Maribelle watched the redheaded boy tuning his lute as she picked up the dirty bowls and mugs from a nearby table and carried them back to the counter. It was a little after noon and luncheon was slow as many of the villagers planned on coming to The Gray Stag later in the evening for the performance. The boy in the corner would be performing, an event that no one dared to miss. Maribelle sighed and Emile, the barkeep and tavern owner, smirked at her.

“No luck today lass?”

“He hasn’t even looked at me once,” she said with a pout.

“Maybe he ain’t interested. I know it is hard to believe.” Maribelle blanched and Emile laughed a little harder. The boy looked up from the corner to see what was so amusing. Maribelle blushed brightly and slapped Emile across the arm with the dishrag she was using to wipe down the counters. “Go offer him another ale,” he said. “On the house. He would be dense not to understand your meaning.”

Maribelle quickly filled a clean mug and walked over to the table. She could feel Emile’s eyes, filled with amusement, bore down into the back of her head.

“Another drink?” she asked. The young man who sat there, with the bright shock of curly red hair, light freckled face, was the most beautiful man that Maribelle had seen come through the tavern in a long while. Though the boy wasn’t tall, nor very old (he couldn’t have been much older than Maribelle’s own sixteen years), the boy had a look in his eyes that set him apart from any other young man that had come courting Maribelle in the last two years. His violet eyes were steady and serious, as if they looked upon the world with care and not with frivolity as other boys his age. It made him seem older, more mature, than his actual years.

What set him apart the most was that he seemed completely disinterested in Maribelle. And, Maribelle knew that her glass did not lie. Her black hair was long and thick and curled at the ends and never tangled. Her eyes were a bright green and many men have said they reminded them of a warm, spring day. And, her best asset, she thought as she leaned forward towards Jacques, dipping low, were her plump breasts that she corseted tightly so that they pushed upwards and forward. Every man she served looked not at her face when they spoke to her. All except Jacques. He didn’t even look up from his lute as he strummed it idly, his eyes looking out of the window into the middle distance.

Maribelle frowned and leaned forward even more, her breasts straining against her blouse. “Jacques, would you like another drink?” Still no response. Did he not see her? She reached across the table as if to wipe some wet stain on the table though there was nothing there.

Suddenly, Maribelle shrieked and tipped forward and onto Jacques’s lap. The ale she carried went flying across the table drenching them both.

Jacques leaped to his feet, grabbing Maribelle by the shoulders and holding her away from him.

“I am so sorry,” Maribelle said as she heard an eruption of laughter coming from Emile across the room.

“No, it’s okay,” Jacques said, his voice low.

Maribelle reached for a clean dishrag tucked in her apron and began to wipe off Jacques’s tunic. Jacques snatched it away from her and finished himself, his face so red that it matched the hair on his head. Maribelle felt that hers must have burned even brighter.

***

Rose swung her lute over her shoulder and headed out the tavern door. She was still sticky with ale, but beated a quick retreat instead of returning upstairs to her room to clean up. She had ignored the barmaid’s overtures all the past evening and this morning, but the latest stunt was too close. Rose breathed a sigh of relief when the barmaid made no mention of her taped down breasts.

It happened in every village she stopped at. Girls would throw themselves at her. In this case, quite literally. Rose smiled wryly at the thought.

Despite being disguised as Jacques, men would also pursue her and it took a bit more effort to shake them loose.

Rose took in a deep, cleansing breath. Pine Hollow was a small village in the country of Staiton near the border of both Liyonne and Valenris. As its namesake, the village was surrounded by pine trees, creating a sharp, clean scent that filled the air year round. The Fleur Chantante Circus, the performing troupe that Rose was formerly a member of, often traveled through Pine Hollow as it was known as a safe harbor for gypsies. They welcomed strangers, particularly performers, as they did not see much entertainment so far from the main road.

It would be time to leave soon, go onto the next village or town. But, Rose found that after five years, her feet felt sluggish below her. For the first time, she did not know where to go.

No, that wasn’t true. She knew where she needed to go. She was just too much of a coward to do so.

So she kept wandering from village to village, town to town, until, what? Until her death? Rose shook her head. No, it won’t come to that. I will find my courage before then.

The dark mood was unusual for Rose. Most days, she found joy in playing, in performing for the villagers or whatever audience she could gather with her lute, bringing just a small bit of music and magic into their lives. But, today, she couldn’t stop thinking about Philip and what could have been.

