The Blind Bard felt his heart die within him as he passed neath the Great Gates on the back of Abernathy the True, say true, yet he did not falter. Abernathy shook his great head at the sight of the land beyond the valley and the Blind Bard felt his fear, yet his stallion stood hard neath him even as his mighty hooves sank deep in the ash of the ruins. le Fay sat in the wagon Abernathy pulled with her head high, say true, even as her young caught her fear and writhed in her belly. She would follow her man even in a wagon and even into this cursed land, say true, say true.

The Blind Bard smelled the foul air blowing round them and thought of the trees of the woods beyond Red River and their leaves. They had danced in the sweet breeze as he and le Fay had waited for the Seer to meet them. le Fay sprawled near his feet, glad for the weight off her back, say true, and slept while the Blind Bard stood watch as ever fore. When first they crossed the River she trotted among the slender trees, sniffing deep and marking trunk to trunk while the Blind Bard first felt the grass of the woods neath his feet.

The world was different on this side of Red River, say true. The Blind Bard ran his many-colored hand along the trunk of a pale tree and felt its smooth bark as le Fay tired. She returned to him and took her place at his feet where she ever belonged. The green grew wild all round them, and everywhere the Blind Bard saw the tracks of the beasts of the woods. He felt them hiding in the many shadows of the trees yet heard only le Fay as she snatched their scents from the air and named the beasts in turn. Deer and fox and balls of fur whose hearts beat and feet moved quick as light, say true. The Blind Bard felt his nerves eased by her calm in this place she knew so well.

So there they waited as bid as the sun crept toward the mountains and the Blind Bard’s father and sister conquered the day’s harvest without him.

le Fay caught the scent of the Great Deceiver fore he walked among the trees, say true.

See him:

The Serpent: Jeremy, eighth of his name, cancer of the deep Carr blood. Small and quick, say true, with hair as gold and eyes as pitch. He who Saw too far and lost his way, say true, say true.

The Blind Bard bowed his head as was his part, knowing nothing of the lies the Serpent could spin even to a Belle. Had he known as we know now surely would his boline have left its sheath, say true, the deceiver’s tongue cut from his mouth even as le Fay’s jaws tore the color from his skin, say true.

Yet our longfathers knew nothing of the Serpent’s lies and the Blind Bard was blind to his tricks even as his eyes still saw, say true, say true.

Hail, Ædus, the Serpent called to him, as if they were born under one roof and suckled the same tit. And hail le Fay. It makes me glad to see you both well, say true.

Hail, Jeremy, the Blind Bard called to him in turn. le Fay pulled herself to her feet and sniffed the Serpent’s outstretched hand. If she had known the depth of the darkness of his heart she would have run him down as she had countless deer, say true, yet she knew nothing of lies and met him as a friend.

Why have you called for us? the Blind Bard asked as le Fay sat herself at his side.

Impatient for your crops, Storyteller? the Serpent asked with a smile on his cursed lips.

Say true, the Blind Bard answered, knowing as all the uprights of the valley knew: no sense was found in lying to a Seer, say true. Camryn and Curtis sweat even now in the fields while we stand here fore you.

Amanda made Curtis a proper Belle, say true, yet his is ever Nazk blood. No harvest will best him while his heart still beats, say true, say true, the Serpent spoke with the Sight strong in his voice and the Blind Bard felt his chest swell with pride even as le Fay sat straighter at his side.

Yet why have you called us here, Jeremy? the Blind Bard asked again. What place have we within these woods?

None, say true, yet we must speak where only we may hear, the Serpent answered.

The Blind Bard thought again of the beasts of the woods, yet knew even if they heard what the Carr had come to say they could never hold the meaning of the words.

Speak then, Seer, the Blind Bard bid him.

The Serpent was silent, coiling round his mound of lies fore the strike. Finally: What do you know of the world beyond the valley, Storyteller?

The ruins? asked the Blind Bard. le Fay looked toward his face, feeling her young tumult in her belly at the thought of what lingered beyond the Great Gates.

Say true, answered the Serpent, a hundred stars shining in his eyes.

