The general cries of outrage, justified though they might be, were giving Duke Elford a severe headache. He longed to sink his throbbing forehead to the cool, stone tabletop and massage his problems away, but position demanded he sit and take it, straight-backed and square-shouldered.

Thank the King, position also gave him the right to make them stop.

“Enough!” he cried, striking the table with the closest hard object he could get his hand on – a full wine chalice. Deep red liquid splashed across the marbled surface, the careless damage emphasizing his frustration. “Enough, my lords, and sit back down.”

Reluctantly, seething a little from the injustice that had placed Duke Elford at the head of the council, the other regional dukes sat down again, grumbling their last complaints in increasingly low tones.

“I hear your concerns,” Duke Elford declared, “and I understand them, but we are beyond the point of tradition. The King has given me authority to use any resource at the Kingdom's disposal, any man in the Three Regions, and I have chosen who I've chosen. There will be no change.”

“Are we to throw Justice in the stocks, then? Make a mockery of her?” protested the young and newly-seated Duke Windlee of Southwindleton, half-rising from his chair in confrontational anger. “You could have any man, yet you decide to take from me my father's murderer!”

He went on, but Elford stopped listening. He'd read the entire rant before, in the letter the Duke of Southwindleton had sent a week before this useless council had been called. The appeal to justice, the demand for vengeance, threats of battle, and finally the appeal that anyone else would suit Elford's purpose just as well as the murderer, so why make trouble where none was needed?

The table is ruined, now, he mused, watching the spilled wine wind its way across the beautiful marbling. Another will have to be cut. Perhaps I will have this carved into artwork for my bedroom.

When Windlee's voice stopped, Elford looked back up into the expectant eyes of a half-dozen dukes and a baron. They waited, the silence stretching.

“There will be no change, and I owe nothing to any of you.”

And the hubbub of lordly outrage returned.

Elford sighed, an involuntary reaction from deep in his soul. They didn't understand, didn't even make the effort to try. They only saw the power he held now - in some ways surpassing even that of the Three Princes - but they refused to see the limits and the extreme pressure that came along with it. He had to find the right people. The King himself had declared that stopping Teru – a literal god of the Circle – was Elford's job now.

The wine stain was spreading. Like the endless problems that Elford had to shoulder.

He didn't bother saying anything more. He allowed the other lords to run out of breath a few times, then stood and pointed at the door. The third burst of outrage washed over him, but they had become less impactful with repetition. Finally, seeing him unmoved and unresponsive, the other dukes barged out, promising to make trouble later as they went.

The baron stayed.

He'd been quiet throughout, probably intimidated by the presence of his betters. His complaint had earned him a “meeting” to discuss the issue, but he clearly hadn't expected that meeting to be in a council of lords a station above him. Elford recognized the ambush for what it was and suppressed another sigh, waving for the baron to speak.

The baron straightened, cleared his throat, then,

“From what the others have said, my lord, I think I understand why you've selected the people you have. Dangerous criminals all, and win or lose, the world benefits.”

Nice. A bit of flattery to pave the way. That's not at all old.

“But?” Elford snapped, impatient to get this over with. The baron met his demanding gaze, genuine confusion written across his furrowed brow.

“But the rebel from Woodedge isn't... special, my lord. We meant to make an example of him, nothing more. He's... well, he's just a common poacher.”

Surprisingly reasonable. Elford bit back his reactionary annoyance and leaned forward onto the table, fingers steepled before his chin.

“That is exactly why I wanted him. The way I have heard the story, your little poacher was in the wrong place at the wrong time, in the wrong company. Bad luck. Repeated bad luck, in the worst ways possible. Or, as a gambling man might say, a series of bad rolls of the dice.

“I am putting together a team of lunatics to save the world because Teru is bored by good men. One sane man, unlucky but sane, might just be interesting enough to qualify in the eyes of the god of chance. And, frankly, I think we're going to desperately need a bit of sanity down the road with this lot.”

Metcenzerin of the Three Voices stared at the floor of the wagon, every bump and joggle causing the metal edges of his shackles to dig into already raw skin. Not for the first time, he mused on the sadistic minds that must have designed these accessories of torture. It wasn't enough to restrain a man, no; you had to physically damage the hands with which he shaped the world.

Mid-Spring sunlight glanced down on his face as he tilted his head back, unhindered by walls or ceiling. The open wooden wagon was driven by a pair of local soldiers, with a third sitting in the back to watch Metcenzerin and his fellow-prisoner. As much as Metcenzerin hated the shackles and chains that locked him to the cart, at least the two of them got fresh air and a view of the beautiful North-Kingdom countryside. Behind them trundled a second prison-wagon, but that second wagon was a solid metal box pulled by four horses and surrounded by armed guards.

There was a third wagon, just as heavily guarded, behind that one. It made Metcenzerin wonder just what kind of monsters their so-called “Judge” had called in for this mysterious task.

“Did you know this is my homeland?” he commented lightly, inspired to speech by the familiar birdsong filling the air. “Or, nearly. North-mountain blood runs through these veins, old and pure as the awakening of mankind.”

The hunter across from him glanced up, his dour eyes cast in shadow by the deep hood of his cloak. “So you get to die within spitting distance of your ancestors' bones. Good for you.”

He hasn't said one nice thing since we were chained together. He could at least make the effort to be friendly if this is our last chance to chat with someone besides an executioner.

“It isn't about ancestry, it's about the air,” Metcenzerin insisted, forging on ahead despite the lack of cooperation. “Mountain air is thin and cold, but it is the very breath of Iylihe in this part of the world. On some days, you can feel that breath even down here in the Kingdom. Birds are inspired by the air of their maker, and all music is blessed to the ears of mortal man.”

“Don't start singing.”

