Harpis slowly made his way up to the third-floor balcony. Other days he would bound up the steps in excitement at another lesson on gifted songs with the Impresario or Bravit. Tonight though, at sunset, he would begin his final moments with the two senior bards and hopefully leave in the morning, a sanctioned member of The Hall himself.

As he reached the balcony, he saw both other men sitting relaxed in lounge chairs. A lonesome stool stood in front of them.

Bravit addressed him first. “You’ve some task ahead of you in proving to us that you should become a sanctioned bard. Some real proving too with that violin, if you’re not to be the first bard sanctioned to play the triangle or tambourine.”

Benali chuckled at the maestro as Harpis took his seat nervously, holding his fiddle and bow in his lap.

Bravit stood and reached behind his chair, producing a stand and a few music sheets, which he put directly in front of Harpis. “Play it,” was all he said before sitting back down.

Harpis fought back panic as he glanced at the sheet music in front of him. He had learned to read and write musical notes after agonizing weeks of practice, but he found it impossible to feel the song unless it was something he had heard before. A fact which Bravit knew well and Harpis assumed was the reason these unknown, obscure sheets now sat in front of him.

He began the song slowly, off-pace and out of step. He played the right notes as they appeared on the page, but they sounded nothing like the flow of a musical composition.

As he finished the first sheet, he looked up at a cringing Benali and then to Bravit, who buried his head in his palms.

“Next,” was all Bravit said in a resigned voice, as much to the balcony floor as to Harpis.

Harpis played the subsequent two sheets of music with no marked improvement. The fourth was one he had heard before, recognizing it by the first few notes written, as there were no titles on any of the sheets.

This time he played with his eyes closed, feeling the past performance he had witnessed of the song and not needing to read the notes in front of him. As he finished, he lay the instrument and bow back on his lap and noticed the bemused expressions both men wore.

Benali closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “One last chance Harpis. Convince me right now that you are capable of this craft.”

Harpis stared back blankly, unsure of himself. It took him long moments to shake free of the mounting pressure from his yearning towards becoming a bard and the possible consequences of failing The Syndicate. He gingerly laid the bow to his fiddle on the ground and cradled the instrument in his left hand. With his right, he slowly began plucking the strings in a steady pattern.

In barely a whisper, he began a song he had not heard in decades about a fisherman lured into a seaside cave by a siren.

Eyes closed, he focused all his concentration, weaving himself into the verse and pouring temptation into each inflection through his gift.

His foot tapped hypnotically in a coaxing rhythm. Harpis could feel the power in the string’s resistance and, as he released it, felt the resonance ripple through his very soul.

The beat of his heart and release of the string fell in time with his foot. The music entwined itself into his being in the same way that he wove his gift into its notes. Every pluck became an echo of dripping water at the back of the cave.

As Harpis sang on, Benali shivered and felt his skin prickle. His vision blurred until he could see only the visage of a black cave. The whisper of Harpis’ voice became the soft, distant, crashing of waves outside the entrance. The steady dripping of water bouncing off the cave walls replaced the pluck of the fiddle. Each drop beckoned him deeper into the cave.

Harpis ended the song and opened his own eyes again to see the befuddlement across Bravit and Benali’s faces. Benali let out a low whistle, and Bravit shook his head vigorously as if he could physically dismiss what had just happened.

His composure regained, Bravit addressed Harpis fondly. “I tell you true Harpis. You may be the most magically gifted bard I have ever heard of or met. So long as you don’t attempt playing any sheet music for folks, you may even be able to convince them you are a musician after all.”

Benali stood from his chair and walked in front of Harpis, motioning for him to stand. “What am I to do with you, Harpis Akkeri? Your singing voice has improved little in a technical sense. You have barely achieved the musical literacy of a young child. On the other hand, you have mastered our craft’s oral traditions and can recall the verses and poems that contain the histories of our island and city-states with ease. Also, your ability to devour and recite information of the news boards is second to none.”

Benali put both his hands on Harpis’ shoulders.

“For these reasons alone, I would sanction you as a bard of the Hall. Instead, I will do so most importantly because of your potential with song and magical gift, things this profession and this institution were centuries ago founded upon.”

Benali then embraced him. Bravit rose from his seat and shook his hand. Harpis couldn’t stop smiling. Bravit raked his curly hair from his face and disappeared momentarily into the Impresario’s quarters, returning with several bottles of wine.

“How about some celebrating and storytelling before you leave us in the morning for your posting?”

As the men sat around drinking, the conversation quickly turned to Harpis’ favorite topic of magical gift through song.

Pouring himself another glass, Benali raised it towards Harpis. “To the future of gifted song, may your voice carry it further than Bravit, Mahala, or I have been able to!”

