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“... And then he said, ‘Magic chooses who may wield it,’” Simon recited, “‘and it will not suffer fools.’” He sat back, not bothering to fight his self-congratulatory grin. “So between me and Sophina, who’s the bigger fool, huh?”
“I mean, she’s been doing dark magic for hundreds of years,” Holga pointed out, musing on the idea.
“And I heard that necromancy is supposed to be some of the most difficult magic to learn, especially for wizards,” Doric added.
“I think you were pretty good, Simon,” was Edgin’s rejoinder.
“Thanks, Ed,” Simon said, smile going tight as he leaned back in his chair. “Really appreciate it.”
The aftermath of the battle, and the wind-down of the celebrations: the drinks and food were still free, but were flowing less generously, and more than a few patrons in the tavern were asleep, slumped against walls or sticky tabletops. It all still felt like half a dream; Holga and Edgin both kept looking over at Kira like they were surprised that they had her close and safe at last.
It proved an excellent time for the party to compare precise notes and details on what all occurred when they were separated, past the bare details necessary to keep the ball rolling on their heist. Now they had the safety and freedom to dwell and paint pictures rather than spit out quick sketches.
Something seemed to occur to Doric; she tilted her head to one side and turned towards Edgin. “Aren’t you a magic user, too?”
Holga burst into laughter.
“Yeah, yeah, yuck it up,” Edgin said to her, fondly rolling his eyes. Though their usual banter had resumed, Edgin still kept close to her side, concern clear in the lines of his eyes, how he watched Hogla finish off another cup of ale. “I’m not a magic user, no,” he clarified to Doric. “I just use this.” He tapped one finger to his forehead.
“But you said you were a bard,” she said, brows furrowed. “Bards use magic.”
“I’m not that kind of bard,” Edgin said.
“Oh. I see.” Doric nodded in sudden, deep understanding. “You’re a jester.”
“No— no—”
“That’s exactly it.”
“That is not exactly it, Holga, we’ve talked about this—”
“More of a troubadour, really,” Simon mused, trying not to grin.
“Troubadour, Simon?” Edgin demanded, “You know how I feel about that word—no, I’m a bard, just not a, you know." He wiggled his fingers.
Doric nodded again. “A good bard.”
“Yup. Got it in one.”
“Holga, come on—”
“Plus that’s technically two—” Simon glanced at Doric and then quickly cleared his throat, facing Edgin again. “No, she got in one, I vote with Holga.”
Edgin gaped at Simon. “You little traitor. After all I did, inspiring you!”
“So you do use magic,” Doric said.
“What? No.”
“Bardic Inspiration is a form of magic,” Doric said. Her eyes darted between Edgin and Holga. “All the bards I’ve known in the Emerald Enclave say that it’s magic.”
“Not all bards inspire with magic, some inspire with quick wit, and, and daring bravery, and—other stuff like that.” Edgin dismissively waved a hand.
“With convincing lies,” Holga said.
“I don’t know about that—”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Simon waved his hands. He gaped at Edgin. “Were you lying when you said you knew I could attune to the helmet?”
Edgin made a very interesting noise, eyes slipping off of Simon. “I… believed that it was possible for you to do, yes.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Isn’t it?”
Simon’s jaw dropped fully open. “I can’t believe you!”
“But I believed in you,” Edgin said, placatingly. “And at the end of the day, that’s all that matters. Anyone want fresh drinks?”
“Barkeep said he’s gonna have to start charging us,” Holga informed him, mournfully tossing her empty cup onto the tabletop.
“Good on drinks, then.” Edgin slouched back in his seat, one arm thrown over Kira’s shoulders. He frowned at Simon, glaring at the table. “Hey.” He kicked at Simon’s chair, making the sorcerer look up gloomily. “I did think that you could do it,” he assured him. “It was just up to you to make sure I came out looking like I knew what I was talking about. And you did, and I do. You're a great sorcerer.”
Simon’s scowl softened, and he relaxed. Doric, however, wasn’t finished.
“I still don’t see how you’re a bard if you don’t have magic.”
“Troubadour,” Simon chirped.
“Troubadours are pricks. They only perform for nobility, and they write their own songs,” Edgin pointed out.
Doric’s frown deepened. “You don’t even write your own songs?”
“Oh, he has. Trust me, you’re better off not hearin’ em.”
“Thank you, Holga.” Edgin sighed. “I’m skilled in performance, showmanship, can play the lute with aplomb, and in all ways except magical, I am a bard.” He ended with a flourish of his hands, as if to give an example of showmanship.
Doric looked unimpressed. “So if magic chooses who can wield it, and it won't suffer fools, you’re saying that bardic magic thinks you're an idiot?”
Simon laughed outright. “She’s got you, there, Ed.”
“Yes, ha-ha, very good. Sure you’re not a jester, Doric?”
Doric made an assenting gesture, tilting her head, but she didn’t quite manage to hide her little grin behind the lip of her glass, taking a sip. Edgin shook his head, but couldn’t help from smiling back. Put that on her resume: Doric was a born provocateur.
Under his arm, Kira shifted her weight, getting comfortable. She laid her head back on Edgin’s shoulder, and without a thought he matched her, cheek leaning on the top of her head.
“I think you’re a great bard, Dad,” she said, smiling as her eyes fell shut.
Edgin smiled down at her and squeezed her closer under his arm. “And yours is the only opinion I care about.”
"Hey."
He blindly reached out and patted Holga's leg. "You too, Holga, you too."
"What about me?"
"You're on thin ice for throwing the word troubadour around."
Simon's laughter rang out, and Edgin's lips twitched.
The sorcerer returned to his story, and the words all blended together, interspersed with comments and corrections from Doric or Holga. Edgin stopped checking on Holga so often; they seemed assured that Kira wouldn't disappear if they took their eyes off of her. Although the drinks stopped being free, no one tried to kick them out, and the fire was warm, and not a single person complained when Edgin started singing a song under his breath. Kira tentatively began to mumble along, getting stronger as the song went on, and the words slowly returned to her, like spring after winter.