Page 16 of Awariye

I listened, my eyes hooded though not completely closed, since my mind tended to wander in thought when I had no visual stimuli. The lanterns bled and stretched through my eyelashes. I held still and let them glance over me if they so chose, though I did not feel the presence of consciousness in the chapel change.

As a bard, on the rarest of occasions when I sang outside, especially at a festival with the community out and dancing, a god might tear open the sky for the briefest of moments and take note of the celebrations, a quick smile sent down, and maybe a wink. The times it had happened to me I had been struck silent for that flash, then had to bumble my way into the next lines and catch up with the musicians. It was like suddenly being brought dangerously close to a flame—a popper or firecracker going off too close and whizzing by. That level of powerful consciousness could not be experienced directly by a human at anything close to full power; their body would explode, or they would lose their minds.

"Maybe say a word or two?" Wren suggested softly.

I nodded and considered my words, speaking deliberately and not allowing myself to babble.

"My name is Awariye. I was raised in a traveling theatre group. I remember being loved until things got bad, and my mother was forced to leave me at Diana Monastery. She likely sold herself into slavery after that; I never heard from her again."

My friend squeezed my hand in sympathy, though Wren's story was much sadder. He had no memory whatsoever of his family, just of wandering the streets until Ingeborg, a traveling mage woman back then, had picked him up and let him tag along with her before dropping him off at Diana Monastery so he could receive formal training.

I swallowed and considered how to articulate the next part. "I'm now a wandering bard looking for a patron. I've had trouble making a living because my vocal cords are wrung out from singing so much growing up. They hurt when I strain to sing over crowds. I get hoarse quickly and have to rest for days afterward. Sometimes I lose my voice entirely, or it rattles."

"Oh nein," said Wren softly in dismay.

I shook my head for him to not worry, then focused back on the gods, their firelight commanding my attention.

"If what I am is enough," I began as inspiration moved me, "I could sing for you. Please let me know; I would be honored to. Thank you."

Then as was only polite, I held quiet and listened for as long as I had just spoken, careful to honor their time and thoughts just as much as my own.

I listened quietly, then heeding Ingeborg's warning to not get too far into a spiritual state while my body recovered, I thanked the gods one last time, then pulled out of that mental awareness and fully opened my eyes.

"Maybe just a little something," Wren put forth, and I smiled at him immediately asking for a song to these strange and unknown gods he had so recently and quickly grown close to.

"How do I know they want to hear me?" I asked since I clearly wasn't as connected to them as Wren was. Being bardic, I had prayed mostly to the deities I’d met as a young monk, who led me on this winding path. But I of course gave offerings and had memorized songs for the pantheons now worshipped in these Danubian lands, including monotheistic and polytheistic faiths.

"I can ask," Wren offered, then reached into the cupboard by the central table and pulled out a deck of cards.

I smiled at the tool of oracular divination familiar to me from Diana Monastery. This particular one was based on trees, and could even be practiced with sticks, if you had one from each kind of tree. Toss them on the ground, and you'd tell whether or not they were upright through the use of notches. It was just as effective as shuffling cards.

Wren held the deck to his solar plexus and closed his eyes a quick second. If I knew him, he was greeting the oracle mentally. Any mage lucky enough had more than just a deck of cards and his own intuition to bring to bear when he divined. A fortunate mage also had a guide, someone on the other side of material existence willing to help him.

Since it was a simpleJa/Neinquestion, he drew only one card and placed it face-up on the table. We both registered the card at the same time and laughed.

"Upright Beech tree," I read aloud.

"Sounds like they want to hear something," added Wren.

Beeches were one of the most common trees in Central Europe; to pull one from the deck made for a resounding yes.

Humming up and down some scales to warm up my voice, I pondered something respectful but not too long, then thought of just the thing. Planting my feet and straightening my posture, I inhaled and sang:

To thee, the blessed gods, I pray.

Thank you for your thoughts and the rain.

The stone chapel wasn't made for acoustics, though I hadn't expected it to be, this far out from the nearest civilization. But it carried my voice well enough, a humble offering to the power that already brimmed in this space.

Wren snapped out of his pensive, listening attitude, and I held back a giggle at him so clearly expecting a longer song and being surprised at the short ditty. "I liked that!"

I gave a shrug. "It's a prayer I came up with."

Wren's expression became wistful. "You should hear Uli's story of how he came to power. If these gods want you to sing for them, you could carry their story along with Uli's everywhere, Awariye."

I nodded, for indeed I could. We weren't the deciders, however. We would need to wait for the gods to find a way to speak to us and convey their will before I sang about them and their king.

"Now that I'm up and walking around, I need to see the natural world," I said.