then I would revive every last blade of grass I could find. First, however, I needed to do something else. I needed to find my own mother again. And, like Honn, I would do everything in my mortal power to succeed.
5: T HE J ESTER
Late the following day, as strands of golden light wove gleaming threads through the grasses of the Rusted Plains, I stood on the crest of a rise. Below me sat a cluster of mud brick houses, arranged in a rough circle. Their thatched roofs glowed as bright as the surrounding plains. Long wooden planks stretched between their walls, connecting the houses like the arms of young children standing in a ring. The aroma of grain roasting on a wood fire tickled my nose.
I felt rising anticipation—and an undercurrent of dread. For this was Caer Neithan, the Town of the Bards. I knew that the poet Cairpré had promised to come here following the Great Council, to help repair the damage inflicted by Stangmar. And I also knew that if there was one person in all of Fincayra who could help me find my mother, it was Cairpré himself.
He would not be pleased to see me again, with so much of my work still unfinished. Yet he, too, had known Elen of the Sapphire Eyes, having tutored her years ago. I believed that he, too, longed for her return. Hadn’t he once told me that he had learned more about the art of healing from her than she had ever learned from him? Maybe, just maybe, he might know some way to bring her through the curtain of mist surrounding this island. Then, reunited with her at last, I could finish my work in the Dark Hills with a glad heart.
I descended the slope, my staff striking the crusty soil in time to the Harp thumping against my back. Listening to the swelling sounds of the village, I could not forget the eerie silence that had shrouded it during my last visit. A silence that had been, in its way, louder than a thundering tempest.
Indeed, the Town of the Bards had only rarely known silence. No settlement in Fincayra possessed a richer history of story and song. For over the ages it had been home to many of this land’s most inspired storytellers, and had witnessed many of their first performances. Even Cairpré himself, whose fame as a poet I had learned about only from others, had been born in one of those mud brick houses.
As I drew nearer to the village gates, which gleamed with golden light, more people started to emerge from their doors. Clad in long tunics of white cloth, they stood out sharply against the dry, caked mud of their homes, the dark planks of wood connecting the buildings, and the empty flower boxes clinging to most windowsills. I reached for the Harp, tempted to fill those flower boxes with something more than shadows. But I caught myself, deciding to wait before announcing my arrival.
More and more people emerged. They looked strikingly different from one another in skin color, age, hair, shape, and size. Yet they shared one common characteristic, in addition to their white tunics. All of them seemed hesitant, uncertain about something. Instead of congregating in the open circle in the middle of the houses, they kept to the outer edge. A few stood by their doorways, pacing anxiously, but most sat down on the wooden planks that ringed the open area. They seemed to be gathering for some purpose, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something grudging about their actions.
At that moment, a tall, gaunt fellow, wearing a brown cloak over his tunic, stepped into the center of the ring. Upon his head rested an odd, three-cornered hat that tilted precariously to one side like someone who had drunk too much wine. Dozens of gleaming metal spheres dangled from the hat’s rim. The man began waving his long, spidery arms, flapping his loose sleeves, while bellowing some words I could not quite make out.
At once I understood the circular arrangement of the houses. The whole town was a theater! And I had arrived in time for some sort of performance.
As I
5: T HE J ESTER
Late the following day, as strands of golden light wove gleaming threads through the grasses of the Rusted Plains, I stood on the crest of a rise. Below me sat a cluster of mud brick houses, arranged in a rough circle. Their thatched roofs glowed as bright as the surrounding plains. Long wooden planks stretched between their walls, connecting the houses like the arms of young children standing in a ring. The aroma of grain roasting on a wood fire tickled my nose.
I felt rising anticipation—and an undercurrent of dread. For this was Caer Neithan, the Town of the Bards. I knew that the poet Cairpré had promised to come here following the Great Council, to help repair the damage inflicted by Stangmar. And I also knew that if there was one person in all of Fincayra who could help me find my mother, it was Cairpré himself.
He would not be pleased to see me again, with so much of my work still unfinished. Yet he, too, had known Elen of the Sapphire Eyes, having tutored her years ago. I believed that he, too, longed for her return. Hadn’t he once told me that he had learned more about the art of healing from her than she had ever learned from him? Maybe, just maybe, he might know some way to bring her through the curtain of mist surrounding this island. Then, reunited with her at last, I could finish my work in the Dark Hills with a glad heart.
I descended the slope, my staff striking the crusty soil in time to the Harp thumping against my back. Listening to the swelling sounds of the village, I could not forget the eerie silence that had shrouded it during my last visit. A silence that had been, in its way, louder than a thundering tempest.
Indeed, the Town of the Bards had only rarely known silence. No settlement in Fincayra possessed a richer history of story and song. For over the ages it had been home to many of this land’s most inspired storytellers, and had witnessed many of their first performances. Even Cairpré himself, whose fame as a poet I had learned about only from others, had been born in one of those mud brick houses.
As I drew nearer to the village gates, which gleamed with golden light, more people started to emerge from their doors. Clad in long tunics of white cloth, they stood out sharply against the dry, caked mud of their homes, the dark planks of wood connecting the buildings, and the empty flower boxes clinging to most windowsills. I reached for the Harp, tempted to fill those flower boxes with something more than shadows. But I caught myself, deciding to wait before announcing my arrival.
More and more people emerged. They looked strikingly different from one another in skin color, age, hair, shape, and size. Yet they shared one common characteristic, in addition to their white tunics. All of them seemed hesitant, uncertain about something. Instead of congregating in the open circle in the middle of the houses, they kept to the outer edge. A few stood by their doorways, pacing anxiously, but most sat down on the wooden planks that ringed the open area. They seemed to be gathering for some purpose, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something grudging about their actions.
At that moment, a tall, gaunt fellow, wearing a brown cloak over his tunic, stepped into the center of the ring. Upon his head rested an odd, three-cornered hat that tilted precariously to one side like someone who had drunk too much wine. Dozens of gleaming metal spheres dangled from the hat’s rim. The man began waving his long, spidery arms, flapping his loose sleeves, while bellowing some words I could not quite make out.
At once I understood the circular arrangement of the houses. The whole town was a theater! And I had arrived in time for some sort of performance.
As I
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