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Constantine

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The Clemonte estate, situated in the heart of Vedrauga Castle town which overlooked the crossroads between the Selva and Urd highways, stood as a bastion of frivolity. A modest façade belied the extravagance on display within.

An uncomfortable place for the young Constantine.

With time to kill before the party proper began, Constantine made a point of visiting the other performers throughout the morning. Nobles, he found, cared little for the comfort or amicability of staff. Especially these petty, stater lords, divorced from the egress of Altalusia or the rigid formality of the Empire.

A certain cattiness hung in the air initially, the groups of performers stuck in cloisters of friends and known acquaintances, jealous of favor shown to who they viewed as rivals.

It took some time to dispel the animosity, a task he was not alone in setting about. He recognized a number of those gathered—an elderly couple of trobaritz he wintered with back in Palaa; a tongueless Edjeri sword swallower who caravaned with him; and lithe acrobat triplets who always seemed a step ahead of the trends. These latter folk, calling themselves the Gildon brothers, fell in stride with him and asked that he join their show. Constantine, being Constanine, happily obliged.

He chatted them up in turns, offered warm smiles and reminiscence, and shared gossip heard from the servants about the local lords.

The Clemontes were free with their purses. A curiosity, given the rumors of poor harvest and drought told in the outlying farmsteads. Local granaries were near vacant, yet the lords bathed in tithes drawn like blood from a stone. When he considered that, any guilt he felt at pocketing loose jewelry in the foyer vanished.

He made sure to slip the odd piece into other players' purses, a bold tax on their hosts for so slipshod a display.

As he rounded a corner in the inner garden, he nearly stumbled into another of the performers. A woman he did not recognize. He noted her manner of dress, the accoutrements of class begetting her station. Not likely a servant, absent the house livery, nor a noble in how she lacked flamboyance.

He mimicked a bow, brushing oiled hair streaked white and red and purple at the crest back from his face.

"Sorry about that," he said, an easy smile dimpling his cheeks. He nudged his chin to her shouldered belongings. "Take it you're here for the coin? Plenty to go about, as I hear it. Name's Constantine, here with the Gildon brothers' tightrope act, and maybe a bit of song if the buzz doesn't fry my voice."

He extended a hand.

"What's your angle? Been here before? Saw a bit of Selvari horse on the southerly roads. Nasty business with the Empire and all, way I hear it."
 
Shoulder to shoulder, breath knocked loose. Anira staggered half a step, her lute knocking her hip with a soft, shocked thrum of strings before she caught the lute halfway down. A sharp intake of breath escaped her, more irritation than pain, and she stepped back at once. A few of her things had fallen. She looked at them. She looked at him. She looked at them again. She looked at him... again.

Aren't you going to be chivalrous and pick it up? No?

Then, with a long-suffering breath, she bent to retrieve her things herself. Skirts of velvet and silk pooling around her. The kirtle was a tailored cut, square-necked and immaculate, deep blue velvet trimmed with pale silk, color the same as moonshine, at the sleeves. Her flaxen hair was braided neatly and coiled at the nape of her neck, not a strand out of place despite the mishap. Framed a face that was open and expressive, now sharpened by mild irritation. She gathered her things herself, fingers quick.

When she rose, the man was still there, smiling, bowing, and very deliberately brushing his colorful, oily hair back with his hand. She inclined her head in response to his bow, returning it with a restrained nod. He spoke. He apologized. He extended that hand toward her.

Anira looked at it. Just for a moment.

“No harm done,” she said, her voice bright but burnished. The minstrel had learned manners in courts and misbehavior on the road. “Gardens are treacherous places. Paths twist, people collide, destinies tangle their laces.” Her smile, sweet and obliging, the sort worn by those who knew that etiquette, after all, was a kind of stagecraft.

"But you might warn a woman next time before attempting breaking her collarbone...” Her eyes dropped briefly to his hand, then met his eyes again. The minstrel took his hand. Carefully. “Anira, Lady Lark of The Lanes” she said, clearly, brightly. “Bard. Which means I stay upright and finish my verses.” She released him a heartbeat sooner than custom required, perhaps afraid that an acrobat's strong grip would damage a bard's most prized possessions, her fingers. "A pleasure,” she added sweetly.

