(Here are Part 1 and Part 2 of the story for those of you who need to get caught up. On to the good stuff...)
I have not been a troubadour my entire life. In the days of Ducca Narula, people thought that those born blind were blessed by the Ancestors with other gifts. Stronger senses of touch and smell, a more powerful memory. An ability to thin the veil between this world and the world of the spirits. Thus, in the beginning, the troubadour was seen as a bridge between two worlds. And they were always blind.
As the fashion for our tales grew, concessions were made. One no longer had to be blind to enter our guild. But the highest ranks were reserved for those born blind, or who had proven their dedication to their art by blinding themselves.
I fall into neither camp. I was born into a life of privilege, the only child of the first house of the Hespera. If I had been born a female, I would have been guaranteed a place on the Ducca's Council. Being a mere male, I had everything I could want handed to me and precious little responsibility. When I as your age, the clan mother was looking into mating me with one of the other great merchant clans. My only purpose in life, to increase the power of my clan.
Then the fever hit me.
The shamaness assigned to our clan had never seen anything like it. My fur fell out in patches, to be replaced by great, weeping sores. I trembled and thrashed so much that they tied me to the bed to keep me from harming myself or those who cared for me. I raved in my delirium, terrible curses and utter nonsense, until I had screamed myself hoarse. It was even worse when the sores began to scab. They say that the scabs on the insides of my eyelids were what caused my blindness.
They were wrong.
Three weeks into my illness, the clan had almost given up on me. Even the greatest healer among the shamanesses did not know what to do except make me more comfortable. I had wasted away until you could see my bones through my skin. The last night, I collapsed into a black oblivion. And I had a dream unlike any I had dreamed before or since.
In that dark space, a lioness appeared, her fur so white it seemed to glow. She was achingly beautiful, but not in a way that one would strive to possess her. I have never since heard a voice more musical than hers.
"You are at the threshold of death."
I knew that she spoke the truth. And I knew that I did not want to die.
"I can restore your life. But there will be a price. For such a gift to be given you, something also must be taken away. And you must find a way to give to another the gift I am giving you."
I hardly understood what she was saying. How could I? I was a spoiled young male, little more than a cub. Of course I agreed to her terms. And then she began to sing.
I would give my eyesight three times over, and all my limbs too, if I could but sing as the white lioness sang. I felt a coolness penetrate my bones as she sang, but the coolness warmed me from the inside out. As my body warmed, the darkness lifted, until my entire awareness glowed the same warm white as the lioness. She touched my cheek, and before she disappeared into the whiteness completely, she whispered in my ear.
"Remember your promise."
And then I woke up. I remember asking for water. My clan mother was in the room, discussing funeral arrangements with the shamaness. I gave them quite a turn, I can tell you.
I would not say that my healing was instantaneous. I still bear scars from the sores. But I should not have lived at all. As my strength returned, it became clear that my eyesight never would. I had plenty of time to consider what to do with myself as I healed. While I convalesced, my clan mother brought in various individuals to entertain me. Sometimes it was simply a clan aunt skilled in conversation, or one of the local storytellers. I do not know what suggested her to hire a troubadour, but she did.
Those songs of great struggle and sacrifice touched me to the core. Perhaps I even heard in them a faint echo of the white lioness's song. Before he had finished, I had flung myself to the floor, clasped his knees, and begged him to take me on as his apprentice.
When the matter was explained to my clan mother, she agreed that it was an acceptable solution to my...condition. She even seemed eager to pay the guild price. Though past the age when most troubadours began their apprenticeship, I threw myself into my studies. Even my master was impressed by my progress. I soon was the singer while he accompanied me. Five years only into my labors, I recited the entire Baaltor Cycle before the Council of Masters without a single error.
I was named the youngest troubadour master in living master. I even went through the ritual of bathing my eyes with moonflower's milk, figuring that I could damage them no further.
To my great surprise, I found my services in high demand, in all quarters of the city. I even performed in the Stronghold of the Breastless Ones, the only male I know of to have ever set foot in those precincts and lived to tell the tale. They showered me with gifts for my rendition of "The Flaying of Baaltor."
