Recluce Tales by L. E. Modesitt Jr

Author:L. E. Modesitt, Jr.
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

IX

Bard sings after dinner every evening for over an eightday. He always sings the first song to the Marshal, and all the others to the guards.

He still dreams the dreams of what he must bring to pass, and he often wakes in the travelers’ quarters drenched in sweat and shivering. The smell of that sweat nauseates him, and he must wash up completely and frequently, despite the bone-numbing chill of the water.

On sixday evening, the Marshal stops him after half a glass and motions him to the dais and to a chair placed beside her.

“You sing far too well for a traveling minstrel.”

“I will admit I do not travel often. This past half year has been the first in a very long time. I have stayed here longer than anywhere else.”

“Do you wish to leave?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I am here to sing for you.”

The Marshal looks to the healer, who nods, almost sadly. The Marshal looks back to him. “Then … perhaps I should let you. You may accompany me.” She stands.

He immediately does as well, then walks beside her, if a half pace back, as she climbs the stone steps to the upper level and a sitting room behind a heavy oak door.

The two guards position themselves just inside the door.

She seats herself in a leather upholstered straight armchair.

He takes a lower stool from the wall and places it several yards from her.

“You’re not as old as you look,” says the Marshal, a faint smile tingeing her lips.

“Far older in some ways, younger in others.” Otherwise you would not find me here.

“You’ve circled much of Candar to gain my attention. Why?”

“The simplest and most honest answer is because I must.” His reply is also totally true.

“From one like you, that is indeed a compliment.”

“To a woman who will determine the entire future of the world, it is a fact.”

“Do you ever lie?”

“No … except … I do not always tell all I know.”

“Truth is the most deceiving of lies.”

“It is.”

“How are you deceiving me?”

“I’ve tried not to deceive you about why I am here.”

“Why is that?”

“To sing to you, so that what can be, will be.”

“Then … you should sing.”

Without another word, he eases the guitar into position and begins.

Catch a falling fire; hold it to the skies,

Never let it die away,

For love may come and fill your lonely eyes

With the light of more than day …

With the words and the silvered notes from the strings, he weaves truth into the song, as much as he can.

Her eyes are bright when he finishes.

“Perhaps a song more appropriate to…,” he suggests.

“The season? Of course. Since it is almost harvest…”

When the plains grass whispers gold

When the red blooms flower bold—

The Marshal holds up her hand and looks to the two guards. “You can leave now.”

The younger immediately rises. The older offers an inquiring glance.

The Marshal merely nods. She does not speak until the door to the chamber is closed and the echo of boots on the stone steps has faded. “Where did you learn that song?”

“From my grandmother … quite some time ago.

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