It was because Emile had told her that the king and queen had given birth to a baby boy. A prince. She could have been that queen. The boy could have been her child, the heir to the throne. She felt a pang of regret in her heart. The whole kingdom was rejoicing except for her.

Rose shouldered her lute and turned to glimpse a gaggle of girls waving coyishly at her from across the plaza. Rose groaned inwardly but smiled back and gave them a small wave before making her way to them. The girls squealed in delight as she approached. It didn’t do to upset the customer.

***

Maric whistled at the bartender. The older man frowned and walked over. “Another one?”

Maric grinned widely. He knew he had one too many but it was a day of celebration. He had killed a nest of giant rats that were eating all the chickens and goats and terrorized one child from a farm just outside Pine Hollow. The farmer whose child was maimed prostrated himself in front of Maric in thanks, but could not provide any coin as a reward. Instead, Maric left with a bag of potatoes, enough to feed him for three days.

It was better than nothing.

The bartender poured him another mug of warm ale. To his delight earlier, it had the hint of something sweet like elderberry honey unlike the swill that tasted of piss in many of the other taverns he patronized over the years. It was delicious, but after the fifth mug, he could barely tell how it tasted anymore.

The Gray Stag tavern and inn was the only of its kind in Pine Hollow. The village was too small and too far from the main road to cater to more than a few travelers at a time. From Maric’s best guess, there were probably four rooms upstairs for guests and the innkeeper probably used at least one of them for storage during the low season.

Maric didn’t have enough coin to stay at the inn, and had already made arrangements of his own for the evening. He felt the lightheadedness that was a sure sign that he was becoming inebriated. Too much ale on an empty stomach. But, he had to watch his spending carefully and ale was cheaper than food. With enough of it, he would forget about the hunger soon enough. Maric smiled widely and the barkeep looked at him askance probably wondering if he would have to carry him out at closing time.

Maric turned around in his stool and pushed his back up against the counter. The main floor of the building consisted of the tavern. Several wooden tables and chairs were strewn around the floor haphazardly. A few men were drinking and talking loudly in the corner, every once and a while casting a curious eye at Maric and the broadsword he had leaning up against the counter, though none approached him. The counter, where Maric sat, was made of a single long piece of a tree, cut down smooth on one side and stained dark. It shone brightly in the candlelight and Maric could tell that Emile took great care in it.

It was covered in knicks and scratches from use over the decades and errant names of lovers carved into it. A Willem and Clara had their names carved with a heart encircling it and Maric wondered idly if they were still together. The building, like the rest of those in the village, were most likely built with pinewood from the trees surrounding the village. A large head of a gray stag was mounted over the front door, which when questioned, the barkeep, Emile, said his great grandfather hunted down nearly five decades ago. Apparently, Emile’s great grandfather spent nearly a month chasing down the stag, which ended in a life and death struggle between man and beast. Maric sipped politely from his ale while he listened with half an ear to the tall tale.

Around sunset, the tavern began to fill up with the locals. Men, women, and children began crowding the tavern floor, all dressed in their best, which consisted of starched white shirts for the men and simple cotton gowns for the women. Some of the women, Maric noticed, braided late blooming flowers in their hair or their caps. There would be no jewels here.

It was a small village, probably only about ten to twenty families in all, with another five or six who lived outside of town. Everyone was either a farmer, sheep and goat herder, baker, or tavern owner (in this case, the tavern owner also operated the town’s only inn). There was a mayor, but nothing quite as official as a bigger town. The mayor was also the town doctor, and Maric was sure, performed many other miscellaneous tasks as well. Fabienne was young for a leader of the locals. She was no older than in her mid-thirties if it was Maric’s best guess. And, her best quality was that she was a widow. Her husband, from what Maric had learned, was a tradesman and died in an ambush by bandits two winters ago. His loss, Maric’s gain.

Fabienne had invited him to stay over at her house in town for the night. She left him a key to use after night fell and the villagers went home. When she pressed the cold metal into his hand, she had leaned in close so that Maric had an eyeful of what was just under her bodice.

Maric looked down at his mug which was already half empty. He would need to slow down if he wanted to be conscious enough to enjoy Fabienne later in the evening. She would be at the tavern herself tonight. Apparently, a traveling bard was also visiting, causing quite the commotion. The village rarely had any visitors and on this day, they had two.