Only as much as you know, say true, could even be not as much, the Blind Bard answered, feeling his feet suddenly on uneven ground. What did the folk of the valley care for the ruins beyond? Say true, had not the Architects in Their wisdom built this place to spare them the dead world beyond the mountains?

What do your stories say of it? the Serpent asked, looking at the Blind Bard and through him.

Some longfathers have gone far as the Lookout, yet none beyond, the Blind Bard answered. Never since the Town’s been the Town; fore that’s not mine to tell, say true.

What of the wretches? asked the Serpent.

Wretches? asked the Blind Bard.

The longfathers who went neath the Gates left to give succor to wanderers and wretches, say true? the Serpent asked, the honey slipping now from his voice.

Say true, the Blind Bard said, yet it’s been twelve generations now since any of ours went neath the Gates; there are no wretches left for us to offer succor. What use have we in telling such tales now, Seer?

The Serpent closed his eyes and breathed deep fore next he spoke. Do your duty, Storyteller. Tell me of the wretches our longfathers met in the ruins.

And so the Blind Bard searched through the stories, through twenty-one generations of Belles, say true, to find what the Seer sought.

Most fell within sight of the Lookouts, the Blind Bard told the Great Deceiver once he’d ended his long search. Their bodies left for the beasts of the ruins or scorched by the Lookouts themselves. Those who lived took their succor and were gone; of those I know nothing more, say true. The longfathers spoke with only a few and those lived many generations back, fore even the first invasion.

The Serpent waited, and the Blind Bard told on:

The Song of Hank the Wanderer tells of one such meeting, yet it’s a short story. Hank the Wanderer believed himself on a quest to rid the ruins of a great beast. He told it had taken from him his love and their child, yet left him to live on alone. He told his tale and asked aid in his quest of Helen, second of her name, of my own blood, when she brought water to his camp in the mountains’ shadows. She gave to him the bow of her father and a quiver of arrows poisoned by the Joneses for him to smite the beast, say true, and he was gone come sunrise.

Helen cared for him, didn’t she? asked the Serpent, his eyes far away and Seeing.

Say true, the Blind Bard answered. He did not wish to share the secrets of his longfathers, yet nor could he hide them from a Carr. She thought him noble. She long spoke of his quest and wished she knew if he ever caught the beast.

The Serpent seemed far away and the Blind Bard did not dare call him back. At last the Great Deceiver remembered him and bid: Tell on, Storyteller.

The Song of Wil of the Mountain tells that Wil, sixth of this name, of the clean Firn blood, now lost, say true, came upon a child while he gathered stones in the ruins, the Blind Bard told. Wil’s heart was good, say true, and he sought to help the child and raise her as a proper Firn. Our longfathers would not let her pass neath the Gates and so he stayed in the ruins with her til the night she slit his throat and slipped away.

The Blind Bard felt his heart grow bitter as he spoke of Wil, betrayed as he was by his own sweetness. The Firns were missed by the Town, say true, yet never forgotten, say true, say true.

A fool, the Serpent hissed to himself, and the Blind Bard felt heat bloom in his belly. le Fay’s ear lay flat along her head, her eyes on the Seer’s throat; the Carr spoke with no love of the fallen, say true, and the Blind Bard was angered in the Firn’s stead.

Wil of the Mountain was no fool, Seer, the Blind Bard said, coldiron in his spine.

As you say, Storyteller, the Serpent said, his pale lips a sneer. Tell on.

The Song of the People of the Shore tells of a clan of nomads in search of green land, the Blind Bard told as bid, say true, even as the heat smoldered in his belly. There were a great many of them, say true, never again was a group so large seen in the ruins. They wished to pass neath the Gates and share the valley.

The Serpent laughed to himself, his eyes as the sun’s light shining off Red River.

Our longfathers gave them succor, as you say, and let them rest in the mountains’ shadows through winter, yet sent them away come spring, the Blind Bard told, liking less and less the Seer’s eyes as they shone at him. The People of the Shore were not as the wretches who flung themselves upon the Gates to be slain by the Lookouts, say true; they had honor. They were glad of our longfathers’ aid and made pacts of friendship fore they again took up their search.

What of these pacts, Storyteller? the Serpent asked, his eyes growing ever wider as he whispered.

