Wringing hands sore from report writing, Harpis sat in the practice room while awaiting Maestro Bravit. Almost a month into his training at The Bard’s Hall, much of it had come easily to him. Much that did not involve the reading and playing of music anyway. The whole process of spreading news and recounting it became a simple routine to Harpis. Several weeks into his training, it was the one thing he was growing tired of at the Hall.

“Well met, Master Harpis,” Bravit said to him, entering the small practice room and shutting the door.

Harpis gave Bravit a nod.

“I see that you have settled on an instrument then.” The maestro said, acknowledging the case at Harpis’ feet.

Harpis shrugged. “The fiddle’s sound is more familiar to me than any of the other instruments. Several folks where I grew up played them, and I enjoyed the songs they called forth.”

The maestro sat down in the chair opposite Harpis with a huff. “Some people call it a violin, you know. Some people being those who play beautiful music with such instruments.”

Bravit went rummaging through a stack of sheet music. “Well, let us hear it then, a simple song for the…fiddle,” he said sarcastically.

Harpis took the instrument out of the case. He ran his hand across its smooth wood finish. Despite being less than exceptional at playing the thing, he truly appreciated the quality of its crafting. Then, drawing the bow across the strings, he attempted to read and play the music on the sheet.

It was slow and uneven, with some of the notes requiring more thoughtful interpretation than others, and some he missed altogether. The results were an off-tune and off-time assault on the strings at the expense of the bow.

Bravit sank his forehead into his hands and sighed as Harpis finished. Then, he pulled his hands down and off his face and looked up at Harpis.

“I don’t get it. I truly don’t. I have asked you to read and play me simple music that I have seen children play after their first week with an instrument. In return, you use that poor violin to call forth the tortured screams of a dying animal that has been lit on fire while being skinned alive.”

Bravit leaned back and crossed his arms. “Yet, I ask you to play me some sea shanty drinking song from your village, and hypnotic beauty flows forth from it, even without you weaving in your gift.”

All Harpis could do was shrug with an apologetic look at both the maestro and his fiddle.

Bravit shook his head. “Well, we’ve got to get you at least somewhat better at this before the Impresario sanctions you, and I think it will take every bit of the time we have left. However, magically gifted as you are, and with how much joy I see music brings you, we must get through this. I would mourn the loss of a bard such as you to our ranks if you ultimately failed to get sanctioned.”

Hours later, and with little progress, Harpis bid Maestro Bravit farewell.

He dropped his fiddle off in his quarters along the concert hall walls and took the two flights of stairs up to the Impresario’s area.

His genuine love for barding was developing from his evening lessons, which covered the weaving of magic into songs. Discovering the Impresario was not yet in his quarters, Harpis went out onto the balcony.

Standing at the edge of the world, many hundreds of feet above the sea below, was Harpis’ favorite place he had ever been. The wind never stopped rushing up the cliff face, and there was a strange familiar peace in the howling gusts that enveloped him when he stuck his head out over the edge.

Benali and Bravit had taught Harpis the only three songs they knew to work well with the gift of magic. Ones that, in their experience, channeled the gift well into a response from those around them. Temurellin’s Lullaby was a low, slow song meant to calm those around the bard.

Harpis thought it very similar to the lullaby his father had sung when he was a young child. The next was Panoryla’s March which resulted in a similar effect to those around the bard as had the fisherman’s work song Harpis sang during the battle on the Sea Goat. He found he could use both to decent effect.

One he still struggled to sing at all, let alone with his gift woven in, was Clario’s Cacophony. He did not particularly enjoy the song, which had no apparent pattern or musical intent. The random disharmony of it was painful to rehearse.

It made all who heard it struggle to keep their thoughts together or focus. Benali had even said that when extremely gifted bards used it in the past, it prevented mages from calling forth their enchantments. It may have even stopped clerics as they cast their healing spells, but he was not sure that was more than an old wives’ tale for bards.

As he heard the footsteps of the approaching Impresario, he became determined this would be the lesson where he finally performed Clario’s Cacophony.

*****

Vicar Ezera, the Exarch, and his other attendants had spent many weeks weaving their way through the small towns on their way out of Tuath. Finally, they were now making their way across the countryside of Ravnice. At last, she felt some respite as the burdensome humidity of Tuath faded while they made their way from the rolling tropical hills to the plains of Ravnice state.

