A Promise of Iron Brandon McCoy (howl and other poems TXT) 📖

your secret is safe with me. But don’t expect something like that to stay quiet for long.”

Crylwin snorted but said nothing more.

As we arrived back at our seats, Patricia was introducing a woman possibly more stunning than her. She held her hand out to me. I recognized her as the singer despite the fact that the backdrop of the setting sun did much to hide her beauty.

“May I present Lady Selene Devero de Sevil,” Patricia said.

I froze.

Lira nudged me in the ribs with her elbow. “Don’t be rude,” she whispered. “Take her hand.”

I did as commanded, wary that she nor I wore any gloves. I took the back of her hand to within inches of my lips as nervous as a baby deer.

Selene curtseyed, her eyes never breaking from my own. Their color was bright honey, sharp, and as dangerous as a serpent. She wore a dress cut in the same fashion as Patricia’s, though hers was as black as the jeweled necklace that hung on a silver chain perilously between her breasts. I could only guess how many men had broken themselves upon the rocks of her shore.

“You are honored guest, yes?” she said in accented Cyllian.

I nodded hesitantly.

She stepped closer, stopping inches away from my body. She was so close I could feel the ambient heat radiating from her body. “I am gift for you.”

I swallowed. “Excuse me?”

She turned to Monroe, a look of confusion on her face, then back to me. “I am to gift, yes?”

“I uh… I’m not sure I…”

She ignored my rambling and turned to Lira, appraising her with a look just as Patricia had. She raised a slender brow, inviting a question. Lira wrapped her arm through my own. I could not see her face, but I could guess her expression.

Patricia intervened then, taking Selene’s hand as she whispered into her ear. As she spoke, the singer’s eyes went wide. They shared a look before turning back to me.

“Song?” Selene clarified. “A gift of song, yes?”

I could feel Lira relax on my arm. I eased as well. “Oh, well, I’m honored, but I don’t know many Seveli…”

“ ‘Sorrow of Elony,’ ” Lira interrupted.

I turned to her.

“Sorry,” Lira said. “You pick, it’s your day.”

“No, that’s fine. I don’t really know any Seveli opera outside of the histories. I’m sure it will be fine.”

“It was my mother’s favorite,” Lira explained. “I guess it’s my favorite now too.”

“She knows her opera,” Patricia said. “ ‘The Sorrow’ is a secret rarely shared outside of Sevel. Selene, will you sing this?”

Selene placed a finger to her lips and smiled. “Long since. But yes, I will sing for you, ‘The Sorrow.’ ”

The players returned a few moments later for the second act. The crowd was hushed in anticipation. This time they played more contemporary songs, a departure from the somber notes that came before. We heard ‘The Bay and the Hare,’ ‘Alu’s Dance,’ and ‘The King’s Trumpet Come a Calling.’ The latter song, a not so subtle ode to the late Cyllian Chancellor’s famed wanderlust, would have been considered inappropriate within respectable Cyllian circles. But this was Belen after several hours of wine and spirits. Laughter punctuated every verse.

For the final song, Selene took center stage. A lone player followed behind, a lyre carved of ivory in his hand. What transpired next cannot be described, so I will not attempt it. We did not need to understand the words to feel their anguish. Let it be known that when her song was sung, and Elony’s “Sorrow” was shared with the world, we wept as she did.

“Marvelous,” Ama called out amidst the roar of applause. “Absolutely marvelous. Excellent choice, Lira. My gods, her voice is like heartache wrapped in velvet.”

Selene stepped to the edge of the stage; she bowed deeply as applause echoed around her.

“Yes,” Patricia added, “she has no equal.” She shared a look with Monroe then gestured to Selene. Selene bowed again, waved her hand to the crowd, then exited the stage.

The remaining musicians lingered a moment longer, soaking in their due appreciation before packing away their instruments. Selene joined us moments later, taking a seat between Patricia and Monroe. The three carried on loudly in Seveli at first. I only understood every third word, but their familiarity with each other said enough. I was glad when their voices turned to whisper; I didn’t need to hear the details.

As the musicians exited the stage, two men appeared in motley purple and white.

“Jugglers!” Decia called out.

Crylwin nodded. “We saw them practicing earlier.”

“Where is the old man?” I asked.

Lira turned to me.

“An old man was reading a book in between them,” I explained. “I wasn’t sure if it was part of their routine or not. I thought it might have been a play of comedy.”

Lira turned back to the stage and pointed to a figure partially concealed in the shadows at the back. “Is that him?”

I followed her gaze. “Good eyes. It could be; I can’t see his face, though.”

The jugglers began their act, playing a simple back and forth with carved wooden balls. I counted ten in total between the two of them. Higher and higher they went until it became hard to see them with the setting sun behind. There was a crack like thunder and a rush of wind that bent the grass towards the stage. The jugglers were no longer throwing. Instead, they held an open bag of burlap between them. I looked up at the balls; they seemed nearly suspended in air, no not suspended, they were falling, just slowly, like a feather floating to the ground on a gentle breeze.

I laughed with the crowd as the jugglers made a show of catching each ball, one by one, with the sack. The crowd applauded clumsily, looks of confusion worn on their faces as much my own. The performers placed their arms at their sides, bowed, and then returned to their burlap sack to ready their next act.

Lira nudged me with her elbow. “Was that magic… uh…