Harpis joined the toast but with somewhat muted exuberance.

Bravit noticed his expression and interrogated him. “What’s got you glum?”

Harpis spread his hands apologetically. “I just expected the magic of barding to be more impressive. Compared to the necromancers, clerics, and mages of the realm, it seems gifted bards are more like performing curiosities than impressive magic wielders.”

Bravit scoffed at him. “If you were under the effects of your performance earlier this evening, I think you might disagree.”

Benali offered Harpis his opinion on the matter as well. “A mage can powerfully affect a singular thing with enchantment over days, weeks, or even longer with proper meditation, preparation, and execution. Likewise, a necromancer or cleric may cast a powerful spell after years of practicing and having their deity’s favor. However, a gifted bard can affect all those around him at any moment, albeit typically in a less outwardly observable or spectacular fashion.”

The Impresario paused and drained the rest of his cup before pointing it authoritatively at Harpis.

“Let us consider the other gifted folk. Clerics may actively enchant the light around them into a defensive bulwark against assault, magical and otherwise. Mages must maintain their concentration on an element of their specialization and have some of that element on hand to summon forth their elemental familiars. Necromancers can even pull their familiars from The Great Dream itself through sheer will, but only keep them amongst the living so long as they can maintain their mental hold on those beings.”

Benali shook his empty glass to request more drink, his voice getting louder, and he became more animated as he prepared to bring home his point. Bravit obliged him by taking the empty glass and simply handing him the rest of the bottle.

The Impresario raised the bottle in thanks at Bravit. “Do you know what happens if those actively commanding magic with their god-given or innate gift involuntarily lose concentration?”

Benali paused for a long moment, but Harpis offered no response

“Their powerful enchantments shatter their minds into thousands of pieces, and they live out the rest of their days as an unthinking, unfeeling husk. We gifted few that weave magic into our song do not have such weakness!”

Unsure of his ability to argue around the wine in his head, Harpis accepted the explanation and poured himself another glass. He decided to keep to himself his theory that the three of them, and maybe even Virtuoso Mahala, were barely the bard equivalent of an apprentice elementalist. He dismissed the doubts he had of his gift. Better to happily enjoy his last evening in the company of the two bards while listening to the song the wind made rushing up the cliffs from the sea below.

*****

Harpis had left the Bards Hall behind him two days ago, a fully sanctioned bard, heading for his post as the court bard for Ravnice City. He had not thought to question what extensive covert operations had taken place on his behalf. They must have been impressive to guarantee his attendance at The Hall and his position at the Ravnice governor’s disposal.

Regardless, he was glad for it. The dryer chill of winter was beginning to creep into the air, and the coolness became more and more noticeable as the ship he rode made its way south along the eastern coast, bound for the port of Ravnice and less tropical climes.

When at last his ship finally moored itself to the Ravnice docks, he disembarked with abandon. He missed the raw beauty and peaceful pursuits of Tuath, but he longed to get to work as The Syndicate’s Eye in Ravnice. His gait showed his excitement as he made his way through the wharf to The Siren’s Scream.

As his eyes adjusted from the bright sun of mid-day to the dark of the lantern-lit inn, he spotted Wren at the same table they had shared so many months ago. He made his way to the back and sat down across from the smugly grinning gnome.

He picked up the already waiting whiskey glass on the table in front of him and clinked glasses with Wren.

“To you, Harpis of Ravnice, bard to the governor and of the Hall.” Harpis nodded his appreciation and drank deep.

“I think I was more excited about getting to drink more of this stuff than seeing you again,” he told the gnome with a laugh.

The taunting drew a snort from the gnome. “I am proud of you, lad. By all accounts, you have done well. Tonight, we drink in celebration of our reunion, but tomorrow, we’ve got work to do, and you have a governor to report to.”

To him, that sounded like a perfect idea. “Hey now!” Harpis exclaimed, his mind loosened by whiskey. “I’ve been told you have a companion I’ve yet to meet. When will I get to be introduced?”

Wren grumbled, raising an eyebrow at him from across the table. “Old Braffen must be running his mouth again. I tell you that dwarf has got an unhealthy infatuation with Xissay. You will meet her when it is appropriate, and appropriate is not me summoning my undead familiar here in this bar and calling attention to us.”

He barely heard the last part of what Wren said as the mention of Braffen’s name reminded him how badly he wanted to tell Wren of his victory in combat against the dwarf and how he had been able to get the coin from Arken. He was also desperate to know if Wren had faced some of the same challenges during indoctrination.

“Wren, I have to tell you how I was able to get Arken’s coin. You see, the lighthouse keeper….” He got no further as Wren kicked him as hard as he could under the table.

