The Blind Bard pulled the arrow from the neck of Abernathy the True as le Fay filled the ruins with her howls of rage and grief, say true. Through his tears the Blind Bard spied among the distant rocks the Archer and burned their face forever in his memory.

See them:

The Archer: nameless filth of the ruins, say true, they of no blood. Head shiny and blistered, eyes bloody and mouth as a tainted wound. They who would not be forgotten, say true, say true.

The Blind Bard pointed the arrow’s tip toward its master and swore an oath of vengeance upon the Archer. So far from them was the Archer that the Blind Bard could not hear their answer, yet le Fay heard the whistle and through her grief she gave word to her man. The Blind Bard saw from among the rocks come those of the Archer’s breed; their skin pale as the fish of Red River, say true, colored only by blood ever-leaking from their sores and wounds.

The Blind Bard felt his grief seize his heart; already he felt himself slip back through his years to when Abernathy was only a foal stuck tight to his side. Yet the horrors of the ruins grew close and the Blind Bard knew they were too many and he and le Fay too tired and too few. He cut the body of Abernathy from between the wagon’s shafts with one slice of his boline and cut the stallion’s name-stone from round his neck. He called le Fay away from the body even as she licked the stallion’s face and whined. She hurried back into the wagon, her ears up and her eyes on the bleeding horrors.

The Blind Bard gripped the wagon’s shafts and turned it from the rocks and the horrors of the ruins. He called upon his longfathers and the longfathers of Abernathy and even the Architects, say true, though the ruins knew nothing of Them nor Their wisdom. He called upon all those who might aid him and pulled the wagon with everything he was, say true; his feet sank deep in the ash and the wagon’s wheels thudded on rubble in their path yet still the Blind Bard did not slow, say true, say true.

le Fay saw the horrors fall upon the body of Abernathy the True and the Blind Bard felt her rage, yet he pushed his heart aside and saw only the ruins stretching fore him and felt only the hot grit neath his bare feet. Only when le Fay’s sharp eyes no longer saw the horrors’ great mound of rocks behind them did the Blind Bard slow and only when his legs fell from neath him did he stop. le Fay left the wagon and lay beside him in the ash and together they mourned the loss of Abernathy the True, sixth of his name, of the North Herd, say true.

The sun had blazed hot above them, its light no longer split and broken by the ruined sky above the valley, when the Archer had shot his arrow, yet as the Blind Bard and his dog lay one side the other and grieved he saw it would soon be night. His legs burned and shook and he could not feel his arms, say true, yet he could not rest that night.

He first tended le Fay, her grief and rage boiling within her so even her pups felt her fury, as was his duty as her man. He walked with her through her memories of Abernathy; he had seen three years when le Fay was born of Mab (tenth of her name, of Lex’s Pack, say true) yet it had seemed to the Blind Bard as she grew Abernathy became more as a foal, say true; galloping one end of the Bluff to the other as she ran and barked round him or napping with her in the house’s shadow during the long days of summer heat. Thoughts of these and other times with her friend tore through le Fay as a boline blade as she lay shaking at the Blind Bard’s side, say true, say true.

The Blind Bard felt his dog beside him and knew the Town waited for him beyond the ruins and the horizon, yet never fore had he felt so lonesome. le Fay drifted to sleep in time, exhausted by the weeks they’d spend in the ruins. Her dreams were dark that night and her pups rolled as thunder in her belly, yet the Blind Bard made her rest deep while he tended his own grief.

He drifted far and deep neath the strange nighttime sky of the ruins; first he returned to the day of Abernathy’s birth, seven years back now, say true. The Scotts had tended Abernathy’s dam (Juliana, seventh of her name, of the North Herd, say true) for months, hoping she would live through labor as few mares did and knowing she would not. The Town had mourned their loss yet cherished their gain and Abernathy had been loved by all the folk of the valley. None ever lived knew horses better than a Scott, say true, and even without his dam Abernathy grew quick and strong on false mother’s milk.

The Blind Bard’s thirteenth year had come, and Abernathy had been brought for him on the Bluff as Abernathy’s own sire (Hydra, fourth of his name, of the North Heard, say true) had been brought for Amanda when she was still a girl. The Blind Bard, his hair still short and his skin still uncolored, had stood fore Abernathy, nothing but spindle legs, say true, and met him for the first time.