“Constantine, was it?" Her gaze swept him with open appraisal now, not unkind, but competitive. “I’ve heard of the Gildon brothers. I must say, it’s… impressive. The way you jesters tumble, leap, and yet somehow always land on your feet. Strong fingers… agile, clever… dangerous in all the ways a man ought to be.” A faint laugh, light and melodious, slipped past her. “Tightrope and song is a brave pairing, My Daring One. One wrong step and the audience remembers you forever. I approve.”

At the mention of Selvari horses and The Empire conflict, she sighed. War had never stirred anything but dread in her chest. Please… her thoughts whispered, let it stay far from here. "My angle?” she echoed, and looked confused. She glanced past him toward the estate, the marble walls gleaming, the laughter of guests spilling out.

“Art. Always art. One creates because the world is dull without it… and because the soul demands it. Though, naturally… that sort of devotion tends to pay quite handsomely, if you manage it well." Anira plucked a single string on her lute, a clean, bright note that cut the air.
 
Laughter swelled in the hollows of his chest.

"I'll be more careful, Lady Lark," Constantine said, managing some sincerity. Clasping wrists behind his back and crooking an ankle to take a more casual stance, he loosened his shoulders, let himself hang limp at the end of a phantom marionettist's hand.

Bright, clear eyes swept over her again. Really looked at her, saw beyond the silhouette, to the clothes adorning her. Very pretty. Dangerous. He'd have to talk to the triplets about his own outfit. A few modifications to ensure this woman did not upstage him. Silk for silk, he could cut the neck of his shirt deeper perhaps, display a bit of chest or navel. Paint a bit of hair on, a couple lines of muscle... coupled with tights that clung to his legs, emphasized each step across that precarious rope...

Yes, nothing to worry him, not yet. Nimble fingers and a fairer voice might present a foil, but a single, clear note proved little in the way of talent.

His smile never slipped.

"All in name of the game," he said, and added teasingly, "but the food never hurts either. Did you see what the hunters brought in? Some manner of lizard, with tusks like a boar. And if meat's not to your fancy, I heard whispers of a fountain filled with fresh pressed juice. Imagine that luxury here, so detached the proper baronies."

On and on, he nattered away without a care, sharing conspiracy and rumor, gossip tumbling off lips fixed in masked amusement. It allowed time to get her measure.

Anira, the name rung in his ears and came back hollow of recognition. Perhaps the trobaritz knew of her. That was more their speed. Bards and minstrels, poets. They made for great company around the campfire. Most of the titled ones he met, however, tended towards arrogance. That boded poorly for his own pride.

Abrupt, he shook his head.

"I'm rambling, sorry. When do you play?" he asked, oh so innocent.
 
Anira listened.

She listened while he laughed.

While he talked, oh, how he talked, and talked and filled the air so thoroughly there was scarcely room left for her breath.

He rattled on about food, juice fountains, hunters, tusked lizards, and gossip that tripped over itself in its eagerness to be heard. “Ah, so we’ve wandered into the realm of culinary wonders, have we? Fascinating indeed." This man was treating this conversation as a solo performance and she merely the acoustics.

She watched his eyes roam, measuring, sizing her up. The minstrel tilted her head slightly. Jester, a tightrope walker, a skilled chatterbox… “Oh, you’re quite the raconteur, Constantine,” she said lightly. "Well,” she continued, allowing a little theatrical sigh to slip into her words, “it seems Lady Clemont has deemed me necessary for the evening’s entertainment. She requested I play for the banquet.”

Her gaze flicked toward the hall where the servants bustled. “So, tell me, when do you step onto your stage? I must know if I've time to be practicing my own eyes for astonishment."
 
"Impressive," he said, the words leaving his lips with a whistle of approval.

From what he gathered, the banquet promised an audience of near two hundred including servants and fellow performers. With luck, this Lady Lark could keep all eyes off him in the evening. An excellent diversion.

