I tried to give a nonchalant shrug, but I couldn't have been very convincing as she burst out laughing. "Poor Kvothe. I'm teasing you. I only tell him about the ones that come prowling around, panting and sniffing like dogs. You're not like them. You've always been different."

"I've always prided myself on my lack of panting and sniffing."

Denna turned her shoulder and let her swinging harp b.u.mp me playfully. "You know what I mean. They come and go with little gain or loss. You are the gold behind the windblown dross. Master Ash might think he has a right to know about my personal affairs, my comings and goings." She scowled a bit. "But he doesn't. I'm willing to concede some of that, for now... ."

She reached out and took hold of my upper arm possessively. "But you are not part of the bargain," she said, her voice almost fierce. "You are mine. Mine alone. I don't intend to share you."

The momentary tension pa.s.sed, and we walked the wide west road away from Severen, laughing and talking of small things. Half a mile past the city's last inn was a quiet patch of trees with a single tall greystone nestled in its center. We had found it while searching for wild strawberries, and it had become one of our favorite places to escape the noise and stink of the city.

Denna sat at the base of the greystone and put her back against it. Then she brought her harp out of its case and pulled it close to her chest, causing her dress to gather and expose a scandalous amount of leg. She arched an eyebrow at me and smirked as if she knew exactly what I was thinking.

"Nice harp," I said casually.

She snorted indelicately.

I sat where I was, sprawling comfortably on the long, cool gra.s.s. I tugged a few strands of it out of the ground and idly began to twist them together into a braid.

Honestly, I was nervous. While we had spent a great deal of time together over the last month, I'd never heard Denna play anything of her own creation. We had sung together, and I knew she had a voice like honey on warm bread. I knew her fingers were sure, and she had a musician's timing... .

But writing a song isn't the same as playing one. What if hers wasn't any good? What would I say?

Denna spread her fingers to the strings, and my worries faded to the background. I've always found something powerfully erotic about the way a woman puts her hands to a harp. She began a rolling gliss down the strings from high to low. The sound of it was like hammers on bells, like water over stones, like birdsong through the air.

She stopped and tuned a string. Plucked, tuned. She struck a sharp chord, a hard chord, a lingering chord, then turned to look at me, flexing her fingers nervously. "Are you ready?"

"You're incredible," I said.

I saw her flush a little, then brush her hair back to hide her reaction. "Fool. I haven't played you anything yet."

"You're incredible all the same."

"Hush." She struck a hard chord and let it fade into a quiet melody. As it rose and fell, she spoke the introduction to her song. I was surprised at such a traditional opening. Surprised but pleased. Old ways are best.

Gather round and listen well, For I've a tale of tragedy to tell.

I sing of subtle shadow spread Across a land, and of the man Who turned his hand toward a purpose few could bear.

Fair Lanre: stripped of wife, of life, of pride Still never from his purpose swayed.

Who fought the tide, and fell, and was betrayed.

At first it was her voice that caught my breath, then it was the music.

But before ten lines had pa.s.sed her lips I was stunned for different reasons. She sang the story of Myr Tariniel's fall. Of Lanre's betrayal. It was the story I had heard from Skarpi in Tarbean.

But Denna's version was different. In her song, Lanre was painted in tragic tones, a hero wrongly used. Selitos' words were cruel and biting, Myr Tariniel a warren that was better for the purifying fire. Lanre was no traitor, but a fallen hero.

So much depends upon where you stop a story, and hers ended when Lanre was cursed by Selitos. It was the perfect ending for a tragedy. In her story Lanre was wronged, misunderstood. Selitos was a tyrant, an insane monster who tore out his own eye in fury at Lanre's clever trickery. It was dreadfully, painfully wrong.

Despite this, it had the first glimmers of beauty to it. The chords well-chosen. The rhyme subtle and strong. The song was very fresh, and there were rough patches aplenty, but I could feel the shape of it. I saw what it could become. It would turn men's minds. They would sing it for a hundred years.

