As the deckhands dock, Renalt, heads to help the Caravan set up camp. The small isle in the middle of the water is a sort of resting, meeting point. It’s not the first of these Caravaneer Islands Renalt has visited, but every time he is amazed by the places. There are many stories about how and why the Vyrroltea was formed, but all involve a great destruction. On the islands and in many parts of the land, this isn’t very clear. Life, and time itself, have made them look peaceful. But these small, terrifying islands the Caravans use to trade with one another and wait out the more problematic tides show the truth. Desolate rocks the size of small towns, seemingly still scorched with centuries old scars of that spoken of catastrophe. It is beautiful, truly. The Caravan members who are not setting about protecting the ship are staking tents and preparing fires and gathering up things that ought not be left unattended. He joins in setting up the tents.
As he helps several Elfs set up camp on the empty isle, he asks one of the more experienced members of the Caravan, Terali va Caplina, “So, how long are we going to be?”
She looks at him and smiles. “Why, friend? Do you have something urgent to attend?”
Renalt laughs. “Not in any sense that I am aware, though we never know what is to come.”
Terali nods. “Wiser words than I expected from you, humble musician.”
“I have my moments. Last I was on an isle like this, a pair of Caravans were meeting.”
“Do you travel by caravan often?” she asks.
Renalt shrugs. “It is the safest way to travel. When you are allowed to do so.”
“In any case, no, this particular stop is not a meeting. We share this island with the caravans va Paralita and v’Olirinia, who I believe are not nearby.”
“Interesting,” Renalt says. “I didn’t know only certain Caravans own these places.”
“It isn’t ownership. Not like your people see ownership, in any case,” Terali says as she moves to the next stake. “It’s more like… You know the old poems?”
“Several,” Renalt answers.
“Every time they are sung, they are not necessarily the same, correct? I believe that is what our late Chronicler once said.”
“Yes, they have the same plots and meters and certain touchstones, but in between depends on where one is and what one wants to say.”
Terali nods. “It’s like that. These islands are our touchstones. Every caravan has their own touchstones to get about the Sea That Once Was Not.”
“So, it isn’t that you own the islands, but if a different caravan were to pass, they would stop somewhere else?”
“There are more islands in this sea than towns in all the Vyrroltea. Many no feet have touched since time immemorial,” she answers without answering.
Renalt smiles. “At least, that is what your Chronicles say.”
“We only know what we know.” What a true statement, Renalt muses. But he still does not know the answer to his question.
“So, you never told me, how long do you think we’ll be here?” he asks.
Terali laughs. “Some are always so eager to move forwards without looking around them,” she says. Then, shaking her head and sighing, she says, “Just until the under-squall abates. It should not be more than a single triad.”
Three days, he thinks. That means three performances for a well-learned and talented group of people. He can do this. Just needs to think of which three-part saga to tell. There were not that many options, enough to keep his mind working while he finishes putting up tents and temporary buildings. The full Saga of the Fist is three parts, the Course, the Arrival, and the Founding. But this is not the audience for that piece. The Breaking can be condensed to three parts, but they know that story well enough to know when Renalt makes a mistake, and that could prove problematic. No, they would know the historical ballads. Of course, he muses. After all, they have at least one Chronicler who knows their history. And their last one liked the old poems, so he needs a newer thing than that.
The obvious choice is a hero’s tale of some sort. But there aren’t that many tripartite songs of heroes. They tend to be one, two, or like a thousand, depending on the hero and the song’s purpose. Of the top of his head, he can think of only three. The Songs of Elessando, a beautiful lyrical trilogy about the rise and fall of a demagogue in one of the Old City-States. A popular, fun series of songs, though their lyrical nature means Renalts talent for his lute will not be as in the forefront. Then there is the Arronnal Saga, the story of death, revenge, and condemnation centering on Arronn of the Nameless Hills across the Wandering Ocean. A moralistic tale about the futile importance of vengeance, but one that is often sung, nonetheless. Unfortunately, the third song of the saga is generally considered the most boring, and Renalt does not want that to be his lasting impression on this Caravan.
That leaves the Bizarre Tale of Pannuc the Lesser. Not that Renalt minds at all. The tale of Pannuc has always been one of his favorites. He learned it as a kid, it’s what made little Renalt love music. The story of a fool, out of his depth, becoming a hero entirely by accident, how and why he maintains the facade, and what happens to make it all crumble away. Unlike the Arronnie, it is an uplifting story with a memorable and beautiful final song. And, unlike the Ellassando, it has several lengthy and complex parts for his fingers to dance across his lute and put forth his best effort. Yes, he thinks, Pannuc will do wonderfully.
