Page 1 of The Song of Sunrise
1
Marrow’s Song
All night, I’ve had the undeniable sense that something is off. I can feel it crawling beneath the floorboards, creeping from the very shadows of the tavern. The old wooden stairs creak as I ascend from my dank room in the basement. The noise from above—shouts of laughter, clinking of mugs, the lighthearted hum of conversation—presses harder into the quiet space of my thoughts, threatening to break my flimsy layer of confidence.
That, or I’m more nervous than ever before.
I push the thought away and roll my shoulders, crafting my presence from Akemi, the barmaid runaway, into Akemi, the Prentice Teller. I flick my dark hair over my exposed shoulder.
Breathe in, and out.Tonight is a performance.
And lucky for me, I am a performer.
The staff of theRose & Ravenare bustling to keep up with the copious number of food orders coming from the main hall. Rosie stands near the brick oven with a large bowl hooked under her arm, commanding her staff in militant order, accentuating eachdirection with the point of a spoon. Her vibrant copper hair is pulled back, curls falling loose by the fervor with which she stirs the batter. If owning this establishment wasn’t her passion, the military would be another viable career path.
Rosie pauses her barrage of orders to squeeze me in an embrace so tight it would make a boa constrictor jealous. “Akemi, my sweet girl!”
Though I’m hardly a girl anymore, I don’t mind when Rosie calls me one.
“You will do amazing tonight. Don’t worry one bit about the crowd being the biggest we’ve ever had for the Harvest Festival.” She releases me from her rib-crushing hug.
Well, that didn’t help my nerves. “Thanks for the heads up, I guess?”
The last thing I need is an unruly audience. Right now, my confidence is held together by one of those knots that looks sturdy, but when pulled, slips apart with ease.
I weave through the kitchen, passing servers and cooks on my way to the main hall. All of them practically freeze as I pass, mouths agape. I suppose they are used to seeing me in a loose tunic and pants during cleaning shifts and not in tonight’s off-shoulder white dress and brown corset belt.
“Good luck, Akemi!” a male voice calls. Bane, one of my favorite tavern guards, leans against the rough stone wall, toasting a half-empty pint of mead with his only remaining arm. The other, as he proudly boasts, is lost somewhere on the bottom of the Jargaron Sea from his sailing days.
Row, another favorite guard of mine, pushes Bane from behind in a friendly way that speaks to their years working together. Row stands taller than Bane, shaved head gleaming in the sconce’s flickering light. His tall, barrel-chested stature is quite daunting if you don’t know his soft spot for dandelions and sweet berry jam. Like a crusted sugar puff, Row may seem harshon the outside, but his inside is all soft and gooey. It has been my personal goal to bring out more of that inner fluff Row so carefully hides.
“We’ll be watching from the back,” Row says.
Bane leans forward, lowering his voice. “Got that dagger I gave you?”
“Right here.” I kick my leg forward from underneath my dress, flashing my neatly laced boots where a silver dagger is safely tucked away. With the recent Underling attacks in Brown Oak and Ashwood, I’m thankful for the additional protection hidden in my boot… though I have no clue how to use it.
“Good,” they say in unison.
The wall clock chimes and my heart skips a beat. “I have to get going. Marrow is expecting me on stage!”
I rush through the swinging door into the main hall and halt at the sight. The tavern ispacked.
Carefully, I weave through the crowded main hall, buoyant with laughter and clanking mugs in celebration of the harvest season. People are spilling out into the aisles, eyes drifting toward the small stage where my mentor and Master Teller, Marrow, sits tuning his fiddle. His long golden-gray hair is tied in a knot at the base of his neck. Shoulders relaxed and eyes crinkled at the edges from a lifetime of smiles, Marrow is completely at home on the stage as he adjusts each string to pitch.
One day, I’ll be as comfortable as him on stage, I promise myself. A knot tightens in my stomach, reminding me that today—in fact—is not that day.
I huff in annoyance at my own nerves and make my way to Marrow, stopping on the side of the small stage, still elevated from the rest of the hall.
“There are a lot of people here tonight.” I gulp, feeling so small against the sea of faces. People from all over the northernMidland region have poured into Goldenpine for the festival. My hands are shaking, so I hide them behind my back, but I know they’re still there, betraying me.
Marrow senses my unease. “I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but I’m very proud of you.” He leans over from his stool, squeezes my shoulder, and smiles. Not the smile he gives during performances, but a private one. He’s always had a knack for what to say, like earlier today, when he found me in the basement having a panic attack. He was able to ground me within minutes.
I imagine that is what a father might do.
Before I can respond, he continues, “Ho! I almost forgot. I have something for you.” Marrow pats his green patchwork cloak, a hard-earned possession that designates the station of a Master Teller from a Prentice like me. Each patch is embroidered with scenes depicted with stories from across the ages. An anthology of sorts.
Marrow pulls out an empty square of deep green fabric from an inner pocket.