The caravan had arrived in a small farming community with the mountain ranges of Fjall rising in the distance behind it. Hjalmstad was a town of several hundred and one of the most remote in Ravnice. It was at the northern-most point of the state, with farmlands tucked between the hills of southern Tuath and the mountain ranges of north Fjall.

The Exarch turned awkwardly in his saddle to glance back at her. “I do so enjoy spending the mornings abroad greeting the morning sun and heralding Daybreak. Perhaps we shall spend the night here in Hjalmstad,” he said, a smile further creasing his wrinkled face.

Ezera met his warm smile with a forced one of her own. “I suppose that means once again staying in the only lodging available here, just as last time then, Exarch?”

Hameki nodded as they made their way to the only inn the village had. It also served as Hjalmstad’s only tavern, which she decided should make for a night of frustration as she would be the target of many single, sometimes not so unmarried, tavern regulars while she ate.

Daybreak allowed her to marry. She just had not thought to explore the option much. Her beautiful blond hair bounced unkempt around her shoulders and almost elfish face. Like the Exarch and all clerics, she wore the white robes of Daybreak.

The rank of vicar afforded her the black stole, emblazoned in gold thread, that was draped around her neck and hung to her waistline. Her blue eyes narrowed at the thought of unwelcome advances yet to be endured. She decided that there was at least one disadvantage to roaming from town to town, eating and sleeping in taverns and inns to speak the word of Daybreak.

Spreading the faith was an undoubtedly cherished task to her and the Exarch. Equally important, though, was the healing medicine and magic they afforded remote peoples as it was difficult for many to get adequate medical care outside the major cities.

Town folk who needed healing were already besetting them as they tied off their horses. An older woman made her way somberly through the crowd with a wrapped breadbasket. As she got to the side of Ezera’s horse, she stopped and lifted it towards her with a pleading look.

Ezera held her hand up to pause the elderly woman. “I appreciate the offer, but we cannot accept your gifts, madam.”

The woman closed her eyes in pain and pulled back the tiny cloth covering the basket to reveal the still form of a recently dead baby girl.

Ezera’s heart sank into her stomach. The infant’s blued lips and popped blood vessels around her eyes, indicating it had somehow suffocated. Trying not to choke or weep, Ezera closed the babe’s eyes and said a prayer to Daybreak.

Not one that would bring life back to the baby, that prayer did not exist.

“I am so deeply sorry for your loss, but I am unable to help her,” she said. Ezera fought back sobs as she gingerly placed the cloth back over the baby.

The woman clutched the basket close to her chest and made her way back through the crowd after spitting at the feet of Ezera’s horse and cursing Daybreak.

Tears flowed down Ezera’s cheeks as she watched the woman go. So many villagers and other less educated people assumed she could use her magic to bring the dead back to life. But, unlike the belief that prevailed on the island, she could not resurrect people from The Great Dream.

She looked over the dwindling crowd at the Exarch, who gave her a sorrowful look of his own. “We help those that Daybreak and our medicine let us Ezera. We cannot bear the guilt of those we cannot.”

The initial onslaught of those wanting healing did not last overly long in the small town. The early evening hours found the small clergy contingent supping freshly cooked meat and somewhat recently baked bread in the simple wooden inn. As much as Ezera enjoyed these trips, she was fretting internally about getting back to Mer and passing along to The Syndicate what she had seen in Tuath. She imagined the Navigators would be interested that the late governor’s corpse bore the evidence of two separate murders. Despite her promise to the Exarch, Ezera felt obligated to pass the information along.

*****

Harpis rose from the writing desk rubbing his eyes before picking up the foot-tall stack of parchments he had just finished reviewing and taking them back to their home in the library. On his way out of the classroom wing, he stopped and grabbed the notes he had made regarding a winter month in Ravnice city some fifty years ago.

He paused and gave an understanding look to one of the newer students who had just begun the journalistic portion of her time at the Hall.

“Keep studying and practicing, and it will start coming naturally, and then you can spend more time on the true craft. I think you’ll find the experiences learning the music make the toil worth it.”

The young woman gave him a tired farewell wave without looking up from her task of combing through notes of some other month in some other place for valuable information worthy of the Bard’s Hall news board.

