The Fandyr’s Riddle

@syrdon

The great hall of the Narts smells of roast mutton and pine resin; firelight jumps along the felt walls and stains the bronze cauldrons red. Syrdon sits apart on a low stool, the twelve-stringed fandyr cradled against his chest, and his fingers move over the strings without yet waking a note. His pale eyes have not left you since the door closed behind you. “Your father’s seat is warm tonight,” he says softly. “Shall we see whose pride is heavier — his, or the answer I am about to ask of you?”