“May our people remain free as the hills of Eyrie,
their strength as deep-rooted as the oaks of Lyra.
May their secrets be safe from the winds of Zephyr,
for when the lament of Bardic Mountain throbs through Elegy,
a treasure shall be found in the mountains of Kestrel.”
—Annals of Bardic Prophecy
Chapter 1
High on the cliffs of Bardic Mountain, on the island of Elegy, a kestrel uttered a series of repeated, staccato notes of a single pitch and took flight. He beat his wings into the early summer sky as though pulling himself free of an invisible cord binding him to the lofty peak. His feathers flashed with iridescent splendor in the sun, cornflower blue crowning his head, bronze flowing down his back into the coverts of his wings. As though to emphasis their importance, his primary and secondary feathers were black with white spots, and his tailfeathers were pale blue with broad black bands accenting their snowy tips.
Catching the wind above, the kestrel soared in glorious freedom, for he was young and strong, the largest of his clutch and ready to fly on his own. He sliced a path through the skies above the woods, streams, and fields of Elegy, the largest of the Bardic Isles, heading north to the coast. Far below him on the remote, rocky beach of Bard’s Landing, rock pipits flitted about close to the cliffs, and whistling sandpipers pecked their breakfast from amongst the rocks along the shore. To the southeast the kestrel could see the small port of Tryl, shining like a jewel on the eastern coast. The skies were clear in the dawn of this early summer morning, and at this vantage point he could easily make out the island of Eyrie to the west. To the east the island of Lyra raised its own peak into the sky, as did the smallest island of Zephyr just north of it, though neither peak could compare with the supremacy of Bardic Mountain. The kestrel hovered for a moment, critically inspecting the water beneath him. When nothing of interest moved beneath the translucent surface, he continued his journey north, to the second largest island of the five, and the chain of mountains that came the closest to matching the grandeur of the mountain he had left behind. To his namesake, though he knew it not … the island of Kestrel.
Some time later, the adventuring bird flew swiftly west along the southern slopes of the Skirling Mountains, a series of three peaks in the northwestern part of Kestrel. Nestled against the wooded slopes of the westernmost peak lay the village of Vale, known for its excellent wood carvings. Ignoring the villagers bustling about beneath him, the kestrel flew on, gliding smoothly over the northern trees. Movement below caught his eye and he swooped down to investigate. Perching himself on the branch of a twisted oak tree, he stared down at a young boy crouched at its base. Normally the kestrel would have ignored such a creature, but there was something about this one that captured his attention. The youngster stared intently up at him, and the kestrel felt drawn toward him, pulled by yet another invisible cord, as strong as the one that had resisted his flight from Bardic Mountain. The bird cocked his head, listening to the music emanating from the cord. Had the boy held out his arm, the kestrel would have unhesitatingly flown to it. But the youngster abruptly dropped his gaze and returned to his own business, and the kestrel launched himself back into the skies with a piercing spate of staccatos. He would not forget the boy, nor the song that continued to play in his mind. If ever the boy called to him, he would answer.
Far below, the youngster remained crouched among the twisted roots of the oak. In his hand was a long, narrow bag of sackcloth. Conflicting emotions darkened the youngster’s face as he glanced through the opening at the slender object within. He drew the drawstrings tightly closed, then carefully wrapped the bag in oilcloth. At the place where he knelt, two of the largest roots buckled upwards, and between them a narrow cavity admitted just enough room for his small parcel. The boy pushed his light brown hair out of his eyes and glanced around to make certain of his solitude, then slid the package into its hiding place. He covered it well with leaves, then stood up, brushing dirt from his hands. His amber eyes lingered a moment on the concealing leaves, then he turned resolutely away.
A short time later, he came to a broad dirt road, and headed quickly toward Vale. Had anyone glanced through their windows and seen the approaching figure, they might well have wondered, for the day was young, and the vendors at the marketplace had just begun to organize their wares. A closer look at the slightly built youngster garbed in faded tunic and worn trousers would have elicited wry smiles of recognition. No mysterious visitor, this. It was only, as Holder Gannon often put it, the engaging young scamp whose sole mission in life was to challenge the livelihood of honest Valean vendors. In short, it was only Kaelin.