"The triplets scored a spot late afternoon, following the opening act, firebreathers who came by way of Crorefell. Haven't seen them before, but the madam must endorse their talents if they're going on right after the fireworks."

A shrug to obfuscate his annoyance. When he approached the triplets, it was with the understanding that they held the highest prestige among this lot. The eight-damned firebreathers weren't even at the venue yet, their preparations demanding some measure of secrecy. Given the chance, he could have persuaded them to let him join the headliners. Pity. Second only to missing out on showing the Clemontes a little drama.

"Oh," he said as if just remembering, "the Clemontes offered lodging for us. Some of us plan on getting together in the garden after the guests leave, convince the cooks to part with a leftover cask of whatever they're serving today, or a couple bottles of wine if we're lucky. Be nice to see you there, if you don't have other engagements."

He let his dimples show again.
 
Anira’s eyes lit at his whistle, a pleased warmth softening her expression. She lifted her chin just slightly. “I won’t be playing alone,” the minstrel said lightly, already half-hearing the evening in her mind. “Geva and Meander is drumming for us. Salvina Littleboot is joining on with her vielle. And Lioren. The Ivory Flautist. You may know the name, he have been working with the Gildon brothers before." Then her words lingered, clearly saving something.

“There’s a troubadour from the southern marches bringing a sun harp,” she said, voice lowering, warming. Like a secret passing between them. “A true one, not some cheap imitation. The real thing. If you have time before your appearance, you should come listen. It’s once in a lifetime for most of us.”

She laughed softly but disbelief threading the sound. One hand brushing a loose curl from her shoulder. “Which does make me wonder how House Clemont managed to afford it... A sun harp doesn’t come cheaply." Finer houses have paid dearly for that sound to grace their tables... Then the acrobat spoke of the garden. The casks. The wine. The after of it all. Anira opened her mouth to respond with something clever… but then he smiled again.

Dimples. Cursed, dangerous things.

Her gaze stalled there for a fraction longer than she meant it to.

“Well,” Her smile curved into something unmistakably delighted. “... that does sound terribly improper. Musicians loose in a garden with wine and no audience to behave for?” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Mm. Dangerous invitation, that. I’m trying very hard to cultivate an air of mystery and restraint, you see. But, I might be persuaded.”

Then she stepped back, already turning, “I must go. The others and I need to run through the repertoire, tune strings..."
 
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"Wouldn't miss it for the world," he said, calling after her. Only when she rounded a hedge did he allow himself a sigh. Successful-ish. Lady Lark of the Lanes, he made note to remember her and her promise to steal the spotlight. Fucking Gildon brothers. Buttered him up, led him astray, let him make a fool of himself.

Absently, he tied back his hair into a bun with a needle plucked from a pocket. The colors were a mess. He did not care. He kicked at a stray rock lining the paved garden path and started when it connected with a new, unlikely face.

"Sorry, sir," he said, readying another smile as he looked to what he crossed paths with: a man wearing the proper livery of a butler, shirt tucked tight and chin held high. But something was off around the edges. Too square at the shoulders, posture too stiff, and those eyes. Sharp, dignified, cold.

Without tray, luggage, or guestbook, the man wore the butler's skin poorly. He gave Constanine a nod, curt and lacking affection, and moved on. Maybe he grunted on the way out.

Constantine blanked his own expression, bowed at the neck while the man passed. Not the sort he wanted to entangle himself with. Another curiosity accosted him as he averted his eyes: the butler was wearing boots. Hard leather, strap on the heel where spurs might be affixed. The Clemontes, it seemed, hired a wild sort of staff.

Shaking himself from speculation, he continued back on the path. One last loop around the garden. There was time yet before he had to return to the triplets, time he needed to still the seething temper that promised to tick from his tongue.

Another rock interrupted his path. This one he let slide.
 
Anira lifted her eyes and studied the seneschal over the edge of the parchment, the vellum resting in her fingers. No artist liked last minute changes to a program. Her lute leaning against her hip.

“Sunny Fields?” she repeated, delicately. Her pulse quickened, a prickle of warning dancing up her spine. “Are you certain? That is a…”

“A song,” the man cut in.
The minstrel smiled “Aye,” she agreed. “A very ...complex song.”

