Shadows and Light

Chapter One
    Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed’s sagging, lumpy mattress, Lyrra brushed her dark red hair and studied the small room she was sharing with Aiden.
    At least it was clean. The floor was swept, the sparse furniture dusted and polished. And the tavern owner’s wife had proudly claimed that she always put fresh sheets on the bed, even if a guest spent only one night.
    Despite the mattress, this room was luxurious compared with the one they’d been in two weeks ago.
    There, a bold little mouse had run across her foot while she was washing herself in the chipped basin that was as close to a bath as that particular tavern offered. Her shriek had woken Aiden from a sound sleep, lifting him out of bed in a tangle of covers. At least he’d landed on the bed—mostly—and didn’t hit his face on the floor.
    He wrote a song about it that made men roar with laughter and women give her sympathetic smiles.
    The wretch.
    A burst of male laughter rose from the tavern below.
    Lyrra wrinkled her nose, then smiled. Aiden must have reached the point in the evening’s entertainment where he was singing a few of the bawdy songs he knew. And the Bard knew plenty of them.
    But there were some bawdy songs he didn’t sing anymore. Whenever someone asked for one of those songs, he’d say he didn’t know it. Which was a lie, of course. Aiden was the Fae Lord of Song. It was part of his particular gift of being the Bard that he knew the words of every song, could play any tune he’
    d heard.
    She could guess when he’d stopped singing the more ... blatant... songs about men and women because of the one song he did sing at every tavern or inn they stopped at for food and lodging.
    “I gave her kindness, courtesy; respect, and loyalty,” Lyrra sang softly. “I strung them on the strands of love. ”These are the jewels for me. These are the jewels for me.‘“
    The song was called “Love’s Jewels.” The Fae had called it “The Lover’s Lament,” and most still did.
    But Aiden now sang it with the extra verses he’d learned last summer. Learned from a young witch who had tilted their understanding of the world and had left some of them scrambling to set things right again.
    That hadn’t been Ari’s fault. She hadn’t asked for the Fae to intrude in her life. But they had, and in doing so learned more than they had bargained for.
    Sighing, Lyrra set her brush on the wobbly table beside the bed. She closed her eyes and sat quietly for a moment. If she reached out with her gift, if she let it drift through this small village and the surrounding farms until it touched an open, willing heart, what would that person receive from the Muse tonight? A poem, a play, a story? It could be any of those things. But it would be a poem, a play, a story about sorrow and regrets. These people already seemed to have their share of that. When Aiden had sung his song that was a warning against the Black Coats, she’d seen the way the men’s faces had turned grim—
    and she’d seen the tears, and the fear, in the women’s eyes. This place hadn’t been touched by the Inquisitors, but villages just to the east of here had suffered. After that, she and Aiden had kept the songs and stories funny or romantic, things that would lift the spirit or nurture the heart.
    Since nothing she could send tonight would lift the spirit, she kept her gift to herself. But withholding it made her sad, and she wondered if a story filled with tears was better than no story at all.
    She shook off the feeling when she heard the footsteps outside the room’s door. By the time the door opened, she’d worked on presenting a smile of greeting.
    That smile faded when the black-haired, blue-eyed man stepped into the room. His harp case was slung over his shoulder by one of its straps. In his hands, he held a steaming mug and a small plate containing two slices of buttered bread and a piece of cake.
    “I thought you might like a cup of tea and a bit of a nibble,” Aiden said, pushing the door closed with his foot before taking the couple of steps that brought him close enough to the bed to hand over his offering.
    He looked tired, Lyrra thought as she accepted the cup and plate. Well, they were both tired, and she’d been traveling with him only for the past few weeks, ever since he’d come back to Brightwood to find out why she hadn’t met him as planned. But he’d been traveling since last summer, singing songs in the human villages