There remained only a few hours until the week-long festival of Ardin’s Pride would officially begin, and already the streets were a thronging mass of both local citizens and visitors. Oliveah Oslund, a musician in one of the most prestigious troupes in the country, continued to weave her way through the crowd as she took in the familiar sights of the city she’d not beheld in nearly a year.
This was Tyrell, home city of the Arts and of her Birth Patron, Ardin. Every performer in Dhanen’Mar, as well as thousands of spectators from all across the realm, were now or soon would be converging within the city. And all eager to take part in, or be witness to, the annual celebration that honored the Patron of the Arts, the festival known as Ardin’s Pride.
Oliveah was presently brimming over with excitement. Her family’s lands sat just upon the outskirts of Tyrell, and because of this she’d attended the festival for most years of her life. Once she’d turned sixteen, however, she’d joined the troupe to which she still belonged, and had become a part of the festivities herself for these past seven years, taking the stage with the hundreds of other performers who gathered here. Occurring throughout the first week of summer, the fifteen-day long celebration had become something nearly magical to her. It was the week that Tyrell never slept, a time when the merriment, feasting and performances did not cease. A time when—to Oliveah, at least—all mattered was the music.
She was especially looking forward to the celebration this year. Although her parents regrettably wouldn’t be making the journey away from their large and prosperous vineyard, her sister, Navalee, and her brother, Deakin, would soon be coming to Tyrell. Oliveah, busy traveling all over Dhanen’Mar with her troupe, had not seen her younger siblings since the previous summer, but would soon have the opportunity to spend the final eight days of the festival with them before all three returned to the Oslund vineyard. As always, her troupe-master was allowing all his performers a week of vacation following Ardin’s Pride, and Oliveah, like many of her troupe-mates, was choosing to travel home and spend this time with her family. Consequently, she now had two glorious weeks ahead of her.
“Oliveah! Here!”
The voice was familiar and she paused and spun, creating a small pile-up of people in the crowd behind her. No rude comments were tossed her way for causing this congestion, however, as might have happened during any other time—the atmosphere of the city was simply too light-hearted this day for any such negativity.
“We’re supposed to be in the Circle by the end of Eleventh-hour,” the man who’d hailed her went on as he elbowed his way near, “which is in about ten minutes. Moriss will have our heads if we’re late.”
Oliveah laughed, even while realizing the truth of the claim, and linked her arm through his as he pulled up beside her. “Ten minutes gives us plenty of time. Admit it, Reavis, isn’t it wonderful to be home again?” Like all born to the Patron of the Arts, the city of Tyrell was where all performer’s and artist’s hearts truly dwelt.
“It won’t be wonderful if we’re late,” Reavis kept on, although with a smile. “And it would certainly be the last time we’re given top billing.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Oliveah finally relented, quickening her pace as much as she could through the crowd. Reavis’s words had sent a ripple of excitement through her, as well as one of nervousness. She and Reavis, both musicians, partnered each other for many numbers, and it was the two of them—as well as several dancers, tumblers, and backup musicians—who would shortly be opening the very festival itself. It was an honor unparalleled for a performer, and one that would likely prove very lucrative not only for Reavis and herself, but for their
entire troupe. Their troupe-master, Moriss Tipley, had been haggling for the position to begin the festivities for years.
“Nervous?” Reavis asked her as they pushed on toward the city’s center, where the great Circle of performance lawns, always meticulously maintained, lay.
“Somewhat,” Oliveah admitted.
Reavis nodded. “You’d be mad not to be. You know, I heard a rumor this morning that the king himself might be attending.”
She felt herself blanch.
“King DeSiva? Truly?”
Reavis shrugged. “He attended a few years ago, don’t you remember?”
“Of course,” Oliveah said, quickly side-stepping a wayward toddler. “But we were not then a part of the opening act!”
He laughed and she turned her green eyes upon him searchingly, looking for even a fraction of the nervousness she now felt. It failed to surprise her when she found none; Reavis Bohmer was seven years her senior, a master of his craft, and, so far as she’d been able to discern in the years they’d known each other, completely immune to the stage fright that plagued so many performers. He was also a good friend who knew her well.
“Don’t get yourself into a state, Oliveah,” he then cautioned her seriously. “You own this opening song, and you know it.”
Taken literally, he was half right. The song they were to perform to commence the opening of this year’s celebration was actually both their creation—just one of many they’d written together, but one they both felt was their best effort to date. Indeed, Moriss nearly had a fit upon first hearing it, and now expected the song’s debut performance to bring his troupe’s name much acclaim.
Recalling this, Oliveah, who just minutes before had been feeling utterly carefree and gay, suddenly felt herself begin to panic.
“But what if I miss a note? Forget a lyric?” she now burst out, eyes wide. “What if my voice cracks? It would utterly shatter Moriss’s reputation to err so, especially before the very king himself!”
