Phedre

Prologue

Darkness is woven of shadows, and the Hall of the minor Hold that lies but a stone's throw from the hand of the Hold itself, is quiet. The song, sung by Ilsevet, shudders to a mournful stop, the notes falling still in the midst of a breath held by those who attend the party thrown by the family of the Hold. Influence a-plenty abounds in the crowd, but there is one in particular that stands out. Cunning eyes peer from a face that feigns at neutrality while caught in the boring conversation of a man next to him.

As Ilsevet steps away from the crowd's center to allow the next harper to come forward, she melts into the crowd, the fingers of her right hand slipping into the hidden pocket as she dons a cloak set aside for her performance. Thin and sharp, the edges of a parchment cut into the bends of her finger, a flash of a memory of her father giving her instructions shows in her minds eye before courage comes in the straightening of her shoulders. To the cruel, dark eyes of the man who's her intended target, she moves with purpose. It is a dangerous game they play, weaving information in song and poem to pass from rebel to rebel, but for her parent's small holdings, it means everything. Her father is not above using the delicate beauty of a daughter who's blood is sullied with the dark features that speaks of trader blood somewhere in their line.

"The falcon rides high this eve, sir," Ilsevet whispers, pressing her ill-gotten parchment to the man's hand, speaking the words told to her while lacking the understanding of what they meant. Expecting to melt back into the crowd, surprise widens dark eyes with the cruel grasp of a hand around the bones of her wrist, grinding them tightly. With the sinking sensation that causes the room to spin, the young lady's realization is complete.

Her father has erred. They have all erred.

Even though her mouth opens to speak, to scream, the man takes her free of the Hold with his cruel clasp, and it is only upon a harsh, cold island that she's to see her father, her mother, her siblings again. The harper training, the intrigue, will be at an end, as will the rest of their known lives.

Background

Phedre's family is small with one young brother (eight turns younger) and a mother and father. Her family has survived on this island as fishermen -- her father is a fisherman, her brother will likely be a fisherman as was his grandfather before them. Buried in the family's history is a love of tale and songs that flows through the female line, at least as far as they've always known. Her mother teaches Phedre, not only how to cook fish, and how to keep house, but how to weave tales. With a small lute, songs accompany these far-flung stories. Her mother's skill is in the nimbleness of which she plays said lute, but Phedre's skill lies in the rich timbre of her voice, and her ability to sing the story-songs that they use to pass down bastardized versions of their family history. What's lost to the act of exile is considered beyond the veil.

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