Page 121 of A Dance with the Fae Prince (Married to Magic 2)
The man holds out a hand to one of his fellow performers. She hands him her lute without question. The leader then passes it to me.
“Play for it.”
“Pardon?” As I take the lute, he picks up his own from where it leans against the chair.
“A duel of the strings.” His fingers pluck up the neck of his fiddle. “I play, then you play, then I play, then you, until one of us is bested.”
“And how do we know when one of us is bested?” I’m already tuning the lute.
“We’ll know; that’s never a problem.”
The other minstrels are settling into their chairs. They wear smiles, as if this is all an amusing game to them—as if the fate of the fae wilds doesn’t hang in the balance. Maybe it is just another amusement. Maybe the life of these bards is looking for one burst of inspiration, or entertainment, after the next. They have no loyalty, no fidelity, but to the muse of music.
Perhaps it’s their lack of loyalty to anyone that means I can trust them. It makes them simple and straightforward. I’ll always know where they stand—for themselves.
“If I win, you let me and my friend join your troupe for the next performance inside the castle, yes?” I ask carefully, knowing I need to be mindful when cutting a bargain with fae.
“You and your friend?”
“He can play the drums.” I consider this, knowing the musical aptitude of the people I’m speaking to. “Or, he can be like a jester, dancing about. He’s small and can be quite silly.”
The leader exchanges glances with another woman. She chuckles. “I think I’d like to see her little assistant.”
“Very well then. You’ve a deal.”
No sooner does the man say it than his fingers start to move. He starts off slow, dancing around single notes, plucking one string after the next, before they evolve into chords. It’s a shrill, short little ditty, almost like a wordless limerick in music form.
The second he stops, I begin to play. I take the same line he laid with his notes and turn it into full chords. When he plays next, he harmonizes those chords, bow in hand this time and blazing across the strings.
I’m in as much awe watching him play now as the very first time. Inspiration makes my fingertips itch. The music soothes away my troubles. It puts the world on hold. I can’t stop myself. I don’t wait for my turn.
I begin playing in harmony, and then, in creative dissonance to him. The leader gives me a glance, and a smirk, but he doesn’t tell me to stop. I grin slyly at him as well and begin to play faster. We egg each other on with glances and clever notes. The troupe begins to stomp and clap. And as we reach our crescendo, we both finish with a flourish. Breathless.
We share a smile, as only two musicians can.
“All right. You should get some rest. Because tonight, you come with us to play for Boltov.”
