Page 2 of Awariye

"Come, honey, we're going back this way," I soothed, guiding her to turn around, though thankfully we hadn't gone too far. "I'm sure you think you'll find good food at the capital,hm?But we're going to the stopover lodge at the base of the mountains. I bet they at least have oats for you, my dear."

Through the cloudy, patient day we plodded along, stopping just for feed and water for the horse, using my last coins for my sweet-natured gal. I was feeling so lightheaded I could faint, but I simply didn't have it in me to make an animal suffer.

By afternoon we reached the lodge at the base of the mountains, but dark, looming clouds signaled the weather was ominous. I released the horse to the stable keeper, giving her one last friendly pat in thanks, but the mountain was covered in a snow so thick I could barely make out the deep greens of the pines.

The lodgekeeper, a woman, cocked an eyebrow in question at my shabby clothes.

"Madam,Grüezi," I said in greeting.

"Grüß Gott," she replied in the more Austrian manner. "How can I help you?"

“Do you know if the mountain pass is still open?”

Her eyes widened and she looked at me as if I were absolutely crazy. "That pass has been closed for nearly two weeks now. You'd be lucky to even get through at the southern border this late in the season."

Her words doused me in cold water, and despite all my spiritual training, my vulnerability overwhelmed me and flooded me with shame. In my current state, despite my best efforts, I hadn't been thinking clearly. Of course these mountains would be impassable by now: it was past the winter solstice and even the new year. If Ceredigion had made it through, he would have done so at the southern border just as the lodgekeeper had suggested, right where I'd just come from. Now I didn't have the funds or the physical wherewithal to get back. I had been so stupid.

"You could try singing at the castle," she said when I didn't reply. She crossed her large arms and nodded east.

My brain could barely put thoughts together I was so exhausted. "The local petty king? Could you give me directions?"

"Nein," she said firmly. "The High King."

King Ulbrecht. I now needed to approach the castle of the brutal warlord who had conquered and united the central Danubian region, from the border of Helvetica in the west to as far east as the boundaries controlled by the Viennese city-state.

I pulled in a shuddering breath. "Danke, madam."

Back out to the stable, seeing as I had no remaining funds on me and I could thus not ask for a rest and a meal, I haggled with the stable keeper and convinced him that once I arrived at the castle, the fee for the horse would be paid. That took some negotiating. Understandably, in my shabby state, I did not look reliable, but at that point I didn't have much choice but to fall on the generosity of a king who might allow me to entertain him for the evening.

Back on the road, I brainstormed. I had one thing left to try.

This region held a story, often talked about by the common people. There were mysterious gods living up in the mountains, who had been brought there by a mystic. These unnamed gods represented by seven lanterns were said to have aided Ulbrecht the Great in securing this region and establishing a timid and feeble peace that had lasted already several years against long odds.

Though this was something everyday people talked about, as of yet there were no songs written for these gods, nothing yet for bards to carry through the valleys and sing to other warlords. Yet if some divine force had indeed helped High King Ulbrecht conquer this area, they deserved all the songs of this world and more for the sake of this precious peace.

It was a long afternoon’s ride to the capital, but maybe I could sing for this Danubian king and offer my services to his lantern mystic.

Feeble hope blooming in my chest, I smiled at the early afternoon sun.

Mystics were strange creatures, people who—unlike the rest of us—had given up everything in their lives in order to live with their gods. They often embraced brutal poverty so that working would not distract them from communion with the divine. Their acts (especially that of the Christian mystics who became martyrs) were sometimes so extreme they were lauded as supernatural and became legends in and of themselves. I would hedge my bets that this mystic was something of the sort. I would ask the king if I could serve him or this lantern mystic of his. I would then sing about this king and his lanterns if said gods wished for it.

I had forgone work in order to preserve my voice, usually singing in lodges for room and board and prioritizing opportunities to sing to potential patrons. This mystic had likely starved in poverty throughout his life in order to serve his gods. In that sense we were kindred spirits, so maybe he would help me, though surely that was where our similarities ended.

I couldn't imagine forsaking everything and choosing such a calling. Even Wren back at the Monastery had been an oddity to me, a young monk about my age whose seemingly innate spiritual talent led to the instructors educating him on a very theurgic path, reaching upward with all his strength.

The thought of my friend filled me with happiness. I hadn’t made it very far as a bard out in the world. Despite years of searching, I'd yet to find a patron, and I'd already sung myself toward vocal-cord pain, which wasn't something bards normally dealt with until much later in life, by which point they'd hopefully have patronage at least, and thus some sort of retirement plan in place that would allow them to reduce their singing yet still survive.

I didn’t have that, but I had helped Wren, and that was one of the things I was most proud of. I might not go down in the legends—I was no Merlin, or Taliesin—but if this was it for me, then at least I had that.

* * *

As the afternoon on horseback wore on, I fought away despair even as adrenaline coursed through me just to keep me from fainting. I remembered that night many years ago, where Wren's spirit had left his body and the monastery instructors had gone looking for him in the Otherworld. The doctor had pulled me into the room and asked me to sing. All in the monastery knew—as we were spiritual and magical men—that song had the power to entice wayward souls back into the land of the living.

That long night, in which I'd sung from dusk through to the dawn, was an experience that had taught me about my own inner strength. I was now at a flashpoint in my life, plodding over to the capital of a tumultuous and war-torn land with the intent to beseech the graces of a vicious warrior king with the last shreds of my health wrapped around my soul like tattered rags. But if I could sing through that dark night to save my friend, then deep in my heart I knew that I could do anything, so long as my body survived.

As my horse and I got closer to the capital and the mild day wore on into evening, I noticed signs of life getting a bit better compared to the areas further out. Buildings had been repaired; shared farming areas seemed to be thriving, from what I could tell in their post-harvest state of midwinter. The people in the towns appeared well-fed, enough to have rosy cheeks and not look as gaunt as I would surely find if I leaned over a stream. And there were children running around and playing, which always bode well for the future of a region.

The prosperity spoke well of this king. To have conquered this area and held it for several years was already quite the feat, and for the people to appear to be thriving was very hopeful indeed.