As the sun rose higher in promise of a fine summer day, the youngster moved among the stalls, deftly complimenting the wares like an expert angler jiggling his line. His observation that the freshness of the rolls in Nyrene’s stall would put those of Sharren’s, on the other end of the marketplace, to shame, earned him one of Nyrene’s warmest smiles and her largest roll besides. The reversed observation, delivered to Sharren, earned the youngster a knowing grin and another roll. A worried comment near the meat stall that one of the rows of spiced meats seemed to have more slices than the others, clearly detracting from the usual artistry of Master Gannon’s platters, made the cobbles ring with Gannon’s hearty laughter.
“Master Gannon now, is it?” he asked good-naturedly, handing the imp the offending slices. “Be off with you, boy! I’ll soon have paying customers to see to. And if you return after school to do any bartering of your own, mind your tongue,” he added sternly. “I’ll be hearing curses aplenty from haggling merchants soon enough, but I’ll be hearing none of them from that young mouth of yours, will I?”
“No, sir!” The youngster quickly moved on.
Finally, a visit to the fruit stall, followed by a rhapsody of praise in the direction of the ripe melons, added a quarter wedge of fruit to the boy’s breakfast. Pleased with his success, Kaelin took his booty and left the village the way he had come, melting unobtrusively into the shadows of the trees. Gannon, catching a glimpse of the youngster as he left, shook his head and sighed. The schoolhouse was in quite the opposite direction.
That afternoon Kaelin made his way to a small, unkempt cottage on the outskirts of the village, pushed open the door, and slipped inside. The small room offered little in the way of furniture. A small, unmade bed stood next to a table bearing the historical evidence of several meals. An old man snored in a chair near the fire, garbed in a faded green robe bound at the waist with a black cord, denoting his rank as a Flutist in the Bardic Order. Kaelin cleared away the dishes, then sat on the floor next to the old man and waited. It wasn’t long before the sonorous drone ended in an abrupt cough, and one eye opened. Kaelin grinned.
“Well, youngster, back again, are you?” The old Flutist yawned and scratched his ear absentmindedly. “Can’t say I mind. No one but a lad of ten cycles has time to hear the tales I can tell, nor ears to appreciate the music of an old, fumble-fingered Flutist.”
“I turned eleven a whole fortnight ago!” Kaelin exclaimed indignantly.
“Is that so? Small for your age, then, aren’t you?” came the tart response. “Well, it’s nothing to fret over. I was small for mine as well, but that didn’t stop me from becoming one of the best Flutists on Kestrel, you know … back in my day.” He frowned and muttered to himself. Kaelin waited patiently. It was useless to rush the old man, who would get flustered and forget everything, his young guest included. He sighed as the Flutist, in the midst of a confused sentence, abruptly dropped his chin to his chest. His rough breathing settled once more into rhythmic snores.
“Flutist Torin? Sir?” With a sigh, Kaelin moved closer and began to sing of the Bardic exodus so long ago on Eire. It had its usual effect.
The old man’s head jerked up and his eyes flashed. “They tried to wipe us out, boy! So they did, but we found a better place, didn’t we?”
Kaelin nodded agreeably. Every child in the schoolhouse knew the Bardic Order had come close to annihilation on that day, a story the old Flutist was fond of repeating with the conviction of an eye witness, though the actual events were over two hundred cycles ago.
“Did I ever tell you why they tried to get rid of us?” Torin demanded.
Kaelin solemnly shook his head. There was always the chance that the Flutist might remember something new.
“It was because of our music!” the old man said, his fist connecting with the arm of the chair so convincingly that it sent him into a fit of coughing. He recovered slowly, then angrily pounded the armrest again for good measure. “The Druids always hated our music, hated the way we helped the people of Eire without asking for payment. The Druids wanted adulation, not to mention coin, for their services. Yet what did they do to earn it? Nothing! They were jealous of the mines our Order found that made us independently wealthy. That’s what tipped the scale between the two Orders, and spelled doom for the Bards.”
Kaelin nodded patiently. Every Bardian child was thoroughly schooled in their history.
“And that’s not the worst of it, boy,” the old man continued. “Why, I’ve even heard it said that they sacri—” he stopped abruptly, as if recalling the tender age of his audience.
“Oh, please, sir, don’t stop now!” Kaelin’s eyes shone. This had certainly never been discussed by the Schoolmaster of Vale. “Did they really sacrifice people?”
