Mortal, desiring my harp will only bring tragedy—it doesn’t sing for others. Like a beautiful woman, you may covet and praise her, but touching will only bring you calamity.
~Dagda, the All-Father, Chief of the Gods
“You ready?” Luthais said with Otto standing at his shoulder. Crow flushed because he wasn’t used to wearing the formal attire of the northern clans. He didn’t know what to make of the outfit. The underclothes fit his body like a second skin, and the brown fabric was a material he’d never seen before. Over the top of that was a sleeveless and hooded green robe, but the stitching made it appear as if it was overlapping leaves. Traditionally, the hood remained up, so it left his face mostly hidden.
Luthais stepped forward to help Crow strap on the leather armguards designed to look like bark. In a forest setting, Crow could practically disappear into the background. However, the hardened leather bore the Maddox crest and Crow’s lineage and was meant for decoration, not protection.
“These arm guards are the most expensive part, and your grandfather traded in a lot of favors to have them crafted for you. Keep them when it’s over because these are also proof of who you are. One other thing, during a festival like this, avoid getting into fights. A lot of elders from various clans are watching.”
“There are fights?”
“Sometimes, and usually, over the right to dance with someone. But past enmity or clan rivalries are also a concern. In short, normal rules of engagement apply. Provoking is fine, expected probably, but do not attack first.”
“Yes, sir. I don’t really know anyone, so would anyone really cause problems with me?”
Luthais smiled mysteriously but said nothing else. Crow didn’t know how to take that, and his unease grew worse. He felt like he was about to become a display piece, and he didn’t like it.
“Why doesn’t Otto need to dress up?” Crow asked, seeing the giant in regular clothes.
“He isn’t a northerner,” Luthais claimed as if it was a known fact. It didn’t answer the question.
Overall, Crow didn’t care about what Otto wore, but he worried that others would attack the big dummy. Then again, Crow doubted anyone in the younger generation could stop Otto when he was in battle mode—not even him. Sparring was one thing, but he’d seen how Otto tossed around a grown adult with a Shield.
Once all the clan members were ready, they all left as a group. Their destination was the open plaza and park area between the arena entrance and the last god statue. Interlocking stone covered most of the site except the spot directly out from the arena—that spot was a grassy park with a few large trees scattered throughout.
Crow couldn’t help but look at all the faces of the gods he’d memorized long ago. Some of which he knew from the history books, but most of which remained a mystery he hoped to solve one day. Crow didn’t realize he’d possibly already started on his Bard’s path and found a topic worth his focus. It wasn’t about the gods themselves, but about how they rose to power. No matter the reason, something took root.
It only took almost an hour to arrive at the festival. Booths lined the outer area of the plaza, offering food, gifts, and rare flowers. In front of them were tables where a lot of the younger generation sat and conversed. In the center of the area, on the stairs to the arena, several Bards joined the musicians and took turns singing lively songs.
Other than a few elders chaperoning the dance, the rest remained on the plaza’s outer edges, talking. This was a festival for the younger generation as a coming of age type dance—a spring festival to celebrate life and new beginnings. The Flower Festival couldn’t exist without flowers, so tables around the plaza contained thousands of them, and the variety was mind-boggling. Some florists spent all year creating specialized flowers for this event, but those cost money.
The girls all wore a chaplet, which was a wreath made of vines or grass. If a boy wanted to dance with her, he presented a girl with a flower that he or she would weave into the wreath. The girls had the right to refuse, but the number of flowers became a symbol of status, so while they could refuse, many did not. Of course, the popular girls already had quite an assortment of flowers of all types and colors woven into their wreaths and hair.
As they entered the park, Otto went immediately to the food stalls to grab something to eat, and Crow could only grin and shake his head. Although he stayed near the big guy, he walked towards a nearby table filled with various flowers. Absently, he’d pick a few of them up and cataloged them based on what he’d read. Most had no actual value other than their beauty.
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The flowers’ arrangement had no order other than maybe color, and Crow spotted his mother’s favorite. He cradled it in his palm and stopped paying attention to the world around him. Those memories transported him to a happier time when his mother brought him to play in a field of flowers. Crow was naked as he ran through and sent petals flying, but he didn’t know why he was naked. It was one of those few times where his memory failed him. His ordinarily stoic face cracked, showing a bit of emotion and—
“No one wants you here, witch!” A girl’s sharp tone called out, a voice that pierced into his memories and burst the bubble of his bliss.
Essie! This girl was one of the four beauties that all the boys wanted to dance with. Her full name was Esme Teonet—his fiance. It was an arranged marriage that his father and mother set up before he was even born. Her fiery red hair carried soft curls that swayed like fire. The button nose, a dusting of freckles, and a pert little mouth rounded out the most distinctive traits of a northern beauty. Even her pale white skin contrasted with Crow’s tanned and blemish-free coloring.
