The Blind Bard felt the spilt blood burn hot into the many colors of his skin and felt his heart burn within him in turn as the bodies of the fiends fell round him. With each swing of his boline he did cut them down, the Blind Bard’s aim ever true as fore, say true, say true.

To feel the old strength in his arms again! Say true, to have his head clear of the Dragon’s Breath once more! Still the wounds given to him by the riders burned deep inside with each twist and stretch of his body and his feet still ached neath him with each step, yet was he not magnificent? Say true, was he not the very will of the Architects made flesh and bone and Song? Who in this land or any other dared stand fore him and his blade, no matter his wounds nor his hurts?

So long since his mighty heart pounded so in his chest! So long since his blade shone red in his many-colored grip!

In his mind the Blind Bard saw the streets of Roundtown filled with the fallen as they were when the last invasion ended. How young he had been when last the valley was stormed! Yet still when the next day dawned had he not stood bloodied and bruised among the victors? Say true, had he not earned his skin the colors of his glory?

And such a battle it had been! He stood with his mother as she tended to the hogs, knowing them each as she knew her own children, say true, when the warning claxons filled the valley and the ground shook with the Latrosians’ approach. How quickly Abernathy had rode to him, no matter his youths nor the nerves which set him to shake neath the Blind Bard’s weight! And as the foul bandits swarmed forth from their mountain caves did the uprights of the valley flee to their houses and flats, and the beasts run to their pastures and barns as rabbits of the woods? No, say true, they readied their blades and sharpened their hooves, notched their arrows and bared their fangs to the coming invaders.

The Blind Bard had no fangs to bare at these fiends fore him now, yet he needed nothing but his boline. How many times had his blade been his rescue? And how it still shone in this ever-twilit city! How it still sang through the air with each mighty slice! Had it not been made for his own grip? And had his hand not been made to grip it? Say true, had They who made him not known the need for strength in Their folk? Had They not Seen the coming horrors and made him and his to endure them? Was not each breath, each note of his Song, each cut of his blade not as They had willed it should be, say true, say true?

As the last of the fiends fell at the Blind Bard’s feet he reveled in the might of his body; who could doubt the wisdom of the Architects? Say true, who could look upon the Blind Bard and not see the glory of They who shaped him? And how skilled the Healer was! Say true, what great knowledge hid behind that sweet, uncolored face! No sooner had she laid her hands upon his broken body than his mind began to clear and his blood began to clot; with such as she to aid him in this land, what could stand between him and his quest?

Yet as he sheathed his blade and turned to face the Noir, his companion did not cry out in wonder; say true, his eyes grew wide as they took in the Blind Bard’s slaughter. How strange these People of the Shore were! Since he had left the Town the Blind Bard had met those that would end him and those that would aid him, yet still he understood neither. How could he walk among folk such as these? Say true, how could the Blind Bard earn his true name here, where the folk were of no blood and no Song flowed through them? And how could he hope to find the darkness which had so shaken the Seer when he could not even find a healer without the aid of his guide, say true, say true?

The Blind Bard’s blood cooled within him as his great heart slowed its frantic rhythm in his chest. The thrill of battle left him and the pain from his wounds brought him to his knees; what a fool he was to push himself so hard so soon! Pain as he had never known tore through his belly and his back and still his lungs burned with each breath.

Fool! he cried to himself. How would he have fared if one of these fiends had skill with a blade? Or a gun as the guardians of the wall had carried? What if he fell here, now, when he had only just survived his trek through the ruins? Say true, who would return Abernathy’s name-stone to its place the valley if not the Blind Bard? And who would see le Fay through her labor and care for her pups if she –

All of the fears and doubts from the darkest corners of his heart seemed to weigh upon his colored shoulders as he gasped for breath and pressed a hand to his belly to stop his blood as it seeped into the Healer’s wrappings. The Blind Bard knew then he could not survive here as he had in the valley; he knew too little of this place and its ways, say true, and even less of its people.

Yet how else was he to prove himself? No matter his quest, he could not leave his debt to the Healer unfulfilled. To do so would go against everything it meant to be of Roundtown; say true, it would be as he turned his back to the teachings of his longfathers and even the Architects Themselves! How could he earn his true name without staying true to the Town? Yet aiding the Noir was the only way he could see to repay the Healer, and the Noir would not allow him to help if he thought him weak.

How long must he endure these people and their ways? Say true, how long could he walk among them fore he lost himself to their madness?

A voice cried out and the Blind Bard saw one of the folk on the city’s streets had seen his wrath. The Noir came to life again, moving from where he stood as a statue, and did his best to calm the screaming woman. But as he tried to ease her fear more and more folk stopped to gawk at her and what she saw and soon a crowd had formed round the Noir and a choir of gasps and cries confounded the Blind Bard’s swimming head.