The seneschal did not smile back. He was a well-built man, his face all noble angles and immaculate lines. His doublet was black velvet, unadorned save for the Clemont sigil stitched on his chest. But his eyes were the unsettling part. Grey, but not storm-grey, not gentle. Flat. Reflective. Like polished pewter.

“It is the Lady of the House’s wish,” he said.

Of course it was.

Anira tilted her head, studying the program. “Sunny Fields” was not the sort of song one inserted casually. It seemed innocent on its face, yes. The tune was almost cheerful. Harvest and honey and laughter in tall grass. But it carried on the wind when Arshakan soldiers marched through towns. It was sung low around campfires that smelled of smoke and where steel was sharpened. The song’s sweetness was only the surface.

Her throat tightened just slightly.

“How fortunate,” she murmured, folding the parchment. Her voice light as a chirp, concealing the worry that flooded her mind. "We do so adore fulfilling birthday wishes!" Anira gave a small, airy laugh, as if to convince herself she wasn’t thinking at all, and rallied the others. “Come, darlings. Let’s rehearse!”
 
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"Henry," he was saying to the largest of the triplets, smiling everywhere except his eyes, "I met a lady bard just now. She is the headliner, playing at the madam's personal request."

The other man nodded, none too surprised.

"Why the fuck wasn't I told?"

"Didn't ask, Cons."

Didn't. Fucking. Ask.

"We had an agreement."

He was met with a shrug.

"Could'a asked Mary or Elsee."

"You were here first." He scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Besides, Elsee near stabbed me last time, what with that business with her cousin and all."

"Not my fault. Should save those smiles for the crowd, Cons, not us. Might'n be a little less sharp next time." The other man clapped him on the shoulder.

Constanine brushed him off with a sigh. "Forget it. Done with this. That bard, Lady Lark of the Lanes as she promoted herself, said she'll be playing with some Marcher with a sun harp. Said I wouldn't miss it for the world and all that. You get it. You don't need me for a while yet, yeah?"

Henry narrowed his eyes but said nothing more.

Constantine, laughing, waved him off and left, venturing into the estate proper with the most marvelous excuse to stir up a little trouble.
 
The banquet began with a hush.

Servants poured wine the color of garnets. Long tables groaned beneath pheasant glazed in honey, bowls of saffron broth, dark loaves torn apart by jeweled fingers. Laughter rose in ripples, careful at first, then looser as goblets emptied. Wax bled slowly down sconces.

Above them, in the gallery, the musicians took their places. Anira's gaze sweeping the room as though she were surveying a stage rather than a feast. Which, in truth, she was. The hall was beautiful.

Candles had been lit one by one along the high tables, their flames steady despite the draft that slipped through the stone hall. Banners of House Clemonte hung heavy from the rafters, rich golden and deep forest green. Beneath them, the long tables gleamed with polished silver.

Velvet and fur. Gold chains resting heavy on proud throats. Spurs chimed softly against flagstone. Signet rings flashed as hands were offered, clasped, withdrawn. Lords of the Free States took their seats, their ladies followed with eyes sharp as glass. The doors closed behind them with a weighty thud.

At the high table, Lady Clemonte glittered beneath candlelight, all jewels and gracious smiles. Behind her stood the seneschal, hands clasped in pale gloves, posture rigid as a spear shaft. He did not look at the food. He did not look at the wine. But his gaze moved from table to table.

Anira lifted her chin.

Geva and Meander began with a slow, coaxing rhythm. Salvina’s vielle threaded bright and nimble above it. Lioren’s flute slipped in like the first frost.

The sun harp.

The troubadour from the southern marches stood apart from the rest, not by distance but by gravity. He wore robes edged in gold thread so fine it seemed fibers seemed like burning embers. His hair fell loose to his shoulders, whiteblond, though not with age. His skin held that strange quality of someone who has spent more time beneath sky than roof. Or beneath stranger lights entirely...

