Chapter 12 Araphi
Araphi
Araphi hasn’t been this nervous to play in ages.
Well, that’s not entirely true. She was nervous when she played for Sage the first time, and when she played for the winner’s purse in Ashaway, but these nerves feel different. They’re more electric, and also heavier somehow.
That’s because people are actually counting on you this time.
It’s true. Here, in the lodge in Hexham, her ability to perform is providing beds for her adventure party. Or perhaps not exactly beds, but warm, dry stalls to bunk in for the night, and the promise of supplies for their journey north.
So much depends on her getting it right.
But it’s not just the weight of the party relying on her charm, or her wounded forearm and aching feet that turn Araphi’s stomach as she sits in a small storeroom at the back of the lodge, tuning her lute.
Something else slithers under her skin that almost—almost—feels like being trotted out into the Clauneck ballroom.
Like she’s merely an object to smooth the way for other people’s ambitions.
“You want this too,” she reminds herself in a low whisper. “This is your party and you’re a valuable member of the team, not just an ornament.”
As she fiddles with her lute pegs, her mind drifts back to an afternoon in the music room with her mother years ago.
She’d been seventeen and home from boarding school for the winter solstice.
Her mother had promised more lessons on bardic magic the last time she was home, but between all of their social engagements and Araphi’s younger siblings—she has four sisters and two brothers—there hadn’t been time.
That day, some of the children were out with their suitably distinguished playmates, and Araphi’s fathers had taken the youngest two on a carriage ride to a park.
The servants were all in the kitchen, preparing dinner.
She’d found her mother drinking tea in the conservatory with a book.
She was still dressed impeccably, but there was ease to her posture as there always was when the house was quiet and she was alone.
“Mother,” Araphi had said, hating to interrupt her solitude. “You promised me a lesson.”
Her mother smiled, her eyes crinkling at the edges. “Very well, very well,” she said, putting her book down. “I’ll teach you a few things, but remember, keep it a secret between us.”
As soon as she’d closed the doors to the music room, her mother’s formal demeanor fell away completely.
She picked up the lute and played a few chords.
An easy smile spread across her face as a song began to emerge.
For a moment, Araphi could see who she must’ve been before meeting Araphi’s fathers and entering the Clauneck family.
A curious, eager, brilliant musician with ambitions to leave the Swamplands and see the capital.
Somewhere along the way, that girl had been buried beneath years of rules, decorum, court functions, and Clauneck expectations. But Brenna Fenwillow was still in there, just waiting to be set free.
“As I’ve told you,” Araphi’s mother said, passing the lute to her.
A hint of a Swamplands accent whispered through her words.
“Bardic magic is strongest in places of transition, but there’s more to it.
We’re using our magic as a conduit, asking a deity or devil to hear our song, enjoy it, and offer us a little of what we’re seeking.
Depending on the song, or even a simple arrangement of notes at the beginning, we make our requests—let me charm this crowd, let me find a bed tonight, let me catch the eye of that girl over there. ”
Araphi laughed. “Mother! You naughty thing!”
Her mother winked. “I had quite a few wild nights before meeting your fathers, child. You do get it from somewhere, you know. Certainly not from the Clauneck side.”
That was a delightful thought even back then. That there was more to her mother than just the family Araphi knew.
“I want you to try a simple spellsong,” her mother said, nodding to the lute. “Play your favorite song, but as you do so, play the chords I taught you, and ask for something, and we’ll see what happens.”
Araphi settled her hands on the lute and played “Tenderly We Meet,” a popular love song that haunted her dreams. As she played, she sent her intention into the world.
Please let me find a love like the one in this song. Please let them see me for who I really am. Please let—
“What’s going on here?” A dangerously polite voice interrupted the song.
Araphi’s heart sank and her mother blanched as Menorath Clauneck, Araphi’s aunt and Yael’s mother, strode into the music room.
As always, her dark hair was perfectly arranged, and none of her jewels were out of place.
Her narrow shoulders were shoved backward as her clever dark eyes scanned the room.
Araphi dropped the lute on a chair. Her mother’s smile likewise dropped, and she stood up straighter too.
