Page 83 of Noble Charms

“This wasn’t precisely what we agreed upon, when we hired you,” said the Director, raising a brow. “We need magic. At least some lights? Something flashy? You’re not even projecting the sounds to the back of the room like most bards do.”

“I will endeavor to do my best with this final set,” said Aria. “You may pay me only what you think I’m owed, if that gives you comfort.”

The Director considered the offer and nodded. “Very well. Will you at least bless the champagne toast at midnight?”

“Yessir,” said Aria.

The Director added, with emphasis, “We didn’t hire you simply for music. We could have hired just anyone for that. You’re meant to be magic.” His eyes flickered to Aria’s elven ears. “You are, aren’t you?”

Aria couldn’t answer the question, because he didn’t know.

The Director clicked his tongue. “You were an adame, were you not? Is that the only type of magic you can do?”

Aria’s heart went cold. If he had no magic, he couldn’t even be an adame. Could he? He choked out, “I’ll do my best, sir. I apologize.”

The Director nodded once and departed swiftly out the side of the stage. Aria took up his lute and moved on instinct. It was like moving through water, or in a dream, and every motion felt slowed. Dulled. He stepped through the curtain. The candlelit spotlight, controlled by a young man in a booth at the back of the room, made him near-blind to the crowd, which applauded politely as he reappeared. He hadn’t done a bad job during his performance, as his skill for the lute and his adept singing were fine on their own, but the nobility in attendance surely thought they’d be getting a show of magic, and he’d not cast a single spell.

He tried to summon the missing magic again. Casting Light. A spell to make twinkling lights fill the air around the many well-frocked dancers on the floor. As he struck the note to activate the magic, Aria missed the string on his lute.

Where had his magic gone?

He managed to pluck the strings through sheer force. Three bad notes grated over his mind the same way it grated over the guests. Several people mumbled in concern. Aria cleared his throat and tried again. When he failed a second time—he pivoted back to music. Nonmagical, simple, and pretty.

He sang, “The Many Fallen Leaves Fly About Her Amber Hair, the Lacy Trail of Trees.”

In Aria’s periphery, he spotted the Director frowning, and talking animatedly with an orcish woman with gray hair and a bardic robe. The Bella Bards Guildmaster.

“The Seasons Come and the Seasons Change, Signaled By a Shifting Breeze.”

The Guildmaster’s words, visible even if her voice was drowned out by Aria’s lute. This bard sings without magic, but worse: he sings without heart.

Aria was like glass, and he’d finally broken.

NOBLE

Noble tore through Aria’s room, pulling apart his bags, digging through his books—trying to find something, anything, to indicate where he’d gone for Winterend. Hampenstead said he was performing, but where?

It’d begun to snow outside, and the clock chimed downstairs—a half-hour to midnight. Noble groaned in frustration as he stomped his way to the kitchen, feeling as if he’d never know where to find Aria. He couldn’t simply wait until he returned home. Something in him tugged him forward, demanding. His soul said: Find him.

And then, on the bistro set, by the bay window: an invitation. Addressed to Romy. If she’d brought this here, then maybe⁠—

Cordelia Ballroom.

Aria was at Cordelia Ballroom.

Noble knew it, beyond a shadow of a doubt. His soul said it with a shout: go to him. Now.

Noble stormed back out to the street, leaving his coat behind. He left the mare where she was posted beneath an awning at the side of the house. He could run to the ballroom faster than he could re-tack and climb back upon her. The snow made the roads slippery, anyway, and it wasn’t safe for the horse to go more quickly than a trot.

It wasn’t safe for Noble to sprint, either. He slid at a street corner, his black dancing boots skittering against the flagstone, and he crashed into a pile of wet, sticky leaves. But he didn’t stop for more than a moment—he had to sprint on. He clamored to his feet and kept at it, facing south. He knew precisely where to go. He’d been to Cordelia Ballroom a dozen times in his life, for one gala or the next.

The large ornate white stone structure sat at the corner of the Harbinger District and Historia, and as Noble approached, parked carriages grew in number, with many attendants sitting and smoking, awaiting their patrons to exit for the night. He called out to one man, standing by a carriage, holding an umbrella against the falling snow. “You’ve the time?”

The man glanced at his wrist. “A minute ‘til midnight, my lord.”

He was going to make it. Panting, Noble skittered to a stop at the tall staircase leading to the Cordelia Ballroom. He climbed two steps at a time, and the attendant at the door blinked in alarm as he rushed through. He tried to signal to the Caller, meant to announce any guest that arrived, but Noble rushed by him, too, and into the crowd that faced the stage. The Caller simply said, “Uh—Earl—uh, Former Earl? Yves St. Clair!”

It was so crowded inside—all had gathered in the central chamber to raise their champagne flutes at midnight. Noble nearly despaired. He’d never find Aria like this.