Cyiet cursed as his fingers slipped. He almost had it. Some of the löe's configurations were surprisingly complicated. Getting from one note to another could be difficult. He tried again and listened to the instrument's sweet gale ...
"Cyiet, take a break," Moraine said, "You're starting to make me unravel."
The music's life was cut short. However, it was true that he may have been imposing on his fellow travellers too much. A pretty serenade might be one thing, but to repeat the same notes over and over again in front of an audience might create a certain disliking for the light orange poet. It was just as well. They were still on their long climb up Mount Kuisp. There was no need to be short of breath now.
"So what is the plan, Moraine?" Gelae asked his mate.
Cyiet regarded his ice blue student. It was safe to call him a novice in the martial arts. The poet would not go as far as call him a quick learner, but Gelae was persistent. The student would never give up.
Moraine paused before him. Gelae stopped too and regarded her. Behind them, Cyiet heard Mar and Gorian groan to a halt. The poet had offered to take the shield for them on this journey, but Moraine had instructed him not too. She did not give an explanation, but she was the leader of this caravan. He followed her wishes.
It was the least he could do. After Mar screamed for the rain, Moraine wanted nothing to do with the two furres from Meovanni. Cyiet had to convince her to take them along, under the condition that the two behaved themselves. Mar had agreed.
"We're at the Matta Valley now," Moraine said, "We'll enter and camp there for the night."
Cyiet heard two sighs of relief behind him. He grinned as the black furre led them into the valley below. A new breeze swept into her black hair, making it look unkempt. He followed and felt the slap of cold wind hit him. Again, Cyiet heard Gorian and Mar behind him. They were probably responding to the valley breezes, he thought.
It was not a far decline before Moraine stopped again. She gestured to Gelae that this was to be their camp. Cyiet studied the area of choice. It was a green valley, lots of grasses and large boulders, but no trees. They were too high for them, he figured. Too cold perhaps. He noticed arms of glacial ice sweeping down from Mt. Kuisp to the west. They were no doubt the cause of the cold winds.
"We still have about three hours before the sun sets," Moraine told them, "Gelae and I will find food; Mar and Gorian will set up camp. You two will also start a fire. We have dry twigs in Gelae's bag."
"What do I do?" Cyiet asked.
Moraine smiled, "You can practice your löe. But far away from here."
Cyiet laughed, "Are you sure? I could help Mar and Gorian."
"No you won't," Moraine laughed, "They want to be here, the least they could do is our hard work. Take the next few hours off, Cyiet. Gelae and I will be expecting a serenade after dinner."
The troubadour watched as Gorian and Mar placed the shield down carefully and immediately went to work on the camp. Cyiet hoped that the two would not feel any misgivings toward him. He looked toward the rock outcrop just to the right of the glacial ice. The rocks looked at though they were carved by the ice themselves, he thought. He decided it was good enough for a rehearsal stage.
It did not appear to be a long walk from that simple gaze, but it must have taken him a full hour to reach the spot. He placed his hand on the outcrop and felt the textures of the mineral veins along the surface. He knew of friends in Linde who would pay handsomely to mine at a site like this. All the better to keep it a secret.
Cyiet sat on a large boulder that probably was once with it's friends in the outcrop. He slipped his löe between his lips and blew. With no holes, it was the simplest note. He wondered if he could create a song based on that note. Simplicity often made the best music. He randomly played other notes to embrace the simple one. A few minutes later, a melody was created.
"That's pretty."
Cyiet stopped abruptly and looked behind him. A girl was there, a brown feline with creamy coloured stripes, wearing a leather backpack. She walked closer and sat beside him.
"I'm sorry," the poet said, "I didn't even see you there."
"I wasn't here when you arrived," she responded, "I just came down the valley and saw you here. I'm sorry if I snuck up on you."
"Not at all," he replied, "Not at all. I'm Cyiet. I'm a wandering troubadour."
"I'm Exavia," she said smiling, "I'm just a wanderer."
