The Prophecy by Hilari Bell

the money, Perryn could hardly complain about how he spent it. At least, not much.
    “I thought bards were richly rewarded,” said Perryn as they hiked along the muddy road next morning.
    “Maybe in your grandfather’s time. More likely in your great-great-great-grandfather’s time. Anyone who wants knowledge these days goes to a university for it, so bards aren’t well paid anymore. And it’s not like a university is going to travel from village to village to share its knowledge, but…. Never mind. Which king was your great-great-great-grandfather, anyway?”
    “Reglin,” said Perryn absently. “The fortieth warrior-king. Why be a bard then, if you don’t get paid for it? For the honor?”
    “I can’t trip you up, can I? Come on Perryn, who are you? Really?”
    “I am who I said. And you didn’t answer my question. Are you a bard for the honor of it?”
    Lysander snorted and picked up a stick to scrape the mud off his boots. “Bards get less honor than they do money. Most people think barding is just one step above begging. A short step. You go barding for the adventure,” he waved his muddy stick, “to travel, to see things and meet people.” He grinned suddenly. “The same reasons you go hunting for unicorns. And most of all, for the music.”
    “And because you promised to help me.”
    “Oh, that too, of course.”
     
     
    THE LAST VILLAGE BEFORE THE FOREST OF WYR was almost as large as a small town. Perryn collected coins in the tavern where the bard had chosen to play that night. He’d been accepted by so many people as Lysander’s apprentice that he was beginning to feel like it was true.
    The tavern had been crowded when Lysander began to play, but now it was packed, and the crowd was getting rowdy. Was there any bawdy song Lysander didn’t know? He’d been playing for almost three hours and hadn’t repeated himself yet.
    This one had a lively melody, and toes were tapping all over the room. A blacksmith, seated not far from Perryn, lurched to his feet and began to dance.
    Perryn smiled. The man was drunk but no one could blame him—that lighthearted rhythm was irresistible. However, there really wasn’t room enough for dancing, and the big smith was lurching in his direction. Lysander could collect his own coins for a while. Perryn closed their jingling purse and slipped out into the night.
    The cold, fresh air felt wonderful after the tavern’s stuffy heat. Perryn wandered through the inn yard and out into the street. Away from the noisy taproom the night was quiet. Everyone in the village was either at the tavern or in bed, except…Perryn heard hoofbeats coming down the road.
    He drew back toward the shadows, expecting the riders to approach the inn, but they stopped by the message board in the center of the village square. As they dismounted, Perryn saw the glitter of chain mail under their cloaks. He shrank into the bushes at the side of the road. His father’s guards probably weren’t the only men in Idris who wore mail, but he couldn’t call any others to mind.
    As Perryn watched, the two men unrolled a big sheet of paper and tacked it to the center of the board, indifferent to the other notices it covered.
    They mounted their horses and rode through the village, stopping beside the inn, where a soft-voiced argument ensued. Perryn, crouched in the shadows, couldn’t hear what they said. Soon they lifted their reins and rode on.
    They must be camped somewhere nearby, or they’d have stopped at the tavern for the night. Perryn waited till they rounded a bend in the road, then he went quietly to the message board.
    Cedric had persuaded his father to begin the hunt.
    His own face stared back at him from the poster. It was a good likeness—anyone who saw it would recognize him. Ten gold pieces for information about Prince Perryndon’s whereabouts, and two hundred for his safe return. His father would be furious if he had to pay out that much money. Perryn shivered.