The familiar scents of beeswax and lemon oil rose from the polished furniture in a comforting cloud as Digan took a deep breath to calm his thudding heart. Despite his affected nonchalance, he hated to disappoint Master Cormeyer, and he knew that the bard was going to be furious.
He squared his shoulders and pushed open the door to Cormeyer's private study. The room was a familiar jumble of ordered chaos. Sheaves of score sheets were scattered across the long table dominating one wall, and filed in the cubbyholes above the desk angled into the far corner. A floor harp stood opposite the long table beside a large window. Sunlight streamed across the floor, highlighting the gilding on the instrument. The scent of roses wafted through the open casement to perfume the room. Digan glanced around the room for his master.
"So, my boy-you finally deign to favor us with your presence," purred the bard. One of the most successful lessons that Cormeyer had taught Mordigan was that deceptive drawl which warned the listener the speaker was in no trifling mood. "How kind of you!" Cormeyer practically ripped the instrument out of Digan's hand, turning away and beginning to tune it with an ostentatious flourish.
Watching the master's broad back as he adjusted the new peg on the lute, Digan felt the old pang of longing knife through him. With his dark hair, shot through now with silver, and tall frame, many people had mistaken Cormeyer Stareyes for Mordigan's father over the years. When he had been younger, Digan had sometimes wondered if this was the truth of his parentage, but Cormeyer, in a moment of rare expansiveness, had gently assured the boy that it was not the case.
"Where have you been, Mordigan?" asked Cormeyer in that same silken growl, his back still turned to the boy.
"Oh, sir! You won't believe! I-" Digan faltered to a stop in confusion. He suddenly realized that he could not lie, or he would risk the curse-but he could not reveal the truth, or he would break his vow not to speak of his meeting with Freitanya. He remained silent.
"Yes? What will I not believe?" Cormeyer set the lute upon the composition table, turning to Digan at last. He favored the boy with a frowning scowl, dark eyes hooded beneath the beetling brows.
"Nothing, sir," Digan mumbled.
"You are right. I will not believe 'nothing.' Now, tell me where you have been!"
"I-I stopped in the square."
"Yes, I know," nodded Cormeyer, "Payter's father dragged him down and exhibited the bruises. We will discuss that matter later-but that was near an hour gone. Where have you been since you left the square? Even you should have traveled that distance in a shorter time."
Digan flushed. He had a reputation for laziness when he could get away with it, and knew, to his shame, that it was not entirely undeserved. He had perfected many tricks to dodge his chores over the years. "I came is quickly as I could," he mumbled.
The statement was not entirely true, and Digan's throat tightened in a painful contraction. It was his first taste of the witch's curse, and he felt a thrill of fear. The words had been only a slight exaggeration. What would it feel like if he really lied?
Cormeyer sighed and moved to the desk. He picked up a sheet of parchment, glancing down at it. He scrubbed his hand across his face, a habit he had when troubled. "Mordigan, do you know what this is?"
"No, sir."
"This is your journeyman's certification. It states that you have the knowledge and skills required by the Guild charter to claim the rights and privileges of the rank." He leaned back against the desk. "Do you think that you have earned it?"
"I have passed all the tests, sir," Digan replied, confused by the question.
"True. But have you earned the rank?"
"I don't understand."
"...a bard is considered to be a bearer of news as well as entertainment. He is expected to pass on new edicts to the countryside. He is trusted to carry messages between the king and his lords; between villages; between homesteads with no other access to each other. How can I say that you are qualified to be a journeyman when you cannot even be trusted on a simple errand? When you lie your way out of every difficult situation?" He lay the precious document down in the center of the desk.
Digan opened his mouth to protest, but there was nothing to be said in his own defense.
Cormeyer ran both hands through his thick hair, turning his back on the boy and dropping his head. A sigh rumbled from the center of his chest to stir the papers on the desk. "This is the last straw, Mordigan Bryre. You are a talented boy, but you are no genius." He paced across the room, running a hand over the strings of the standing harp. His hand lingered on the frame of the instrument, as if needing the support.
For the first time, Digan realized that the master was no longer a young man. He had known the king's father as a journeyman, and been King's Bard since before Allysian's birth. His large frame seemed to have collapsed into itself in the last few minutes. The handsome burgundy doublet was hiked up on one side of his belt, but he did not seem to notice its disarray. That in itself was unusual for the normally fastidious master.
Squaring his shoulders, Cormeyer turned to Digan, his brown eyes grave. "Perhaps if you were a genius I could forgive you such rampant insolence and erratic behavior…but you are not. I have tried to teach you to be a good man as well as an adequate musician. It appears that I have failed. I am tired of dealing with your tantrums, your incessant fighting, and your irresponsibility. Pack your things at once and get out. You are no longer apprenticed here." He strode to the desk and swept up the journeyman's certificate. With one deliberate gesture, he ripped the parchment in half, dropping the pieces to the desk. He turned to Digan, arms folded across his broad chest.