***

It was close to eight in the evening when Maric saw a redheaded boy descend the staircase and onto the main floor of the tavern with a lute slung over his shoulder. He couldn’t quite make out what the boy looked like, but a hush fell on the room.

“Jacques Aguillard here played for King Stefan and Queen Leah of Liyonne last year during the midsummer festival,” Emile whispered to Maric. “He comes by every time he is in the area to play for us. None of us ever miss a single performance. Well, Old Quincey was sick once with the flu. Something terrible, was puking up his insides all week, and he still dragged himself out of bed to hear Jacques play.”

“I take it that the boy is good,” Maric replied.

Emile snickered. “Just listen.”

The boy went to stand on a makeshift stage made by pushing two large tables together, so that he could be seen above audiences’ heads. There weren’t enough seats for everyone, but it didn’t matter because as soon as Jacques descended the stairs, everyone stood. The children sat on the shoulders of their fathers, the elderly stood feebly on their feet until someone pushed some chairs together up front for them to sit in.

The tavern filled with whispers of anticipation while the boy tuned his lute. When he was finished, he looked up and Maric caught his first clear look at the boy.

His first thought was the boy was beautiful. Not handsome, but beautiful. From across the room, the boy’s hair sparkled like fire, golden at the roots, and bright fiery red at its ends. His hair was curled in large loops around his head, and when he reached up to run his fingers through it, Maric could have sworn he heard every woman in the room sigh. The boy had a heart-shaped face with a small, but full lips that any woman would have envied. But, the most striking feature was his eyes. They were the color of true violets in full bloom.

Maric could see why the women in the room were taken with the boy. He felt a little uncomfortable himself.

The boy looked around the room with a small, shy smile. “I would like to play something new, if that is okay with everyone.”

There was a rush of yes’s.

And, when the boy strummed his first chord and opened his mouth to sing, Maric discovered that everything around him disappeared.

***

Rose sang a song she had written about a mermaid who loved a man and how when she became human to be with him, he betrayed her by taking another. It was a ballad that she had worked on all last summer and it was her first night performing it. She was pleased by all the wet eyes she saw in the crowd afterwards. Then, she sang a funny one about a princess and a frog. This one ended with the frog being revealed to be a prince that was cursed, but a kiss from the princess transformed him back to his human self. They, of course, lived happily ever after.

She sang a few others before taking requests from the crowd. Every town or village wanted to hear their local songs, ones about farmers and their wives, chickens coming home to roost, and the beauty of spring and the harshness of winter. Later in the evening, when the children were taken home for bed, Rose sang some dirty limericks, which caused an uproar of laughter to burst through the windows.

And, at the end of the night, she always sang the one song that changed her life. The one that set her down the path of a traveling bard.

She sang the story of Sleeping Beauty.

***

Maric sat transfixed throughout the night. When the boy started singing, Maric was taken aback by surprise. His voice was light and airy, and then dark and heavy, and everything in between. It floated amongst the heavens and brought tears of joy into Maric’s eyes or it fell low and dark and brought tears of sadness. But, when the boy began to sing the song of Sleeping Beauty, Maric felt strange, as if the song was calling out to him. The boy did not look up from his lute as he played. But, when it was over, he did and Maric was surprised to see tears streaming down the boy’s face.

If it was an act, it was a good one.

The night ended with Emile standing at the door with a coffer. Villagers dropped coins into the small box and it clinked loudly enough that Maric could hear it from across the room. He guessed that the boy split the profits with the tavern keeper for room and board and for arranging the performance. But, based on how many clinks he heard, the boy would make enough to keep his belly full and a roof over his head for several weeks.

Maric whistled low. The boy was making much more than he did at killing monsters.

Maybe I should take a turn at the bard business, Maric thought wryly to himself.

***

After putting her lute away upstairs in the room she rented, Rose returned to the main tavern floor. Only one man remained at the counter. The rest of the villagers had already traveled home for the night. It was nearly midnight and many would be awake in a handful of hours before sunrise to tend to their farms. Though they indulged in a night of entertainment, the peasants of Pine Hollow did not have the luxury to sleep in the next day. There were always clothes to mend and stalls to muck out.

The man at the counter looked familiar, his hair long and in a bad need of a haircut, a thick beard that was a darker color than his light brown hair on his head, nearly black, and his crooked nose that looked to have been broken sometime in the past. Maybe broken a few times, Rose thought. A bright red scar ran from his left eyebrow down to his jaw. Rose winced as she resisted touching her own face. The cut was deep. He was lucky he hadn’t lost his eye.

