The Ill-Fated Prince, Part 1

“O’ hazy eye of the blue moon above,” sang the young bard who sat on a rickety wooden stool by the tavern’s lone hearth fire, “bestow me the fortune of lovers and gold~~d…”

Usually, a bard’s song was accompanied by conjured fog, colorful lights, and all manner of magical illusions to liven up their performance. Indeed, the most talented of singers could even coax dancing spirits to join them as they sang—but not him. Not this bard who dared to entertain a gathering of the most dour-looking patrons he had ever seen with only his voice to woo them.

“And should your red twin fill the night with death and cold,” he strummed his lute with a skill that belied his young years, “keep these troubles far from this weary soul…”

When the bard finished his ballad—one that told a tale of the sisters who straddled Aarde’s night sky—he heard no sound of applause. This didn’t dishearten him though, for the silence permeating the old tavern was proof enough that he’d captivated his audience.

Mere moments before he began his tune, many of the tavern’s patrons—these hardened men and women who’ve fallen on tough times—had been up in arms against the appointment of their new governor, who, in the two weeks since he’d taken up office, had already managed to cause friction between the northern and central regions of the kingdom. Not for anything he’d done, but just because of who he was.

“Incompetent!” they’d complained.

“Coward!” they’d railed.

“Magicless!” they’d condemned.

They huffed and they puffed—spewing treasonous ideas into the air—until the bard who’d been quietly observing the crowd from a shadowy corner, chose to step up and change the mood in the tavern. And, though he fancied himself a loyalist, he decided not to scold the rabble-rousers. Instead, he sang to them, trusting in the words of a wise man who once claimed; Tis music that soothes even the lowliest of beasts.

Finished with his song, the bard was about to get up and leave, but then a copper coin flew toward him as if carried by an invisible hand and then floated down into the mug he’d placed on the dirty floor.

To wield sorcery for a silly thing…how I envy you.

The bard’s gaze snapped toward a wiry-haired woman seated at a nearby table. Her eyes were glowing softly, a telltale sign that she’d just wielded the arcane arts for his benefit.

“Much obliged, Love,” he said in his best commoner’s drawl.

Two more coins followed, and then a fourth, and a fifth—enough griffins to buy him a pint of ale.

He smiled.

It was such a warm smile he possessed that the women in his audience couldn’t help but swoon, their cheeks flaring crimson as his gaze drifted toward them. Some of the menfolk too couldn’t help blushing at witnessing this bard’s handsome face light up in such a pleasant way.

He encouraged their fawning, of course, for it meant more coins fell into his mug.  

Yet here’s proof that one doesn’t need sorcery to enchant others.

He stifled the laughter climbing up his throat. Now was not the time to feel smug.

“Sing us another song,” one patron yelled.

“A lively one this time!” a second patron chimed in.

“Sing about our ill-fated prince!” a third patron added.

Many heads nodded at this last suggestion, making the bard sigh heavily. His annoyance was swift to vanish though, replaced quickly by his charming smile.

“One last tune for the road then, yeah.”

So, he sang another song, one he’d learned only recently from a fellow bard he’d met in the city’s midtown district who’d claimed she made it in honor of Lotharin’s new governor.

“I hear we’ve earned an ill-fated prince…that’s too bad,” the bard began, and his audience laughed in exchange. “Though I think Lotharin’ll endure, it’ll be no thanks to him…”

Their merriment grew as he continued to mock Lotharin’s new governor in verse, and though he encouraged them to sing along, in his heart, he felt weary…maybe even enraged by their blatant disrespect of a man he knew quite intimately. The bard was no different though. For wasn’t his voice the loudest of all?

“My friends,” he stood up, “you’ve been a delightful audience!”

He began tapping his foot against the floor.

“I hope you continue to be generous with your tips!”

His strumming resumed, wilder, more manic than before.

“Now, come, sing this chorus along with me!”

“Quit!” they cried together. “Quit, Ill-Fated Prince, Quit~~t!”

Yes, it was a new tune, and yet, strangely, everyone knew the words to it.

“Quit, quit, quit, quit~~t…” they chanted.

“Or we’ll throw you out,” the bard strummed the last key, his voice lowering to nearly a whisper, “and leave you lying in the filth, you magicless fool~~l…”

This time, his audience cheered.

They stomped their foot on the ground, smashed their fists against wooden tables, and clinked their mugs together while seemingly oblivious to the fact that they were celebrating with treasonous words.

They have every right to feel the way they do… The bard thought, shrugging. It’s not like Atlan’s seventh prince has done anything to change their perception these past two weeks… Not yet.

The bard picked up his mug which was now full to brimming with copper griffins—a few silvers too. Then, with a grin so wide it seemed almost forced, he bowed to his audience, and they cheered for him while not knowing how rude they’d been to him.

Things will change soon enough once the great endeavor begins.

The sound of coins clinking together inside his raggedy purse helped to shoo away some of his ill feelings.

“There’s enough here to get me drunk,” he murmured. Then, as an afterthought, he added, “And one last day of playing the fool…”