The stories they had lived! Amanda told the young Blind Bard time and again not to try climbing the Jones’ tower yet he could not listen, say true, and in his fourteenth year did he not fall and break his arm? And was it not Abernathy the True who carried the Blind Bard home to the Bluff? Was it not the Blind Bard who first hitched Abernathy to the plow in the fields of the Bluff? And was it not Abernathy who earned his name in the last invasion? The Blind Bard thought back to the battle, Abernathy steady as stone neath him as they rode through Latrosians. He had caught a spear in his shoulder near the day’s end and was thrown from Abernathy’s back, yet had Abernathy himself not run down the foul spearman? Had his hooves not shone red in the evening sun, say true? And as the sun had set behind the mountains he had stood at the Blind Bard’s side midst the fallen, his breath hot and his flanks wet, and together they had known the Town still stood, say true, say true.

The Blind Bard felt his grief grow hands, then, only to wrap them firm round his neck. Fool he could not help be, say true, he had asked the Serpent of the pups yet never thought to ask of sweet Abernathy.

He sat straight then, his eyes wide as his heart beat hard in his chest.

The Seer knew Abernathy would fall, the Blind Bard told le Fay though she was far from him in her dreams. He Saw it and still he cast us out, say true.

He thought of how the three of them, himself, le Fay and Abernathy the True, had crossed neath the Great Gates together so many days back now.

He and his had met the Carr near the Gates, where the Keep has always waited and always will, say true. He had told his mother and father they needn’t see him off, yet never was a Belle born stubborn as Amanda, say true, and she and her husband would see their son to the very Gates. As they had come down from the Bluff the Blind Bard could not stop himself from thinking he would not see his home again, nor his sister who would not come to him with her goodbyes.

The streets of the Town had been full with human and beast; all the folk of the Town come to whisper of Sneak Ædus, blemish of the Belle blood, say true. The Blind Bard did not need the Song to know their hearts; he saw the grief in those who thought him damned to go neath the Gates to fall and he saw the smugness of those who thought his shame had earned his story no better ending, say true, say true.

Mind your flock, Curtis advised One-Eyed Tessa (Tessa, tenth of her name, of the wooly Hamp blood, say true) as she gawked at the Blind Bard even as her sheep stalled round her and the day’s bellwether bleated toward the Belles.

Let them stare, Amanda said. Let them see my son and be jealous of me, say true.

Yet even as his mother smiled toward him the Blind Bard could not meet her eyes. As they grew closer to the Great Gates the crowd thinned and as they reached the Keep the Blind Bard saw they had left the folk behind them. He and his knelt fore the Keep’s great door, sealed tight long as the Town stood, say true, to honor the fallen and They who slept below. It had been a long time back since any folk of the valley had been this near the Keep and the Blind Bard felt out of place atop this sacred ground.

A Scott had come then, leading Abernathy as he pulled his wagon behind him.

He’s as good as he’ll be, say true, Beanie Scott (ninth of his name, say true) had told the Blind Bard as he ran a many-colored hand along the deep brown of Abernathy’s withers. He’s still young and strong ‘nough and no ruins’ll best him just yet.

Why the wagon? the Blind Bard asked.

The Seer told my father you’d be needing it, Beanie answered. It’s loaded heavy, say true, yet not too heavy for a Belle horse.

Say true, the Blind Bard said, pride swelling his chest. He reached out and held Abernathy’s head in his hands and looked deep into his blue eyes. His old friend was nervous, as they all were, say true, yet his heart never wavered. The Blind Bard thought himself blessed by the Architects to have such a mount carry him upon this dark road. He looked to the Scott and said: I thank you, Horseman, as does Abernathy.

No need, Storyteller, Beanie said. He looked hard at the Blind Bard. The Seers have been wrong fore; the valley’s yours as it’s anyone’s, say true, and none can force you out no matter the need nor the…

The Scotts are among the best of us, say true, and Beanie had known the Blind Bard all his life. He could not bring himself to call the shame by name, yet nor could he see his friend leave the valley if the shame were the true cause.

The Blind Bard could not breathe for a moment, and he could not speak for the moment that came next. At last his voice came to him and he spoke to the Scott as a brother: I thank you again, Beanie. Yet this is my story now.

The Horseman looked at him hard again and nodded as he said: I hope it ends well with you and yours back on your Bluff, Ædus. Truly I do.