You've probably heard it, in fact. Most folk have. She ended up calling it "The Song of Seven Sorrows." Yes. Denna composed it, and I was the first person to hear it played entire.

As the last notes faded in the air, Denna lowered her hands, unwilling to meet my eye.

I sat, still and silent on the gra.s.s.

For this to make sense, you need to understand something every musician knows. Singing a new song is a nervous thing. More than that. It's terrifying. It's like undressing for the first time in front of a new lover. It's a delicate moment.

I needed to say something. A compliment. A comment. A joke. A lie. Anything was better than silence.

But I couldn't have been more stunned if she had written a hymn praising the Duke of Gibea. The shock was simply too much for me. I felt raw as reused parchment, as if every note of her song had been another flick of a knife, sc.r.a.ping until I was entirely blank and wordless.

I looked down dumbly at my hands. They still held the half-formed circle of green gra.s.s I'd been weaving when the song began. It was a broad, flat plait already beginning to curve into the shape of a ring.

Still looking down, I heard the rustle of Denna's skirts as she moved. I needed to say something. I'd already waited too long. There was too much silence in the air.

"The city's name wasn't Mirinitel," I said without looking up. It was not the worst thing I could have said. But it wasn't the right thing to say.

There was a pause. "What?"

"Not Mirinitel," I repeated. "The city Lanre burned was Myr Tariniel. Sorry to tell you that. Changing a name is hard work. It will wreck the meter in a third of your verses." I was surprised at how quiet my voice was, how flat and dead it sounded in my own ears.

I heard her draw a surprised breath. "You've heard the story before?"

I looked up at Denna, her expression excited. I nodded, still feeling oddly blank. Empty. Hollow as a dried gourd. "What made you pick this for a song?" I asked her.

It wasn't the right thing to say either. I can't help but feel that if I'd said the right thing at that moment, everything would have turned out differently. But even now, after years of thinking, I can't imagine what I could have said that might have made things right.

Her excitement faded slightly. "I found a version of it in an old book when I was doing genealogical research for my patron," she said. "Hardly anyone remembers it, so it's perfect for a song. It's not like the world needs another story about Oren Velciter. I'll never make my mark repeating what other musicians have already hashed over a hundred times before."

Denna gave me a curious look. "I thought I was going to be able to surprise you with something new. I never would have guessed you'd heard of Lanre."

"I heard it years ago," I said numbly. "From an old storyteller in Tarbean."

"If I had half your luck ..." Denna shook her head in dismay. "I had to piece it together out of a hundred little sc.r.a.ps." She made a conciliatory gesture. "Me and my patron, I should say. He's helped."

"Your patron," I said. I felt a spark of emotion when she mentioned him. Hollow as I was, it was surprising how quickly the bitterness spread through my gut, as if someone had kindled a fire inside me.

Denna nodded. "He fancies himself a bit of a historian," she said. "I think he's angling for a court appointment. He wouldn't be the first to ingratiate himself by shining a light on someone's long-lost heroic ancestor. Or maybe he's trying to invent a heroic ancestor for himself. That would explain the research we've been doing in old genealogies."

She hesitated for a moment, biting her lips. "The truth is," she said, as if confessing something. "I half suspect the song is for Alveron himself. Master Ash has implied he's had dealings with the Maer." She gave a mischievous grin. "Who knows? Running in the circles you do, you might have already met my patron and not even known it."

My mind flickered over the hundreds of n.o.bles and courtiers I'd met in pa.s.sing over the last month, but it was hard to focus on their faces. The fire in my gut was spreading until my whole chest was full of it.

"But enough of this," Denna said, waving her hands impatiently. She pushed her harp away and folded her legs to sit cross-legged on the gra.s.s. "You're teasing me. What did you think of it?"