The captain of the ship he is a guest on is not at the head of the Caravan, but is close enough to get permission to perform from. Approaching him, Renalt bows his head slightly. “Aliczaro va Caplina,” he begins, “I was wondering if I might have a word.”
“Of course, Renalt the humble musician. What do you wish to speak about?” Aliczaro replies with a pleasant smile.
“I was wondering if I might perform for everyone while we are here. I do not wish to impose, but I feel like you and yours are doing so much for me, if only I could give you something in return. Even something as small as three songs,” Renalt asks. He knows the answer is yes. The Head Chronicler of the va Caplina Caravan is currently off, studying in the Noble Nation. It’s why they’re heading that way in the first place. They will welcome a story woven well. Even if sung by an outsider.
“That sounds wonderful, Renalt,” Aliczaro says, “Thank you for offering. A good song performed well should help the under-squall pass without aggravation.”
Renalt is unsure what exactly that means, but he now has permission to wow the crowds. To leave a lasting good impression on yet another group that can move him from place to place when another town inevitably decides it likes the world better without Renalt in it. With another bow of his head, Renalt responds, “No, thank you for allowing me to perform. I hope I do not disappoint.”
“As do I,” Aliczaro says, slightly more intensely than Renalt would generally like, but, as pleasant as the captain was, he is also only one captain in the whole Caravan, so maybe that has something to do with it. Like, if Renalt doesn’t do well, it will reflect badly on him and his ship. Or there’s some deeper meaning to the whole thing that Renalt doesn’t know. Either way, it doesn’t matter. Making mistakes and playing poorly when he’s trying to play well aren’t things that happen to him. If he wants to play a song he knows well, he plays that song well.
As people finish the fires and start preparing the meal, Renalt begins preparations of his own. He takes the gem, which for the moment he keeps in his lute, out, sliding it in one of the island’s smaller scars near the tent he knows he will sleep in. Sitting down on a rock, he carefully tunes his instrument. Everything needs to be perfect for his coming performance. Or at least, close enough that there are no glaring problems. After tuning his lute, he practices singing his scales in tune with his lute. It has been three towns since he needed to actually perform well, and though it takes much skill to perform just poorly enough to get booed and food, but not so poorly to get immediately run out of town, that isn’t the same sort of skill as actually performing well.
As the sun begins to fall low towards the horizon, Renalt stands and looks towards the Captains’ table. After the captains all share a look with one another, Aliczaro nods to him. Using the amber glow as a backdrop, the musician pulls out his lute. It is now or never. “I am Renalt, and this is the first Song from the Bizarre Tale of Pannuc the Lesser,” he introduces himself and his performance. A couple of the audience who were on his ship cheer, as they heard him perform some during the voyage here. And as the silence settles in, his fingers begin to feel out the strings of his lute, slowly playing a quiet, slow tune. As it picks up pace and volume, he begins to sing.
He’s performed this song several times. He learned it when he was young and plays it regularly. And he generally likes to think he improves his performance each and every time. But he knows that isn’t necessarily true. While his skill improves with practice, he knows there are a thousand thousand small details beyond skill that change the beauty of one’s performance. He also knows another thing is true: This performance is by far his best retelling of the story. By miles. A retelling fit for kings, if the song was fit to be sung to nobility in the first place. Really a perfect performance for him. Every word is on beat, every note perfectly in time and on pitch. The audience, even the sternest of the captains and the curmudgeonliest of the sailors, all follow his every movement as he walks around the table and the sun sets behind him. His muse calls out from his soul for perfection, and in this moment, in this song, he feels as close as he has in a long while to that. He has the whole Caravan hooked from the first chorus about the foolishness of Pannuc, and by the last chorus, they are singing and clapping along. And in that moment, he knows these coming days will be enjoyable ones. And he feels like he’s found people that will help him out in the future as well.
As the song finishes, the whole of the isle erupts with applause. The sun waits for that moment to fall beneath the horizon, as though it too was listening to Renalt’s song. Everyone stands and cheers for a brief while, before the drinking ensues.
Once the drinking begins at the deckhand’s tables, Larano va Caplina, one of the pair who let him aboard their ship in the first place, approaches the musician. “You really shouldn’t call yourself a humble musician,” Larano tells him, “Not when you go around playing like that.”
Renalt replies with a smile. “There is a difference between skill, confidence, and ego.” He neglects to add that, in all likelihood, any future performances will not be quite as good. Some things are best left in his head. He looks over to Aliczaro, sitting at the Captains’ table. The captain of his ship smiles and nods at Renalt. Clearly he, too, is pleased with the song. Renalt bows his head back, then heads to the sailors’ table to drink.
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