“Well, no,” the Flutist admitted reluctantly, “not people, though the Druids of Gaul did. Animals, is what I heard. But they weren’t above murdering people,” he growled with renewed energy. “The Druids snared warriors to their side with promises of coin and a share of the mine’s profits, to go up against us. Over a hundred Bards and their wives and families ... all of ‘em slain by warriors acting under orders from Druid Cathair. No Bards were to be left alive, Bards whose only offense was their music! And such music as contained the legends and history of all Eire. The Druids nearly succeeded, too,” he muttered. “Likely not a single Bard left in Eire now, but they couldn’t stamp us out completely, thanks to Master Cyral.”
“Yes, sir. He saved five ships full of people and supplies, and brought them safely to the Bardic Isles,” Kaelin said helpfully, then continued reciting like a model schoolboy. “He established the first Bardic colony on Elegy, and then brought five more Bardic ships here. He established the five Guilds, for Craftsmen, Tradesmen, Holders, Merchants, and Shipping, governed by their own Guild Law and paying tribute to the Bardic Order.”
“And don’t forget Caer Wynd, boy.”
“Yes, sir,” Kaelin said with a sigh, wishing the old man would leave off his history lesson. Everyone knew the prestigious center of learning on the island of Lyra had been established by Master Cyral, for those who wished to study subjects other than music. All Schoolmasters and Schoolmistresses were trained at Caer Wynd, and were proficient in all six fields of study: art, writing, healing, history, mathematics, and science. Adepts and Scholars were proficient in all six fields as well, but an Adept was also a Master in at least one of them, and a Scholar a Master of at least four. All graduates of Caer Wynd served at least three cycles at Caer Wynd as teachers there, to give back to others what Caer Wynd had freely given them. When Kaelin had dutifully recited all this to Flutist Torin, the old man nodded sagely.
“We owe our existence and our way of life to Master Cyral.” His eyes probed Kaelin’s. “All the Masters of that time were gifted—couldn’t even be a Master otherwise—and most of the Bards as well. But Master Cyral was the most gifted of them all. The power of his music was something to behold, for sure and certain. Why, when Aille-Mara was burning, he brought the rain to put it out! He brought the wind to speed our ships out of the harbor, and pushed the warrior ship aground, so he did. Have you ever seen a Master Bard, boy?”
Kaelin, lost in imagining such dramatic events of the past, glanced up, startled. He was silent for a moment, remembering a certain dream. At least—well, of course it was only a dream! He shook his head, as much to dispel the memory as to answer the old man’s query.
“No, sir. The Master Bard of Kestrel didn’t come to Vale two cycles ago, and two cycles before that, I —” Kaelin broke off, feeling his face grow warm. “Couldn’t go,” he finished lamely.
Not seeming to notice his young guest’s discomfiture, the old man landed another thump on the inoffensive arm of his chair. “Well, I’ve seen two of ‘em at once!” he stated emphatically. “Went clear to Kyet with my father when I wasn’t much older than you, and there they were, playing for all and sundry smack in the middle of the square! Master Bergid was a young Master back then, as was his friend, Master Grened, the Master Bard of Elegy. Flute and harp duets played by Masters … such music is a thing you don’t forget.” His rheumy eyes softened with memories, and Kaelin quickly reached over to where the old man’s instruments lay: flute, lap harp, and lyre. He picked up the flute and placed it in the Flutist’s lap. The aged fingers stroked it lightly.
“This flute.” The old man closed his eyes. “I made it myself. I know the feel of it, the details of every key. But in the hands of a Master—” He shook his head thoughtfully. “In the hands of a Master it would come to life. Never would it be the same flute again.” His fingers tapped the flute. “There is music trapped in every instrument, boy, music waiting for a Master’s hand.” He gave his precious flute a final tap and lifted it to his lips.
Kaelin watched intently as the Flutist began to play, clearly at first, then with increasing difficulty. Finally, wheezing in pain, he laid the instrument in his lap. When his breathing grew easier, his jaw dropped open, his eyes closed, and he slept. None of Kaelin’s songs could awaken him. With a sigh of resignation, the youngster carefully replaced the flute on the table. He stood looking at it for a while, his face filled with longing. Then, with a last lingering touch, he turned and left.
