A Second Chance
Only a seduction to gain access to power and influence, he thought.
Featuring characters from my work-in-progress, An Unwise Prince, this was modified and condensed from a couple of scenes from the first draft, originally for a writing group prompt ‘My Best Friend’. It won’t appear in this form in the published novel.
“The lady Aífe is settled at the inn?” Cenric asked, bending to place another log on the fire. The room was warm enough, the fire as much for sight and sound and smell as for heat. Cenric did like his comforts, Kirt thought. The sense of security here, of an ordered and calm life, both reassured and disconcerted him, after Aífe’s words to him earlier.
“She asks us to come to hear her performance tomorrow evening. I thought we might have dinner there first,” he said. “Ferrand will give us an excellent meal, if I send word in advance.”
“May I ask how you met her?” Cenric took his usual chair across from Kirt. “But I suppose you must have met many illustrious people in your travels.”
“Aífe was not illustrious when I met her,” Kirt said. He stretched his legs out towards the fire. “Just a young musician, travelling to gather songs as her profession requires. Our paths crossed in Selekosia.”
Where he had gone to try to find out what no one else had been able to in the previous five years, knowing it was likely hopeless after so much time had passed, driven to it by anger and loss and love. Hiding his real reasons behind the guise of a merchant seeking new markets, new products, new partners – and of a man seeking distraction and the pleasures of the flesh in places he might not otherwise frequent. In one of the establishments not too far from the harbour – not the worst of them, because this one was reputable enough to hire musicians – he’d found Aífe.
She hadn’t been playing, just listening, but with an intensity that drew attention in itself. He ordered wine, watched her, heard her rebuff a man asking to join her with the excuse she was waiting for someone. Had picked up his cup, crossed the short distance, sat beside her. She’d turned an angry look on him. “I am who you were waiting for,” he’d said quietly. “Now no one will bother you. Neither will I.”
He’d been true to his word, not speaking the entire time the musicians played. He’d watched her, noting the red sheen to her hair, the sprinkle of freckles, the pale skin. Her fingers moved sometimes on imaginary strings. Around her wrist, a leather strap led down to a case beside her chair. He’d recognised its shape, the double of one in his own locked room at a better inn.
When the musicians finished, she’d sat back, a distant look on her face. He’d stayed quiet until she blinked and turned to him, smiling. “Thank you.”
“May I offer you wine?” he’d said. “I am Kirt en Leste” – giving her the name under which he was travelling – “and you, I think, are very far from home.”
She’d grinned then. “So are you, Kirthan del Candre de Guerdián en Leste.”
“How,” he’d demanded, “did you who I am?”
She’d raised the case that held her cittara. “You have guessed what I am. But chantoren are more than musicians. We learn the history of our land and people, and those connected to us, so those stories are not lost over time. Your family’s name is among those of importance in our shared history. What has brought you to Selekosia?”
At first he’d answered her questions reluctantly; later – after he’d convinced her to leave her cheap lodgings to share his – more openly. She’d quickly recognized that he had no physical interest in her. Chantoren learned to read people; their required years of travel made it a necessary skill. But he did have songs of Leste to add to her repertoire, songs played long into many nights. That she heard more in them than he’d intended was another skill taught to members of her guild. She hadn’t said much, instead showing him how to give his anger and sorrow voice in the music, changing him from a competent musician to one capable of both passion and subtlety.
“In a different life, you would have risen to the highest rank of the chantoren,” she had told him.
In a different life, he would have been managing vineyards and raising horses beside the man he loved, and music would be only a pastime.
Not all this memory was shared. Kirt chose his words carefully. “She recognized my family’s name.” he told Cenric, “and decided that my company would have its advantages. We have remained friends over all the passing years, even if our paths rarely cross now.”
Aífe had never accepted more from him than she needed, keeping to the old traditions of her guild. Kirt had invented business in a far city more than once to allow him to accompany her, although as a merchant seeking goods and partners, he could claim to have business in any town. She had tolerated this, when it suited her. As her reputation – and his – grew, she had refused it more and more. But she still knew him better than any other person on this earth. And so her words to him tonight after he’d seen her safely to her inn, in the privacy of its best room, had shaken him deeply.
“You are living with him,” the chantore had said. “For some weeks now, I understand. Kirthan, you never stay more than a night or two with any man, regardless of your task. And Cenric bé Casille is not a man I would have expected you to bed.”
Kirt had knelt beside the brazier, blown on the coals, making them glow, added kindling. A small flame had licked upward, caught. “A chill will do you no good, Aífe. You will disappoint Ferrand if you cannot sing. He’ll be counting on full tables every night you are here.”
She had ignored his attempt to change the subject. “Cenric is in love with you.”
“Cenric?” The idea was ludicrous. “He is not. I am just an adventure.”
“I saw how he looked at you.” She’d paused. “And how you look at him.”
A spasm of irritation had made him speak sharply. “Aífe. Do not be ridiculous. Cenric is a conduit, nothing more. I will admit he is surprisingly pleasant to be with. Rather talented in bed, with a comfortable house, good wine and decent food, and capable of an intelligent conversation. Perhaps he is not tall and lean, but otherwise, that describes most men I share my nights with.”
Aífe, her head tipped up, had laughed. “Do you hear yourself? So defensive. We are not young now, Kirthan. How many more chances for love do we have?” Her voice had gentled. “It has been twenty-five years now. Lars is gone. Will you not let yourself be free of him? Where is your courage, my dear?” Then she had sent him away, back to Cenric.
Kirt watched the man across from him, the firelight warming his face. He had come to Ésparias to seduce Cenric bé Casille, to gain access to those in this city with power and influence, nothing more. Cenric looked up and smiled; a smile that softened his eyes. Without thought, Kirt smiled back. In that moment, with surprise and wonder – and yes, amusement – he understood that his closest friend knew him better – far better, it appeared – than he knew himself.
Like what you read? There’s lots more in my Substack story archive.
Find almost all my books at https://scarletferret.com/authors/marian-l-thorpe
or
https://books2read.com/marianlthorpe
Here’s a couple of other substacks you might like:
Your worlds are so rich.
Absolutely gorgeous. It was so easy to be drawn in by these characters… It made me feel a little heart wrenched !