He cracked a smile at the other trainee’s expense. She would be doing similar work off and on for the next few months, whereas this was his last recording. He made his way to the news board with a smirk. It had been months since he had failed a review, and he certainly didn’t expect to this last time.

Triumphantly tacking the notes to the board section labeled for training, he paused to look over the postings from real bards of actual recent events. Typically, most of the cities’ bullets seemed to exclusively relate to trade and politics, which wasn’t really all that surprising but wasn’t entertaining either.

He read the notes all the same. An icy winter in Kalt meant lumber had moved more slowly from forest to mills and from mills to the northern states, so prices were higher than usual.

Strong currents on the Fjall River had sped up shipments of metal works from the mountain city at its mouth. The lists from the other city-states besides Ravnice, where he was due in less than two months, were predominantly the same.

The only difference he had noted over his time in training was that Mer had a typically longer list, accounting for goings-on at the city’s gifted institutions.

He found those notes more interesting than the business dealings and had kept up with them throughout his practice postings.

It seemed the Exarch had recently returned from a month’s long journey spreading the faith of Daybreak around communities large and small across the northern half of Quaj.

Satisfied with his work and not seeing anything else worth reading, he made his way through the heavy wooden double doors at the entrance, opening them with a grunt. The refreshing mid-evening air of Tuath in late winter greeted him as he stepped outside.

Maestro Olimir passed him at the doorway. “You the last one in there, Harpis?”

Holding the door for her, he shook his head. “No, Maestro, one of the newer trainees still looked like she had a good deal left for the day.”

She passed him with a harumph. “Young Yelsha, no doubt. Thank you, Harpis.”

Harpis crossed the worn dirt road in front of The Hall and stepped inside the dense, heavily flowered woods surrounding the grounds on three sides.

He had made a relaxing routine of taking in the sounds and smells of Tuath evenings after his days of study or practice. His time with the bards had felt like an entirely different life from everything before it.

Just a year ago, he would have been spending the late winter days struggling in the bitter cold seas south of Kalt. Instead, he was taking in the drones of the crickets and cicadas, which he decided were much more enjoyable than trying to pry The Siren’s bounty from frigid waters.

Bravit had been right about one thing, the songs played by the orchestra of the woods were some of the best music to be heard at the Hall. Even though the pleasantly cool air of a tropical winter made the insects lethargic, the rise and fall of their notes were no less hypnotizing.

He closed his eyes and smelled the sweet perfume of the moist, pollen, and salt-ridden air that swirled around him. Before he got a chance to exhale, a mechanical click, just out of sight inside the woods, snapped him out of his trance.

“Don’t move, stupid!” came the harshly whispered command from a distinctly feminine voice right in front of him. The tip of a giant crossbow appeared just far enough out of the foliage for him to recognize, confirming his suspicions about the source of the clicking sound.

He struggled to oblige the command as adrenaline coursed through his body, pleading with him to act. However, as hard as he strained, his eyes couldn’t discern any further details about the voice’s owner.

When she spoke again in a calm, unstrained, high-pitched voice, she dispelled any mystery surrounding her motivation.

“You’ve been getting lazy and predictable, Harpis Akkeri. Do not let the reason you are here slip from your mind for even a moment.”

“I am aware of why I am here. I have not forgotten,” Harpis said, glowering as the woman scoffed, unconvinced from behind the foliage.

She lowered the aim of the crossbow from his chest to the ground. “I suggest you start remembering and practicing the craft of our trade before you are forced to in earnest at your posting. Suspicion and unpredictability can go far in extending your already short human lifespan.”

The crossbow disappeared back into the woods, but Harpis could discern no other sound or movement.

“Are you an elf?” he asked, not expecting an answer. He waited another few moments while straining his senses, but he noticed only the continued concert of the bugs and birds.

Making his way back to the residential wing of the Hall, Harpis conceded to himself that he hadn’t even thought of The Syndicate in weeks, and he wondered how long he had been under observation. Nevertheless, he decided the woman elf or whoever she was, had been right to correct him.

*****

Wren grumbled to himself as he made his way out of his warm shop and into the Ravnice winter. The young moon was at its zenith in the sky and provided almost no light to Ravnice city below. The gnome was surly towards sneaking about but glad for the luxury of cover from the near-complete darkness. It had been decades since the gnome had been the one in Ravnice responsible for sneaking, observing, stealing, and placing things at The Syndicate’s behest.