It was not a lonely life. You may not belief it now, but I was considered quite a handsome male in my prime. In spite of my blindness, I did my duty to make sure my clan and house lines did not die out. Duties I performed gladly. I never heard any complaints from the females either.
But all during this life of success, I had my memory of the white lioness and her twofold price. I hardly missed my sight any longer. My memory was vast. My senses of touch and hearing and smell and taste were honed to a fine edge. In the end I had given up very little.
Yet I had not found a way to give to another the gift that had been given to me. Truth be told, I was perhaps not looking as hard as I should have been. Then, an evening twenty years ago, I was on my way back to my lodgings from this very teahouse. I was half-drunk -- perhaps more than half -- and singing a song under my breath as I walked. Not part of the Cycle. A bawdy air one of the teahouse hostesses had bawled in my ear after my performance as she was trying to--
Well, never mind that. The important thing to remember is that my promise to the white lioness was the furthest thing from my thoughts when I heard a sound. High pitched and discordant, I shook off the ugly sound and was about to walk on when I heard it again. I realized then what it was. The mewling of a newborn cub.
I cocked my ears and tracked down the sound as best I could. Each time the cry sounded more softly, until it ceased altogether. I had no idea where my steps had led me by this point. I scented the air and received a muzzle full of the scents of refuse and rotting garbage. I was in an alley in a poorer district used for a dumping ground. And underneath the scents of that awful place was the smell of a living being.
I set aside my lute and my staff and made my way through the piles of refuse. Rages, half-eaten food, night filth, things I don't even want to think about brushed against my fur. At last I found the babe. Under the filth, he had the scent of a male cub. He was scarcely larger than my two paws. He did not seem to be breathing. I swept garbage from his mouth with my finger and tapped him on the back until he coughed and then wailed.
He had powerful lungs even then. I realized there, kneeling in the refuse, that this is what the white lioness had meant. This was the second part of the bargain. I would prove that my life had been worth saving by saving the life I held in my paws. I would take him on as my apprentice, and he would surpass me in my art.
The cub sealed his agreement by pissing on my robe.
Of course I had no idea what I had volunteered to do. I soon realized I had no talent with infants. But my performances paid well enough that I could hire a wetnurse and nanny. I don't know what she thought of me as I insisted she teach me what she could of her skills. I sold my fine lodgings near the Citadel, and most of my possessions, so I could live in simpler quarters closer to the nurse. The quarters we now share I shared with him. And every night I sang the cub to sleep with selections from the Baaltor Cycle. His first word spoken was "Estraal."
Clean and well-fed, he grew to be a beautiful lad. Everyone told me so, and I knew he had to be. A cub that good would have to be beautiful as well. He followed me everywhere I went, to the delight of some of my female patrons, though not all. I was asked to perform less often than previously, but that did not matter. I had my Tomal, and he was my world.
He never had your skill with the lute, but his voice... I admit a strong bias, but his voice was the closest I've ever heard on this plane to the voice of the white lioness. He never faltered. He never forgot a word to any song I taught him. If I could but get him to play the lute, he would have been the lord of the troubadour.
I did not realize then how much he hated the instrument. But he did his best, in order to please me. He sang for some of my patrons and won hearts wherever he sang. At first it was the novelty of a cub so young in the apprentice robes. But he grew up fast, as cubs are wont to do. Soon he filled the robes, a beautiful cub becoming a handsome young male. It was he, not I, that turned heads at our performances. He kept himself aloof from female attention, polite to all, giving his heart to none.
Seven years ago... At last I judged his progress with the lute sufficient for a public performance. Mistress Melina graciously offered this hall. Preparations were made. I at last told Tomal that all was ready for his debut.
He was very quiet for a long moment. Then he told me he would not do it.
"What? You are ready, more than ready. You've played Mistress Melina's hall many times. You have nothing to fear."
Oh, the heat in his voice. "I'm not doing it, Rufeo. I am through."
I reached for his shoulder. He shrugged off my paw. "Tomal."
"I'm tired of singing about the adventures of others. I want to have my own adventures."
He walked out into the evening. I haven't spoken to him since...