I looked down at my hands and idly fingered the flat braid of green gra.s.s I'd woven. It was smooth and cool between my fingers. I couldn't remember how I'd planned to join the ends together to form a ring.

"I know it's got some rough patches," I heard Denna say, her voice br.i.m.m.i.n.g with nervous excitement. "I'll have to fix that name you mentioned, if you're sure it's the right one. The beginning is rough, and the seventh verse is a shambles, I know. I need to expand the battles and his relationship with Lyra. The ending needs tightening. But overall, what did you think?"

Once she smoothed it out, it would be brilliant. As good a song as my parents might have written, but that just made it worse.

My hands were shaking, and I was amazed at how hard it was to make them stop. I looked away from them, up at Denna. Her nervous excitement faded when she saw my face.

"You're going to have to rework more than just the name." I tried to keep my voice calm. "Lanre wasn't a hero."

She looked at me oddly, as if she couldn't tell if I was making a joke. "What?"

"You've got the whole thing wrong," I said. "Lanre was a monster. A traitor. You need to change it."

Denna tossed back her head and laughed. When I didn't join her, she c.o.c.ked her head, puzzled. "You're serious?"

I nodded.

Denna's face went stiff. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth made a thin line. "You have to be kidding." Her mouth worked silently for a moment, then she shook her head. "It wouldn't make any sense. The whole story falls apart if Lanre isn't the hero."

"It's not about what makes a good story," I said. "It's about what's true."

"True?" She looked at me incredulously. "This is just some old folk story. None of the places are real. None of the people are real. You might as well get offended at me for coming up with a new verse for 'Tinker Tanner.' "

I could feel words rising in my throat, hot as a chimney fire. I swallowed down hard against them. "Some stories are just stories," I agreed. "But not this one. It's not your fault. There's no way you could have-"

"Oh well, thank thank you," she said bitingly. "I'm so glad this isn't my fault." you," she said bitingly. "I'm so glad this isn't my fault."

"Fine," I said sharply. "It is is your fault. You should have done more research." your fault. You should have done more research."

"What do you know about the research I did?" she demanded. "You haven't the slightest idea! I've been all over the world digging up pieces of this story!"

It was the same thing my father had done. He'd started writing a song about Lanre, but his research led him to the Chandrian. He'd spent years chasing down half-forgotten stories and digging up rumors. He wanted his song to tell the truth about them, and they had killed my entire troupe to put an end to it.

I looked down at the gra.s.s and thought about the secret I had kept for so long. I thought of the smell of blood and burning hair. I thought of rust and blue fire and the broken bodies of my parents. How could I explain something so huge and horrible? Where would I even begin? I could feel the secret deep inside me, huge and heavy as a stone.

"In the version of the story I heard," I said, touching the far edge of the secret. "Lanre became one of the Chandrian. You should be careful. Some stories are dangerous."

Denna stared at me for a long moment. "The Chandrian?" she said incredulously. Then she laughed. It was not her usual delighted laugh. This was sharp and full of derision. "What kind of a child are you?"

I knew exactly how childish it made me sound. I felt myself flush hot with embarra.s.sment, my whole body suddenly p.r.i.c.kling with sweat. I opened my mouth to speak, and it felt like cracking open the door of a furnace."I'm like a child?" I spat. "What do you know about anything, you stupid ..." I almost bit off the end of my tongue to keep from shouting the word like a child?" I spat. "What do you know about anything, you stupid ..." I almost bit off the end of my tongue to keep from shouting the word wh.o.r.e wh.o.r.e.

"You think you know everything, don't you?" she demanded. "You've been to the University so you think the rest of us are-"

"Quit looking for excuses to be upset and listen to me!" I snapped. The words poured out of me like molten iron. "You're having a snit like a spoiled little girl!"

"Don't you dare." She jabbed a finger at me. "Don't talk to me like I'm some sort of witless farm girl. I know things they don't teach at your precious University! Secret things! I'm not an idiot!"

