Free The Song of Homana by Jennifer Roberson

stood out on the tables, fat and greasy and stinking. There was little light in the place, just a sickly yellow glow and the haze of ocherous smoke.
    Lachlan, with his harp, was welcomed at once. There were perhaps twenty men scattered around the common room, but they made way for him at once, drawing up a stool and bidding him begin. I found a table near the door and sat down, asking for ale when the tavern-master arrived. It was good brown ale when it came, hearty and woody; I drank the first cup down with relish.
    Lachlan opened with a sprightly lay to liven them up. They clapped and cheered, urging him on, until he sang a sad song of a girl and her lover, murdered by her father. It brought a less exuberant response but no less a liking for Lachlan’s skill. And then he picked out the opening notes of
The Song of Homana
.
    He got no more than halfway through the tale. Abruptly a soldier in Solindish ringmail and too much wine pushed to his feet and drew his sword. “Treason!” he shouted. He wavered on his feet, and I realized how drunk he was. “You sing
treason!
” His Homanan was poor, but he was clearly understandable. So was his implication as he raised the shining sword.
    I was on my feet at once. My own sword was in my hand, but other men had already seized the soldier and forced him down on his stool, relieving him of his sword. It clanged to the floor and was kicked away. Lachlan, I saw, had set down his Lady in the center of a table, and his hand was near his knife.
    Four men held the soldier in place. A fifth moved to stand before him. “You are alone here, Solindishman,” he said. “Quite
alone
. This is a Homanan tavern and we are all Homanans; we invite the harper to finish his lay. You will sit and listen…unless I bid you otherwise.” He jerked his head. “Bind him and stop up his mouth!”
    The soldier was instantly bound and gagged, propped upon the stool like a sheep held down for shearing. With less tenderness. The young man who had ordered him bound cast an assessive glance around the room. I saw his eyes on me, black in the dimness of the candlelight. They paused, oddly intent though seemingly indifferent, and moved on.
    He smiled. He was young, eighteen or nineteen, I thought, with an economy of movement that reminded me of Finn. So did his black hair and the darkness of his face. “We have silenced this fool,” he said calmly. “Now we shall let the harper finish.”
    I sheathed my sword and sat down slowly. I was aware of the men who had moved in behind me, ranging themselves along the wall. The door, I saw, was barred. This was not an unaccustomed occurrence, then; the Solindish were the hunted.
    The knowledge made me smile.
    Lachlan completed his lay. The final note, dying out, was met with absolute silence. I felt a trickle of foreboding run quickly down my spine; I shivered, disliking the sensation. And yet I could not shake it from me.
    “Well sung,” the black-eyed young man said at last. “You have a feel for our plight, it seems. And yet you are Ellasian.”
    “Ellasian, aye.” Lachlan raised a cup of water to his mouth and sipped. “But I have traveled many lands and have admired Homana for years.”
    “What is left to admire?” the Homanan demanded. “We are a defeated land.”
    “For now, aye, but do you not wait only for your prince to return?” Smiling, Lachlan plucked a single string of his Lady. The sound hung in the air a moment, and then it faded away. “The former glory you aspire to have again…it may come.”
    The young man leaned forward on his stool. “Tell me—you travel, as you say—do you think Carillon hears of our need? Do you sing this song wherever you go, surely you have had
some
response!”
    “There is fear,” Lachlan said quietly. “Men are in fear of Solindish retribution. What army could Carillon raise, were he to come home again?”
    “Fear?” The other nodded. “Aye, there is fear. What else could there be in this land? We need