Page 1 of The Song of Sunrise (The Prentice Teller #1)
Marrow’s Song
A ll night, I’ve had the undeniable sense that something is off.
I can feel it crawling beneath the floorboards, creeping from the very shadows of the tavern.
The old wooden stairs creak as I ascend from my dank room in the basement.
The noise from above—shouts of laughter, clinking of mugs, the lighthearted hum of conversation—presses harder into the quiet space of my thoughts, threatening to break my flimsy layer of confidence.
That, or I’m more nervous than ever before.
I push the thought away and roll my shoulders, crafting my presence from Akemi, the barmaid runaway, into Akemi, the Prentice Teller. I flick my dark hair over my exposed shoulder.
Breathe in, and out. Tonight is a performance.
And lucky for me, I am a performer.
The staff of the Rose & Raven are bustling to keep up with the copious number of food orders coming from the main hall.
Rosie stands near the brick oven with a large bowl hooked under her arm, commanding her staff in militant order, accentuating each direction with the point of a spoon.
Her vibrant copper hair is pulled back, curls falling loose by the fervor with which she stirs the batter.
If owning this establishment wasn’t her passion, the military would be another viable career path.
Rosie pauses her barrage of orders to squeeze me in an embrace so tight it would make a boa constrictor jealous. “Akemi, my sweet girl!”
Though I’m hardly a girl anymore, I don’t mind when Rosie calls me one.
“You will do amazing tonight. Don’t worry one bit about the crowd being the biggest we’ve ever had for the Harvest Festival.” She releases me from her rib-crushing hug.
Well, that didn’t help my nerves. “Thanks for the heads up, I guess?”
The last thing I need is an unruly audience. Right now, my confidence is held together by one of those knots that looks sturdy, but when pulled, slips apart with ease.
I weave through the kitchen, passing servers and cooks on my way to the main hall. All of them practically freeze as I pass, mouths agape. I suppose they are used to seeing me in a loose tunic and pants during cleaning shifts and not in tonight’s off-shoulder white dress and brown corset belt.
“Good luck, Akemi!” a male voice calls. Bane, one of my favorite tavern guards, leans against the rough stone wall, toasting a half-empty pint of mead with his only remaining arm. The other, as he proudly boasts, is lost somewhere on the bottom of the Jargaron Sea from his sailing days.
Row, another favorite guard of mine, pushes Bane from behind in a friendly way that speaks to their years working together.
Row stands taller than Bane, shaved head gleaming in the sconce’s flickering light.
His tall, barrel-chested stature is quite daunting if you don’t know his soft spot for dandelions and sweet berry jam.
Like a crusted sugar puff, Row may seem harsh on the outside, but his inside is all soft and gooey.
It has been my personal goal to bring out more of that inner fluff Row so carefully hides.
“We’ll be watching from the back,” Row says.
Bane leans forward, lowering his voice. “Got that dagger I gave you?”
“Right here.” I kick my leg forward from underneath my dress, flashing my neatly laced boots where a silver dagger is safely tucked away. With the recent Underling attacks in Brown Oak and Ashwood, I’m thankful for the additional protection hidden in my boot… though I have no clue how to use it.
“Good,” they say in unison.
The wall clock chimes and my heart skips a beat. “I have to get going. Marrow is expecting me on stage!”
I rush through the swinging door into the main hall and halt at the sight. The tavern is packed .
Carefully, I weave through the crowded main hall, buoyant with laughter and clanking mugs in celebration of the harvest season.
People are spilling out into the aisles, eyes drifting toward the small stage where my mentor and Master Teller, Marrow, sits tuning his fiddle.
His long golden-gray hair is tied in a knot at the base of his neck.
Shoulders relaxed and eyes crinkled at the edges from a lifetime of smiles, Marrow is completely at home on the stage as he adjusts each string to pitch.
One day, I’ll be as comfortable as him on stage , I promise myself. A knot tightens in my stomach, reminding me that today—in fact—is not that day.
I huff in annoyance at my own nerves and make my way to Marrow, stopping on the side of the small stage, still elevated from the rest of the hall.
“There are a lot of people here tonight.” I gulp, feeling so small against the sea of faces. People from all over the northern Midland region have poured into Goldenpine for the festival. My hands are shaking, so I hide them behind my back, but I know they’re still there, betraying me.
