moment to steady himself. He swayed for a moment, then belted out the beginning of a bawdy local work song that was known in Oakvale for its crudeness and humor.

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"Oh, there once was a wife in the village, you see,

Who thought her old man as ugly as can be.

One night in the dark, she gave a big squeal,

For she’d grabbed her poor donkey, thinkin’ it was her heel!

She whispered sweet nothings in the poor donkey’s ear,

Not knowing her husband wasn’t quite near.

But when morning came, she let out a roar,

For she’d spent the whole night with a beast, and nothing more!"

The crowd roared with laughter as Davie stumbled over the words, nearly toppling off the stage. The farmer stumbled over his own feet, fell in a tangle of his own limbs, and ended up on his back. The room went quiet for a moment as the man lay unmoving. But then, just as Godfrey was thinking he should go help the man, the man screamed from his back:

"The husband he laughed, as he came through the door,

‘Well, my dear wife, did you enjoy your snore?

For while you were busy with that beast of the field,

I was down at the Stag, with a much better deal!’"

The crowd erupted into applause and laughter, clapping and cheering as Davie rolled off the stage, a broad grin plastered on his face despite the tumble. The tavern was filled with the sounds of mirth once more, with some plaintive calls for an encore.

Aunt Katherine and Aunt Alice exchanged amused glances before turning their attention to Godfrey, who was still laughing at Davie’s glorious rendition.

“Come now, Godfrey,” Aunt Katherine said with a teasing smile. “If Davie can do that, surely you can show them how it’s really done.”

Aunt Alice joined in, clapping her hands together. “Yes, darling, when I hear you singing I always open the window! You make the birds go quiet, like they're trying to listen in, it’s just adorable!”

Godfrey smiled at his aunts, suddenly nervous and excited. Godfrey found himself actually considering going up on stage. He had only had a cup and a half of cider, and yet, here he was, marveling at the unfamiliar surge of confidence that had taken hold of him for what seemed like the hundredth time. Not long ago, the mere thought of standing before so many people—of singing in front of anyone, really—would have sent a chill of fear through him. But now, something deep within him almost expected him to be the center of attention. It wasn’t just a fleeting urge; it felt like an intrinsic part of him, albeit new and foreign.

He reflected on Elara’s study in the forest, and the door that had changed him. Godfrey still had no idea what the door had imparted, but it was undeniable that something had altered or unlocked some part of him that night a year and a half ago.

John, noticing the shift in Godfrey’s expression, leaned in with a sly grin. “You know, Godfrey, it wouldn’t hurt to let the folks here see what you’re capable of. You’ve got a voice that could put any bard to shame.”

Tarlow, always quick to jump on an opportunity for mischief, clapped a hand on Godfrey’s shoulder. “He’s right, lad. You’ve been hiding that talent of yours for far too long. Besides, after that performance in the woods today, you could use a little redemption!” He winked, clearly enjoying the prospect of pushing Godfrey out of his comfort zone.

“Come on, show these folks what you’re made of,” John added, his tone a mix of encouragement and challenge.

Godfrey felt the weight of their words, the pressure to step up and let go of his reservations. The encouragement and teasing from his family made it harder to resist, of course. He felt himself rising, eating the space between him and the stage in broad, bold strides before he even knew he was moving.

The stage was absurdly tall for the size of the establishment in which it lived. There was no way to get up there without taking the stairs at the edge like Davie had. But where was the fun in that?

There had been some quiet surprise that Godfrey, the unassuming but competent young lad, had chosen to take the stage. Without breaking his stride, Godfrey asserted Control. The tendons in his legs thickened and hardened, allowing him to take the next step with a powerful spring from the ground. He alighted on the stage with a flair, his movements fluid and confident. The whispers were silenced.

He spun, and saw the local villagers, some his friends, but all his audience. His subjects, at least for his tenure on this stage.

