The Lord of Lies: Strange Threads: Book 2 by Sam Bowring

Tarzi was immediately restless. She wanted to do something, but felt rather purposeless. Journeying to Althala, encouraging people to heed Braston’s call and join his army had given her a sense of achievement. For a short while she had been the leader but, as soon as her group had reached Althala, they had been swallowed into the ranks and she had become a simple minstrel again.
    ‘A bloodygood minstrel though,’ she muttered.
    Well, if that was the best she had to offer, then so be it. She decided to pay another visit to the recruit’s camp and do what she could to raise the soldiers’ spirits. She would also quite like to see how Cedris, who had been one of the first to join her and Rostigan on the road, was getting on.
    She left the barracks, finding the morning air crisper than she had guessed. Hugging her arms, she stayed in the sunlight as she made her way across the square into the city streets.
    Ever since the silkjaw attack there were more soldiers on patrol than usual, and she passed a couple now whom she recognised from her storytelling in the barracks dining hall. She gave them a wave, and they gazed at her blankly. The previous night their eyes had shone merrily and they had laughed and hollered in all the right places, so she found their sombre reaction a bit strange. Maybe they had consumed more ale than was wise and were feeling sore-headed.
    On she went, towards the northern gate.
    The streets were quiet, especially for morning, which was usually a time of bustle. People seemed to be moving slowly, and others were but faces in windows, staring out into the street. With everything so muted, she decided to play a little as she walked. She plucked out a merry tune, firing off notes at people who looked like they needed perking up. There were no smiles in return, however, hardly even bare acknowledgement.
    Perhapssomething bad had happened which had not yet reached her ears?
    She paused at a tavern where two old women sat on the porch, cradling mugs and puffing away deeply on their pipes.
    ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘I wonder if you’ve heard any tidings today?’
    One of the women coughed bitterly, though whether because of the smoke or in response to Tarzi’s question, it was hard to tell.
    ‘What do we care for tidings?’ said the other. ‘We’ve heard none that weren’t ill for days and days. Don’t wish any damn tidings upon us, miss.’
    ‘And we don’t care for your music either, rain and sorrow!’
    Tarzi, disturbed by their sour stares, moved on.
    Perhaps the mood was not unusual, for miseries were starting to build up. The silkjaw attack, the death of Braston, the Unwoven stirring, talk of war in the east … a growing sense of the world going wrong and not even the pleasure of apples to eat. Yet here she was, thinking she could do something about it! Trying to believe a song or two would help somehow. For a moment she saw herself as if from above, drifting along ever more slowly, the sad little notes that floated from her flaring briefly in a growing greyness – pathetic sparks that did not live long or penetrate far. Music did not last and left nothing behind. The best she could hope was that others would take up her songs once she was dead, but even then, what comfort was that? Just because someone might speak her name in a few years’ time, did not mean they would actually know her, or that she lived on. A name was nothing but a breath of air given shape.
    She slumpedagainst a street-side tree. Her fingers still plucked away absently, producing a discordant, clumsy tune. Here in the shade it was colder, and she shivered, which created a
twang
she hadn’t intended, a fitting end to a broken song. Part of her wanted to move back into the light, but somehow she could not summon the will.
    Why hadn’t Rostigan told her what he planned to discuss with Yalenna? Did he not trust her or value her opinion? Why did he always hold everything so close, when
she
should be what he held the