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Ande sat tiredly by the entrance to the kitchen of the inn and breathes in the smell of rushes, men, and, faintly the smell of conifer that permeated everything this far north. Technically he should be sitting by the door, but the howling cold outside meant both that there was no travelers and that it was too cold to be far from the fire.
The inn was nearly always quiet, with only a steady stream of traders willing to brave the northern tribes in exchange for scent amber and furs. It had been steady since his grandfather's time, when the borders extended far enough that the Forest offered its own protection against raiders.
They were the last inn on the road north, situated right on the edge of the great Forest of Sorrows, and not even a marks travel from the inn would see you standing among trees that dwarfed any man. Ande had grown up here, and was accustomed to all of it's particularities, but outsiders would occasionally mutter over various warding symbols of their chosen gods upon seeing them.
The traders said the Forest is haunted, but Ande put no stock in that. Nor did he put stock in his Grandfer's tales of the ghosts that supposedly inhabited it. Ande sighed, leaning back against the dark wood paneling, shifting on the worn chair and trying to get comfortable. It was going to be another long night.
Grandfer had told the story so often that Ande all but had it memorized. How when Grandfer had been Ande's age, an ancient Bard Stefen had visited the inn, once, and only once and then disappeared into the woods to their north never to be seen again. Which, in Ande's opinion made no sense, for such a legendary figure wouldn't someone notice?
Then there was, of course, the matter of the songbooks. Proper Bards from Haven only got up this far north every few years, the occupants at the inn largely relied upon traders for news. When a Bard did arrive without fail they always had one or two books with them The last was almost three years ago, and Ande had pressed him for why he had books. The Bard had no answer for him and seemed particularly uninterested in why he bothered to lug books all this way. It was damned uncanny.
The books, at Grandfer's insistence sat in an odd crate in the cellar. Grandfer swore that Bard Stefen had asked that he kept the books until he came around again. There were nine in the crate, the last he counted, when mice had taken upon themselves to eat nearly anything in the cellar. Nearly everything, except, of course, the books which were completely untouched and looked like they had been printed yesterday.
Everyone else just shrugged, and said that the old man was entitled to his eccentricities- even though the books go back decades. And, everyone always continues, what would we do with songbooks?
At this rate, we're using them for kindling, Ande thought with a scowl as he looked around the room. The storm blew up almost three days ago, and was still going strong. And on mid-winter, too. No merriment was to be had in the common room of the inn, which Ande figured is how he got onto the subject of those damned songbooks anyways.
He sighed again, eyes closed and keeps a careful ear on the murmurs around the common room. They couldn't afford a fight, not in this weather, not with snow nearly up to the eaves. Luckily the inn's occupants were largely professional traders- the sort who knew that weather and delays happened and it wasn't worth the stress of worry.
The rattle of the stable yard door startled him out of a near doze. The winds along the side and front of the inn were merciless, but the stable yard was protected by the long barn- a small blessing on the luckily rare occasions a storm like this rolled through.
Still- no one could be out there, right? The last traders had hauled in late yesterday morning having driven their mules near to dropping while trying to make it to cover.
The door slams shut as Ande straightens in his seat, exchanging a wary glance with his younger brother. The low noise of the common room had given way to tense silence with the first creak of the door.
"No-" Eder the fur trader paused when all eyes found him, and mopped his brow nervously. "No one else was on the road. There was no sign- no campfires, no word."
"Not unless they came in from the north," another muttered darkly. Ande couldn't see who it was, but his accent giving him away as a local sheltering from the storm. Gyer, probably, judging by the proximity to the cards table.
A third trader scoffed. "That's where this storm is from. Ain't no one alive north-ways."
"Hello?" a new voice called, and the unease of the room reaches new heights, though the light pleasant voice sounds nothing like an evil frost spirit. Or at least nothing like how Ande always imagined the evil frost spirits that frequent campfire tales of the far north to sound. The voice also perfectly matched the slight figure now standing in the doorway. "Ah, there's everyone. You were so quiet we were wondering."
