So...my version's shorter, because it's part of bigger events, but other than the -spoiler- [broken string], it feels uncomfortably similar:
That evening he pelted back to the palace, changed into his one decent set of clothes, grabbed his instruments and then raced down to the Golden Horn. The doors of the inn were open, but flanking the entrance were two men who looked as if their only purpose was to keep itinerant bards from bothering the customers. They eyed him as he approached, but made no move until he started to step over the threshold, when a meaty arm was abruptly extended in front of his chest.
‘No beggars,’ the man on the right grunted.
Caedun gaped at him. It was one thing to be refused admission, but that was downright insulting. ‘I’m a bard,’ he said, unable to keep the indignation from his voice.
‘He’s a bard,’ the man informed his colleague. ‘Look, kid, we’ve had a couple of dozen minstrels try their luck since Rellsar had his accident. None of them has lasted more than an evening, and they were all a lot older than you. The Golden Horn has standards. Now go home.’
‘How do you know how good I am if you haven’t heard me?’ Caedun demanded.
The men exchanged amused glances. ‘Trust me, we know,’ the second man said.
‘Caedun, my friend! Have you come to take a drink with me?’ The voice was deep and familiar.
Caedun turned round and looked up…and up. ‘Good evening, Eryion.’
The healer smiled. Now he was no longer forced to stoop in a confined space, he seemed taller than ever. ‘Are you having problems convincing these gentlemen of your merit?’ He rested a hand on Caedun’s shoulder. ‘This young man is bard to King Rhofarn. Did you not mark the dragon?’ He twitched Caedun’s jacket, where tiny gold dragons were embroidered along the seams. ‘He is a young man of exceptional talent, brought by your king from the Sealands to entertain the highest nobility in his house, and you would bar him from your door?’
‘Well, no. But…we’ve been told…’
‘Inside, Caedun,’ Eryion said, pushing him forward.
Living in the palace had blunted his appreciation of wealth, but the interior of the Golden Horn was like no inn he had ever encountered. From its floor of pale, polished wood to the high, whitewashed ceiling, it had an atmosphere of airy light. The room was big enough to hold around two dozen tables, each with a complement of padded chairs, while leaving space for two servingmen to pass abreast between each. The windows were curtained with pale gold silk and the walls were hung with narrow tapestries depicting courtly scenes.
It was fortunate Eryion kept hold of his shoulder, for he would otherwise have stood and gaped for a full ten minutes. The healer gave him no opportunity to stop, however, guiding him to a vacant table and pressing him into a seat.
‘Wait here,’ he said shortly. He vanished off through a door at the far side of the room. Caedun hunched down in his chair, uncomfortably aware that he was the focus of a lot of attention. He didn’t mind it when he was performing, but it was different when he had the feeling that any minute he would be unceremoniously ejected into the street.
It was a while before Eryion returned. He waved a serving girl across and ordered ale for them both.
‘I can’t,’ Caedun said awkwardly.
Eryion glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. ‘Can’t what?’
‘Can’t drink with you. I have no money to return the favour.’
‘Then you had better sing well, Caedun the bard. I have spoken with the innkeeper. A hard man, and all my persuasion could only bring him to allow you two songs. He will then decide if you can continue to perform. I suggest you choose wisely. And take the drink as a gift from me, with no obligation attached.’
‘Thank you,’ Caedun managed, his mouth suddenly dry. When the drinks arrived he was grateful for the cool liquid and sipped slowly, thinking through the many songs he knew. He had to make the right choice. Buran was still not well, and if they couldn’t pay the healer…he dragged himself away from that train of thought, knowing it would distract him and affect his singing. Two songs. Nothing too foreign; it wouldn’t do to show himself as an outsider from the start. Northern songs then, one gentle, one a bit more rousing.
He’d narrowed it down to five choices when a thin, bald man approached them. He nodded to Eryion and then looked at Caedun, not bothering to hide his distaste. ‘You can sit over there,’ he said, pointing at a tall stool in a corner of the room. ‘And if you sing anything lewd you will be removed instantly.’ He sniffed and stalked away.
Caedun walked slowly to the stool, took his lute out of its case and sat down. As he tuned the strings he noticed that a few people were looking at him with expressions of polite interest, but most of the customers had returned to their drinks and conversation.
He began to play, softly at first, slowly increasing the strength and the tempo. By the time he started the first verse he had the attention of nearly half of them.
‘Fourscore and fifty season’s round and more
When winter’s grip lay on the silent land
Five seekers rode from fair Evarrien’s gate.
They had no thought but glory would they find
And bring a bride to wed the seeker king.’
It was the only choice, in the end. He’d worked on the version he and Treakin had put together, until it could be played on the lute alone. It made the fingering incredibly complex, but he’d had plenty of time to practice while waiting for his voice to settle down, and now his fingers flew over the strings of their own volition, leaving him to concentrate on the words.
It was the right song, he realised as the last notes faded; familiar enough to keep them comfortable, yet in a version none of them had heard before. There was a scatter of applause and several glasses were raised to him. Across the room he could see that the innkeeper’s expression had changed to one of thoughtfulness.
He plucked the strings gently, and the room settled to expectant stillness. He had them, he realised. They wanted to hear more.
‘For she is beauty,
Autumn will not fade her;
Her smile is like the sun the seasons round.
For she is beauty,
Just as Istarn made her
And in her hands my heart is gladly bound.
For she is silence,
When no word is needed
And all the answers lie within her eyes
For she is silence…’
He let go of his surroundings and slipped into the music, letting it pour through him and out, to ride shimmering on the still air. It was a wrench when the last few notes hung for a moment and then faded, to leave a quiet that was strangely painful, as if he had lost forever some small part of himself with the song.
Then they were applauding, Eryion loudest of all, and beyond the healer he could see the innkeeper nodding, allowing him one thin-lipped smile.
...could I be accused of plagiarism?
