A Song of Wraiths and Ruin (A Song of Wraiths and Ruin #1)(5)

“Not yet.”

This was likely the last moment of freedom Karina would have until Solstasia ended. Migraine or no, she couldn’t let the opportunity pass her by.

A cheer resounded through the restaurant as the bard strummed his last note. He collected his donations in a velvet coin purse, then strode over to their table and dropped into a low bow.

“I hope you found my performance tonight as pleasing as I find your appearance.”

Fighting back the wave of dizziness that often accompanied her migraines, Karina raised an eyebrow at the man. Perhaps she might have found his appearance pleasing as well had she been nearing seventy. As it was, she was only seventeen, and he reminded her of the toads who croaked in the fountains of the palace. The corners of her mouth tilted up, but she didn’t smile.

“It was impressive.” Karina’s gaze slid to the coin purse on his hip. “If I may ask, exactly what do you plan to do with your earnings?”

The bard licked his lips. “Give me an hour of your time, and you’ll see firsthand what I can do.”

Aminata gave a barely concealed snort as Karina replied, “I think I know of the perfect home for your coins.”

“And where may that be, my sweet gazelle?” he leered. Karina checked his left palm—no emblem, meaning he was Unaligned. This man was from somewhere very far from here—the Eastwater savanna, perhaps.

“In my pocket.” Karina leaned forward until her nose was inches from his, close enough to smell the orange essence he definitely oiled his mustache with. “I’ll play you for them. One song. Audience decides the winner.”

Surprise followed by annoyance flickered across the bard’s face. Karina bit back a laugh.

“Do you even have an instrument?”

“I do. Aminata?”

Aminata sighed, but dutifully passed the leather case in her lap to Karina. The bard sneered when he saw the state of Karina’s oud; thin cracks lined the instrument’s pear-shaped body, and the floral patterns Baba had carved into its neck had long faded beyond recognition. But holding the last gift her father had ever given her sent a wave of calm flooding through Karina, dulling the ache in her head.

“If I win,” said Karina, nonchalantly tuning one of the oud’s eleven strings, “I get all the money you earned today.”

“And when I win,” said the bard, “you will give me the honor of calling you mine for the rest of the night.”

It took all of her self-control not to visibly gag. “Deal. In the spirit of Solstasia, I’ll allow you to pick the song.”

The bard’s eyes narrowed, but then his grin widened. “‘The Ballad of Bahia Alahari.’”

The pain in Karina’s head throbbed anew as her heart constricted. Baba had loved that song.

Refusing to let her opponent see he’d rattled her, Karina simply said, “After you.”

“The Ballad of Bahia Alahari” was a mournful tune that told the story of how the first sultana of Ziran had battled her own husband, the Faceless King, when he had sided with the Kennouan Empire during the final battle of the Pharaoh’s War. Within minutes, the audience had tears streaming down their faces, many even openly sobbing. However, a number of patrons, many of whom were noticeably non-Zirani, seemed unaffected by the performance, and Karina kept her attention on them as her opponent played.

With one last haunting note, the bard lowered his oud as a raucous cheer filled the air.

“Your turn,” he said, his eyes roaming over her body with a predator’s gaze. Karina stepped forward, moving her hands into position and ignoring the snickers at her instrument’s destitute state.

Yes, her opponent was good.

But she was better.

Too fast for anyone to stop her, Karina leaped from the stage onto the table in front of her, earning startled yelps from its occupants, and slammed her sandaled foot on it in a steady rhythm that echoed throughout the restaurant. Though Karina wasn’t facing her maid, she knew Aminata was clapping along, scowl and all. In seconds, everyone in the room had joined her in the beat, banging whatever they had on hand against their tables.

Grinning a grin that would put a hyena’s to shame, she began to play.

It was still “The Ballad of Bahia Alahari,” but Karina bent the melody almost beyond recognition. Where the bard had focused on the stifling yet beautiful grief the song was known for, Karina pushed the beat to a frenzy, playing at a speed normally used for the fastest dance songs. She brought the song to a crescendo where she should have quieted and bit into the parts that were meant to be soft. Through it all, the song never lost the undercurrent of sorrow for which it was famous—but it was sorrow converted into manic energy, the only kind of sorrow she knew.

Karina sang the first verse in Zirani, turning in a circle as she played so every person could hear.

For the second verse, she switched to Kensiya. A delighted cry went up from the group of Arkwasians, engaged in the performance for the first time that night. Then she went to T’hoga, and back to Kensiya. With each verse, Karina made sure to hit a different major tongue of Sonande. The only language she did not sing at least a line in was Darajat. None of her tutors had considered the language of Eshra important enough to teach her, and she lacked the incentive to learn it on her own.

The cheers of the audience drowned out Karina’s last notes. She smiled sweetly at the bard, who looked ready to toss his instrument to the ground.