The man dressed in Scarlets bustled into the room along with another man just behind him. For one short heartbeat, Ande would swear that he saw the man flicker like quicksilver in the light of the fire, but when he blinked he looked as solid as any. He was dressed more like a trapper in greys and furs rather than Bardic scarlet, but he had a lute case slung over his shoulder. "I hope you don't mind, we hung up our cloaks," the second man said in a low baritone.
The redhead smiled when he turns to face Ande, "Banther, right?"
Ande blinked, confused, "No, sir, Banther is my Grandfer."
Now it was the Bard's turn to be confused but after a few seconds he finally says, "Right, well I lost track of time. I've been busy the last few years."
"Shall I wake him for you?" Out of the corner of his eye he saw his eldest dart to the small inglenook where Grandfer had built a palette. "Well, Bandi's on it, he'll be up in a moment."
The Bard smiled and said, "Splendid, I believe he has some songbooks I would be interested in."
Ande stared, mind whirling. No, surely not. It was just a tale that Grandfer told to entertain the littles.
When he didn't respond, the Bard leaned forward a bit and continued, "I believe you were storing them in the basement."
Without turning Ande calls to his daughter to get the books and a short, awkward silence descends on the group until Grandfer shuffles up.
"Bard Ste-!" Grandfer cuts off at the sharp glance from the quieter bard. "Steppan, sorry I have a bit of a frog in my throat." Grandfer winks broadly. "And who is this?"
"Banther, sorry it took me a while to return," the Bard- Steppan apparently though Ande doubted the legitimacy of the name- smiles at Grandfer's broad, sweeping gesture. "This is Ivan. I thought we might liven up your Midwinter."
"We would be honored, and - oh! Here's my granddaughter Orlla with your books now."
Beside Steppan, the other musician remained quiet, and serious- not at all what Ande would expect of a Bard at a mid-winter. Looking closer, Ande was unsure of his age- his hair was as white as Grandfer's but his face bore no signs of age.
"Apologies, he's had a hard year," Steppan said in reply to one of Grandfer's questions as worry knits his brow. "He's lost someone close to him."
Taking in their confused expressions, Ivan said quietly, "My son."
Immediately Grandfer's face creased in sympathy. "Oh come now son, I'm sorry to hear that. I lost one of my own down south. A round for you on the house, maybe you'll find some cheer."
Grandfer slaps Ande's chest as he turns to the casks with a raised eyebrow. Leaning close as he pours a glass of ale, he murmurs, "See that red head? That's the bard from when I was your age. Well, he looked more like me then, but I'm sure that's him."
Ande almost rolls his eyes reflexively, as he has so many times when Grandfer tells the story. "Gram said I take after you, yeah?," Ande asks in a low voice.
At Grandfer's nod, a shiver of unease unfurls in his belly and he eyes the strangers out of the corner of his eye. He had been so confident when he called me Banther, and really would it be that much of a surprise if it's true? Ande had always found comfort in the woods, but even he had to admit they were strange at times.
He watched Ivan closely as Grandfer presents him with a pint. The odd, quiet man stared at the pint for a long moment, a look of intense concentration on his face. Eventually though, he picks it up and takes a cautious sip. Smiling slightly, Ivan thanks him for the pint.
The Bard- the one Grandfer had said was the legendary Bard Stefen had turned his attention to the books, flicking through each one. Ande noticed however that he remained turned toward the other Bard and glances frequently at him.
"Look Va- Ivan" Stefen stumbled over Ivan's name, but recovers quickly. "Here's some new Midwinter songs. Oh! And the one about Herald Nelus is apparently a classic. They've updated the fingering though..." the Bard trailed off, squinting intently at the book.
"Oh, that's always been one of my favorites!" Grandfer butted in.
The Bard looked up at him, looking unexpectedly pleased. "Really?"
"Yessir, I always like the tale- a Herald with barely anything special about him, just an ordinary feller, 'aving to use his brain to save the village from a cold drake. Who wouldn't like it?"