“Not to mention your own,” Reavis added, glancing down at her.
She took this in and continued to panic, nearly on the verge of tears, for the next ten or so steps. And then, as was typical of her, the feeling passed completely.
She exhaled heavily. “What would I do without you, Reavis?”
“At least you don’t throw up anymore,” he commented as they reached the street which led into the Circle.
Oliveah said nothing, for although it had been several years since her performance anxiety had actually caused her to become physically ill, she felt she’d been very close to re-living that unpleasant experience just moments ago.
She clung tighter to Reavis’s arm as they continued on up the road, leaving much of the press behind them; the crowd would make its way onto the Circle soon enough, but until then they would continue to walk the streets and take in the wares brought forth from all over the country. For if there was one Patron represented here in the streets of Tyrell this week almost as much as he who governed the Arts, it was without a doubt Ozveld, the Patron of Commerce.
The city’s streets were now so packed with traveling merchants, selling every item imaginable, carriages could no longer even pass down them. But the same did not hold true for the grasses of the Circle. Patrolled by numerous members of the Legion of Justice, no merchants were permitted upon the performance lawns, ensuring that only spectators and the acts themselves filled the area. Distractions would not be tolerated during the ceremony which opened Ardin’s Pride.
Oliveah reached up and did a quick check to ensure that her Birth medallion was prominently visible as they reached the outer grasses of the Circle. From the corner of her eye she could see Reavis doing the same.
An extremely tall man, not young but not old in appearance, and adorned in the white regalia of his station, was moving to meet them. His sword stayed sheathed upon his hip, but his expression was unwavering and no-nonsense.
“Reavis Bohmer, with the Moriss Tipley Troupe,” Reavis said as the Justice officer reached them.
The man glanced at Reavis’s medallion, nodded curtly, and turned to Oliveah.
“Oliveah Oslund, also with the Moriss Tipley Troupe,” she told him, watching as he then took in her own medallion.
The Justice officer nodded again. “It is your troupe t
hat is opening the celebration this year, is it not?”
“It is,” Reavis answered proudly.
The officer smiled faintly. “Much blessings and good fortune upon you. You are clear to pass.” He stepped back and gestured.
Oliveah held her tongue until she and Reavis were many paces away, crossing the lawns toward the inner Circle, before she spoke. “Did he just smile?” she issued quietly, with great and exaggerated surprise.
Reavis grinned. “I believe so. Apparently even our somber friends in white can find reason to be jovial this time of year.”
Oliveah didn’t believe she’d ever before seen a member of the Legion of Justice smile—at least not while on duty. She decided to take it as a positive sign and stepped lighter as they closed in upon the massive stage that sat directly in the center of the Performance Circle. There was a small tent erected behind the stage, where she, Reavis, and the rest of their troupe-mates joining them in the opening performance would get into costume and makeup. Due to the importance of the event, she knew this process would take some time, but also give her the chance to go over their numbers in her head one final time before they took that great and most prestigious stage. Her nerves, she was happy to note as she preceded Reavis into the tent, had by now completely settled.
“Oliveah! Reavis! To your places, now!” the familiar voice of Moriss Tipley bellowed the moment they both stood within.
The two exchanged an amused glance before separating and heading off to get costumed. Oliveah observed the fact that Moriss, generally an unflappable man, was pacing nervously and muttering to himself under his breath as he oversaw the readying of his performers. Perhaps he too had heard the rumor of the king’s attendance.
Once laced into her dress, a beautiful white and yellow gown Moriss had uncharacteristically splurged upon, Oliveah gave herself over to the hair and face artisan. She disliked the thick makeup put upon her, but had grown used to it and was able to now let her thoughts drift to the opening song she would soon be performing as the artisan worked. The chaotic sounds within the tent fell away to silence as she ran through the notes, the lyrics, the music she would soon premier before the world. She suddenly could not wait to be out upon that stage . . . just as soon as one last matter was seen to.
With an eerie timing Oliveah had long ago given up believing was coincidence, she opened her eyes just as the familiar voice called to her.
“Oliveah! Praise Ehle I caught you before you took the stage, that imbecile Justice officer had the nerve to detain me until he could confirm my standing in the troupe.”
Oliveah barely suppressed a grin imagining the scene. Striding toward her through the bustle of the tent was her fellow troupe-member and closest friend, Madilaine Savannon, with her eyes alight and her cheeks rosy with the recent irritation caused her. The scene described was understandable, however—for Madi did not wear an Arts medallion.
“Do you have something for me?” Oliveah asked quickly, sitting forward in her chair.
Madi smiled back at her and pulled something from the small leather satchel she carried. “The perfect thing. I walked all morning hoping to find one—and behold!” With a flourish, she brandished the item dramatically.
Oliveah’s breath caught, and then she exhaled in awe.