Metcenzerin's breath caught in his throat. So swiftly and skillfully that comment was slid into the space between his sentences, like a narrow knife between the ribs to stop the heart and end a life. He stared at the hunter as he sat hunched, head bowed, shoulders raised, elbows on knees, hands dangling loosely in the air before him. Utterly uninspired and uninspiring, and determined to remain so.

“How do you live with yourself?”

It was a genuine question, asked almost in awe at a man's utter dismissal of all things beautiful. The hunter raised his head again, just enough to give Metcenzerin a baleful glower.

“Doesn't matter much now, does it?”

Though a question, the hunter's words were a conversation killer. Metcenzerin let them hang unanswered and returned his gaze to the blue sky, looking for signs in the light speckling of wispy clouds.

In a way, Metcenzerin understood his fellow-prisoner's pessimistic attitude. Their destination did not inspire confidence of a fair trial, tucked away out of sight of the Kingdom in the foothills of the wild Northern Mountains. The road leading to it was overgrown from disuse and the manor itself looked half-abandoned, a ducal residency left to fall to ruin after the previous Duke of Northhighvale moved to an estate closer to the rest of the Kingdom.

Down into a shallow valley the grim caravan went, and followed the road, twisting, between a steep ridge to the north and a low, sloping hill to the south. Metcenzerin, his voice unappreciated by guard and unwanted by prisoner, composed a new song in the safe privacy of his head, describing in flowing free-verse the last journey (perhaps) of a great and misused bard, blessed by Iylihe and cursed by the world...

Truth and embellishment. Personal emotion in fictional prose, reworked and woven into verse to entertain an impersonal crowd.

But it was personal.

Uncalled for, Metcenzerin choked. The journey was too long, too slow; his thoughts had caught up to him. His throat closed on notes unsung.

~

Bards, musicians, minstrels... there were a lot of names for Metcenzerin's kind. Singers, songwriters, noteweavers, performers, and more - masters of song and story. But ofttimes they were forced to go by other names, other professions. On the open road, a song could not always earn the coin it deserved.

Metcenzerin of the Three-Voices was no ordinary singer, but more often then not he worked like one. The traveling circus always needed someone to carry loads and clean tents, and they paid as well as could be expected. Breakfast and dinner and a bedroll under shelter, and a few coins for each job someone needed done. Sometimes it was menial, but he had learned much from traveling entertainers over the years. When the propmaster was sick, he knew enough to fill in. When the knife-catcher was injured, he could take the man's place.

He wouldn't stay long. A few weeks with this group, a few performances between odd jobs, then he'd be gone, called by the open air like a flighty bird hopping from tree to tree.

That was all it should have been, but when the circus-master asked him to try something new, Metcenzerin couldn't resist.

A puppet-show for children. Easy. Fun, even. They were too young to appreciate his skills in the thoughtful art of song, but speaking over himself with different silly voices as he told simple stories with simple figures... they loved it. Iylihe, god of song and all things free, would never put laws in place for how his Blessing was meant to be used, and so the voice that could sing like three in harmony squeaked and joked for children sitting in the dirt.

Of course, there were others present. Parents, circus-goers, who stood beyond the children and watched more out of curiosity or necessity then for entertainment. But Metcenzerin did not perform for them. It was for the children that he played the joker.

He played his own part later in the day, as the sun sank and torches of many colors were lit. He took to the stage of music, his lute in hand, and accompanied himself in the Ballad of the Battle of Fords, and the Lament of Endenledin. A song of the Kingdom, and a song of the Mountains. Never had he set foot there, but his blood remembered. He poured out his soul, and the Blessing of Iylihe gave it voice to stir stone hearts and warm chilled blood. His feathered cap accepted more then a few donations from listeners wiping tears from their eyes.

Just a few more days, he had thought. His coinpouch jingled, and his wandering feet grew restless. Just a few more days here.

But then the circus-master found him at the quick dinner he took after his performance, and with the master, a courtier of the local duke. To Metcenzerin's delight, the courtier extended an invitation to come and perform at the duke's upcoming party; perform for a court of hundreds, and nobles from across the Second Region.

A chance!

A musician could not force his way into fame like a knight or lord, but when the opportunity presented itself, he must be ready to take it. Metcenzerin accepted, and the circus bid him farewell at dawn the next day.

He bought new, clean clothes, suitable for a duke's party. He refeathered his hat. He selected his songs with care, songs of the Kingdom and the Second Region. He walked into the duke's palace on the day appointed with head held high, his lute and flute upon his back, hope and pride filling his breast near to bursting.

And the courtier in charge took away his lute and told him to jest.

Pride is an interesting thing. For some, it is rigid and unmoving as iron. For others, it is flexible, bendable as a young branch. In yet others, it vanishes without protest like dew in sunlight. And yet it is not always obvious in what form pride exists until it breaks.

Metcenzerin played the jester. He played the fool. He forced a smile and danced to the tune of screaming fiddles when the drunken duke called for more. When they gave him knives to juggle, he juggled. Three, of course. Then the duke's tipsy son threw a fourth at him, to catch and incorporate. A slip of fingers, a narrow scratch of blood, but he did not drop one. Not yet, but it sparked a gleam in the watchers' eyes. They'd spotted it, too - a chance to watch the fool fumble and fall.

The bent, strained branch didn't break. It snapped back into shape, like a bow when the string is released.

One, two, three, four, and the fifth and last knife caught in his outstretched fingers, then hurled into the chest of the slouching duke. In the moment of shock, Metcenzerin bolted.

They caught him before the gates of the palace.

~

The wagons stopped in an empty courtyard. Metcenzerin waited quietly as the guards dismounted, his smile gone. When he raised his gaze and saw the hunter watching him, dull-eyed and grim, he could only nod in understanding.

The time for song had ended. For both of them.