They had clasped hands and embraced, and then the Scott left them to return to his barn and his charges.

The Blind Bard could not watch him leave and instead looked over the wagon; it was full of bundles and jars and as le Fay sniffed round it he knew the Seer had planned this trip for some time now. How long had he Seen the Blind Bard leaving the Town, say true? How long had he prepared these bundles of food and these jars of sweet water? And there was not just food for the Blind Bard; le Fay smelled also dried hay for Abernathy and cured meat for herself. The Serpent had even made a bed of rags for le Fay among the bundles the Blind Bard saw as he felt his mouth dry neath the summer morning’s sun.

The Seer’s planned this some time now, he thought. How long has he Seen this day coming? How long has he held his tongue fore me?

He called le Fay to him and lifted her into the wagon, setting her gently atop what would now be her bed. She sniffed it as she had never sniffed fore and finally lay atop it with a great thump. The Blind Bard knew these rags did not compare with their warm, wool bed on the Bluff and he felt her scorn, say true, and smiled as only his dog could make him smile.

The Great Deceiver came then, le Fay catching his scent from her seat in the wagon. The Blind Bard looked toward his parents and saw his father’s hand atop his mother’s shoulder and saw the darkness in their eyes as they watched the Serpent slither toward their son. If they had known! If the Architects had given our longfathers the gift to hear our voices now, say true, say true!

The Serpent’s eyes shone as the Blind Bard had never seen as he looked from the Belle to the bitch in the wagon to the stallion waiting faithful for his man as he ever had.

Do you feel it, Storyteller? Say true, do you feel your destiny gather round you? the Serpent hissed.

The Blind Bard found his voice had abandoned him again. The Seer looked past him to the Great Gates and said: Twelve generations since they’ve been opened… Too long, Ædus, too long by far, say true. Come, now, ready your mount.

The Blind Bard’s hand moved toward the handle of his boline as he looked hard at the Serpent. How could the Carr speak of generations past when the Blind Bard’s own blood stood close now to see him ride out toward his doom?

The Serpent saw the Blind Bard’s hand upon his blade yet his smile still shone bright in the morning sun. He spoke again: I See your pain, Ædus, and your rage. Yet we all must play our parts, say true? The Architects did not give me my Sight to play blind, nor you your Song to play mute.

You say you See my pain, Seer, yet you smile now fore me, the Blind Bard said through teeth clenched hard.

Say true, and I’ll smile as I watch you cross neath the Gates, the Serpent said, a ray of truth shining bright amid his lies. Don’t think me glad to see you leave the valley, Ædus; my heart breaks for you, say true, and how I’ve wished there were another way.

You might have said a word to me while you were busy wishing, Seer, the Blind Bard said, his heart loud in his ears. I have no Sight as yours, say true, yet even I see from this wagon how long you’ve kept your secrets.

Secrets! the Serpent hissed, daring even to sound hurt. Say true, Ædus, only one of us is known for his secrets.

The Blind Bard’s body moved fore his mind; his hand drew the boline from its sheath as le Fay hauled herself to her feet and prepared to leap upon the Great Deceiver. Yet then there was his father’s voice ringing out clear and cutting through his rage. He saw he stood just fore the Seer, his arm raised for the strike, yet he saw no fear in the Serpent’s eyes.

Say true, the Serpent told said as he returned his boline to its sheath with a shaking hand. I have known for some while now this day was coming for us and I have prepared for it. What would you have had me do? Tell you months ago? Why? So you could lay awake at night with your bitch and worry and weep til now? No, Storyteller, this is not the way of my blood. Say true, I have done what I must do exactly as I must do it and now comes your turn. I tell you again that if what I’ve Seen does not come to pass and you do not stand in the Land of the People of the Shore fore fall is upon us it will be the end of the Town and you will stay a Sneak til the day you fall. Do you understand me, Storyteller? Say true now and be quick, for the darkness grows even as we speak.

Name it then, Seer! the Blind Bard roared. You speak of doom and darkness yet you cast me out without even a name for what I seek!

Some things dwell beyond names, Storyteller, the Serpent hissed low. Some darks too deep for a name or face, say true.

The Blind Bard waited yet the Serpent had no more lies to weave round him. He turned from the Seer and began hitching Abernathy to the wagon’s shafts, taking care with the straps though his hands still shook. le Fay growled from her bed, her eyes never leaving the Seer’s many-colored throat.

