They said nothing else for several moments, then the strumming resumed. “Have you considered asking?”
“Asking?” Fy echoed blankly before turning toward the altar built into the center of the garden. A marble plinth surrounded by a small pool of water, with a large, curved bowl on the top for offerings to the fae. The bowl was so overflowing with offerings, hopefully most of them to the continued happiness and future stability of the royal marriage, that some had toppled down into the pool below. Apparently, the fae were either full of sweets for the moment or busy.
“Uh.” He stumbled over the rest of his answer. “I was told that they already know what’s in our hearts, and that they will do as they will. Bless them,” Fy added, late but hopefully not too late, if theywerelistening. “Anyway, I don’t think I’m important enough to bother them or draw their attention.”
“Important?” the bard echoed him again, making it a faint question. “You said they will do as they will. So then, you cannot tell what they think is important.”
“Well, no,” Fy agreed, though this conversation really was like talking to Zelli. “But there are the fae-blessed and there are the not-fae-blessed.” Although granted,fae-blessedsometimes meant strange physical changes like Zelli’s, or having a fun night and later on finding a half-fae baby on the doorstep, or becoming king or something else that sounded horrible. “But I’m not really one for talk of destiny.”
“Tialttyrin,” said the bard pointedly. “Vallithi. Those are names that matter to you all, are they not? Names of importance?”
Fy shrugged, then tensed despite the wine still warm in his blood. “Oh shit, is more destiny about to happen, you think? I bet Vint wouldn’t even be surprised. I bet he’s suspected it all along.” Fy’s brother was like that about noble matters. “He’s going to be there tomorrow, a moment he trained for all his life and—fae be praised, I hope nothing bad happens.”
“Why should it?” the bard returned calmly. “The king is favored. All know that. Two to love him. Husbands,” they pronounced the word slowly. “There was no word for that in the old language.”
Fy swiveled around to give the bard a better study. “You don’t look like a scholar. They’re the only ones who know the old language now.”
“Many songs still hold traces of it,” the bard insisted a bit huffily. “Music keeps it alive, more than names no one seems to understand.”
“Right,” Fy agreed awkwardly. “Sorry.” He brightened a moment later. “Speaking of names, I’m Fy.”
“Fy.” The bard nodded, then resumed playing. Honey Bee again, before it slowed and became what Fy thought was the chorus of The Red Bower. Another love song, although longer, and darker, and full of betrayals and separations and only eventually a happy ending.
“And your name?” Fy prompted, eyebrows high while wondering if the bard was deep into their cups as well.
“Oh. Oh yes!” The bard stopped the humming strings by placing a hand over them. “What name would you like?”
“What?” Fy asked faintly. The bard-scholar had to be drunk out of their mind. “I like any name. Never met a name I didn’t like,” he added to be playful, so they wouldn’t take offense.
“Oh.” They scratched their temple, shifting the hat, which looked like velvet and was probably soft to the touch. Maybe they weren’t officially a bard but a noble who played at being one. “Peach.”
“Peach?” Fy didn’t mean to sound so disbelieving.Peachwas the sort of thing one named a pet or nicknamed a lover. It was not aname. Not a proper one. Not unless Peach’s parents had completely abandoned the old ways and the use of long-forgotten words when naming children as a way to honor what once was.
“Peach,” Peach said again, with a firm nod. “Yes.”
Fy made sure his mouth was closed. He nodded back. “Ah. I see.” He thought he did, anyway. This bard probablywasa noble, and for them this was a night away from their usual crowd, and perhaps they wanted some fun with a guard but nothing else, so a lover’s nickname was all Fy would be given. “Well,” he went on, while the wordpeachwas still in his mouth and sweeter than wine, “you should keep playing if you like. It suits this place.”
“I thank you,” Peach answered and ducked their head almost bashfully.
Fy watched them fuss with the kit again, then begin to strum. The tune was startlingly different from the two Peach had most recently played. He wasn’t sure he’d heard it before until Peach hummed a little, then sang part of one line, a question, called to who Fy had always assumed was the song writer’s lover. “Why won’t you look at me, Flower-of-the-North?”
“That is a very old song,” Fy observed quietly. “Some might even say ancient.”
Peach smiled. It was a cheeky, winsome smile. “You know it?” This obviously pleased them. “The Canamorra like to have it played at festivals, especially weddings.”
That song was about admiring someone beautiful, but Fy had never gotten the impression the admirer was admired in return, although he might be remembering it wrong or know a different version than Peach did. It still seemed odd to play at weddings, but, as many often said, “The Canamorra will do as they please.”
Much like the fae, he supposed. And like the fae, their interference might be to everyone’s benefit or it might leave a lot of people dead. Or both.
“I guess the song is from the point of view of the lover, so that makes sense,” Fy added after a moment’s reflection on the fact that he was possibly talking to a Canamorra, or a relative of theirs. There were still one or two around who weren’t the king or his siblings.
“It’s part of a set of songs,” Peach revealed, “although only the Canamorra play them together anymore. Three, even if the third has mostly been forgotten.”
Perhaps Peachwasa scholar, but of music. They probably lived in the palace, then, and went to the Great Library regularly, and would never venture out to a lonely but beautiful valley, even for some delicious wine. They had all but told Fy that by not giving their real name.
Fy exhaled heavily.
“You sigh again,” Peach commented. “Are you thinking of your own Flower?”