"You're acting like an idiot!" I shouted so loudly the words hurt my throat. "You won't shut up long enough to listen to me! I'm trying to help you!"

Denna sat in the center of a chilly silence. Her eyes were hard and flat. "That's what it's all about, isn't it?" she said coldly. Her fingers moved in her hair, every flick of her fingers stiff with irritation. She untied her braids, smoothed them out, then absentmindedly retied them in a different pattern. "You hate that I won't take your help. You can't stand that I won't let you fix every little thing in my life, is that it?"

"Well maybe someone needs to fix your life," I snapped. "You've made a fair mess of it so far, haven't you?"

She continued to sit very still, her eyes furious. "What makes you think you know anything anything about my life?" about my life?"

"I know you're so afraid of anyone getting close that you can't stay in the same bed four days in a row," I said, hardly knowing what I was saying anymore. Angry words poured out of me like blood from a wound. "I know you live your whole life burning bridges behind you. I know you solve your problems by running-"

"What makes you think your advice is worth one thin sliver of a d.a.m.n, anyway?" Denna burst out. "Half a year ago you had one foot in the gutter. Hair all s.h.a.ggy and only three raggedy shirts. There isn't a n.o.ble in a hundred miles of Imre that would p.i.s.s on you if you were on fire. You had to run a thousand miles to have a chance of a patron."

My face burned with shame at her mention of my three shirts, and I felt my temper flare hot again. "You're right of course," I said scathingly. "You're much better off. I'm sure your patron would be perfectly happy to p.i.s.s on you-"

"Now we get to the heart of it," she said, throwing her hands up in the air. "You don't like my patron because you could get me a better one. You don't like my song because it's different from the one you know." She reached for her harp case, her movements stiff and angry. "You're just like all the rest."

"I'm trying to help you!"

"You're trying to fix me," Denna said crisply as she put away her harp. "You're trying to buy me. To arrange my life. You want to keep me like I'm your pet. Like I'm your faithful dog."

"I'd never think of you as a dog," I said, giving her a bright and brittle smile. "A dog knows how to listen. A dog has sense enough not to bite a hand that's trying to help."

Our conversation spiraled downward from there.

At this point in the story I'm tempted to lie. To say I spoke these things in an uncontrollable rage. That I was overwhelmed with grief at the memory of my murdered family. I'm tempted to say I tasted plum and nutmeg. Then I would have some excuse... .

But they were my words. In the end, I was the one who said those things. Only me.

Denna responded in kind, hurt and furious and sharp-tongued as myself. We were both proud and angry and filled with the unshakable certainty of youth. We said things we never would have said otherwise, and when we left, we did not leave together.

My temper was hot and bitter as a bar of molten iron. It seared at me as I walked all the way back to Severen. It burned as I made my way through the city and waited for the freight lifts. It smoldered as I stalked through the Maer's estates and slammed the door to my rooms behind me.

It was only hours later that I cooled enough to regret my words. I thought of what I might have said to Denna. I thought of telling her of how my troupe was killed, about the Chandrian.

I decided I would write her a letter. I would explain it all, no matter how foolish or unbelievable it seemed. I brought out pen and ink and laid a sheet of fine white paper on the writing desk.

I dipped the pen and tried to think of where I could begin.

My parents had been killed when I was eleven. It was an event so huge and horrifying it had driven me nearly mad. In the years since, I had never told a soul of those events. I had never so much as whispered them in an empty room. It was a secret I had clutched so tightly for so long that when I dared think of it, it lay so heavy in my chest that I could barely breathe.

I dipped the pen again, but no words came. I opened a bottle of wine, thinking it might loosen the secret inside me. Give me some fingerhold I could use to pry it up. I drank until the room spun and the nib of the pen was crusted with dry ink.

Hours later the blank sheet still stared at me, and I beat my fist against the desk in fury and frustration, striking it so hard my hand bled. That is how heavy a secret can become. It can make blood flow easier than ink.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR.