The Daughter-Heir

Dip your wick in fresh wax, then set it to flame, paint the walls white, and pay the fine dame. Play the little bell, dance to the tune, watch her chest swell, and wish upon the full moon.

-Excerpt from “Take My Hand, Madame”

Elma sá Ahlríon sat in the crowded tavern, lost in thought and nursing a lukewarm ale, absently listening to her fellow patrons chatter amongst themselves. Despite her status as the daughter-heir to the Ahlríon dukedom, she wore the livery of a chambermaid—a white dress, embroidered with lacy blue flowers, and a black half-apron with the Ahlríon seal stitched into one corner. A week of sleeping in moldering stables and squalid alleyways had left its indelible mark on the once-proud uniform, now tattered and filthy.

She fled her father’s estate the night he announced her betrothal to Count Cannáed, the lord of a fief neighboring their own. Elma was no fool, she knew her role as a political piece, and that love would play no part in her future marriage. The Count was an uncommonly vile man, however, prone to fits of violent rage, and a well-known womanizer.

Duke Ahlríon arranged the marriage out of a desire to maintain peace between their fiefs, but Elma feared what her life would become under such a husband. She first met Count Cannáed at her debut ball twelve years prior, and despite being only a child, the Count ogled her with lascivious eyes. And so, under cover of darkness and disguised as a maid, she took flight from home.

A raucous cheer pulled Elma from her trance. The crowd of drinkers was watching a young man perched on a wooden stool as he tuned a well-worn lute. His attire was plain—a white linen tunic over forest green pants, and leather knee-high boots laced three-quarters of the way to the top. In contrast to his unadorned clothing, he wore a fine sable cloak of felted wool, embroidered along the hems with red script. Elma squinted, trying to make out the words, but he was too far away. Who is he? She wondered, her hands unconsciously fiddling with her half-full mug.

The man plucked a single note on his instrument, and the crowd went silent, like trained dogs hearing their master’s command. He took a single breath, held it for a heartbeat, then let it out. It was so still in the large room that Elma could hear the exhale. He plucked a second note, then a third, and finally, his fingers flew across the strings, guiding the patrons into an upbeat dance song. He stomped on the wooden floor in rhythm with the music, singing a bawdy shanty in a rich baritone. It was a vulgar ditty, rife with thinly veiled innuendo, but she found herself laughing regardless. The words carried so well that it felt as if he were singing specifically to her, and a moment later she realized it was too personal.

“Wait, is that magic?” She whispered, eyes growing wide. A decade of magical lessons had instilled in her the ability to recognize the flow of power that came with spell casting, and she was certain she felt threads of wind magic in the air. Distracted by the display, her mug slipped from her grasp and clattered to the table, spilling the warm ale across the surface and into her lap.

“Shit,” she swore, and righted the cup, then wiped the tabletop with her sleeve. The uniform, already a ragged mess, was now soaked through and stank of stale alcohol. “Dammit, dammit, dammit!”

With a sigh, she slumped and pushed the mug to the center of the table. The music washed over her, and she let it carry her away, hoping to distract herself from the squelching her skirts made every time she moved.

The other patrons clapped and stomped in time with the song, shouting the chorus when it came, and dancing in circles around the tables. Even the barmaid lost herself, laughing as a man twice her age locked elbows with her, spinning in tight circles.

The first song ended with applause, and the bard seamlessly transitioned into another song. It was less rowdy, but still fast enough to dance to, like a mellower version of the first. And Elma recognized it.

“This is court music,” she whispered to herself, cocking an eyebrow. A glance at the others told her that they did not recognize it. The tune had been sped up by half again its original speed, but it was undeniably a court dance tune. “Who is this man?”

Elma shifted in her seat, cringing as the cold wetness assaulted her once more. With a sigh, she raised a hand to get the attention of the barmaid. The younger woman caught her eye, then blushed as she extricated herself from her dance partner and hustled over.

“What can I getcha?” She asked, her voice laced with the rural accent common in the lands surrounding the Royal Capital.

“Another ale,” Elma said. “And a rag, if you have it.”

The barmaid eyed the wet tabletop, gaze following the trail of sticky liquid down to Elma’s lap. Stifling a laugh, she nodded. “One ale, and a rag, got it,”

The bard struck up a third song, this time a ballad. Elma did not know the tune, but the spoken word that accompanied it was familiar. The piece was titled The Demon Queen’s Suitor, and it was about a hero who wooed the Queen of Demons, against all reason. It was a popular story among the romance-starved noblewomen, but not something Elma expected to find among the illiterate masses.

Halfway through the song, the barmaid set a fresh drink down in front of her and handed her a clean rag. Elma thanked her, then dabbed at her clothes, trying to soak up as much of the spilled booze as she could. “This is pointless,” she muttered, and slapped the waterlogged rag onto the table. Her skirts were still wet, and every time she shifted in her seat, her thighs made a noticeable squelching sound against the wooden bench.

By the time the man slipped into the final song of the night, Elma was certain—he was no ordinary tavern busker. He was educated. Could he be a foreign noble in disguise? Her heartbeat quickened at the thought, and her face flushed red. If only I weren’t so clumsy, I could have spoken with him…