He must have been a handsome man once.

Emile stopped wiping the portion of the counter before him and waved at Rose. On the counter, she saw a bowl of stew and her stomach rumbled loudly. The man raised an eyebrow. Rose flushed and sat down on the stool next to him.

“An excellent show again, Jacques. Made my heart sing, truly,” Emile said, filling up a large mug of ale and placing it in front of her. “On the house as usual.” The man looked enviously at the mug and Rose noticed that his own was empty. Her throat was dry from the performance and she took a large gulp before turning her attention to the stew in front of her.

“Thank you, Emile. It is always a pleasure to play in Pine Hollow,” Rose said between bites. She could still feel the man’s stare on her, but ignored him. It was not the first time she has caught a man staring even though she was disguised as a man herself. She was blessed with beauty after all and it was something that men and women were transfixed by. Every village or town she passed through, Rose spent more time than she would like rebuffing advances from people of all ages, shapes, and sexes. And, by the way the man stared at her, she felt she would need to again soon. Rose kept two daggers tucked into her belt and one in her boot for just the occasion.

Luckily, Emile was present and she was confident that she would not need to resort to violence.

***

Maric turned his attention back to Emile who moved on to arranging the wooden mugs behind the counter.

“Any news?” Maric found that the person in every village and town that had their ear closest to the ground was always the barkeep. They spent hours each day talking to people and tended to know things well before the criers did. Most of it was shameless gossip, but every once and awhile, Maric would discover a nugget of some interest.

“The queen gave birth to a…”

Maric cut him off with a grunt. To his surprise, the boy also grunted in disgust as well. “Not gossip. Real news. Any rumors of attacks in the area?”

The boy turned to him with interest, his soup spoon stopped in midair between his bowl and his mouth. “You’re Maric the Monster Hunter,” the boy whispered in awe.

Maric ignored the boy while Emile looked at Maric with renewed interest. “Monsters, you say?” He tapped his chin theatrically as if really giving Maric’s question some serious thought. “No goblins, not that I have heard. But, there have been some mysterious disappearances out east. Mostly livestock, chickens and the odd sheep or goat. Most people think it might be a fox or a wolf.”

Maric slouched down disappointed. “Most likely is.”

“But, Old Matthieu came in the other day and said that his neighbor, Samuel, found the strangest thing in his chicken coop. All the chickens were there all right, but all the eggs were black as coal. Every single egg. He didn’t dare eat them and took them into the forest to be buried. The next day, the eggs in the coop were back to white. Didn’t know what that meant, but was odd, truly.”

“Yes, that is very strange. Do you know the location of the farm?”

“Well, Matthieu lives about ten miles off east. Samuel’s farm is nearby. A large windmill on property, you can’t miss it. I don’t know his neighbor, but you can ask Matthieu himself about the story.”

***

The boy said nothing more while Maric indulged himself and ordered another mug of ale and downed it one long swallow. It was getting late and it wouldn’t do to keep Fabienne waiting much longer. As he pushed aside the large wooden doors of the tavern, he felt a tug at his cloak. He wasn’t surprised to find the boy standing there behind him. A sliver of moonlight illuminated the boy’s eager face.

“I want to come with you.”

“To Fabienne’s?” Maric asked, his head feeling light and swimmy under the boy’s watchful gaze. His eyes are truly violet, Maric thought, too beautiful to be wasted on a boy.

The boy snorted. It was light and delicate like the boy’s features. “No, of course not. I want to come with you when you go see Old Matthieu. And, I want to go with you to whatever you do afterwards.”

“Why?” Maric asked, suddenly suspicious. The boy looked innocent enough. He was thin, though not in the sickly sense. Under the tunic and cloak, Maric suspected the boy was fast and nimble. His fingers were as much when he played the lute. They danced across the strings faster than anything Maric could follow with his eyes. If the boy did try to cut his throat while he slept, Maric wouldn’t stand a chance.

But, then again, why would the boy do such a thing? Maric didn’t have two coppers to rub together. He spent the last of it on ale tonight instead of bread and cheese and other things he direly needed, like a new set of boots, and he sniffed, a bath. He was forced to sell his horse months ago just to survive.