Marrow senses my unease. “I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this, but I’m very proud of you.
” He leans over from his stool, squeezes my shoulder, and smiles.
Not the smile he gives during performances, but a private one.
He’s always had a knack for what to say, like earlier today, when he found me in the basement having a panic attack.
He was able to ground me within minutes.
I imagine that is what a father might do.
Before I can respond, he continues, “Ho! I almost forgot. I have something for you.” Marrow pats his green patchwork cloak, a hard-earned possession that designates the station of a Master Teller from a Prentice like me.
Each patch is embroidered with scenes depicted with stories from across the ages. An anthology of sorts.
Marrow pulls out an empty square of deep green fabric from an inner pocket.
It’s a piece of a Teller cloak… an empty patch with no embroidery!
“This is for you.” He hands me the patch.
“I don’t understand…” Surely, he cannot mean to give this to me just yet. This would signal that he thinks I’m ready to begin my ascent to the mastery level of Telling.
“It’s your patch, Akemi, for a Teller cloak of your own.” He places the small square of fabric in my hands. “I want you to take it. As a reminder to be bold.” A slow smile spreads as he likely takes in my utterly shocked appearance. “You are destined for greatness.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
“I just do.” He winks. “I’ve seen enough sunrises to know the beginnings of a story when I see one. Only you are holding yourself back.”
Marrow’s words strike a chord in the center of my being. How can he believe in me, when I don’t even myself? I tuck the patch into my brown corset belt, its physical presence a token of his confidence.
“You will do great. Remember, I’ll be right here the whole time.” He offers me a comforting smile. “Now, I’m going to start with a song, then introduce you to Tell. After tonight, once you get more comfortable with Telling, we can move into songs for future performances.”
“That’s assuming I make it through tonight still intact,” I grumble, but a part of me is looking forward to singing. There is something so freeing about it.
“You will,” he says knowingly, arching a bushy brow.
“You’re right. I’ll stop being so negative. Tonight, I’m going to wow all of Midland with my incredible Telling abilities. Maybe even replace the resident Master Teller.”
“Ho! Coming for my position now? That escalated quickly.” Marrow chuckles as he places the fiddle under his chin, then closes his eyes, centering himself.
Then, after a few seconds of complete stillness, Marrow begins.
He plays a long, resonant note followed by a pattern of notes.
A call and response of sorts. His fingers dance across the fiddle, quickening in pace.
Once the song finally settles into a new, faster rhythm, patrons tap their feet and pat their thighs, blissfully unaware of their own visceral reactions to the music.
They follow along his melodic journey, entranced, bright tones washing over them.
I’m just as enthralled as the audience.
Just as people begin to clap their hands and stand, Marrow stops as suddenly as he started. Leaving us all hanging in suspense.
A hundred eyes blink with anticipation.
The front tavern doors creak loudly as Nickel slips into the room characteristically at the last minute. He smiles broadly at me. Good luck , he mouths. My cheeks heat.
Nic is a handsome Midlander. He inherited the region’s taller stature, broad shoulders, dark hair, and warm brown eyes.
My blush deepens recalling last night’s escapades in his one-room hunting cabin in the outskirts of town.
This was our arrangement. To seek physical relief without the pressure of a formal relationship.
Some nights are uniquely passionate, but most times, our sex is just to relieve that itch.
Marrow clears his throat.
“Hello to all, and all, hello!” Marrow spares no dramatics. “My name is Marrow, Master Storyteller.” A few gasps of surprise come from the crowd, many of them having never attended a Master Teller’s performance. Especially those who came from distant, rural Midland towns.
As if to emphasize the mystique, the sky breaks open and releases a thunder clap so loud it shakes tableware. Lanterns flicker and pop. A couple people startle in their seats, their yelps earning a mixture of chuckles and hisses from the other listeners.
Marrow continues with a smirk. “Tonight, I will debut a new song.”
Murmurs and whispers erupt as the crowd can no longer contain their excitement.
To be in-person at the debut of a song from a Master Teller is like knowing you’re living through history.
A distant rumble of thunder shakes the windows.
A gust of wind flickers out one of the lanterns next to the stage, lighting Marrow from the side in an unworldly glow. A server rushes to relight it.