"Cold drakes are difficult even for powerfully Gifted," Ivan said as he nodded thoughtfully.
Ande couldn't help himself as he said, "You sound like you've seen one."
"I have, and I've fought one too. My son as well." Catching their looks of surprise, he ducked his head, hiding his face behind a curtain of silver white hair. "I lived a bit of an adventuring life before settling down."
Into the silence, Stefen said with bright cheer, "Well we'll be sure to sing it, now let's go get things in tune." The Bard shifted slightly, then held out a sheaf of papers. "And- Orlla was it?- Orlla could you run and put these in the songbook box?"
With that the pair turn to set up on the small raised dais that Grandfer had installed years ago. Together they sang the night away, alternating between sets and occasionally joining each other for duets. They barely pause to drink, and refuse all food.
At some point, Ande's small ability at playing came up, and he found himself shoulder to shoulder with Ivan, holding an odd facsimile of a lute. Then Orlla took a turn, teaching the two men an entire set of new songs that she had learned from the Bard from Haven three years ago. Both seemed to find her singing very impressive and let her lead on several songs before she took a break.
The inn, for a while, seemed pleasantly warm and the candles seemed to glow a bit more. The music offered a welcome reprieve from the worry of the last few days. Ivan seemed confident that the storm will clear by morning, and that optimism proved infectious.
Sometime around midnight Ande is alone in the kitchen checking that the hearth was still warm enough that tomorrow's bread will rise. As he sat back on his heels in front of the hearth he paused when he realized there were no cloaks hanging nearby. In fact, there was no sign that the strangers had been through the kitchen at all.
A quiet noise behind him caused him to jump and he turned to see Ivan standing quietly in the kitchen. Unbidden, the memory of the man seeming to ripple flashed through his mind, and his skin prickled with alarm as he stood to face the odd man.
"I was hoping to speak to you," Ivan started, his baritone as low as the fire.
Ande barked a short laugh. "And I as well. I'm afraid that we've mislaid your cloaks, sir," he said with false bravado, one hand still holding the fire iron. He's close enough that he sees Ivan's eyes dart to the hearth behind him before Ivan grimaced and ran a hand through his hair. "There's been plenty of rumors about those woods, sir."
"I'm sure there has been."
"They say that the spirit of Vanyel guards it, but the thing is I've memorized Vanyel's entire epic cycle. He never had a son."
"There are many things that songs get wrong." Ivan's voice was sharper now, his eyes flash and his face was more animated than it had been all evening. When Ande shifted, raising the fire iron, Ivan stepped back a moment, eyes closed as he visibly calmed. "Songs or, well, rather Bards is why I wanted to talk to you. You have some small Gift, did you know?"
"A Bard years ago mentioned it, but said it would never be enough for a good posting." Ande shakes his head as old hurts rose again to the fore. "I was going to go anyways, you know? To Haven. To learn all of history I could. I figured- figured that I would be back here eventually. But then my brother died down on the Karse border, and here I stay."
The two men stand in silence for a minute, and eventually Ande returned the iron to it's hook and shook out his hand. Ivan quietly said, "Your daughter, Orlla. She doesn't have a small Gift, she has a large one. She needs training."
"I've taught her what I could. She needs more, doesn't she?"
"She needs to go to Haven."
Ande nodded, still facing the hearth as he says, "Then Haven she shall go, it won't be until late summer that we'll have enough saved, but I'll see her on the way before the next frost sets in."
Ivan pauses, clearly interrupted from starting a longer speech that he had prepared. Ande looked at the stranger, and smiled a smile that felt bitter even to him. "Is it bad that at times I envy him?" At Ivan's confused look, he clarified, "My brother. He saw more of this world than I ever will. When she was born, I made a promise that not one of my children would ever have stay."
"No, I don't think it's bad. We long for what we don't have- innkeepers for lives of adventure, and heroes for a quiet place by a hearth."
"And you, what did you get?"
"Let's just say I understand having to do right by your obligations."
