Light from the morning sun pierced through the clouds and shone through the glass window, warming Hastiand’s face as he lay in bed. While the mattresses at the Five Swords Inn in Upper Ire were not the most comfortable, they were far better than sleeping on the ground. Hastiand was grateful, especially considering last night’s heavy rain.

  On a whim, he had gone down to the Pipes the night before to get a lay of the land, so to speak. He had a hunch he would find what he sought within the lower city. He’d stayed longer than he meant to thanks to a song that popped into his mind. Her song. Whenever that happened, he could not help but play it.

  He yawned and instinctively looked at the chair in the corner of the room. There sat the mandolin, as majestic and eerie as ever.

  “Rise and shine,” it said derisively. “Are you going to do something productive today? Or are you going to be lazy again?”

  Hastiand, ignoring the mandolin, climbed out of bed and moved to the window. A large courtyard stretched out three stories below. A stone statue sat atop a fountain in the middle. The statue was that of the city’s namesake, General Gonford Ire. The general was in a most heroic pose, gazing and pointing into the distance with his left hand while holding a sword in his right. Despite the city’s best efforts, birds had covered it with white mess as a sign of their ownership.

  The sun’s rays cast long shadows across the courtyard. Within the shadow of the statue sat a single man. His clothes and unkempt hair suggested that he was a beggar.

  Hastiand studied the man for a moment and was about to turn away, but hesitated when the man looked up as if hearing someone. A young woman rushed across the courtyard, her long golden hair flowing behind her. From her lavish maroon dress and bejeweled necklace, he guessed that she belonged to nobility and wealth. She stopped in front of the beggarly man. Princess and pauper gazed at one another, neither speaking. Then they embraced long and deep.

  The bard let out a long sigh.

  “What’re you staring at?” said the mandolin.

  Hastiand turned away and wiped his eyes. “Nothing,” he said. “Just enjoying the view.”

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  He glanced out the window one more time and saw the couple disappear down a side street at the far end of the courtyard each holding the other’s hand. Hastiand’s mouth managed a faint little smile.

  After he had dressed and packed his knapsack, Hastiand shouldered the mandolin and headed downstairs. Tables and chairs littered the dining room on the inn’s main floor with no rhyme or reason as to their arrangement. Travelers and locals alike, all enjoying their breakfast, occupied half the tables. Hastiand moved to an isolated table in one corner of the room. A plump, jolly waitress had already arrived before he sat down.

  “Can I get you anything, love?” she asked brightly.

  “Eggs and buttered bread, please. Oh, and milk if you have it.”

  The waitress said that they did and it would be five coppers. Hastiand nodded and thanked her, but instead of leaving, as he wanted her to, she began talking. Did he enjoy being a bard? What was traveling everywhere like? Where had he been? Oh, and what a pretty mandolin. Is there a Missus Bard?

  Hastiand interrupted her and said in a voice louder than he meant, “Madam, I have only so much patience. Would you please be kind enough to carry your cheery smile into that kitchen and ask the chef--who I’m sure is as cheerful as you--to cook my breakfast?”

  Hastiand thought he heard the mandolin chuckle. With a “hmpf” the woman stomped across the room to the kitchen. A few of the patrons had been watching, but most returned to their meals and conversations.

  But, one set of eyes did not turn away.

  A man wearing a black coat sat in one of the armchairs close to the fireplace at the opposite end of the room. He kept his gaze on Hastiand.

  The bard looked away quickly. After a short time, he dared another glance. The man was gone. Hastiand surveyed the room, but the man was gone.

  My mind must be cracking, he thought. He chuckled to himself. Or maybe it already has, and I’m only just now realizing it.

  The waitress brought the plate out with the same sour look on her face as before. She slammed the plate onto the table before turning to leave with another “hmpf.”

  Hastiand said, “Uh, miss?”

  She looked at him with narrow eyes in response.

  “I...apologize for earlier. I’ve had a string of long days and late nights. It’s no excuse, but I am sorry.”

  Her eyes and face softened a little. Then she perked her head back up and with a smile said, “Pay it no mind, dearie.”

  She resumed her jolly manner and went about helping other guests. Hastiand ate his breakfast, savoring every bite. It could turn out to be a busy day, and this might be the only meal he would get so he wanted to enjoy it. Once he finished, he put twenty coppers on the table and picked up the mandolin. He checked with the innkeeper to extend his stay by another night in the same room. He then stepped out onto North Ire Road leading toward Ledion Square.

  Now, he thought, to find the music.