“Ow, what was that for?” Harpis complained in a not wholly sober voice.

“Given all you know, do you think that story is appropriate for an inn full of listening ears or prying eyes?”

Harpis’ shoulder sank in defeat as he realized his blunder, and he held his hands up apologetically. He instead switched their conversation to The Bard’s Hall and his experiences with his gift.

*****

Myrlman had started pacing the steering deck of the ship when they had left bound for Mer in the morning and was still doing so after the sun had set. Niverna was surprised his boots had not dug a trench into the wood planks. Suddenly he stopped and turned to the sage who was staring out to sea.

“They will learn to respect Tuath and me if I have to force them to at the point of a blade!” Myrlman said through clenched teeth.

“Myrlman, most of the men on the council are nearly twice your age and have held their positions since before you were born. In the case of Governor Ingar Hammersmith, he is hundreds of years older than you. These folks will not impress easily, and every single one had a contentious relationship with your father. So perhaps the best way to gain their recognition is to offer them a new face of Tuath. One that will negotiate rather than dodge their requests,” Niverna said, trying to soothe him.

Myrlman spat at the mention of the dwarf, and Niverna doubted he had even listened to what she had said after speaking the name. They were all but thrown from their feet as the helmsman lay the ship on its side, spinning it into a turn.

The sailor was cursing loudly, and several shouts came from the crow’s nest above and some crewman below as another ship almost hit them head-on, its bow dragging along the ship’s side slowed both vessels due to the friction of rubbing together. Huge grapnels with hooks the size of a man’s arm on the ends of thick chains were thrown from the other boat, lashing the two ships firmly together, and torches and lanterns sprang to life.

Scores of relatively shorter, dark-skinned men of apparent Quaji descent poured over, and battles began in earnest all over the Tuath governor’s ship.

Myrlman began screaming at his crew and sailors to defend him. In response, the ship’s helmsman shoved a sword into his hand and told him to help. Niverna produced a dagger from under her robes and stood in front of Myrlman.

They faced the ship’s main deck preparing to battle against some of the assailants approaching from below. Unfortunately, neither Niverna, the helmsman, nor Myrlman heard the shadow swing on a rope from the other ship’s rigging land silently on the back railing of the steering deck. Standing at the top of the stairs to the helm, Niverna and Myrlman did not notice the helmsman behind them suddenly become quiet as he was lowered, lifeless, to the ground.

Niverna gasped a voiceless scream as she felt the cold steel of the helmsman’s saber explode through her lungs, entering near one armpit and almost clear through to the other. Myrlman’s eyes widened in horror, and he let out a scream.

The Quaji kicked Niverna’s crumpled form overboard after releasing the saber. He then promptly knocked the blade from Myrlman’s shaking hands and slashed the young governor’s cheek from eye to jaw.

The man then jabbed Myrlman in the throat as the young governor screamed in pain and threw him over his shoulders like a sack of grain.

With a labored run at the side railing, the attacker leaped with Myrlman from the higher steering deck of the Tuathian ship to the main deck of the attacking ship. Landing in a roll cushioned by the now semi-unconscious governor’s body, he dragged Myrlman below deck.

Many of the Tuath sailors had seen their court sage murdered and their governor slashed and taken hostage.

Their shouts of, “Save the governor, save Myrlman!” and attempts at rallying the battle seemed to be pushing back their opponents.

The Quaji attackers almost at once all retreated to their ship, taking their grapnels as they went. As the last of them jumped off the Tuathian vessel, the two ships slowly started drifting apart.

*****

Below decks, Sirul removed the Mask of Breyva, losing the guise of a dark-skinned Quaji and for a moment revealed a face almost identical to Myrlman’s own. Myrlman tried to scream again, but Sirul had precisely crushed his windpipe with his fist. Grinning at the young governor, he put the mask back on and uttered its activation so that it would henceforth take on the form Myrlman Tuath. Once again removing the mask, he took a steadying breath, free of the enchantment’s pull on his life force that maintained its illusion. Returning it to the safety of his tunic, Sirul took out his needle and scraped it down his own scar opening his skin into a fresh wound, just like the one pouring blood from Myrlman’s face.

He then calmly silenced Myrlman forever, pithing him in the ear. Sirul hastily stripped his and the governor’s clothes and donned the tunic, cloak, and pants Myrlman had been wearing.

Before he went up the stairs back to the main deck, he took one of the lit lanterns off its hook and threw it onto the puddle of oil and rum he had made right before the attack began. Flames snaked across the ship’s belly as Sirul appeared on the main deck, screaming for help at the other ship now almost a hundred feet away.

