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such as this, he knew. It was as if they didn't know that speaking in a public place made their words public as well. If the men had truly wanted privacy then they would have been speaking elsewhere. There was little harm, the minstrel thought, in listening to bar-talk. Few things of value were spoken in a place like this.
The minstrel did not look up from his harp as heavy boot-treads crossed the floor, made heavier, and louder, with the owners' irritation. The combined breathing of the men who towered over him was loud in the minstrel's ears, but he paid them no mind, lending his attention, instead, to a new tune, one that echoed with the song of the trees in the spring time. It was a haunting song, and its sweet sound filled the inn.

"Got a problem?" One of the men demanded, roughly pulling the minstrel's arm away from the harp, making the strings jangle in discord. The minstrel looked calmly up at him, a slight frown touching his features. The man glowered back. "You been staring at us?"
"Seili?" The minstrel asked, concern touching his face. He subtly shifted his harp back, out of danger, should there be trouble. "Neit compren."
"Don't bother with him, Divin," the other man said, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder in a firm grip. He had a nice, round face, and wasn't looking for trouble. He shook his friend's shoulder lightly. "Looks like he's one of them woods-people, the Rhiathon, you know. He doesn't speak anything but wood-speak. He's not worth any trouble. Come on back to the bar and have another drink."
The minstrel listened hard, his brows dropping low in concentration, trying to understand what the man was saying. The only word out of the bunch that the minstrel had understood was Rhiathon' and surely that was what he was, though that left no explanation for the man's gruff manner. Being Rhiathon was hardly a crime, though it might as well have been with the way he had been treated since leaving the woods. He nervously loosened a harp string and fiddled with tightening it again. He did not want any trouble, though it seemed to have chosen him as a traveling companion ever since he had left the green haven of the woods.
Divin threw off his friend's arm, his face turning, if possible, even redder than it had been before. He was a young-looking man, despite the heaviness of his face, and had the physique of a man who had labored hard all of his life. He did not look to be someone to be reckoned with. He scowled at his friend. "He's been staring at

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