Book 1: Chapter 20 - Siren’s Song [Part 1]
----------------------------------------
Our enemies are the whetstone upon which we hone our bodies and minds. Ever striving to reach perfection, until all that is left is only that which is required.
- The Living Sword by Fen Vaigorus circa 520 AC.
It was a failure—but a failure Seraphina had anticipated. She was long accustomed to wielding secrets and men as a soldier might wield a sword and shield. If the first strike fell short, there was always a contingency.
Her eyes flicked across the bustling square, finally landing on what she had been searching for: The Hart’s Heart, a tavern crouched on the east side, its grim sign swaying gently in the breeze. A painted deer, a crimson heart dripping against its chest, stared back at her. Terrible name, she thought with disdain. The current owner clearly lacked any semblance of taste. But regardless of its macabre branding, the tavern was already alive with patrons despite the early hour.
Inside, she would find someone she did not necessarily need per se, but was still a figure who could prove very useful for what she had planned next.
“Frest, go into The Hart and find the bard within. Bring him to me,” she ordered the once-upon-a-time bandit.
“Err… right you are, milady,” he replied, flashing an incorrigible grin. “You wouldn’t happen to know what he looks like? On account of having seen him with your—”
“Are you testing me, Frest?” she snapped, cutting him off. “Bring me the bard this instant. The musician! Threaten to break his lute, mandolin, or whatever he plays if you have to. Or offer him some silver—but get him in front of me this instant!”
Her voice rose, sharp with irritation. Everyone was trying her patience these days.
The rest of her entourage wisely avoided meeting her gaze, their eyes fixed on anything but Frest. He scrambled to obey, hurrying toward the tavern. The minutes dragged painfully as they waited, their mistress fuming in silence as the people flowed around them. No one dared speak.
It wasn’t long before Frest returned, dragging a man clad in green traveling clothes. The bard clutched a stringed instrument to his chest as if it were a newborn child.
Frest all but shoved the man to his knees on the stone floor of the square, drawing only a few glances from passerbys. Justice in the de Sariens lands was a fair but brutal thing.
Before Seraphina knelt a figure who, for all his bedraggled state, retained an unusual elegance. Barely taller than the blonde girl, he was slim and effete, with shocking orange hair tied back into a loose ponytail. A smattering of freckles dotted his nose and cheeks, softening his sharp features. He was strikingly pretty, almost delicate—easy on the eyes in a way that would make him memorable.
But it was not his appearance that commanded Seraphina’s attention. It was the instrument cradled in his arms.
The lute-like creation looked otherworldly. Intricate whorls and flowing patterns decorated its body, as though painted by the hand of the Fae. Entwined vines and creatures from sea and forest coiled around the rose of the instrument, the designs seamlessly climbing up its polished neck. For a moment, she almost believed it to be enchanted.
“Haze Finleigh,” Seraphina addressed him, her tone deceptively warm but laced with unmistakable authority.
The bard’s wide, amber eyes locked on hers. He looked utterly stupefied, his mouth slightly agape, as if words had abandoned him at the sight of her. Silence stretched, heavy and awkward.
Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.
“You will answer the Lady de Sariens when she speaks to you, cur!” snapped Mili, her voice venomous.
The outburst startled even Seraphina, who arched an eyebrow at her maid’s uncharacteristic vehemence. “Thank you, Mili. That will be all,” she said, her voice pleasant but clipped. “I imagine Master Finleigh is understandably... surprised by his current situation.”
Mili bristled at the reprimand, her cheeks coloring as she withdrew a half-step. She simmered quietly beside her mistress, though Seraphina could not help but note the fire in her maid’s glare. What was that about? The thought flickered briefly before Seraphina dismissed it as unimportant.
“Yes, milady de Sariens!” Haze squeaked suddenly, his voice a countertenor so high and clear it startled her entourage. It was an unexpectedly feminine sound, oddly suiting his delicate appearance.
Seraphina allowed herself a faint smile. The bard had found his voice at last—and she intended to make good use of it.
The young noblewoman regarded him intently, her piercing gaze sweeping over every inch of him. Haze Finleigh shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny, feeling as if her eyes could peel away his layers to uncover every secret he carried.
Master Finleigh was a bard of the Bardic College of Quas—a wandering minstrel, poet, and, by some accounts, a rogue. Like many bards, he sought to rise through the ranks by crafting his Master’s Piece, a song so profound it would cement his legacy. Unlike others of his ilk, however, Haze’s reputation was unusually clean. He was not prone to the wandering hands or lecherous behavior often attributed to traveling musicians, something that set him apart in the taverns and inns he traveled.
What most did not know, and what only Seraphina and perhaps his parents could claim knowledge of, was Haze’s secret. A small but pivotal detail that colored his existence. Seraphina privately commended herself for insisting the studio flesh out even minor characters. The final audience might never learn such intricacies, but she knew them, and that knowledge gave her the upper hand.
Not that his secret mattered here. It had no bearing on his skill, and that was what she needed.
She turned to Miriam. “A silver,” she commanded, extending her hand.
Miriam, ever dutiful, fished a coin from her purse and handed it over. Seraphina’s lips pursed slightly as she examined the clipped edges. The debasement of the currency annoyed her, a matter she resolved to address later. But later was the key word.
For now, she placed both hands on her knees and leaned forward, locking eyes with the bard. His hazel gaze trembled under hers, trapped like a moth in a flame. Seraphina let her natural Charisma work its magic, then extended a delicate, perfectly manicured hand. She placed the coin in his palm, her touch feather-light yet commanding.
“A Song’s Silver,” she said sweetly.
Haze gulped. Being this close to her was like standing in the sun—blinding, overwhelming, and utterly inescapable.
“What would you have me play, my lady?” he asked, his voice mechanical, as though her hypnotic presence had bypassed his thoughts altogether.
“A song of the Hazagadami,” Seraphina replied, her tone soft but firm. “I will hum the tune, and you will learn to play the melody.” She leaned closer, her gaze holding his as if daring him to falter. “It is a song of loss and hope. You will play it with all your skill, with every ounce of your meager talents. You will pour your heart and soul into every note plucked upon those strings. Anything less, and…”
She let the threat dangle in the air, casting a quick glance at her men-at-arms. They loomed behind her, their silent presence menacing enough to need no words.
“Yes! Of course, milady!” Haze stammered, his voice cracking slightly. “Whatever you wish, I—”
“Good,” Seraphina interrupted smoothly. Her lips curved into a faint, satisfied smile.
Humming softly, she sang the tune to him. Haze’s brow furrowed in concentration as he listened, then repeated it back flawlessly after hearing it only once. His fingers moved instinctively over the strings, his talent as sharp and precise as the studio had promised.
Once he had the melody down, he asked hesitantly, “Will there be lyrics to accompany the tune, milady?”
“You need not worry about that,” Seraphina replied, her voice dipping into her most enigmatic smile.
She straightened, taking a moment to compose herself. This next part was something the original Seraphina had lacked talent in entirely.
It was time to sing.