You must head east, Storyteller, the Serpent told him when he’d finished with the straps. There are many miles between the valley and the Land of the People of the Shore, say true, yet you’ll reach it soon enough.

The People of the Shore headed south when they left the mountains’ shadows, the Blind Bard told, seeing as his own longfather (Stella, fourth of her name, say true) saw the day the nomads journeyed back into the ruins from whence they’d come.

The Serpent waved his hand as if to swat the Blind Bard’s words from the air. He said: No matter where they headed; I tell you true, you will find the Land of the People of the Shore in the east.

And will we all find it, Seer? Say true, you still See the pups live? the Blind Bard asked, giving words to the fear which ever lurked in the heart of his dog.

The Serpent sighed and said: The pups do not fall amid the ruins, Storyteller, this I See plain as the colors of your face.

le Fay closed her eyes and settled back into her new bed, her heart eased by the Serpent’s promises. The Blind Bard felt her calm spread to him, yet it could not reach his heart. Fool he could not help be, the Blind Bard never thought to ask what awaited sweet Abernathy nor le Fay; he could not see himself without them to complete him, and he could not imagine a time when they stood anywhere but at his side, say true, say true.

He checked Abernathy’s straps once more and petted the stallion’s neck for a moment, whispering sweet words into his ear, fore he turned back toward his parents. It seemed to him they had not moved since the Serpent appeared; his father’s hand still sat heavy on his mother’s shoulder. He went to them and they three stood together for some time without words. Without warning his father’s arms were tight round him, Curtis’ embrace nearly choking the breath from his chest. He saw then the tears in Amanda’s dark eyes and saw them run down the face of his father once their embrace had ended. And were his own cheeks not wet as he gave his parents his goodbyes, say true? Did it not feel to him as if the very mountains had settled atop his chest? Yet his path lay ready fore him and he could see no other way, blind as he ever was, say true, say true.

The Blind Bard himself pried the lid from the gearbox and pushed the correct buttons in the correct order as few of even his own longfathers had done so many generations back. The green ground of the valley shook neath his feet and there were sounds worse than thunder, say true, worse even than the roar of a Latrosian war party pouring from their mountain caves, and the Great Gates slowly opened fore him.

He stood fore them, his hand on his blade, while his parents gave their goodbyes to Abernathy and le Fay. The foul wind of the ruins rushed toward him, filling his nose and stealing his breath.

A great hero, he thought and coughed, Ædus the Great: he who fell choking fore he ever left the valley. Say true, say true.

He turned from the sight of the great piles of stone and rubble that filled the ruins and prepared to mount Abernathy. His foot had just left the ground when le Fay caught Camryn’s scent and he heard her Singing him to wait. She pushed her way through the crowd of human and beast and ran down the old road toward them, thinking nothing of the Keep nor the sacred ground neath her feet.

Ædus! she cried to him, running past the Seer as he were nothing at all, and wrapped her arms round the Blind Bard’s waist. He knelt fore her and held her close and tight, feeling her tears run along the colors of his chest. They did not speak for a time, each only holding the other and sharing a mournful Song. At last the Blind Bard pulled away from her and kissed her forehead.

I’ll be back soon, the Blind Bard lied. You won’t have time to miss me, say true.

I already miss you, brother, Camryn answered, her voice broken as the Blind Bard’s heart. Say true.

He kissed her again yet could not meet her eyes. He climbed atop Abernathy’s back and felt as he did when he roamed atop the Bluff; he felt at home with his old friend to carry him as he ever had, say true. Abernathy turned and pulled the wagon, easy as he were hitched to nothing but air, and together they faced the open Gates.

The Blind Bard looked toward his parents a last time: Amanda held a weeping Camryn close while Curtis looked out over the ruins, his eyes still hard, say true.

The Blind Bard looked toward the Serpent a last time: the Carr seemed far away, his eyes Seeing far and his cursed lips smiling wide, say true.

The Blind Bard looked toward the Town a last time: the folk would not come this near the open Gates nor the Keep, yet they crowded along the old road in Camryn’s wake, human and beast alike, to watch Sneak Ædus leave the valley, say true.

The Blind Bard looked toward the ruins beyond the Great Gates and willed Abernathy on, say true, say true.

Next Chapter: Saturday