Cyiet smiled back. Exavia glanced away briefly, but her green eyes returned the gaze seconds later. She brushed her hand through her blood red hair and chuckled.
"What song were you playing just now?" she asked.
"Oh, uh... not much really," the poet stammered, "I was creating a song based on a simple note scale."
"Play it for me?"
Cyiet replayed the same notes. There were only seven of them. He wished he had more to show her. But at this stage, he was lucky to even have an instrument. But he gave the second last note a different pitch for variety.
"Hmm...," Exavia responded, "Play me your song."
"My song?" he repeated. He thought he just did.
The brown furre shrugged, "A song that best describes you. A song that was created when you were born, that played with you when you were a child, that is currently being seasoned now."
"Are you poet?" Cyiet asked her.
Exavia shook her head, "No."
"In that case," he chuckled, "I really don't understand."
She laughed, "Play what's in your head when you think about your childhood."
Cyiet closed his eyes and thought back to the streets of Linde. Most furres would have thought that he only felt sorrow back then. But this was not true. Sure, he was homeless; his father had died when he was young. But there was great joy to it too. And there was indeed a melody ... almost faint. It was there when he was a kid. But it seemed almost forgotten now.
The troubadour played his thoughts into his löe. Music came out. It was soothing and simple, yet playful and mischievous. It reminded him of home. Cyiet could swear that he was back in Linde.
"I didn't realize you were from Linde," Cyiet heard Exavia say, "You're a long way from home."
"How did you know I was from Linde?" he asked.
"Open your eyes," she whispered.
Cyiet's light violet eyes opened to the cocoa coloured streets of Linde. How did that happen? It was as if he never left. The old tavern was right in front of him, the pale green ivy growing against the old windows. The owner's sign was as faded as it was when he left.
"How..."
"It's a beautiful song, Cyiet," Exavia commented.
Cyiet looked beside him and realized that Exavia was there too, in person. He frantically looked around them and gasped repeatedly. This could not be an illusion. This had to be real. He spotted a brown tabby kitten running around the corner closest to him.
"Clancey," Cyiet gasped, "It's you!"
"What?" the kitten responded, "Did you want to play with someone else?"
"No," the poet laughed. He studied his best friend carefully. It was exactly how he remembered him. Cream coloured clothing covered with mud stains, thick black matted hair, nasty brownish green trousers. The only feature clean on him were the bright green eyes. But that was all right. Homeless kittens were often dirty. Cyiet himself was usually that way.
But... Clancey was no longer in Linde. He had disappeared years before Cyiet left. The poet's eyes washed over his friend with grief. He missed him. He missed his home. He had to admit that now.
A second later, it was all gone. The poet was back in the Matta Valley. The glaciers were on his left, the rocks of Mount Kuisp were to his right, and he was homeless again. He whirled around with löe in hand, looking for Exavia, but she was no longer there. Was it a dream?
Cyiet looked above and realized that it was twilight. He walked back to camp in a daze. As he approached, he looked out for a campfire, but all he saw was darkness. He stopped at a boulder. He recognized it from where Moraine stopped the caravan to set up camp. He looked around for his friends, but he saw no one. Did they move the camp without telling me, he wondered.
Cyiet took a step toward the other side of the valley. His foot landed on something sharp. It had penetrated his violet boot and stung his paw. He picked it up and studied it closely under the fresh moonlit night. It was a broken arrow. Cyiet watched the ground carefully as his eyes became used to the night sky. Dozens of arrows littered the ground. There was no sign of his friends or their equipment. However...
Cyiet dropped the arrow and ran to a peculiar formation on the ground. It was a body. He tilted the dead furre's head to him. With what little light he had, he could not recognize him. An arrow had struck the abdomen.
"Poor fellow," he said to himself, "Whoever he was."
He stood and examined the mess. If it was daylight, he would probably see blood everywhere. How did all this happen without him seeing or hearing it? Cyiet tried to comprehend it all. He did not even know how long he had been gone.