Brooding deeply, he wandered through the village, thinking of the power Master Cyral’s music had possessed, to save them all and bring them to this refuge. The Schoolmaster had told them that the Master’s gift had not been seen in the Bardic Isles since, but surely, Kaelin reasoned, that didn’t mean the gift itself was utterly gone. He thought of the flute lying on the old man’s table, and of what the Flutist had said. In the hands of a Master it would come to life, lad. Never would it be the same flute again. The Masters must still be gifted, then, with something of that power of old. Only fair, he reasoned, for they were responsible for seeing to the welfare of the entire Bardic Isles. What a wondrous thing it must be, he thought enviously, to have such a gift to use for the good of everyone! Not like him. He grimaced, then stared in dismay at the darkening streets and quickened his pace. There was no sense in giving his sister any more time to worry herself into a temper.
As it turned out, however, it was his own temper that erupted. Kaelin had scarcely sat down to the table when his appetite was destroyed with a single casual comment.
“Craftmaster Arnor stopped by a little while ago.” Laena’s brown eyes betrayed an excitement not reflected in her voice. She sat back in her chair and twisted a few strands of hair that had come loose from the long, brown braid she kept coiled in a bun on teaching days.
Kaelin almost choked. “What did he want?” He had worked for the Woodcarving Craftmaster for over two cycles, earning an eighth of a copper when the Craftmaster was exceptionally pleased with his work, surplus food from the Craftmaster’s garden when Arnor was merely satisfied, and a cuff across the ears when he was not. Since their parents had died four cycles ago, any extra food and coppers were a welcome supplement to the mending Laena took in, and the stipend she received as assistant to the Schoolmistress at the girl’s school.
Kaelin’s older sister took no notice of his discomposure. “He wanted to talk.”
“Talk about what?”
“About you, of course.”
“Look, Laena, I was only a little bit late yesterday, and I worked hard enough to make up for it, so I don’t see what he has to complain—”
“He didn’t come here to complain,” his sister interrupted. “Although how you could have been late when you left here well before dawn is beyond me.” She regarded her brother’s innocent expression and sighed. “It’s good news, not bad. He came to offer you an early apprenticeship before, as he put it, ‘some other fool of a woodcarver takes it into his head to do the same.’” Her eyes danced with merriment. “Of course,” she added, “he also made it quite clear that you’re an impudent rascal of the first order who scarcely deserves such an honor as being his apprentice—” She stopped at the look on her brother’s face. “What’s wrong?”
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Kaelin—”
He flushed. “Well, it’s just that I ... don’t want to apprentice to him.”
Laena stared at him. “And just who would you prefer over the Woodcarving Craftmaster of Vale himself?” she demanded.
“You don’t understand!”
Laena’s brown eyes sparked in exasperation. “No, I certainly don’t! Craftmaster Arnor takes only one apprentice each cycle, and of all the boys in Vale, he’s chosen you, four cycles before you come of age, no less! There’s no higher honor you could hope for, Kaelin, and you’re going to refuse it? For what?”
“I don’t know! But not for being a butcher, or tanner, or apprentice to any other craft in Vale!” He stood so abruptly that his chair fell over backward. He ignored it and pushed past his sister.
“Kaelin, wait!”
He paused, his hand on the door.
“I thought you liked woodworking. You’re good at it!”
“What does it matter if I’m good at it, or like it?” Kaelin retorted. “I don’t like it enough!”
“Then what do you like enough?”
Silence fell like a shroud between them.
“I can’t tell you that,” Kaelin finally said, his voice rough and laced with pain. “I can’t tell anyone.”
He left the cottage and wandered aimlessly through the deserted streets, trying to forget the bewildered hurt in Laena’s eyes. After a while he left the village and entered the woods. Starlight cast a gentle sheen over the faint path he followed, but the familiar ache deep inside him burned with harsh intensity. He cursed loud and fervently, using every oath he had ever overheard in the village marketplace, but the pain only intensified, as though mocking his blasphemous efforts to bury it in curses. A tear rolled down his cheek and he brushed it angrily away.
Soon Kaelin was kneeling at the base of the oak tree and extracting his hidden parcel. He unwrapped the bag, pulled the drawstrings open, and slid a wooden flute into his hand. It was small and plain, having but seven holes along its length, and two beneath, with none of the rods or keys of Old Torin’s Bardic flute. Kaelin stared at it for a moment, his other hand clenching into a fist. Music! What do you want from me? The Bards’ and Masters’ music does only good, so why can’t mine? Why does mine have to do such horrible things? A spasm of pain shook his slight frame.