The People of the Shore swore that any of Roundtown would be welcome in their green land once it had been found and tamed, though none know what became of them, the Blind Bard answered. These were old stories, say true, yet ones told only to babes still wondering of the world beyond the valley. The Blind Bard felt as though he were following a trail through the thin trees of the woods, seeing the path clear as day yet knowing nothing of where it led.

The Blind Bard waited while the Great Deceiver Saw and thought.

We’ve been alone in this valley a long while, Storyteller, the Serpent said at last. While the folk in the ruins have grown in strength and number.

Say true? the Blind Bard asked. There’s still life in the ruins?

The ruins, say true, the Serpent hissed, staring at the Blind Bard hard in the green light of the woods. Yet beyond the ruins, Storyteller, beyond the rubble and the death grows new life.

The Blind Bard was silent. He could not doubt a Seer, say true, blind as he was to the Serpent’s lies, yet nor could he believe life thrived beyond as it ever would within the valley.

I know your doubts, Ædus, the Serpent whispered, again speaking to the Blind Bard as a brother. I too doubted, say true, yet I have Seen it. I have Seen further than ever I dreamed, further than even my longfathers would believe.

The Blind Bard was humbled by the power of the Carr’s Sight, say true, his longfathers’ blood gift of the Architects shining through him.

This world is changing, Storyteller, the Serpent spoke on. Things are waking up; think back, when was the last invasion?

Five years back, say true, the Blind Bard answered.

And the one fore that? the Serpent asked.

Twenty years back, the Blind Bard answered, no closer to understanding.

And forty fore that, and ninety fore that, say true, the Serpent said as the Blind Bard nodded. When will the next come? Ten years? Another five?

The Serpent waited, yet the Blind Bard had no answer, say true, no Sight to guide him. The Serpent spoke on: Can you not see, Storyteller? Each year, say true, each day the world stirs round us; yet here we stay in our valley, blind and deaf to that which comes our way.

And what comes our way, Seer? the Blind Bard asked, his thoughts of his family atop Belle’s Bluff. Say true, and no more games.

The Serpent’s fangs hung ready for the strike.

I know not, Storyteller, and I’m sorry for it, say true, the Great Deceiver said as he wrapped the Blind Bard in his lies. Yet I feel it come the same.

Why do you tell me this? the Blind Bard asked. Why not your brother or your own good mother, say true? I have no Sight, Seer; I cannot See what you want of me.

The Serpent was silent, then spoke on: I See for us both, Storyteller. I must ask something of you now, yet first you must tell me and say true: have you thought of your own place in the stories?

Those of my blood always do, Seer, the Blind Bard answered.

Then you know were you to fall this day, the stories will tell only of Sneak Ædus, the Serpent hissed.

The Blind Bard’s heart grew hard within him. He did not speak.

The Serpent hissed on: A cruel fate, say true, yet what can be done?

Still the Blind Bard stood as stone in the green woods.

The Serpent hissed on: What would you give, Storyteller? What price would you pay to earn a new name? A true name?

What name, Seer? the Blind Bard asked, lured close by the light shining from the Serpent’s dark eyes.

The name held so close to your heart, Storyteller, the Serpent wrapped the Blind Bard’s heart tight in his grip. Ædus the Great.

The Blind Bard cast his eyes from the Serpent’s face. How many years had he dreamt of such glory? Say true, how many times had he seen himself a great Bard, the greatest of the Belle blood?

Could be the next Ædus might earn such a name, Seer, and a fine one it would be, say true, the Blind Bard said, his shame heavy on his heart. Yet it’s not for me.

I tell you it could be still, the Serpent said, digging his fangs in deep.

How? the Blind Bard asked. He would not play games with a Seer, say true, no matter his Sight.

Answer my question and say true, the Serpent demanded. What would you do for such a name?

Anything, the Blind Bard answered, fool he could not help but be.

The Serpents’ eyes glistened in the green light.

Say true, he hissed. I have a task for you, Ædus. A quest.

A quest? the Blind Bard felt le Fay’s hackles rise beside him. She knew nothing of lies, say true, yet the honey in the Serpent’s hiss laid her ears flat against her head. The Blind Bard took heed of her warning, yet the Serpent’s lure was too strong and his shame too heavy on his heart, say true, say true. He asked: What quest?