"And that's it?," Orlla asks, her tone filled with disbelief. She was on a rare visit home, even rarer for the fact she was here over Midwinter. "You decided to send me to Haven at the behest of two Bards, one of whom is a dead hero- and both of whom were dead?"
"You asked why I packed you up that spring as soon as the roads were good and clear," Ande says. "What else were you wanting to hear?"
"It just always seemed odd, suddenly after mid-winter there wasn't any talk of me working at the inn, you and Grandfer took turns every afternoon making sure I knew my letters. I thought that I had done something that I couldn't recall-" Orlla trails off as Ande shakes his head and runs a hand through his graying hair.
"No, you never did anything that I know of. What little I could teach you was enough to see you to Haven."
"Which I went to, at the behest of Vanyel Demonsbane." Her tone was more mocking now, and Ande didn't deign to reply.
Instead he sits and gazes into the fire, remembering that now long ago Midwinter. By morning the storm was gone, just as Ivan had predicted. So were the Bards, but no one thought to ask after them. For all that it had continuously snowed for days beforehand the road was remarkably clear- something the traders were keen to take advantage of.
By afternoon, the inn was empty, the stable yard quiet and Ande's hands had been hard at work setting the inn to rights while his mind was running through the night before again and again. Not for the first time, he wondered what his life would have been like, if he'd only left a few months earlier. Would he have left Haven to return to the inn? Or would he have found employment and purpose elsewhere?
Ande remembers looking at Orlla, and for a moment doubting the conversation the night before. His sweet daughter, Haven bound? The thought of her being so far away was difficult to stomach and he almost put it out of his mind until he went to put away the odd crate now holding sheet music. It had been heavier than expected and when he looked there was a small money pouch, full of enough odd foreign coins to see one small girl to Haven.
He casts a look at his daughter out of the corner of his eye, and feels a familiar sense of pride. His daughter, from an inn most in Haven couldn't find on the map was now a Bard, and her talents sought after throughout the kingdom.
The day wore on into evening, and soon the small common room was packed with anyone who could conceivably make the trip- news had spread fast about Orlla being home and everyone was eager for news and distraction.
She was just finishing her first set when Ande sees movement out of the corner his eye and turns to see Ivan looking just the way he had so many years ago. "My friend! I wasn't sure that my note would reach you."
The man smiles a half smile and asks, "Ande?"
"It's been some years., but with Orlla home, I was hoping you could make it here."
"That's Orlla?" the Bard asks, suddenly occupying a shadowed space just inside the kitchen that had been empty a heartbeat ago. Ande consciously chooses not to think too hard about it.
Ivan turns to him with a grin, "You are terrible at keeping track of the years."
"To be fair that was never my forte," he replies as he pushes past Ande and Ivan. "I've got questions on what in the world are they teaching for fingering these days," he calls over his shoulder.
Ivan and Ande look at each other for a moment, before Ande ventures, "You seem… better." He did, as far as Ande could tell and he couldn't help but adding, "less haunted."
Ivan smiles at that, and Ande suddenly understands why even the war ballads took time to mention Vanyel's beauty. It was hard for Ande to reconcile the two- one the glamorous war hero who Ande can sing every song about, the other a man grieving a profound loss.
"I am, thank you," Ivan says, and seems to fidget- truly an odd sight- and then in his hand was another small money pouch which he offers to Ande.
"Traditionally I believe the proprietor pays the bards, not the other way around," Ande jokes before turning serious and pushing the pouch away. "I appreciate your help getting Orlla all the way to Haven, but we get along here. We don't need charity."
Ivan shakes his head. "This isn't charity, this is- I thought for a long time about our conversation. About how people want what they don't have and about what you had to give up." He offers Ande the pouch again. "We don't have much need for money such as we are, so here, take it, go travel. Live your dream."
Ande turns the words and odd gesture over in his head. There was deep pain there, and he realizes that he was older than Vanyel ever got the chance to be. Suddenly, he he had a faint idea of just what obligation had cost this man in the end, and he understood what he was being offered. With a smile he takes the pouch saying only, "Thank you my friend."