“Perfect!” Mistel said.
“Best avoid singing about the king,” Kurtz said. “This is more of an epic ballads crowd.”
“But Mistel wrote ‘The Pawn Our King,’” Cole said. “And the king asked us to sing it along with ‘Sparrow’ wherever we went.”
“Well, he wasn’t thinking about our necks when he said that, was he?” Kurtz stroked his short beard. “Give ‘Pawn’ a try. Introduce it however you like, but wait and see what the reaction is before you sing any other royalist songs.”
Cole frowned, chewing on the term royalist, and said, “All right. Let’s switch ‘I Bless My King’ to ‘Chamswrath.’”
“Oh, they’ll like that one, they will,” Kurtz said.
Master Renwall returned and, once all was set, made his introduction. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he called, though there were only men in the alehouse, save Mistel and Zanna. “Tonight, we have the great honor of welcoming a truly special performance. Give your ears—and your hearts—to the Wandering Songweavers!”
Kurtz started the beat on his tabor, and Cole plucked out the jaunty intro to “Hear the Pretty Maiden.” Mistel’s lips twitched, trying to hold back a grin as Cole shot her a sideways look.
Songweavers? he mouthed as his fingers struck the first chord.
Mercy. In all that had gone on since she’d invented that name, she’d completely forgotten to tell anyone. She winked at Cole, turned her attention to the sparse crowd, and began to sing.
“Hail the piper, fiddle, fife,
The night is young and full of life.
The Corner teems with ale and song.
And we will dance the whole night long.”
Mistel danced in the very small space she’d been given. Master Renwall tapped his foot, his gaze clinging to her like a burr to a wool cloak. Zanna watched the man with narrowed eyes, and Mistel was grateful for her statuesque protector. ZolZanna tan Quelle was not one to cross.
But the crowd barely looked up. A man at the farthest table slouched in his chair, mug to his lips. Nearby, two men talked, oblivious to the music. Only one man at a table in front glanced their way, then promptly went back to gnawing a chicken leg.
When the song ended and Mistel curtsied, no one clapped. “Hunxes, anyway,” she muttered, just loud enough for Cole to hear.
He shot her a sympathetic look but dove into “The Ballad of Bryndor and Chamswrath,” its melody dark and heavy. Mistel adjusted her tone, her voice ringing out like a bard in a great hall.
This song at least drew some attention. Gazes lifted briefly before returning to conversations. Mistel tried to coax them into clapping along, but they remained indifferent, clutching their drinks close as if that was all that mattered in the world.
After “Chamswrath,” Cole instantly strummed his way into “The Pawn Our King.” As he played through the first bars, Mistel addressed the room. “This is a special song to me,” she said. “I was born and raised in Sitna, and I knew our king when he was young. His story inspired me to write this. I hope you enjoy it.” She began to sing.
“He grew up here in Sitna town,
The hand his life was dealt.
He milked the goats and fetched the wood,
Or Poril gave him the belt.”
* * *
“The pawn our king, sing merry, merry, merry.
The pawn our servant king.
For he was once the lowest of all strays
And now he is our king.”
As Cole strummed into the second verse, a man in back yelled, “That stray ain’t no king of mine. This is the North!”