You must cross neath the Great Gates and seek out the People of the Shore, the Serpent answered. Too long have we rested in our valley, Storyteller, too long have we ignored the world beyond. Yet I have heard the call, Ædus, my Sight has sent me far into the ruins. I have seen the green land of the People of the Shore and the mighty town they built atop it. Yet something else lurks in their land, say true, something greater and darker than they know. Soon the darkness will leave the shadows and overtake them, and then it will come for us. If what I have seen comes to pass there will be no Roundtown and none to remember it.

The Blind Bard felt as the floor of the woods had fallen from neath his feet. le Fay hauled herself to standing, winding herself twixt the Blind Bard legs as she had done while still a pup.

Go neath the Gates? the Blind Bard asked, feeling no breath in his chest even as he breathed.

Say true, the Seer said, staring at him hard again in the green light. I know your fear, Storyteller, and I do not doubt you for it. I know what I ask and I know its cost, yet it must be asked.

Would you send me to fall in the ruins? the Blind Bard asked.

Never, said the Serpent, his voice honey sweet again. You will not fall, Storyteller; I have Seen you cross the ruins; say true, I have Seen you in the green land beyond.

In the land of the People of the Shore? the Blind Bard asked, first thinking to himself the Seer may be mad.

Say true, the Serpent hissed. They remember their old debts even if those who made the pacts fell so many generations back.

The Blind Bard could not speak for some time. At last he found his words and said: Seer, are you well? The People of the Shore… Even if they found their green land, as you say, what do we know of them? Of their folk? My longfathers spoke of horrors in the ruins and they spoke not of beasts, say true, they spoke of uprights just as you and I. You would send me to fall at the hands of outsiders!

The heat was blazing again in his belly, le Fay’s growl deep and never ending as the Keep, say true.

The Seer scowled toward them, baring his teeth as a beast at le Fay fore turning on the Blind Bard and saying: You doubt me now, Storyteller, even as you know the power of my Sight? See then, Sing to me, See as I have Seen.

The Blind Bard shrunk back. He would not Sing for the Carr; since his shame he would Sing for none save those of the Bluff, say true. Instead he said: I do not doubt your Sight, Seer, yet still you ask too much. Camryn and my father cannot finish the harvest without me, say true, even if my mother should help. And le Fay, the Blind Bard looked to his dog, her eyes even now on his, say true, her growl faded and her ears flat, she’s only halfway along and already her belly swells and her young grow. What if they came while we were still among the ruins? To take her beyond the valley now would be to cut down her pups with my own hands, say true!

The heat raged within him and his voice carried far throughout the woods, yet the Serpent did not retreat. It seemed his eyes shone even brighter as he looked upon the Blind Bard and spoke: No, Storyteller, the pups will live and your crops will be tended to. I would not ask for what could not be given, say true.

Yet you have! the Blind Bard pressed on. I am a Belle; my place is on the Bluff with my own, not among outsiders and the beasts of the ruins!

Would you be Sneak Ædus as long you live? the Serpent asked. I tell you now, Storyteller, you will cross neath the Gates or you will fall Sneak Ædus. No matter your glory, say true, no matter the Latrosians you cut down nor the folk you save; the stories will ever know you as a Sneak. This I swear on my own blood.

If the Carr had been of any other blood the Blind Bard would have cut him down there in the woods, say true; le Fay’s teeth shone bright in the green light of the woods and would tear into the Serpent if her man wished it, yet she held her ground as the Blind Bard held his. Through the heat of his rage the Blind Bard saw fore him the story the Seer promised and despaired; Sneak Ædus til the day he fell, remembered ever as a liar, say true, unworthy of the Architects’ countless gifts, say true, say true.

You say you would do anything to be rid of your shame? To have Sneak Ædus fall and give rise to Ædus the Great? the Serpent asked. Your quest lies fore you. If you’re half the Belle I know you to be you’ll meet me at the Keep on the morrow and strike out. If not it will be the end of us all, say true. Make your peace and make your choice, Storyteller, for we have to time to waste.