When his fingers touched the strings, the hall changed. The sound did not ring. It spread like the first rays of sunrise. Warm at first. Golden. Beneath it, something vast and powerful, the kind that makes men and women straighten without knowing why. Light crept along the curve of the harp’s frame like fire finding dry timber. The troubadour's pale hair caught the glow and flared like a wick. But his eyes reflected no color at all. They were deep and depthless, like coals long cold.

Each plucked note unfurled not only the purest sound but radiance. Pale gold poured outward in slow, reverent waves, thick as honey and twice as heavy. Amber fractured into shards of rose and crimson. Light slid over faces and fracture in to spectrums when moving away. It crowned some brows in molten gold. It hollowed others in shadow edged with violet. Anira felt it beneath her ribs and, being Anira, decided to try to outshine it.

“Well then..” the bard murmured, fingers brushing her lute strings. She stepped forward, head held high, eyes bright with delight. Her voice leapt into the hall like a coin tossed into a gathering of beggars.

“Beating, anon mine own heart is beating, beating ’til ’tis bleeding...”
 
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From his perch crouched below a wooden rail overlooking the galley from the estate's second floor, Constantine was awash with confusion as the notes of song poured forth.

A marching tune, played on so illustrious an instrument as a sun harp...

The way the Lady Lark spoke had him brimming with expectation. A ballad, perhaps, to showcase the harp's craftmanship and the harper's mastery. Something that carried even in these hollow halls, a tune that suited her voice. He could hear the notes of it, the precise lilts in tone and rhythm with fingers that danced a sensual step along the lute. The effect, then, was dampened by the occasional thump of a palm against the base, of the stomp of foot on quarried stone floor, of beat set to march to a soldier's drum.

His face contorted at that. He scrubbed a hand through his hair, catching a snag in the back from how often he made a habit of it today. Not good. Without a brush he could not set it straight again. It might leave a foul impression, a stark contrast to how he wished to cast perceptions about himself.

Clicking his tongue, he rose from his crouch. Elbow on the guardrail, he looked down at the galley proper, and moved his mouth quietly to the Lady Lark's song: "Bleeding, as do the days, so fade away, down Sunny Fields."

For a moment, he thought he caught her eye, and gave a half-hearted wave. No smile now, not that she could see from this distance, probably. He lifted a finger to his lips just in case, winked, and faded back from the railing. He slipped into a nearby room, on the prowl for something easy to lift.
 
“Bleeding, as do the days, so fade away, down Sunny Fields…”

Her gaze swept the hall as she sang the line again, and for a heartbeat it snagged on the balcony above. Well, look at you, balcony goblin.

She held the note in Fields a fraction longer than necessary, letting it ring fearless through the hall. When she released it, her eyes flicked up again just in time to see Constantine press a finger to his lips and vanish back into the shadows. That didn't look innocent.

"Fields, mine own Fields that called me hence, and Sunny Fields shall take me. Oh-oh!”

A few younger lords joined in on the oh-oh, already drunk enough to think themselves charming. Something small, but cold settled quietly in the pit of her stomach, a kind of unease. A sense that the stage had shifted without her noticing when. Servants were moving upward along the balconies that circled the hall’s upper reaches, it did not bothered her. But their humming bothered her more. Focus, she told herself. Her attention slid back to the hall as though nothing had happened.

Silver platters passed from servant to servant like moons drifting across the long tables. The first course barely cooled before goblets were being filled and refilled again. Servants moved well-drilled between the long tables, bearing bowls filled with buttered turnips that steamed. Sweet onions passed hand to hand. Fresh loaves were torn open, the smell of warm bread spread like a blessing over the hall.

A feast in the old manner.
Music in the background.
Politics in the gravy.

Old Lord Clemonte laughed loudly at something one of his bannermen said, wiping grease from his grey beard.

Lady Lark stood with her lute slung easily in her arms. Telling herself Sunny Fields was just a small tune. Nothing ambitious. Nothing that started wars. But all songs had bones. And Sunny Fields had always been built on bones. Her fingers slid along the lute strings. She tapped the body of her lute with the heel of her hand, each time the lyrics circled back to the beating heart.

Thump.

Her boot followed with a playful stomp on the wooden dais. A rhythm born for marching, but tonight it wore a dancer’s boot.
 
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