The red-head laughed and turned away from the foreign girl she was ridiculing.
Crow spotted the midnight colored hair and pale smooth skin, which gave the girl a fragile appearance. No one would mistake her as a northerner, but Crow knew that lithe body carried explosive potential. He wasn’t even sure who would win if he tried to fight her. It was the only reason he hesitated to step in.
He knew she could handle herself. He’d seen her from afar when he used to prowl the alleys of Oiche—something he’d stopped doing because of his nightly training. Even now, he could see the knife that flashed through her hands, probably the same one that took a gang leader’s eye recently. He’d recognize her ice-blue eyes anywhere, but they were cold compared to the little girl he befriended as a child. Despite the years that had gone by, he’d never forgot about her.
“Song Xue…” he muttered under his breath.
Crow had no genuine feelings towards Esme, but he had always felt a strong connection with Song Xue. In fact, Esme had seen him standing there but didn’t even greet him, so he doubted she had any feelings towards him either. Instead, Esme kept poking fun of the Xue’er and watched him to see if it would invoke an action.
At that moment, Song Xue spoke.
“Your words lack substance. The boys only like you because you let them kiss and grope you. Do you they’d still pay attention to you if I cut your face?” Her voice was soft and vicious.
Crow had heard rumors about her behavior, but he wouldn’t have judged. He liked that she remained true to herself. Hearing her speak and the cutthroat words that followed—he burst out laughing.
Startled, Esme, Song Xue, and the others all snapped their heads around to stare at him as if he had three heads. Esme flushed red, and the guys with ashen faces must have all been her victims.
One boy stood out from the rest—Munro Duncan. Crow disliked Munro because he often tried to offend the Maddox clan, even making life hell for Crow’s cousins. If Crow spotted it happening, he’d intervene, and because of it, Munro had a deep-seated fear of him. However, the bastard didn’t yet know that he had opened his Source—meaning he didn’t even view Munro as a threat anymore.
“Say it again, witch,” Essie hissed.
“Move along. Your vocabulary is lacking, and it’s boring using words on you.” Song Xue’s knife flashed in her hand once more before disappearing. This time she moved slow enough that everyone saw it. That amount of control had already attracted Crow’s attention, and now the other boys gulped and took a step back. However, Song Xue’s eyes didn’t pay attention to any of them; they were on the approaching boy that might be the only friend she had growing up.
Crow already had a flower in hand when he stepped in front of her, forgetting that he had picked it up. Not sure what he was doing or why he handed it out to her. “Would you like to dance?”
The already drooping jaws of those surrounding them had fallen even further. Not even the chaperoning elders were immune to the surprise. But most surprised of all was Song Xue, who tried to open her mouth to retort. No words followed, but her face turned a beautiful shade of pink.
“Pff, a Snowdrop? Those are practically weeds,” Esme snorted.
Crow’s eyes never left Song Xue.
“Snowdrop was my mother’s favorite flower. She said they were the most beautiful when seen in the wild because of their tenacity. They flourished no matter the circumstance.” Crow lowered his voice so only Xue’er would hear the next part. “They can be found in far-off places, but always on the eastern side of trees or hills, like you.”
Song Xue reached out a trembling hand and took the flower. “I-I don’t know what to do with it…” She said, causing the other kids to laugh at her. It was only then that he saw Song Xue had no flowers in her chaplet.
“Ignore them; let me show you.” Crow gently took the wreath from her head and wove the flower into the vines. His deft hands moved with care and confidence, the same care and confidence he used to place the chaplet back on her head. “Come.”
He grabbed her hand and led her out of the crowd. And when others thought to interfere, Otto appeared, cowing them into backing off.
Crow may have spent most of his life training, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know most line dances. It was part of his training, something Barnes said would help his growth—something Crow suspected had nothing to do with his agility or martial ability. So he taught Song Xue everything he knew.
She danced and twirled around as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and Crow smiled, seeing the light in her eyes. Between the dancing, the music, and the girl, Crow finally felt some burden lift from his shoulders—for one night at least. Neither one of them talked all that much, even when they stopped to drink some water. Every time they went back out to dance, he wove another Snowdrop into her wreath until those little white flowers crowned her head. The flowers matched her flowing white dress perfectly. And somehow, he knew his mother would approve.
Crow felt connected to this moment and to Xue’er and the music, and he felt any words they might have said would shatter the illusion. They were young, so the complexities of relationships didn’t yet exist. They were friends in the past, and they were still friends now. They needed nothing else. It was good for his soul.
Until Munro and Esme happened.