The Tales of the Wanderer Volume One: A Book of Underrealm (The Underrealm Volumes 4) Garrett Robinson (poetry books to read TXT) 📖

never wanted for money—and so we asked after the Sunspear and found it before long. Its sign hung over the door, a spear thrusting up with a red-rayed sun in the background. I glanced at the spear on Mag’s saddle and bit my tongue. A girl at the stables took our horses, and we purchased dinner in the common room for a handful of pennies. The food and ale were fine enough, but I found myself longing for Sten’s cooking and Mag’s brew.

Before we had finished eating, an old man walked into the common room. There were only a handful of people there aside from the two of us, but they all looked up eagerly. The man’s eyes were grey and blind with age, and he picked his way through the room with a walking stick. One patron quickly moved a chair from his path to ensure he would not strike it as he walked. Though the top of his head was entirely bald, he had thick, bushy grey brows and a long grey beard down to his waist. He wore deep blue clothes in a common Dorsean style, with a shirt that tied at the side and loose trousers collected at the ankle. Despite his stooped figure and slow walk, his lips curved in a smile that seemed nearly permanent.

The old man sat on a small platform near the unlit hearth, sitting with his legs folded and his walking stick across his knees. A barman appeared beside him with a bowl of broth and a cup that looked to be filled with wine. The old man took a few sips of the broth and a deep swig of the wine, and then settled himself on the platform. I noticed that he had not paid for the meal.

And then he leaned back, lifted his head, and began to sing.

From the very first notes, I knew I was in the presence of a master. Here was a man who had been singing—and, unless I missed my guess, telling tales—for decades before I was even born. Though his frame was diminutive, his voice was thick and powerful, and I could feel it thrumming in the wooden chair upon which I sat.

He sang some songs I knew by heart, and others I had never heard before. He sang some songs I knew, but to strange tunes, and some songs with new words, but set to tunes that were as old as the hills. I had to keep reminding myself to eat, for I kept staring at him, spellbound by the sound of his voice and his effortless command of melody. I was not the only one. All conversation in the common room ceased as everyone listened to the old man. Mag, who had far less appreciation for song and story than I, was yet as entranced as I was. Though the man sang alone and without any instrument, it seemed to me that I could almost hear a troupe behind him: a pipe and a lute and one steady, thudding bodhran.

After mayhap a quarter hour, the man subsided into silence and reached again for his broth and wine. I shook myself as if waking from a dream and turned back to my stew. It had very nearly gone cold.

“That was astounding,” I said, surprised at the reverence in my own voice.

Mag smiled at me. “Sky above, you look jealous. I always said you would have made a better bard than a mercenary.”

I pointed my spoon at her. “That was not a compliment when you first said it, and it is not a compliment now. Where would you be if I had pursued a life in a king’s court, and had not been there to look after you?”

Her eyebrows shot for the ceiling. “Oh, I would surely have perished long ago,” she said, straining mightily to hide the joke in her voice.

“And do not forget it.” I glanced over my shoulder at the old man, who was still resting before he resumed singing. “Besides, it is hard to say that I should have been a great and renowned bard when in the presence of one who deserves the honor so much more.”

“If you are so enchanted with the man, go and speak to him,” said Mag, chuckling.

“In fact, I think I shall,” I told her. “And not just for my own entertainment. We want information, and who better to give it to us than a man who tells tales for his supper?”

So saying, I stood and went across the room to sit beside the old man. He heard me coming, and his head tilted up as he listened to my footsteps approach. His milky eyes looked just over my left shoulder, and I smiled, entirely forgetting he could not see the expression.

“Greetings, friend,” I said. “I wished to give you my praise for your songs, and your voice. I have rarely heard a singer so fine.”

“Rarely?” said the old man. His grin revealed a few missing teeth in the back. “I am losing my touch, then. I must work harder until it becomes ‘never.’ But I thank you for your kind words.”

I chuckled and pulled up a chair to sit beside him. “That would be a tall order. I have traveled to many lands and been in many fine courts of nobility.”

The old man’s bushy brows rose. “Courtly bards,” he scoffed. “If you ask me, they are limited in skill to the moment when some foolish noble hires them. They think they were hired for the songs and stories they already know, and so they never bother to learn any more.”

“That is an interesting thought, and I am somewhat glad to hear it,” I said, smiling still wider. “I sometimes think I should have become a bard, but if it would have stunted my skill, I am glad I never did.”

He laughed at that, and then he held out his hand. I grasped his wrist and shook firmly.

“They call me Dryleaf here in this