With this the Serpent left the Blind Bard where he stood in the woods beyond Red River. le Fay felt her man’s heart break within him and she leaned herself against his leg. He stroked her neck with his many-colored hands, yet he was far away from the woods and even the Town. He thought of what waited beyond the mountains and despaired.

∞∞∞

The Serpent had left quiet as he came, say true, offering them nothing more of what he Saw even as the Blind Bard asked question upon question. The Blind Bard and le Fay remained among the frail trees, breathing deep the sweet breeze of the woods as they despaired.

le Fay trembled at her man’s side, her mind nothing but confused fear and thoughts of her young.

Why now? the Blind Bard asked as she stared deep into his eyes. Why now, with the pups so close and the harvest only begun?

le Fay had no answer to give, say true, only love for her man and worry for her pups.

As the sun first fell behind the mountains the Blind Bard began to feel le Fay’s hunger growling in her belly. They crossed Red River and made for the Bluff, keeping clear of others as they’d never done fore. They felt alone in their task, set apart from their own even as they crossed the valley, say true.

He saw his mother standing at the foot of the Bluff, Lily and Dawn no longer clutched tight neath her arms. He saw the lines round her eyes were deeper than ever he’d seen and knew she shared the weight upon his heart, say true.

Mother, he cried as he approached, her arms suddenly round him and her head pressed tight to his chest.

Hush, now, she spoke to the colors of his chest. The Seer’s been here and spoke his piece.

Mother, he said again as le Fay whined near Amanda’s feet.

Hush, sweet boy, and come to the house, she released him from her embrace and took his hand, leading him toward the house atop the Bluff; the home of the Belles since the Town was first the Town, say true. He was silent as he walked behind her, le Fay trailing behind them both. He saw his father, his back against the house’s wall and his arms crossed; the Blind Bard had never seen his father’s face so dark, his scowl so deep.

They reached the house and his mother let go his hand, touching his father’s shoulders even as she could not meet his eyes. Curtis met the Blind Bard’s stare and they shared a long look fore he reached out and gripped the back of his son’s neck. The Blind Bard felt his knees give neath him; he was undone by the touch of his father’s hand, ever sure as when he was a boy, say true.

le Fay’s head was in his lap as he slumped fore his parents, her whine deep and unending. His mother knelt beside him and wrapped him again in her embrace, as she told him of the Seer’s visit. He had come while the Blind Bard and le Fay had waited in the woods beyond Red River, telling Amanda and Curtis of their son’s destiny beyond the valley even as they bit their tongues and clenched their fists against it, say true, say true.

He cannot take you from us, say true, his father told him, anger in his heart and coldiron in his voice. He hasn’t the right, his Sight be damned.

For them he would stay, say true; for his mother and father and Camryn he would live and fall Sneak Ædus. Let the stories tell what they will, let him even be forgotten, if his own willed it. Yet Amanda and Curtis knew the heart of their only son as they knew their own, say true, and even as they damned the Seer’s claim upon the Blind Bard knew they would not bid him stay and keep the cursed name.

His parents brought him inside and they did not speak again til morning.

∞∞∞

The Blind Bard lay awake atop his bed that night as le Fay snored at his side. Camryn had wept and wailed as the sun had set behind the mountains and his parents had told her of her brother’s choice that was no choice, yet the Blind Bard heard her now breathing deep and still through the house’s thin walls.

I’ll never forgive you, she had cried, pulling away from his many-colored arms and striking her hands against his chest. If you leave me I’ll hate you as long I live, say true!

Yet she could not hate him, he knew. As she grew into her Song and learned of his shame she would understand, say true; she would know the Serpent had built this road fore him and there were no other paths he could now follow. She would forgive, say true, say true.

le Fay stirred in her sleep, the dreams of her pups mixing with her own as they slept together. The Blind Bard thought again of the Serpent and their meeting in the woods. Come morning he and le Fay would meet the Seer fore the Great Gates near the Keep where no folk dared go, say true, and the pair would go where none had gone in twelve generations.

The Blind Bard thought of the ruins and felt they would be the death of him and his dog, say true, yet he would enter them just the same, say true, say true.

Next Chapter: Aftertaste