“Menorath, darling.” Her mother’s voice was all court composer and drawing room again. Any traces of mischief or her Swamplands accent fled at the arrival of her sister-in-law. “I didn’t know you were visiting today.”
Menorath arched an eyebrow. “I was in the area and wanted your opinion on something.”
“Of course. I was just teaching Araphi—”
“Not music, certainly? We wouldn’t want a bard in the family.” Menorath’s words were sugared acid. “I know there are taverngoers in your line, Brenna, but that can’t be helped.”
The tiniest of winces crossed Araphi’s mother’s face, and then she smoothed it over.
“Of course. Araphi is meant for finer things. I was showing her the different instruments a music room will require for when she’s running an estate of her own.
She will be married soon enough, and we want to ensure her household doesn’t bring the Claunecks shame.
” A genteel laugh trilled out of Brenna, and she looped her arm through Menorath’s.
“Now, what did you want to ask me about?” She guided Menorath away from Araphi without looking back.
Araphi let out a long breath as soon as they were gone.
She’d never figured out whether her mother and her aunt were allies, enemies, or something in between.
Both of them had soaring ambitions, but their backgrounds were so different.
What was clear was that there was no room for Brenna Fenwillow in the Claunecks’ world, and Araphi would be wise to remember that.
Well.
Here in Hexham, she’s about as far away from that world as she can get.
With a final twist of her lute pegs, she strides into the lodge, which is part tavern and part communal space.
Built of thick, ancient tree trunks and weathered stone, it’s a long, wide room whose smoke-painted ceiling soars above the area below.
Enormous antler chandeliers hang from the rafters, their candles dripping wax onto the many spiky bone branches.
A river-rock hearth fills the front of the lodge, and a fire blazes inside it, sending warmth through the room.
Barrels line the walls, some of them covered in boards to make a bar.
There’s a table piled with humble but hearty food that’s presumably for everyone to enjoy, and two men distribute ceramic mugs of ale and cider.
It’s crowded tonight for such a small village, and it feels like everyone in town is crammed around the dozen or so tables.
There are folks of all ages, even a few babies.
Sage was right; the residents of Hexham probably haven’t seen a bard in years.
Which means Araphi can get away with simple songs, more tavern friendly than complicated.
Even Viktas—who Remy made a point of telling her earlier was from the Swamplands and loved ballads—would probably get caught up in the crowd’s excitement.
She’s going to do a good job. A great job.
A Claunecks-be-damned, prize-winning job of entertaining this crowd.
“Have a bit of cider,” an apple-cheeked woman says to her, shoving a full mug into Araphi’s hand.
“Much obliged,” she says, downing half the mug in a gulp. “Where exactly would be the best place for me to play?”
The woman shrugs. “Don’t know. We’ve never had a bard here, though we have singing and dancing some nights. There’s no stage, if that’s what you’re used to.”
Araphi shakes her head. “This will be fine, truly.”
All eyes are on her as she walks to the front of the room and stands near the hearth.
She scans the crowd. Sage sits at the back with Bramble and Nura (Remy is absent, having wisely obeyed Viktas’s command to keep out of sight in the stables).
Araphi winks at Sage, who raises her full tankard at her ever so slightly.
Suddenly, Araphi wants nothing more than to entertain Sage. To do a good job, just for her. An extremely dangerous and unwelcome thought when so much else depends on Araphi’s abilities to concentrate.
She takes a deep breath and wrenches her focus to the crowd.
“Hello, Hexham!” she calls out. She strums her lute once, twice, and then fully launches into a popular traveling song that she learned last year. Each note is woven with the barest hint of magic.
She plays through that song, then three more quick ones.
In the span of time that they take, Sage has risen from her table and walked toward one side of the room, where Viktas sits.
Viktas has been nodding her head along to Araphi’s songs, and clapping loudly after each one.
She has an air about her—something in how she holds her shoulders and sits at the table like she owns it—that’s more Clauneck drawing room than Hexham backwoods.
It sets her apart from the other villagers, who are singing along to Araphi’s songs and happily talking with their neighbors.