It was as the boy read his thoughts. “I have money. I can pay you. And, I can make more of it on the road. Every town likes to be entertained for an evening or two.”

“You didn’t answer my question, boy.”

“Jacques,” the boy corrected.

“Jacques. Fine, but why do you want to come with me?”

“Because I am tired of singing about love stories and happily ever afters.”

***

Silence fell between them. Rose flushed deeply and hoped the shadows hid her face. The monster hunter, Maric Landry, stood there and just stared at her and Rose felt uncomfortable under his gaze. She had heard of him through her travels. He had become quite a legend amongst Staiton and Valenris for, well, slaying monsters. It was just last week when she heard a tale of him killing a dragon out in the Wilderwoods, though how much of it was true, she did not know. But, it was a great story, and that was what she was after.

Finally, Maric broke the silence. “So, you want to sing about slaying monsters?”

“I want to sing about heroes.”

Maric grunted and crossed his arms. “I’m no hero.”

Rose looked Maric up and down. He was leaning heavily to one side from too much drink. Rose had already accounted his face as being ugly from all the scars and bruises. His clothes were ill-fitting and dirty. And, she could smell him from several feet away. It was musky and masculine and he stank of it.

No, he was no hero, Rose thought. He certainly didn’t look like one, which made him perfect. Who didn’t love a story where a rogue turned into a shining knight in armor? Rose smiled and she saw Maric look at her warily. “You will do.”

“How old are you?” he said.

“One and twenty.” Instantly, Rose mentally admonished herself for revealing her true age. Disguised as Jacques she knew she didn’t appear any older than sixteen. And, it didn’t seem Maric believed her either.

Maric sniffed in disbelief and leaned in close to her face, scrutinizing it. “And, not one whisker. Pity.”

Rose took a step back. “That’s none of your concern.”

Maric grunted again. “Can you fight?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you good with a sword? Knife? Anything besides your lute? I expect you wouldn’t want to damage that.”

Rose stood up straight. “I can handle myself.”

“Can you?” Maric rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. It was a large broadsword that hung off of his waist and looked no different than the ones Rose had seen being peddled at many weapon shops. “I won’t be coming to save you if a mob of orcs drag you off.”

“I said I can handle-”

The point of Maric’s sword dug into her neck and pressed her up against the tavern. His eyes held hers and Rose was shocked to see how clear they were. Rose’s mind stuttered trying to figure out how he could move so quickly. He reeked of alcohol as if he wasn’t just drinking it but bathed in it and was barely standing up on both feet.

“Can you? I could gut you now and steal all your coin,” he said. “I bet your lute would fetch a pretty penny too. I wouldn’t need you dogging my steps for the next couple of days. I can take what you are offering right now.” Maric blinked twice and pushed back. Before he could sheath his sword, Rose leapt out of the shadows with two daggers slashing into the air, knocking back Maric’s sword and causing him to fall back a few steps.

Maric smiled widely. “That is more like it.” He thrust forward with his sword, clashing it loudly against Rose’s knives, which she crossed in front of herself to prevent Maric’s blade from coming down on her head. She pushed back hard causing her knives to spark brightly against his sword until Maric fell back again. He came at her with large, but precise, swings forcing Rose to hop back until she found herself pressed against the side of the tavern. She knew he had her pinned, but planted her feet and shoved off the side of the building, flinging herself at him and ramming her shoulder into his chest. For a second of panic, she didn’t think he would fall. It felt as if she threw herself into a brick wall, but Maric caught her in his arms and they both tumbled over into the dirt.

Rose found her head laying across his chest, their limbs entwined, and pushed off quickly. She grabbed his sword with both hands and held the point to his throat. Maric chuckled in the darkness.

“Help me up, boy,” he said. Rose threw his sword away from them in case it was a trap before bending over and helping Maric to his feet. He was a good foot taller than she was and twice as wide. His shoulders were broad and Rose could feel the tightness of the muscles that laid just beneath the ill fitting armor he wore. She resisted the urge to run her fingers along his chest and down to his narrow waist and wondered idly what he looked like naked. Like a Sakoraan god, she imagined. When he stood she suddenly realized that she was playing with fire.

“Meet me tomorrow outside the tavern. I think mid-morning. We will head out to the farm then,” he said.

Rose nodded, but stood watching him until he gathered his sword and walked away into the darkness. She could feel the night air charge with electricity.

This man is very dangerous, Rose thought. What was I thinking?