What a land this must be! Fore him stood a pack of uprights pale at the sight of blood, with their hands to their mouths and their eyes wide as a child’s! Had they never faced trials of their own? Say true, had they never learned among the prices of life are sweat on one’s brow and blood on one’s hands? How had their longfathers survived in the ruins if their hearts were like those beating so quick fore him now?

Blood from his kills stretched toward him even as he tasted the coldiron reek of his own in his mouth. He looked at the faces of the fallen, some pale as le Fay’s shining teeth while others dark as the very Keep, and wondered at such waste. These were not like the Latrosians, born twisted and wrong in their caves; say true, these had chosen their own path just as his guide had.

In his mind he felt the blinding lights of the city burning his eyes as he first saw them; he knew it hadn’t even been a day since he made his way through the wall, yet it felt as years had passed while he slept and the Healer’s medicines breathed life once more into his broken body. How weak he had been! Say true, how great a toll the Dragon’s Breath had taken! How the bullets of the guards had torn through him as he ran on feet which ever threatened to give way neath him! And how le Fay had weighed him down as he carried her, weak and helpless as a newborn pup, say true, yet he would not lose her as he had lost poor Abernathy in the ruins.

With each step the Blind Bard felt coldness creeping through his body as he bled on and on. His eyes could not understand what he saw and his dead feet knew nothing of where they carried him, yet they carried him on still. Over stone street and through twisted alley he ran while screens flashed words he could not read and through every window he saw things stranger than anything dreamed up by even those of the dark Jones blood. And just when he felt his heart could beat no more and his legs burned like coals neath him, he found the guide sitting fore him with his eyes yellow and confused.

How the Blind Bard sang through him! His mind flowed as water, filled with thoughts of glittering gold and flying high above even the wall wrapped tight round this vast land, so the Blind Bard had to give all he had to reach him. Even tired to the bone as he had been the guide could not resist his Song as it flowed through him; so long since he had truly Sung! Say true, so many years Singing only to those on the Bluff! What simple joy there was, no matter the pains of his body, to give himself to another and see as they saw! To learn and keep all he could as he and his had been made to do, to use the Architects’ blood gift even on one such as this; say true, how like himself he felt again as he ran with his guide through the city’s winding streets!

Yet as he’d lingered in the guide’s mind, learning all he could of the city, he began to feel how very different the thin, pale man had been from himself. Such pain ate into him! And how empty his stomach had been! Yet always his thoughts came back to the glitter of gold coursing through his veins and crusting his heart. The Blind Bard felt his hunger then, a hunger like he’d never known, say true, and he shared the need that crippled his guide. Even after the Song had finished and he knew the way to the Healer he lingered, taking in the weak, broken man fore him and first knowing what it was to pity and hate the same being.

le Fay shuddered at his feet and he knew he’d lingered too long. He gave the guide what thanks he could and left him to his gold and his flight. After he’d succumbed to his wounds and the Healer had begun her work upon him, he’d seen the guide again in his foggy dreams. As he sheathed his blade and struggled to his raw, bandaged feet, he could not bring himself to hate the guide as he had after they had shared their Song. No matter the darkness the Blind Bard knew lurked neath his uncolored face, he’d led the Blind Bard to the Healer, and because of the Healer he and his dog still lived as the hidden sun rose above the city.

How long since he had seen the sun!

He saw more folk had joined the mob round the Noir, and each of them stared hard at him in the morning twilight. The Noir’s arms were spread wide and he spoke too quick for the Blind Bard’s tired mind to catch his words. How different this man was from the guide! Say true, how he stood his ground even as new folk came with guns on their hips and metal on their chests. Yet he saw the Noir step back as the city’s guards took in the Blind Bard’s wake, and he saw how the Noir glanced at him with wide eyes.

The Noir shared quiet words with the guards, then slowly came toward the Blind Bard. He walked toward him as a child of the valley would approach a snake slithering to close too the Town, and the Blind Bard knew he had failed to prove himself. Again he felt his cheeks grow hot neath the colors of his face; how many times must he fail? Say true, how many times must he be wrong fore he earned the weight of his name? Ever he stood in the shadows of those who’d borne his name-stone fore him, and now he felt it as a boulder tied round his neck.

The Noir spoke to him low and quiet; he explained the ways of Babylon as best he could, yet even as he heard them the Blind Bard could not grasp the words. He had pushed himself too hard too soon and he knew he would pay for it days after.

The Noir told him he was to go with the guards; the Blind Bard felt his jaw set.

The Noir told him there was no other way; the Blind Bard felt his teeth grind.

The Noir told him he, too, was to go; the Blind Bard felt his jaw ease.

The Noir told him to have faith; the Blind Bard nodded.

The Noir nodded, and together they walked toward the guards and the wide-eyed folk of the crowd. The Blind Bard did not understand where they were headed and felt doubt gnaw deep in his belly; yet he felt his blood clot neath his wrappings and, no matter his failure, the Noir had not cast him aside. For now the Blind Bard thought that was enough, say true, and he walked on at the Noir’s side.

Next Chapter: The Man from Roundtown