Patricia McKillip - The Bards of Bone Plain

It was, as we can guess, the beginnings of the great city that later became the official residence of the rulers of Belden.

At the same time, it must have seemed a magical place, in which all the music of the five kingdoms might be heard, and, along with the bards, came their audience to listen and marvel at the best that Belden had to offer.

But before that, the fading shadow of winter left a stranger in its wake, an elusive, ambiguous figure sighted only briefly, at a tangent, in the poetry of the time, and in history only between the lines.

The stranger came at the forefront of the flow of musicians on the plain, so soon after Declan had sent out word of the competition that it seemed only the trees and stones of Stirl Plain could have gotten the word any earlier. Sometime afterwards, Nairn realized that was exactly so; earlier, he was simply surprised at the efficiency of Declan’s methods. The bard spoke; the harper appeared almost before the moon had decided to change the expression on her face.

The students of the Circle of Days had grown oddly closer since Drue’s death. With all their spiky differences and sharp opinions, they were bound not only by an ancient, secret language, but by a vision of the breathtaking randomness of life: not even they, possessing the oldest name for death, could see it coming. Sometime during the ebb of the endless winter, they had begun to meet, in the evening once or twice a week, at the tavern Shea’s father the brewer had built on the other side of the river. They drank his ale, drew runes with burned twigs on his rackety tables and in the ashes sifting out of the grate, and challenged one another obliquely, in one language, to answer with the patterns of another.

Nairn, still struggling with the power and deadly potential of the ancient words, played their tavern games cautiously and ventured few opinions about what value Master Declan’s list of words might have when the students finally learned them all. They had no clue, Nairn learned with wonder. The thought that he had flung his heart into a burning icicle and sent it plunging down onto Drue’s oblivious head would never have crossed their minds.

“Do you think they would have believed you if you had blamed yourself?” Declan asked succinctly when Nairn had come to explain to him how Drue died. “You’re the crofter’s son who sang his first songs to the pigs in the sty, and who can barely write his own name. You couldn’t claim such power without having to prove it, and how would you do that with all the fear that festers in you now? Drue’s death was an accident. Let it lie.”

“And lie and lie,” Nairn retorted bitterly, white with horror and pacing circles around the bard in his work chamber. The golden eyes flashed at him, but Declan stayed silent. “And you’re right. I am afraid, now. I don’t know enough to know how to be careful. It was like killing someone with a love song you were playing to someone else entirely. Death was the last thing on my mind. Then it was all.”

“Accept it. It happened. Learn from it so that it never happens again.”

“I could just stop. Just. Stop. I don’t need magic. Only my harp and the road—”

“You have gone too far, learned too much, to return to innocence,” Declan said evenly. “Better to learn to control your great power than to carry such potential for disaster around with you and always be afraid of it.” Nairn opened his mouth; the bard, reading his expression or his mind, interrupted. “Think,” he urged. “You can live in ignorance and uncertainty, or with the knowledge and the certainty that you will never kill again without intent. Either way, you must live with the power. With yourself. Think. Then tell me what you want.”

The bard was right, Nairn realized as days passed. About that, and about the other thing: his fellow students of the Circle of Days would have fallen out of their chairs laughing over Nairn’s pretensions and arrogance if he had tried to claim Drue’s death.

None of them, not even Nairn, noticed the stranger in the tavern when he first appeared. Nairn’s eyes wandered toward a dark mass at a table in the shadows that was farthest from the fire. Something about it, or within it, made his glance glide over it as though it were a bench or a floorboard, a thing too familiar to bother naming. They were all nearing the bottom of their first beers, and wildly guessing, since Shea’s father was back in the brewery and they seemed the only company, what mysteries lay hidden within the twig-words, when out of nowhere came the unmistakable sound of a harp being tuned.

They all jumped. Osprey knocked over the last of his beer. The man in the shadows, his craggy face oddly visible now above the harp in his broad, blunt hands, spoke first as they stared.

“You’re students of his, then? Master Declan? The one who called the competition?”

Shea swallowed audibly, then cleared her throat of any remnants of twig language. “Yes,” she said, and, unwontedly flustered, she got to her feet and barked for her father. “Da! Company!”

“Coming!” her father bellowed back briskly.

“You got here fast,” Osprey remarked, righting his mug.

“I was passing across the plain.” His voice was deep and gravelly, a sough of stones dragged in the undertow. “Am I first, then?”

“But for us,” Blayse answered pointedly, and a smile, or a sudden flare of light from the fire, glided over the man’s face.

“But for you. You were here first.” He thumbed a string, then raised his brows uncertainly. “I doubt you’ll want to spare a coin for my harping, being bards yourselves, then. But I’m all out, and as dry as any stone.”

“Play if you want,” Shea answered, shrugging. “Others might come in and think you’re worth—”

“Play,” Nairn said abruptly, interrupting her. “I’ll buy you a beer.”

“Me, too,” the genial Osprey echoed, and the man’s smile was more than illusion, this time.

“That’s good of you,” he murmured.

His fingers seemed a trifle stiff on the strings, as though he had not played in some time. But his notes were sweet and true. Nairn, listening intently as was his habit, heard the familiar phrase now and then, but always it wandered off in an unexpected direction. Wherever he had learned his music, it was not in the Marches, nor in any kingdom Nairn had passed through, including Stirl Plain. It sounded old to him: simple and lovely and haunted with ghosts of music he knew.

“Where are you from?” he asked, when the brewer had brought the harper his beer. He waited while the man drank half of it. Somewhere past young, he looked, hale and brawny as a blacksmith; his leather boots and trousers were old and stained with travel. His dark hair and the stubble on his chin were streaked with white. His harp seemed worn as well, plain and scarred with time, like the harper. He had strange eyes, both blue, but one pale and one dark, as though he saw out of one by day and the other by twilight. Both held the same narrowed, curious expression; both seemed always on the verge of smiling.

The man set his tankard down finally. “Upriver.”

“Upriver. The Stirl?”

He nodded. “At the northernmost edge of the plain. My name is Welkin.”

“You walked a ways. I don’t suppose you’re hungry as well?”