The music he would only allow himself to play here in the woods, far enough from his village that no one would overhear him, was both hurtful and healing. If he focused intently on something in the clearing—a rock, leaf, or tree—he could hear its music, wondrous music that seemed to define its very essence. He had never dared to focus on an animal, much less on a person, although he had almost done so with the kestrel he had seen early that morning. Startled by its abrupt arrival, Kaelin had stared at the bird just long enough to begin hearing strains of wild, incredible music, to begin feeling a pull toward the magnificent creature. Then, frightened, he had broken his focus and lowered his eyes, and the bird had flown off.
While Kaelin could safely listen to the music of natural objects, if he attempted to play any of it, pain filled every note, and he would break off, gasping. It had been a tremendous relief to discover that he could play variations of such music without pain. He had quickly grown adept at this, listening to the music around him and deftly converting it into one variation after another. These spontaneous variations eased the restless pressure of what resided inside of him, if only for a few moments. For it wasn’t only the music of the things surrounding him that he could hear. Kaelin’s mind was filled with its own music, as if a composer were trapped inside him, feverishly writing on an intangible manuscript songs that demanded a voice. Yet if he gave in to the pressure to play it, the utterance of every note through his flute was intensely painful, as if each were a sharp knife slicing through the walls of his mind.
Resolutely ignoring the clamor of the music within him, Kaelin thought of the kestrel’s music and began to play, weaving the notes into his own variation of what he had heard, music he could play without pain. With the first few notes the cutting edge of his torment subsided, relieving the pressure within him to a bearable degree. He closed his eyes and relaxed, deeply aware, though unable to explain it, that the trees around him listened and tuned their trembling leaves to his music, and the wind swept down to carry the sounds of his inner turmoil away. He played with the movement of the wind for a few moments, scattering notes about the clearing like capricious leaves, then impulsively sent the music soaring upward, far above the trees. He glimpsed the wondrous view the kestrel must surely take for granted, saw the woods and mountains stretch before him across the length of Kestrel. One long, wonderful view of freedom. Then the song modulated under his fingers, the notes weaving wistfully among the trees for a few lonely moments before they died away.
Kaelin lowered his flute and, suddenly aware of the growing shadows of dusk, started to put it away. He paused for a moment, hearing the staccato cry of a kestrel in the distance. The boy smiled, enjoying the fanciful notion that the same bird he had seen this morning was responding to the variation of its own music. “I hope you enjoyed the performance,” he murmured, “for you’re the only one who will ever hear it.”
Since the age of seven, the disturbing music within him had given him no peace, and the only place he found a brief respite was here in the woods, where no one could hear. Where no one can be hurt. With a pang of loneliness, Kaelin hid his flute and headed home, wondering, as he so often did, what it would be like to be a member of the Bardic Order, to have the musical training he needed and wanted so badly.
In a remote mountain village like Vale, the chance to apprentice to the Bardic Order was, he thought glumly, nonexistent. It was fortunate for him that the old Flutist had come to spend his last cycles here, but he had stopped taking students long ago. The villages along the coast were inhabited by Harpists, Flutists, and Pipers of the Bardic Order, who gave lessons, just as Old Torin had once done. Kaelin sighed as he traveled the path back to his village. There was no point in dreaming about the Bardic Order when he couldn’t have paid for lessons from a Flutist, even if one were available. And, he thought morosely, why be upset about the impossibility of lessons when he couldn’t play for anyone, not even his teacher? Until he solved that problem, his only option was to grab his learning in secret wherever he could find it.
And grab it he had, from more than just Old Torin. A few times a month a Bard visited Vale, spending a day or two teaching and repairing any instrument brought to him. Kaelin, though he hovered close and avidly watched every move the Bard made, had never spoken to one. There was, he knew, no point in doing so. Not even a Bard could forbid him to dream, though, and for someone like him, dreaming would have to be enough. And, he told himself, it really would be enough, if only someone could take away the pain.
In addition to the occasional visits by Bards, the Master Bard of Kestrel visited the mountain villages every other cycle, but he had not done so two cycles ago because of a serious knee injury, and Kaelin had missed the visit previous to that. Hopefully the Master’s knee had healed sufficiently for him to make his scheduled visit this cycle, but there was no telling when that might be.
Halfway home, the boy paused, catching a faint sound carried on the wind behind him. Flute music? He listened intently, but only the faint rustling of leaves disturbed the stillness. He stood motionless, divided between his desire to make it home before dark, and a strange compulsion to return to the clearing. Then he shook his head and continued on toward home, a few furlongs west of the village. His sister’s patience had limits, and returning home after dark was testing them.
