The Binding of Faenrir (2)

"You should listen to this one sing," he said. "He's absolutely brilliant. I've never heard anyone so funny in my life."

The trouper in question sat surrounded by half-drunken men and rosy-faced women, a lute in his hands. When he looked up, Evaine gave a small gasp. A sheen of sweat covered his bronze skin and his cheeks were flushed red with ale, but it was unmistakably Aren.

"Ah, more flowers come to listen?" he winked at the pair. Evaine looked away, red-faced.

"Keep playing!" One of the women smiled sultrily, running her finger along Aren's arm. "I could listen to you sing for ever and a day."

"Your fingers are so lively," another said. "I'd be interested to see what else you could do with them." She winked. Aren acted oblivious, ignoring the glares from the other men. Ein wondered if the trouper enjoyed building the hopes of women before dashing them against the rocks.

"This one I picked up from a busker in Aldoran," Aren said, plucking at his lute. "I was almost arrested by the guards for singing it in public." He lowered his head and played a quick series of chords before singing:

"Old man Glock had a very fine cock,

And a very fine cock had he!

Any girl that he bed, any woman that he wed,

Were as happy as happy could be!

Though some might say he was fast,

Or maybe not that skilled,

He took them in with a merry old grin

And left them all fulfilled!

Old man Glock you give me a shock

Every time we go to wee,

Old man Glock, still as stiff as a rock,

How I wish that you were me!"

The song seemed to rile the Masters and Mistresses even more. Ein was about to suggest leaving before a fight broke out when Garax the storyteller appeared beside him, plopping down on the seat with a yawn. He finished the mug of ale in his right hand and placed it on the table with a loud thump.

"I've heard that one before," he yawned. "The men sing it in just about every city in Faengard."

"Oh?" Aren raised a brow. "You've travelled outside this valley, old man?"

Garax held the trouper's gaze, a small smile playing about his lips. "I daresay I've been to more places than you have, my boy."

Aren shifted backwards in his seat and returned the smile. "Sing me something I haven't heard, then."

"Well, you see, I'm not so much a singer as a storyteller." Garax leaned forward. "How about this? I hear you Travelling Folk brought a Songweaver with you this time around. Nights like these don't come often, so let's make the most of it and play a game."

Bran, Evaine and the rest of the table had gone silent. Garax had a way with his voice that simply demanded attention. It was a storyteller's voice, one that made a promise within the first few words, and Garax had never been known to leave his promises unfulfilled.

"If I tell you a story you haven't heard, your Songweaver puts on a fireworks show for us," Garax continued. "Not the light shows the alchemists throw in the city. A proper show of rainbow embers and butterflies made of sparks, dragons of smoke and flame. A show like no other.

"A round of whispers erupted from the table. Fireworks were a rarity in all of Faengard, let alone the Sleeping Twins. A simple display of a few minutes could cost a fortune. Alchemists were capable of creating simple firecrackers, but only with the use of magic could true works of art be formed in the sky. For that, a Songweaver was needed.

"That's very bold of you, old man," Aren said. "But what if I've heard them all?"

"Well then…" Garax thought for a moment. "You can enjoy our hospitality at no cost to yourself."

"Hang on a moment."

Koth appeared behind them, arms folded across his chest. The inn had fallen quiet as news of the challenge spread. Ein knew Garax held a large number of stories in his head, but to challenge a Wydling? He was either confident in his ability or completely mad, and there was a saying people jokingly used in Felhaven—a man with no mane is oft insane.

"Who are you to go around wagering what doesn't belong to you?" the innkeeper glowered. "What if you lose?"

"I won't." Garax matched the innkeeper's stare, his golden eyes twinkling.

Aren threw back his head and laughed. Several of the other troupers had begun to migrate to the table in interest.

"I like you, old man," he said. "Father!" He called out to Herod, who watched with an amused look on his face. "Can I accept this man's challenge?"

Herod shrugged. "Our Songweaver is preoccupied at the moment, but I expect he wouldn't mind. You have my permission."

"You realize we can't lose, right?" Aren continued, still smiling at Garax. "Even if you somehow end up winning, we still gain a story in the process. To us, a story is worth more than all the coin in the world."

"Hang on," Koth interrupted. "What's to stop you from lying and pretending you've heard it before?"

"A Wydling would never do such a thing." Aren made a disgusted face and raised a hand, placing it against his heart. "I swear it, on the Wind itself. But…" he eyed Garax. "What's to say you won't just make up a story that never happened?"

Garax raised a hand, mirroring the trouper. "I swear it on the Pantheon. I swear over Wyd's dead body. I swear it on the Wind itself."

Aren held his hand before his heart for a moment longer. The inn fell into an expectant silence, broken only by the snoring of a single man beside the fire. Founder's Eve hadn't even started and Ein already knew it was going to be the most memorable one yet.

"Well," the trouper said. "You have my attention. Let's play this game of yours."

Garax cleared his throat and leaned back.

"Very well. Our story begins a long time ago, in a land far far away..."