The Lady of the Gift
The inn was silent as Bendric Goldentongue plucked the final note from his harp. Eyes glittered at him in the dingy room, every last thread of attention of that sad mass of humanity focused on him. From out of the dark someone tossed him a copper, and Ben snatched it from the air with the ease of long experience, touching his forelock in gratitude. Across from him, the whore sat with her cheek resting in her hand, expression wistful, tears shining in her eyes.
"Sometimes I wish my life was more like a song," she murmured.
Ben smiled. "Tell me your name, sweetling."
"Gaenna, they call me."
"Gaenna, what a lovely name. It means 'fair one' in the First Tongue, did you know?"
"You could tell me it meant 'High Queen of the World' and it wouldn't make it true, now, would it?" she said, though there was a gentleness to her tone that matched the soft dreaminess her expression had taken on as he sung to her.
"Well, Gaenna, let me tell you something. I learnt that song from the man who first made it," he said to her kindly. "He told me it was the true story of some great northern lady."
Gaenna smiled back sadly. "He would say that, wouldn't he?"
"Aye, there's truth in what you say," Ben allowed. "But the Gift is real enough, as are the Lord and Lady who rule there."
"Everyone knows the songs you bards sing are just pretty tales for children, though," she replied. "I'm not complaining, of course, the gods know I like a bit of prettiness in me life, but it ain't right to pretend things are other than what they are."
The silence having been broken by their quiet exchange, the inn's patrons were once again taking up their conversations, a hum of voices rising in the small common room. Ben raised an eyebrow, adopting an air of mystery, and leaned forwards slightly.
"The lady herself is said to have woven the tapestry the song was taken from. You have no reason to believe me, of course, but you will never know unless you travel north to see it for yourself."
The whore laughed at that, and Ben saw the pretty girl she once might have been. "And how's one such as me, who's never left the riverlands, supposed to travel all that way to the Gift?" she asked.
Ben slid his hand into the same pocket he had sewn into his cloak for his harp, and withdrew a small square of blank parchment with a flourish. "My good lady, fetch me a stick of charcoal to draw with and a cup of wine to ease my memory, and I will tell you all that and more besides."
Gaenna looked at him measuringly, and for a moment Ben feared he had pushed his luck too far. How was a woman like her to travel all that way north, without friends or coin and with winter breathing its icy winds down all their necks? Yet Ben was in the business of selling hope, and this woman, whatever her reality, seemed in a mood to buy it, even if only for the evening.
"Hmm?" he prompted, waggling his eyebrows at her.
Finally she smiled at him again, more playful this time, and said, "Aye, and what harm could it do? Even a wench like me needs something more than a man to keep her warm on a cold winter's night."
And she rose and poured him a drink.