The Blind Bard had never known pain such as that which now cut through him, say true. He knew it was will alone which kept him upright and his heart’s own stubbornness which kept it beating.

His head was as a ball of sheep’s wool atop his shoulders; he could not think. How much had he bled? Never had he seen weapons such as those wielded by the guardians of the great wall, say true, and he’d never dreamed outsiders could wield such power. His vision swam as he took in the brightness of this strange new land, lights blazing everywhere though the sun even now hid behind the wall. Everywhere round him there were people, everywhere he heard strange voices and words he did not understand. His feet carried him forward, yet he felt more lost than he had ever been.

le Fay whined in his arms. The Blind Bard knew she would not live long and knew he was set to fall soon after. Would he find a healer in time? Say true, had he survived his journey only to fall now, in the very land he’d sought?

We need a guide, he whispered to le Fay as he ran down a road he could not fathom.

She had no answer, only another whimper of pain that cut through his heart sharper than any arrow. The Blind Bard forced his ruined feet to run faster and ignored his own pain. He would Sing to the first person he could reach; he knew of nothing else to try. Yet he was so tired, say true, more tired than he’d thought he could ever be. He’d barely had enough strength to compel the guardians to grant him entrance to their land and he did not know how much more of his Song he could share this night.

The Blind Bard grieved again for the loss of Abernathy. Surely from atop the back of his old friend this land would not have seemed so terrifying, its shadows so deep nor its lights so blindingly bright. He thought again of that first day after Abernathy had fallen. How had he made himself rise that morning? Say true, how had his heart kept beating even as it broke within him?

He kept his eyes upon his strange path and listened for any who might hear his Song, but in his mind he returned to the ruins.

He stared at the shining stars above him, their light unmarred by the cracked and ruined night sky of home, and wept til the sun rose fore him in the east. Even le Fay, she who knew his heart as no other, say true, hadn’t the strength to ease his great pain.

Had Abernathy not been entrusted to him? Say true, had they not been bonded together since the stallion took his first steps atop the Bluff? Had the Blind Bard not dared stant in place of Abernathy’s fallen dam? Yet what had become of his charge? And what would become of le Fay, say true? Her pups?

He felt the Dragon’s Breath burning as hot coals within him and knew each breath he took stole more of his life from him. How could he keep his dog or her pups alive when without Abernathy he would surely fall in this wretched place?

His grief choked him and he felt his sorrow swallow him whole, setting his mind to drift far back through his stories to times when his heart was unbroken and his body did not ache. The Blind Bard drifted far and risked never finding his way back, as was the danger of his blood, say true, yet the voice of his father sounded firm in his ears:

What of Tonnie Nazk, say true? She who brought life back to the north fields after the third invasion? Did she despair when the Latrosians burned her crops? Yes. Did she weep at the sight of broken stalk and torn root? She did, say true, and bitterly. Yet is that why we remember her name? No. We remember because when she finished her despairing she got on her feet and saw to her duties. Now rise and see to yours.

And so the Blind Bard did rise, say true, hauling the heavy wagon though each step felt as fire burning in his body. Through the basin beyond the Archer’s mountain and through the bone-dry riverbed he trudged, each step harder than the last.

That night the Blind Bard Sang to le Fay of Quick Joey (Joey, third of her name, of Lex’s Pack, say true), she who bore Mab and her ill-fated littermates. Had she and she alone not found the lone Latrosian wandering far from her mountain cave? Say true, had she not run her down through field and pasture, over river and into the very mountains themselves? And when the day was done had she not stood atop her fallen prize, her great teeth stained red by the bandit’s foul blood, say true, say true?

As le Fay drifted to sleep the Blind Bard thought of home and stared up at the strange night sky. He thought of how his family would weep when they heard of the fate of poor Abernathy the True and he wondered what loss he would learn of when he returned. Old Glen (Glen, eighth of his name, of the bright Scott blood, say true) was getting on in years... Would he fall fore the Blind Bard saw his face again? And what of the hog (Fricka, thirteenth of her name, of the South Sounder, say true) his mother had been tending the week he’d left the valley? Amanda carry her loss as she bore so many in the past? And what of the Blind Bard’s own cousin, sweet Jenny (tenth of her name, of the green Nazk blood, say true), born with a heart so frail during this year’s hard winter? Would she see even a full year?

