CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

REVELING in ordinary sights and sounds as only the recently convalesced do, Gabrielle was delighted by every detail of the crowded pub. Crammed around a little table puddled with dribbles of ale, she regarded her companions with blurry fondness. How easily she might never have experienced this moment! Life pulsed through her veins, and the world was good.

The music was as fine as Tristan had promised. The minstrels sang little, but were such masters of their instruments that one did not miss the voices but rather found them in the viol or lute or whistle. Gabrielle was especially entranced with an instrument she had never seen in the south, a Maronnais invention the minstrels called mountain pipes. Its wild lonely wail seemed to her born of the wind that scoured the high empty places.

Tristan, on the other hand, gave all his admiration to the drummer—a hulking bear of a fellow who dwarfed the simple skin drum cradled on his knee. The lap drum, held upright with one hand and played with the other, was a standard instrument throughout the Basin countries, but it had become something entirely new in this player’s hands.

“Would you look at him!” Tristan was laughing in excited glee. The drummer’s arm was a blur as the beater stick traveled the drum, now clacking sharply, now booming out the deep bass of the bottom skin, now skipping a complex rhythm that made them jiggle in their seats. The effect, maybe, should have been over-busy and confusing, but it wasn’t: the steady pulse of the rhythm never wavered, and it at once anchored and powered the music.

Danaïs and Féolan were equally rapt, though for different reasons. They came of a people who lived and breathed music, who delighted in the beauty of complex layers of harmony and pure lines of melody. Technical ability did not awe them—Elvish musicians had hundreds of years to perfect their skills. What was new to them was the sheer raw energy of this music, the way it made their hearts jump to the drum or thrill as the viol flew up the scale to its top note. Their own music could be soothing, heart-wrenching, or uplifting. This music was alive.

DERKH ALONE OF the little group was not much of a music lover, but that didn’t stop him from enjoying the evening. Truth to tell, he couldn’t remember a time when he had felt so happy and relaxed. The revelation about the Greffaire settlers had lifted a last great weight from his mind—the fear that his acceptance in this new land would forever spring solely from the protection of the royal family. Now he saw the possibility of creating his own life here. Perhaps it would be the hard and humble life of a farm hand, but at least he could stand or fall on his own merit.

He craned his neck to look once more around the modest room, taking in the flickering lamps, the great spigotted casks of ale and neat rows of tankards, the men and women with laden trays threading their way among the tables. The cheerful bustle of the place was fascinating.

He hadn’t let on, but Derkh had never before been “out carousing.” On his fourteenth birthday, his father had taken him to a liquor stop to mark the presentation of his coming-of-age papers, but it had been nothing like this place. The dingy basement room had been dark and silent, dotted with solitary men drinking with such grim determination it seemed to Derkh an ordeal rather than a pleasure. He had earned his father’s approval by managing to finish the fiery liquid without coughing, but he had not returned.

As a tune ended, the room erupted into cheers and stamping feet. Derkh let his eyes roam over the crowd: he saw mostly well-dressed men and women, but also people in the coarse plain clothing of laborers, shoulder-to-shoulder with everyone else and served just the same. Except for one frayed old fellow in a mud-spattered cloak, hunched over the bar at the back—he was being given a wide berth. Poor guy, probably smells even worse than he looks, Derkh thought, torn between amusement and pity.

An ear-splitting whistle—thank you, Tristan—brought Derkh’s attention back to his friends. He beamed at everyone at once, waggled his tankard in salute and drained it.

IT WAS WELL past midnight, and Gabrielle was flagging. She had seen it in her own patients—a lack of stamina that was the last telltale remnant of illness or injury. Ah well, she hadn’t done badly. She leaned her head into Féolan’s shoulder, closed her eyes and let her thoughts wander.

They would soon be back in Stonewater. She hoped Nehele had not had her baby early, without her. When they had first become friends last spring, Gabrielle had been excited at the invitation to attend an Elvish birth. Now, though, excitement had turned to concern. Nehele’s husband had been slain in the battle against the Greffaires; he would never fasten the baby-stone around his newborn child’s neck. The baby would be a comfort to Nehele, but the birth was bound to plunge her into renewed grief as well as joy. Such a labor, Gabrielle knew, could be difficult.

Still thinking like a healer, Gabrielle opened her eyes and let them drift around the table, assessing the state of each of her companions. Tristan was in fine fettle. She knew from experience that he held his ale well, and also that he had the knack of seeming to drink more than he really did. Poor Rosalie, however, had made the mistake of trying to keep up with him. She was propped against Tristan, flushed and disheveled, giggling helplessly at nothing in particular. Gabrielle would be tending her in the morning, without a doubt. Féolan and Danaïs, to her amused surprise, both looked a little bleary. It was subtle—just a settling of the features, a clouding of the usual clear depths of their eyes. Not used to our dark ale, she thought. She might have to remedy that. She had been served a light wine at Stonewater that was exquisite, but she happened to agree with her father’s opinion that “There’s much to be said for a plain honest ale.”

Not that she ever overindulged. It was a discipline ingrained in her along with her bonemender’s training, to keep a clear head. “Accidents don’t take a holiday just because you do,” Marcus had admonished her, and she had seen his words proved true. Gabrielle had stopped refilling her own tankard when the evening was still young.

As, apparently, had Derkh. His dark eyes, when they met hers, were as clear and alert as ever. He lifted his eyebrows at her, mouthed a question: “Okay?” He had noticed her fatigue, then. Gabrielle smiled and nodded, waving away his concern, and pondered the young man’s sobriety. Just his natural bent, maybe. Or perhaps he feared losing his head and embarrassing himself. Rosalie will envy you tomorrow, Gabrielle thought.