A smattering of applause dappled the last notes of his song. He let it die out in the darkening tavern before rising, joints stiff from the long performance.
"Play the one about the Hero of Faron," a voice slurred from a dim recess.
"Aye, that's a good 'un," Harrow acknowledged agreeably, hoping to collect his dinner without a confrontation with yet another inebriated villager. Slinging his guitar over his shoulder, he called out, "mayhap tomorrow night."
The drunk set up a complaint cut short by the innkeep harrumphing her way between them like a disgruntled walrus. Harrow sighed in relief. Once he would have favored a good fight, but those days were past.
The innkeep handed him a deep wooden bowl of stew with a small loaf of bread teetering on the rim. "Take a seat, harper. You earned your keep for the night."
"Obliged, Margrie," he murmured. Margrie never tried to cheat him of his pay in whatever form it came. Tonight I was on board and lodging. Tomorrow, he'd move on, up towards Green Haven, where he might get paid in slightly used boots, or a good whetstone, or maybe even a new blanket. He played life by ear, did Harrow, taking what came his way, leaving what stood in it.
He shuffled across the rushes and settled into the only unoccupied table in the room, its wooden surface pitted from idiots playing the finger dance in their idleness and boredom. Digging in, he barely noticed when a small pale form slid onto the bench opposite him, and when he did, it was too late to deny the intruder a place at his table. She had already set down her bowl and loaf as well as two steaming mugs of tea, one of which she slid across the table to him.
Well, if she was buying, he'd not say no.
"Margrie says you care not for sale, so I hope tea is welcome," she offered.
He lifted it, inhaling its fruity tang. "It'll do. Now what do I owe you for this mug of tea?"
"A story," she said simply.
"I've just been singing stories for the past couple of hours. My word horde is empty."
"Not stories of heroes," she said. "I've heard them all. How they set out on their quest, conquer their fears, beat their opponent, ride home victorious." She flapped her fingers at her side as if to say, 'it just never ends.'
"You are bored of the stories of heroes?"
Her fair hair shimmied as she nodded, the tips dipping into the broth. "Aye, full to my eyelids with such tales."
"You are young to be so jaded."
"Not so young. I'm 16 this past winter."
"Ahh, 16 to my 60."
"Huh."
"Huh, what?"
"I thought you were older." She gestured vaguely to his white beard.
He grinned. "I'll take the compliment. So what story is it you wish to buy with this fine mug of tea?"
She leaned toward him, announcing, "I'm on a quest."
He nodded gravely. So many bright young faces had sat across from him at so many scarred tables and blurted out their aspirations, their eyes fixed blindly onto their futures. He sighed. Harrow saw his own future clearly enough, but only because it was so well lit by the lantern of his own long past.
Right now, his immediate future was looking like it might be eclipsed by this young hopeful and her head full of dreams. He assessed the threat to his quiet evening. He had skill at reading the clues his audiences wore, which would ensure he might better please them with his selections and better end the night with a full belly.