So the Blind Bard drifted til he slept and slept til the sun rose again. Again he despaired, say true, yet heard his mother’s sweet voice as he had heard his father’s:

What of Reese Belle, say true? He who lost his love to the Great Fire? Did he fall even as his heart broke? No. Did his grief blind him to his task? No, sweet boy, he saw he must live as his love could not. For if he fell, who would tell of those lost? Say true, as long as he stood, were not the fallen alive again in him? Would they not ever live long as the Belle blood flows? And if you fall now, who should Sing of Abernathy? Rise for the fallen, sweet boy; rise and remember.

And so the Blind Bard did rise, say true, digging his ruined feet deep into the ash though each breath left his throat raw and ragged. Through the wide, dead prairies and the desert with its rocks jutting high into the murky sky he slogged, each of his feet feeling as stone neath him.

That night the Blind Bard Sang to le Fay of Sly Frank (Frank, eleventh of his name, of Tank’s Clowder, say true), he who was the constant bane of poor Old Juan (Juan, seventh of his name, of the full Faint blood, say true). Had Frank not lived for mischief, say true? Do the children of the valley not even to this day tell of his cunning? Say true, had poor Old Juan not done all save kill the tom to rid his home of Frank’s ever-shedding fur? And still Sly Frank had found his way within the walls of Faint Flat, through cracks under doors and once even down the chimney itself, just to let his shed fur rain down upon Juan’s precious rugs and couches. How the folk of the valley had scolded Frank for his wickedness, say true, yet how they had laughed at Old Juan’s rage!

Again le Fay was lulled to sleep by the Blind Bard’s Song, and again he was left to think of home. He thought this night of the births he would miss while on his journey. Marge (sixth of her name, of the hot Roe blood) had been close to her time not a week fore the Blind Bard had crossed neath the gates. Would she survive her labor? Surely she would, say true; it had been six generations since the last woman of Roundtown had fallen giving life. Even the beasts were faring better as the valley approached its next time of flourishing, fewer dams falling each season as more and more young life flooded the Town. He thought of the mares he knew to be close, and the sows, and the bitches and even the chickens (ever breeding, say true, immune as they are to the Architects’ cycle of diminishing and flourishing). He thought of the faces he would not see again and the faces he would see for the first time should he complete his quest and return to his home in the valley.

So the Blind Bard drifted til he slept and slept til the sun rose again. Again he grieved, say true, yet heard his sister’s small voice as he had each of his parents’:

What of Lex, say true? She who earned her glory in the first invasion? Did she too not wander far from home? Say true, did she not lose her way in the Latrosians’ cave? And did she not grieve for her home and her pups? Yet did she fall? No. She kept her fire burning, say true, and found her way out even as she stood at the edge of death. Stoke your fire, Ædus; burn it bright til your task as done and then hurry home to us. Rise, brother, and burn through this land as only a Belle can.

And so the Blind Bard did rise, say true, crying out at the pain tearing through him with each step. Through the fields of bones and scorched, barren plains he stumbled, knowing with each step he had no more to give.

So it was the Blind Bard came to the foothills. Spent and bloodied he still climbed, dragging the wagon to the summit even as le Fay whined within. At the top he fell to his knees, panting ragged breaths and closing his eyes against the dark sky. How long since he had seen the sun? The clouds first appeared above them the morning of Abernathy’s death and had grown thicker and darker with each day.

With his fire almost out the Blind Bard looked fore him and saw for the first time the great wall of the Land of the People of the Shore. Side to side it stretched far as his eyes could see, say true, and taller than even the mountains it stood. The Blind Bard looked upon it and first felt joy since the loss of Abernathy, say true, say true.

Next Chapter: Down