Саймон Хоук: The Broken Blade

Turin stared at her thoughtfully for a moment, then pursed his lips and nodded. “You may be right, at that,” he said. “Well, that bard should be finishing up his song by now, so I’ll need to go and start the show.” He grinned. “There’s nothing like a bard to get things rolling. By the time he’s finished, they’ll be dying for some real entertainment. It’s a hungry crowd. Let’s really drive them wild tonight.”

“That I can do,” said Cricket.

Turin went back out into the main room, then Cricket heard the clamor of the crowd as the bard finished his recitation and Turin took the stage to announce the first dancer.

A moment later, the beaded curtain parted, and Edric the bard came in, looking weary and exasperated. He was dressed as usual in a loose-fitting gray tunic belted at the waist, use-worn breeches of brown leather, and soft, high-topped moccasin boots. So far as Cricket knew, they were the only clothes he owned. With a heavy sigh, he put down his harp and eased his long, lean, elven frame into a chair, running a hand through shoulder-length silver hair.

“Tough crowd tonight?” asked Cricket sympathetically.

Edric grimaced. “Indifferent to the point of pain,” he said, his voice heavy with frustration. “It was like trying to sing into a sandstorm. I don’t know why I bothered taking this job. It’s you girls they come to see, not me. They talked and shouted throughout the entire performance. Still, at least they didn’t throw things. That’s something to be thankful for, I suppose.”

“I’m sorry, Edric,” Cricket said. “You deserve a more appreciative audience.”

“Well, I fear I won’t find one here,” said Edric wryly.

“Why not sing for me, then? There is still time before I have to go on stage.” She tossed him a coin. “Sing for me, Edric.”

He caught the coin adroitly. “There is no need for this, Cricket,” he said. “I would be glad to sing for you for nothing.”

“And I am glad to pay,” she said. “I can afford it, and an artist should be rewarded for his efforts.”

Edric smiled and picked up his harp. “Very well, then. Is there a special song you would like to hear?”

“Sing for me “The Song of Alaron,’” she said. “Not the whole ballad—there isn’t enough time. Sing the sad part, about the fall and the prophecy.”

“Ah,” said Edric, nodding. “An excellent choice. I have not sung that one in quite a while.”

“You still recall it?”

“How could I not? I am an elf,” he said with a smile as his long fingers delicately plucked the harp. Cricket sat back in her chair and closed her eyes, and Edric began to sing, reciting the words with a measured cadence in a deep, mellifluent voice.

“And so it came to pass that the noble Alaron, last of the long and honored line of elven kings, was cursed by the evil Rajaat, who feared the power of the elves and sought to sow disunity among them. With his defiler magic, Rajaat cast a spell upon the noble Alaron, so that he could sire no sons, and so the royal line would die out with him. And the evil that he wrought upon our people is with us to this day. May his name live long in infamy.”

“May his name live long in infamy,” Cricket repeated softly, as was the custom when the song was performed around the elven campfires in the desert. Edric smiled and continued.

“Rajaat then sowed discord among the tribes, using bribery, deceit, and magic, and in time, he succeeded in driving the tribes apart into many warring factions. Only the noble Alaron resisted him, but he was unable to bring the tribes together once again.

“And so the kingdom fell.”

“And so the kingdom fell,” said Cricket, nodding with her eyes still closed. And Edric went on.

“Then the noble Alaron was forced to flee, pursued by Rajaat’s evil minions. They caught up to him and the remnants of his tribe at a place called the Lake of Golden Dreams, and it was there the dream died for our people. A mighty battle followed, and all the tribe was slain. Mortally wounded, the noble Alaron alone escaped into the forests of the Ringing Mountains.

“There, he fell down in despair and waited for death to come claim him. He had done his utmost, and he had failed, but he had not bowed down to the foe. May his courage be remembered.”

“May his courage be remembered,” Cricket echoed with feeling. Edric nodded, plucking out the notes of the refrain, and then went on.

“And it came to pass that as he lay dying, a wandering pyreen came upon him and stopped to bring him peace and ease his final moments. With his last breath, the noble Alaron gave her his sword, the mighty Galdra, enchanted blade of elven kings. With his last breath, he asked one final boon of her.

“‘Take this, my sword, the symbol of my once-proud people,’ he said to her. ‘Keep it safe, so that it should never fall into the hands of the defilers, for the blade would shatter if they tried to use it. I was cursed never to have a son,’ he said, ‘and a proud tradition dies with me. The elves are now a beaten people. Take Galdra and keep it safe. My life is but the blink of an eye to a pyreen such as you. Perhaps, someday, you will succeed where I have failed, and find an elf worthy of this blade. If not, hide it from the defilers. I can at least deny them this.’

“And with those words, he died. And so the kingdom of the elves died with him.”

“And so the kingdom of the elves died with him,” Cricket repeated, her voice tinged with sadness. Edric’s fingers plucked out a dirge of soft chords as he continued.

“And our people became decadent, and the tribes scattered far and wide, most to live as nomads in the desert, raiding and stealing from both humans and each other, forsaking their honor. Others went to live in the cities of humans, where they engaged in commerce with them and mixed their blood with theirs and forgot the glory of their once-proud race.

“And yet, a tiny spark of hope remained, nurtured in the hearts of our people. That faintly glowing spark was the legend of the Crown of Elves, passed on through the generations. To most, it was merely a myth, a story told by elven bards around campfires to while away lonely desert nights and bring a few moments of solace in the squalid elven quarters of the cities, where our people lived in poverty and degradation. But to all, it was a glimmer of hope. And thus we recall the legend.”

“And thus we recall the legend,” Cricket said softly. They were both caught up in spirit of the song, and the noise from the main room seemed to recede into the distance as Edric played and sang.

“There shall come a day, the legend says, when a chieftain’s seventh son shall fall and rise again, and from his rise, a new life shall begin. From this new life will spring a new hope for our people, and it shall be the Crown of Elves, by which a great, good ruler will be crowned, one who will bring back the elven forest homeland. The Crown shall reunite the people, and a new dawn shall bring the greening of the world. “So it is said, so it shall be.”

“So it is said, so it shall be,” Cricket echoed, her eyes shining. Edric plucked out the final chords, took a deep breath, and exhaled heavily, then put down his harp. For a moment, they simply sat in silence.

“Thank you,” Cricket said finally, her voice barely a whisper.

“No, thank you ,” said Edric. “It has been too long since I have sung that song. And it is good to have another share it.”

“Even a half-elf?” Cricket said, somewhat rueful.

Edric reached out and placed his hand on her knee. She allowed the contact, for she knew it meant merely friendship. “The same elven blood flows through both our veins, my dear.”

“Only yours is pure, while mine is mixed.”