Once he noticed the sailors on board shouting Myrlman’s name and pointing at him, he turned to the nearest Quaji pirate and put a saber blade into his face.

If there were any on the Tuathian ship who had not noticed him yelling, they undoubtedly heard the pirate’s dying screams as the man flopped on the deck like a freshly caught fish. Then, taking advantage of the pirate crew’s stunned surprise, Sirul leaped into the water and began swimming.

The pirates were soon too occupied with the flames ravaging their ship to care to pursue him. As the remaining sailors hauled him onto the Tuath ship, Sirul smiled as he heard the commotion from the pirate ship as they abandoned it.

Flames on the pirate ship were now raging above decks and consuming its sails as the burning vessel slowly succumbed to the deep of the sea.

Water dripping from his clothes and blood running down his cheek, Sirul faced half the crew who had made it through the assault without the mask, hoping his likeness to Myrlman and the blood and seawater would make any difference indiscernible in the flickering torchlight. He knew he would need to ween himself from using the mask for the sake of his health and to avoid it becoming a vulnerability.

“We turn back to Tuath immediately. As I fought my way free below decks, I saw a chest of silver and gold stamped with the seal of Mer. I will not now go to that den of snakes they call a council like a lamb to slaughter. As for the pirates, we will leave them to drown on the open seas.”

Before the battle, to a man, the crew would have laughed at the thought of Myrlman Tuath fighting anything. Now though, they looked up at the conviction in the steeled eyes of their young governor and saw a leader.

“No longer will the rest of this island underestimate Tuath.” He said, mimicking Myrlman’s voice as much as he could, and then spit towards the pirate ship.

The ship from Tuath turned homeward, and Sirul thought himself quite clever. The Syndicate had taught him of the Quaji natives who ran pirating operations from tiny atolls and how to contact them. There was indeed a chest of silver and gold below decks on the sinking ship. It had paid for the raid, but not with coins from Mer. Instead, he had stolen it from Tuath’s own coffers throughout the past few months.

The Quaji pirates had executed the plan flawlessly. During the raid, no one had noticed that the pirate who grabbed their leader was oddly tall, almost the exact height of Myrlman himself. Neither had a soul noticed that the face Sirul wore during the assault was identical to one of the other Quaji attackers.

He smiled again at the thought of stabbing the Quaji pirate in the face. That part of the plan he had left out when describing the raid to them and paying them. It was necessary to help convince the Tuath sailors.

Sirul had learned of the mask’s existence years ago while rifling through the Navigator’s office library late one evening out of boredom while he awaited his next tasking on Lodestar Island. The Syndicate recorded and maintained the whereabouts of powerful artifacts of concern that had survived the scavenging and destruction following the War of Magi. He thought the mask could be helpful someday, especially given its location was the easily accessible College of Magi.

He had enjoyed procuring it from the Tower of Stone months ago and was proud of how flawlessly he had obtained it. Initially, he entered as a new novice from another tower and planted the notes about the mask with the apprentices in hopes that he could follow one of them into the stone mage’s quarters or frame them for the theft.

When he had seen Rallis come spying on the apprentice’s conversation, he knew he had his stooge. While Rallis executed his plan, Sirul was one step ahead of him. He had paralyzed the novice with his needle, crumpled his form under Vennil’s desk, and grabbed the coffer.

As the stone solidified around his hands, he held it over his head, letting the mask fall onto his face. He uttered the word of activation while staring at Rallis’ unmoving face. He barely made it around to the front of the desk as the door exploded inward.

He would have killed the mage and sage, if necessary, after being freed from the coffer. Luckily for them, in their haste to consult the Arch Mage, they had left at once, letting Sirul cleanly dispose of the body. It was not surprising to Mara and Vennil that the novice, caught in the act of stealing some relic, had left the college never to return.

As much as he wanted to keep it, Sirul thought it better that it never be discovered as part of his plot, or worse, stolen and used against him. Besides, the only thing that would have distinguished the blond and grey-eyed assassin from the blond and grey-eyed Myrlman if they were standing next to each other before would have been Sirul’s scar. Slashing the governor’s face in front of his crew and cutting open his skin along his scar had just solved that problem, so now all he had to do was ensure his own face became taken as Myrlman’s.

Sirul had been watching Myrlman’s changing demeanor over the months since his father’s death, and the changes suited him. He had no doubt he would be able to play the part of Tuath’s enraged young governor convincingly.

The surviving crew of the raid would do well in convincing the people of the relentless and vengeful Myrlman that had fought his way out of a pirate hold. Sparing himself a smile, Sirul decided he was pleased with how his retirement plan was unfolding so far.