“No reason for any nervousness now,” Madi told her with utter confidence as she proffered the feather.
Oliveah took the eagle feather—one of the most powerful good luck pieces found in all Dhan’Marian lore—and stroked it gently. “Thank you, Madi. Truly.” Although her nervousness had fled some time ago, her confidence had just received a ten-fold boost. There was little doubt now that the opening performance would not go brilliantly.
Madi’s smile widened, giving her features a near-glow. Madilaine Savannon was, even at the worst of times, rather stunning. Several inches shorter than Oliveah, her build was dainty, almost fragile-looking, although blessed with generous womanly curves at both hips and chest. Her face was as pale and unmarred as perfect porcelain, her hair a glory of the darkest ebony which typically fell loosely about her shoulders. Her eyes were gray and ringed by thick lashes, her lips pink and full. Yes, Madi drew more than her fair share of male attention—at least until those men happened to discover who she was.
“Will you be watching?” Oliveah then asked, tucking the feather out of sight into the bodice of her dress. No chance would she risk taking the stage without it, as this would only be an invitation to disaster.
“Of course!” Madi enthused. “But I likely won’t be able to meet back up with you until tonight. I’m booked solid past evenfall.”
Oliveah nodded, not surprised. Her friend’s reputation and family name of Savannon preceded her; Madi was the latest in a long line of women born to Destiny, women heavily blessed by their Patron and known as diviners. Madi traveled with their troupe to give readings of fortune, to lend help to those who sought her aid in finding their life’s path. The tools and methods she used to give these readings varied with the individual, but they always proved frighteningly accurate. Madilaine Savannon, at the age of only twenty-two years, was a highly respected woman. She was also, and for all the same reasons, one much feared. Oliveah, however, found nothing at all fearsome about her friend—a fact perhaps aided by the knowledge that Oliveah’s own Choice Patron was Destiny. It was a revelation that had molded their friendship several years ago.
“Let’s meet up later then, at The Rejoicing Rooster,” Oliveah suggested, naming one of her favorite local taverns.
“I’ll see you there at Fifteenth-hour,” Madi agreed. “May you reside in Ardin’s grace this day, Oliveah.”
Oliveah watched as her friend turned back and swept away, her long skirts billowing out around her. Moriss Tipley, catching sight of his diviner, hurriedly accosted the young woman before she could exit the tent, and though too far away to hear his words, Oliveah would have bet her eagle feather that their troupe-master was now seeking assurances regarding the upcoming performance. The response Madi gave worked as if by magic, for he exhaled mightily, then spun back to his preparations with sudden alacrity, a new spring in his step. Such was the power of Madi’s divinations.
Oliveah settled back in her chair and gestured to the face artisan, who had backed away at Madi’s approach, to return and finish her applications. A few minutes later she was ready, and, getting to her feet, she felt someone latch onto her arm. It was Moriss, and he was now nearly vibrating with excitement.
“You should see the size of the crowd assembled out there!” he told her, practically dragging her from the tent to join Reavis, who waited calmly before the rear steps leading up to the stage.
Oliveah didn’t need to see the crowd to appreciate its size; she could hear them quite well from where she stood. “Any word on the king?” she asked as they drew up next to Reavis.
Moriss shook his head impatiently. “All rumors, so far as I’ve heard,” he said.
She had to admit she was somewhat relieved to hear that.
Moriss now moved to stand before both her and Reavis, and he quickly grabbed each of their hands in his own.
“You two are my best. I have no doubt you will do Ardin, and all of us, proud this day. Rejoice in his blessing.”
Oliveah managed a nod at this, feeling the stirrings of nervousness again, but Reavis just smiled assuredly.
“We can discuss the renegotiating of my contract after the performance,” the singer told his troupe-master smoothly.
Moriss laughed dryly, shaking his head as he walked away.
“Ready?” Reavis asked, looking down at Oliveah and holding out his arm.
She took a breath, nodded, and linked her arm through his.
Once they’d ascended the stairs to the stage, the thick yellow curtains still drawn and blocking the view of the crowd beyond, Oliveah could see that everything and everyone was already in place. At each end of the stage stood the tumblers, ready to beg
in their routine to the upcoming music. The dancers stood toward the rear, preparing to whirl themselves about in their practiced steps. The musicians were center stage, but paces back from the forefront, their instruments gripped in hand or settled before them. Oliveah’s own harp sat alone and waiting for her just a few paces back from the center of the drawn curtains.
“Ardin’s blessing, everyone,” she called as she and Reavis continued past their fellow musicians. Amid numerous returned well-wishes, they took their places, she before the harp and he beside her. The two exchanged one more look, and then Oliveah turned and found the stage-hand with her eyes. She gave him a curt nod to signal their readiness, and then put her hands to the harp strings as the curtains began their slow rise.
Chapter 2