Part 1 here.

It didn’t take long for Keto to win over the tavern keep.  Not surprising from one standpoint because all the risk was with Keto, while the keep benefited to gain if more business was brought in.  From another standpoint though it seemed hard for the owner to reject Keto’s enthusiasm.  Nearly bouncing from step to step, Keto had returned and unwrapped her harp from the canvas case it resided in.  That harp was always a bit of a thing of wonder.  It’s workmanship was impressive and Keto had claimed that it had been her father who had made it, but more so was the way I felt the noise of the world dim whenever she pulled it out.  

The telling of stories was how my kin had passed along knowledge when we had been numerous.  Those tellings were solemn things, no music had marked them for fear that the sound would possibly drown out the histories and facts that were being passed along.  Keto’s telling of stories was something else, not just marking them for what had been but…they were somehow something more than just the facts.  Keto drawing out her harp was a sign of the world getting to hear something more and I had taken note of how Illithiust grew quiet to hear it.

For the time being, Keto took a moment to check the tune on the harp, the harmonic notes drawing stares from the handful of patrons and then with a quick smile my way she rushed out the tavern door.  I took a moment to square away our table, to retrieve Keto’s discarded pack as well as my own before heading back outside.  Keto was already working her way about the square.  For this moment only the harp made music but the impact as she passed by the various groups of merchants, farmers, and barterers was immediate.  Conversations paused as Keto’s music and then her smile found them.  People began to gather, to follow her for a time, as she bantered back and forth with them.  Gestures were made towards the tavern’s door, heads were nodded, and then Keto departed to repeat the process.

I stayed, watching as oxen and horses were unharnessed and led to stables, as carts were covered up, and as sun bent towards horizon the crowd made its way to the Golden Grain.  With the advance notice, I had settled into a seat along the far wall from the little stage Keto had set up on.  A cider in hand, I watched her tune her harp once more, produce the panpipes that she occasionally used, and begin the humming that I had learned was a necessary process as she warmed up her voice.

The environment inside the tavern now was entirely different.  Groups had gathered at tables, individuals broke out in cheers and waves when a friend or familiar face entered and joined one table or another.  The tavern keep, and her husband now, were busy running pints of cider, bowls of stew, or plates of bread and cheese.  A fire cackled in the hearth.  When the early arrivals had started, Keto took time to banter with them.  Talk of fickle weather, stubborn animals, and optimistic dreams filled the tavern.  As the crowds do such talk joined boisterous words, and raucous laughter as the crowds interacted.  After a time, Keto withdrew to focus on her preparations.

Then, with the tavern pushed to full, and the din of dozens of conversations, she stepped to the stage and smiled.  The conversation dipped, did so again when she ran her hand along the strings of harp, and faded to near silence a moment later.  Her smile beaming now, Keto gave no preamble and instead begun to pluck the strings of her instrument.

I had listened to and watched my companion’s performances in our time traveling together.  Had enjoyed her songs around our campfire and will admit that her ability had been a reason I had agreed to let her travel with me those weeks ago.  What I had not seen was the change her music could have on a crowd.  Musical performances were not foreign to me, there had been Aenesi and Hunai in my Cycle who had played.  What I expected here had been what I had seen then.  Music starved people had been happy for entertainment to serve as an excuse to relax.  The silence at the start had been polite but would break as some people went back to the conversations.  Indeed a few murmurs of conversation had begun but they faded when Keto’s voice joined the music of her harp.

His skill at knowing her mark was impressive and Keto chose a song of the battle against the Dragon of what was now called Sanctuary Lake.  It was the battle where one could argue the Four Provinces were founded.  The battle where the Four Heroes, Migin, Koril, Verken, and Reznor, broke the rule of the Dragons in this area.  The battle had occurred before I had made my way to the Provinces, was a feat that still impressed me for the defeat of a Dragon was rare.  Keto’s words and music made it a tale that had no parallel.  A few verses in and there wasn’t a sound in the tavern outside of her music and the low cackle of the fire.  When she finished the cheers that went up were all the more stark for the preceding silence.

I looked around then.  Watched as Keto beamed and bowed, as she took the crowd through another rendition of the song’s chorus.  Tired faces had a brightness to them, hunched backs were straightened.  What had been people worn down by the weight and uncertainty of their lives had been replaced with those burning with a fire of what they were capable of.  People filled with pride of their home and what it said they were capable of.  I had seen others give speeches, had given a few of my own, and had been reassured when I had seen at least a refocusing of those listening.  Keto’s impact on a crowd, the life she seemingly restored to them in their cheers and merriment, differed from my speeches like a stream differs from a river in full flow of an ice melt.

I looked to my companion again as she launched into another song, a tale of parted lovers fighting fates and beasts to be reunited.  Her face flush with her performance, boot stomping as her hands worked her harp and her voice rising into the song.  I thought back to the conversation that had brought us to travelling together.  How around the campfire she had talked about writing a new story.

I had dared to hope she was right that night but had known that it was not something I was capable of.  Keto though, what she could inspire in others, what her music could create.  Maybe I could believe that she could do it.

She could be more of the hero than I ever could.