Wren did not know who at The Syndicate was responsible for forging the papers Harpis had taken to The Bard’s Hall for admission. It did not matter to his current mission anyway. He had the next month to convince Governor Aanaman Reaper of Ravnice to accept Harpis into his employ.

The Syndicate had long wanted a bard of their own, and The Bard’s Hall had spent the entirety of Aanaman’s tenure as governor trying to staff the position in Ravnice. However, Wren knew well that the former farmer turned governor was as stubborn as the pigs he once raised and did much to avoid outsiders influencing or observing in the Ravnice court.

Though the position was vacant when Aanaman took over, he had inherited a sage from the college when he was elected. The poor fellow was summarily dismissed from his duties and sent packing back to Mer.

In truth, the Impresario had long ago given up on replacing his bard in Ravnice. The letter Wren forged and would deliver this night indicated otherwise. If he was successful, Ravnice, the Hall, and The Syndicate should be better off.

He had written words as the Impresario, indicating that he understood Aanaman’s preconceived notions that a bard in his court was essentially a spy for others to learn of his dealings. Wren penned that the candidate was a local from a Ravnice Fishing village. It noted that Harpis loved Ravnice above all else but yearned to learn the bard craft.

The Impresario was sending him to Ravnice without any responsibility to report back to the Hall, only to gather news from it for the people of Ravnice. Wren’s forgery had the Impresario essentially giving Harpis’ tasking to Aanaman instead of The Hall to better the people in Ravnice.

They would receive more up-to-date information, as would the governor himself. Then, at a time, and in a method of his choosing, he could let Harpis take the news back to the Hall.

Wren knew not all of it was accurate, but hopefully, it was enough to allow Harpis to show up in Ravnice to an expected, if not welcome, reception at the governor’s office.

Wren wore a thick black cloak with a high cowl to hide his face instead of his recognizable purple necromancer garb. In truth, he knew he probably ran a higher risk of someone spotting him out in the late hours, failing to identify him as one of the city’s morticians, and confronting him in the belief that he was a lost child.

A street down from the governor’s home and office in a quiet alley, Wren snapped his fingers and called forth Xissay while opting not to draw forth his scythe.

“You look ridiculous in that,” she chastised the gnome.

“Shh!” Wren responded in a violent whisper. “Look, we need to be quick and careful about this and be gone back home. Take this letter, go in through the chimney on the left. It has not had a fire burning in it as far as I have seen,” he said, pointing at the governor’s house.

Xissay floated with her hands on her hips for a moment before taking the letter from him. “Does your real employer know I do most of your dirty work for you? You should let them know. Maybe they would let you go on embracing necrophilia full time while I carry on spying for them.”

Wren glared at her and contemplated dismissing her. The thought of his arthritic joints and bones cracking and popping in the winter chill as he tried to sneak his way into and out of the governor’s office though prevented her banishment.

“Bah, get on with it,” he whispered harshly.

Xissay floated off laughing silently at the gnome’s expense.

Wren was soon growing anxious. She had been gone much longer than it should have taken to simply fly down the chimney, drop the letter and depart.

Several agonizing moments later, she appeared above him and floated down to face level. In her hands was an overly dusty bottle of Aanaman’s first batch of whiskey from his distillery, barrel-aged for over two decades.

“You went into his basement!” Wren could not help himself but yell at the sprite.

“What, that stuff is worth its weight in gold, and we haven’t had any in the years since your drunk of a governor stopped making longer aged whiskey. Besides, if he notices at all, he will just assume he drank it in a stupor with his militiamen friend one night.”

Wren shot her another glare and then glanced fondly at the bottle she had dropped in his hands before dismissing. On his way home, he took to walking out of the alley shadows now that his covert action was complete.

He was frustrated at his oft impudent familiar, but he also quite thoroughly loved the twenty-year-old Reaper vintage. Maybe he would consume the dark golden contents of the bottle without calling her forth to join him until he had finished it. Wren chuckled aloud at the thought, and then it occurred to him that he did not want an overly pissed-off undead sprite from the deep places of the world burning his house to the ground.