As the room settled into an expectant hush, Godfrey felt an unfamiliar but thrilling sense of power surge within him. He was standing on the stage, looking out at the sea of faces turned toward him, and for the first time, it felt completely natural. The cacophony of the tavern had softened into a low murmur, all eyes focused on him. His heart beat steadily, not with the usual nervousness he would have felt in such a situation, but with a calm assurance that this was exactly where he was meant to be.

He took a deep breath, allowing the familiar tune to flood his mind—a melody that was not a melody, but the essence of life itself. It was the chill of morning dew, the soft breath of the wind, the keening cries of insects that filled the summer night, and the deep, steady pulse of the earth and the worms that burrowed within it. The myriad hums, squeaks, and cracks that formed the symphony of the world around him—tonight, Godfrey could hear it clearer than ever before. But now, he felt something for more complex from each of the people in the room, staring at him with curiosity and hushed excitement.

He could sense the connection between himself and the crowd, the invisible threads that bound the expectant to the performer. It was a silent contract, one that existed only in the mind but was as real as the breath in his lungs. The room seemed to vibrate with anticipation, each line of connection stretching toward him, taut like the strings of an unseen instrument. He felt those strings merging into a nexus, converging upon him, waiting for him to pluck them into life.

He drew in a breath, and as he did, the crowd followed, as if they were one body, one mind, breathing in unison, poised on the edge of something extraordinary. He closed his eyes, feeling the familiar hum of energy well up inside of him.

And he began to sing.

Godfrey let the breath flow out of him, his voice rising softly at first, a single note that hovered in the air like a whisper carried on the wind. The sound was pure and clear, a thread of melody that wove itself through the room, touching each listener with its quiet power. As the note stretched, it gathered strength, drawing the crowd deeper into the song, their hearts beating in time with the rhythm he set.

The melody swelled, filling the space with its haunting beauty. His voice was a river, flowing effortlessly over the notes, each one chosen with care, each choice not a choice but an expected, yet surprising, part of a greater whole. It was a song of the earth, of the ancient forests and the forgotten places where time moved slower, where the world remembered its oldest secrets. But it was also a song of the humanity represented in this room, chaotic and wonderful.

The song spoke of longing and loss, of hope and renewal, but not with words that anyone in the room knew. The sounds that emerged from Godfrey’s lips were fluid, shifting—impossible to grasp fully, yet resonating deeply within each listener. It was as if the melody itself was alive, threading through the crowd’s bones and drawing out their memories and emotions. It captured the first moment a father saw his newborn child, the raw pain of a woman who had lost her parents to a storm in her youth, the bittersweet anxiety of a young man who had just pledged himself to the Imperial Army. The song wove these emotions into a tapestry of sound, blending the unique experiences of everyone in the room into a single, shared experience. The intricacies and eccentricities of humanity, both ugly and beautiful, mixed seamlessly with the ancient song of the earth, creating something wholly new and entirely timeless.

It was a song of here, of now, of this moment.

And when the moment ended, Godfrey opened his eyes.

First, he looked to the men and women of the crowd, the strong and hardy people of Oakvale. They wept.

Then, he looked to the tavernkeeper, a rotund man named Humphrey. Streaks of tears marred his ruddy face as he wiped his eyes with his apron, confusedly explaining something to an urgent woman in dark, fine clothes. The two glanced at Godfrey, then returned to their conversation.

Next, his gaze found Elara, standing near the entrance, her eyes wide and filled with shock and awe. Tears streaked down her face, glistening in the dim light, and for a moment, she seemed like a vision from one of his dreams—unreachable, yet so very present.

Finally, he looked to his family. Uncle Tarlow, Aunt Katherine, and Aunt Alice were all beginning to applaud, tears in their eyes, their faces frozen in shocked expressions.

But John was staring at the woman in the dark clothes, his gaze filled with an anger that would beggar a thunderhead. He looked at Godfrey, who still stood frozen on stage, and in his uncle’s eyes, Godfrey saw not just anger—but fear.