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If you see any words that are ***, that means it's something I have yet to name, or something I have to look up. Can't stop the writing for something as trivial as naming something!
Chapter 3: Birili
The city of Mirone was built among the foothills of the rugged Icetooth Mountains, laid into the folds of land in a haphazard fashion, as if some giant's child had tossed a bunch of blocks into a shallow crevice. High above it, on one of the hills which led to the base of Mount Relma, was the Bard Hall. The ancient Hall was rectangular and built on severe lines, with little adornment. This was deliberate, as the long-ago builders's philosophy was to minimize distractions caused by man and allow music to flow unhindered. The Hall had shifting walls that allowed it to be warm in the winter and cool in the summer, and acres of woodland and meadow spread above and to either side of the building. The deep porch at the front offered a spectacular view down the slope to the quaint town, past winding streams, fields, and vineyards.
A woman named Birili sat on the porch, crosslegged, a hand harp in her lap and paper, quill and ink beside her, the paper held down by a rock. She had pulled her dark hair back and secured it in a ponytail, but curls had escaped around her temples. The end of one of these locks was in her mouth, being absently chewed as she tried again to catch the song the breeze was telling her.
There, she smiled, and jotted a few more notes onto the paper. That's it. She looked up, wondering if she should go up into the trees to find the cascade of notes that should follow those few, playful ones. She had plenty of time.
Birili considered herself the luckiest woman in the world. Where other harpers were forced to study and to compose their masterwork while also earning their keep, Birili had won the love of Bard Wari, and now, as his wife, was a resident of the Hall as long as it pleased her. Which would be forever, most likely, as Wari despised travel and she hated to be parted from him even for a day. Here, in the quiet of these beautiful natural surroundings, she believed her masterwork could become unique. She had not yet decided what to call it – Voice of the Wind, perhaps – and she knew she must go to the sea eventually to find the wind song of a great storm, but that was in the future. For now, she was building the basic construction, as a man might frame a barn. She was in no hurry. She couldn't afford to hurry, because nothing could prejudice your chances to rise to become a bard more than a sloppy masterwork.
A soft hum let her know that someone approached from behind. The bards and harpers resident in the Hall accorded each other the gift of silence, so no one made unnecessary sound unless they wanted attention. She glanced back and smiled at her husband as he came to sit behind her, his legs framing hers, his chest to her back. With one arm around her shoulders, he reached for the paper with the other hand. "No, you don't," she laughed, covering the paper with a spread palm.
"Too quick for me." He put his other arm around her and rested his chin on her shoulder. "I would not be a harsh critic, love."
She flicked her fingers through his hair, watching the silver sparkles as the sun hit the grey streaks. "No, but a single word from you could change it utterly, and it would no longer be mine."
"I don't have that kind of power."
"But you do. You know you do. And no one must ever believe that I became a bard because I was your wife."
"No one would think that."
"Everyone would, who did not know us. It must be mine only. I will take my chances with the college."
"Stubborn."