Page 36 of Ship of Shadows
Bartholomew lifted his journal. “Well, some stories I have permission to tell and others I don’t.”
I nodded toward the booklet. “Do you have a favorite song?”
“Ah, that’s a hard question to answer.” He sat for a moment before snapping his fingers. “I don’t have favorites, but my fans do. One of my most requested is a song about the time the crew were on the run in Gilraeth.”
I raised a brow, surprised they’d ventured that deep into the continent, all the way to the fire court.
“They stumbled upon a cave full of treasure: glinting jewels, sparkling diamonds, enough gold that the weight of it would sink our very ship.”
I had a feeling Bartholomew was exaggerating, but I supposed that was his job as a bard.
“They ran into the cave, stuffing their pockets with the expensive trinkets, not realizing they hadn’t just stumbled upon treasure—they’d stumbled upon a dragon.”
I sucked in a sharp breath. Dragons were native to Gilraeth and had been at war with the residents of the fire court for ages. I’d heard that Princess Seraphina had a special relationship with the dragons. Her coronation was in a month’s time, and supposedly, the dragons would be there to show their support for the new queen. It was just gossip, but Princess Seraphina had always had a special place in her heart for the outcasts, for the misunderstood, and I had a feeling this was one rumor I could believe.
I leaned back on my elbows and looked up at the cloudy sky. Nothing but clouds since we’d gotten on this ship. I missed the sun on my face. “So what happened next?” I asked.
“Well, the dragon moved in front of the entrance to the cave, trapping the crew,” Bartholomew said. “But our brave captain had a plan.” Bartholomew leaned closer. “He used himself as bait, lured the dragon away from the entrance so his crew could escape.”
If someone had asked me a year ago if that would’ve surprised me, I’d have said no. But now? Now I couldn’t believe Bastian would do any such thing.
“It worked. The crew escaped the cave with the treasure, while Bastian fought the dragon himself.”
“But that’s impossible. It takes at least ten fire elementals to bring down a dragon. Bastian is human. How could he have survived that?”
Bartholomew raised a finger. “None of the fire people are as cunning as our captain. He baited the dragon into letting loose a stream of fire right as he leapt up over the dragon’s head. The dragon blew the fire up toward the ceiling, and as Bastian slid down its back and tail, right out of the cave, rocks fell down from the force of the fire, trapping the dragon inside.”
“That’s quite a tale.”
“It’s a great song,” Bartholomew said. “People go wild over it.”
“So you just visit taverns when you dock?” I asked. “No one questions your connection to the Lost Boys?”
“Artists are exempt from persecution,” Bartholomew said. “Many of us are here to tell important stories, to bring news to the people, to keep them informed and entertained. I don’t pillage, plunder, attack. I simply observe and tell the tales. For that, I’m appreciated, not scorned.”
There was a sadness in his voice I didn’t understand.
“Do you not like your job?” I asked.
“I love it. I was never cut out to be a pirate, and Bastian knew that, I think.” He gestured toward his face. “I tried my hand at it, and during an attack I ran away and hid behind a barrel on the ship. A barrel filled with alcohol. An enemy from the other ship shot at the barrel with an explosive and it blew up in my face.”
I stared at him, horrified. “That’s how you got those scars?”
He nodded. “After that, I felt useless. Didn’t know my place anymore, didn’t feel like I belonged. It was Bastian who disappeared one day when we docked and reappeared on the ship with a banjo and a pocketbook. Told me he was in need of a bard if I’d give it a shot. Turns out it was my calling. I’ve never looked back.”
That left me stunned. “That was nice of Bastian.” I nodded toward the booklet. “Is that the one he bought for you?”
Bartholomew chuckled. “Oh no, I worked my way through that one long ago.”
“Wow, you must write a lot. Those journals are thick.”
He cleared his throat. “Yes, I tend to be wordy.”
“So why the sadness?” I laid a hand on his arm. “I sensed it when you were talking about singing in the taverns.”
His shoulders slumped. “I suppose I feel trapped sometimes. I wish I could go where I wanted when I wanted, wish I could tell the stories I want to tell, not just about the Lost Boys.”
“What’s stopping you?” I asked. “Just leave.”
