The Master of Paths, the map.

Here is the visual synopsis for the part of The Master of Paths which takes place in the Bardlands. It is also a rough schematic for the Bardlands itself. If you click on it, I think you will see an enlarged version of the map.

The Wizardslands are to the south, below the Shelf. The Shelf is a sheer cliff (that rough, wavy sideways ladder-looking thing) caused by a sudden uplift of the northern land. The uplift is highest at the Southwest Corner, creating the high plains and the rather odd flow to the rivers. The Eastern Green Forest is also on a high knoll, and the river coming out of the mountains splits, with one branch going north and one going west.

If you are wondering why Guerney takes such a long route to Selice, the royal city, the answer is that he needs to convince certain lords and nobles to join his cause.

While I don't have a good scale worked out for this map, I can tell you that it takes about a month to go south from Slatten to the Shelf, and five or six weeks to travel overland from Slatten to Selice. Going by river boat takes a lot less time, but it's expensive. Of course, the time it takes one to travel is affected by such things as weather, bandits, the condition of the roads, and the health of the horses. And riders -- eating last week's roasted meat may slow you down a bit. As a result, I can make the journies last as long as I need them to.

Chapter 21

Two days later I returned to Songless, following my Lord Reinard and his Lady Laurice, but I came as a Bard and not as a servant. A grand wedding feast awaited my lord. Lord Guerney came, bringing all his court and his daughter’s ladies-in-waiting, so that the keep now bloomed with laughter and finery. When Lord Guerney left, however, he took the Lady Victoria with him. She had claimed him as a husband, as I suppose she could aspire no higher.

Over the course of time, Lady Laurice made a proper husband out of Wallen, just as Songless made a proper steward out of Peter. The monk indulged less in wine with honey, though it remained his favorite cure for all ills.

The Spring thaw brought Bards from Slatten. Master Master came to be the new Grandmaster, and under him came Journeymen Sieg and Van. Sharp came as well, though we all knew that he would not stay long – his is the path of wandering, just as mine is the path of habitation. The five of us, as well as two small boys and my own Lord Reinard, raised new beams over the ashes of the old Bardhall. Only the frame stood on the first day of spring, but we stood on rough planking and sang in the dawn while the Cathedral across the way opened its doors to Easter Mass.

In the fall Elise bore me a son. Two years afterwards, we had a daughter. The Lady Laurice was barren.

Each summer I returned to Slatten to sit before the Masters and earn another string on my harp.

And thus life flowed for us, until the fifth summer – but that’s another story, and not all mine to tell.

THE END

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And now, as Porky Pig would say, That's all, folks. For this book, anyway. My plans for it are now to go through it, cleaning up typos and editing what I can, and prepare it for publication through the Dead Fish Press. That project will hopefully be completed in the spring -- but as with all things, this plan is subject to modification by fate and disasters.

On the other tentacle, this is not the end of the blog. I will now start writing up another story set in this world, though in a different country and with a much different cast of characters. It's called Talaski the Starred, and tells the adventures of a hapless Gutter Rat and the Wizard Azygous, whom the Gutter Rat has managed to offend. Not a smart thing to do in the Wizardlands.

Helen E. Davis

Chapter 20.2.6

A huge, half-rotted carcass filled the path. White bones thrust up through the leathery skin, shreds of dark flesh hung down, and everywhere upon it white maggots squirmed. A single, flat eye stared unseeing upon the world, upon us. Though the sight was bad, the stench was worse: a mixture of sweet rot, excrement, and musk.

Beneath it’s swollen form I recognized it from Rockridge. This was one of the demons I had fought and killed. This was mine, and to me fell the duty of clearing it away. Of burying it. I had no tool but my hands, but the ground was soft. I started to dig a pit.

This task would take forever.

I was not alone on the path, I realized. Behind me stood all the Bards, Masters and Journeymen and Bards-in-training. There were also townspeople there, from both Slatten and Songless, standing in a cluster by themselves. Charles, Peter, Elise, and Wallen stood between the two groups. All of them watched me.

I dug a hole as large as my head.

Charles came forward first, followed by Peter, then one of the Bards. The four of us dug a hole as large as a fruit basket.

More people came forward, now in large groups, everyone helping to turn the soil. There were Silent Monks among the workers, and priests whose white frocks were not stained with dirt. People came out of the forest itself – Bards I had never seen and a Lady with Wallen’s fine features. One Bard had his hand around the Lady’s waist, and he stopped to speak to Sharp.

Their words were muffled, meant for them alone.

With so many hands helping, the pit quickly grew to the size of a small house. Then we put our hands to the stinking carcass, and rolled it in. With handfuls of dirt, we all covered it over – and the last thing I saw, before its form disappeared beneath the ground, was its face. The face of the Bard-killer, the old Lord Reinard.

May he rest peacefully, and not trouble us again.

When stones had been rolled over the loose dirt to finish the grave, I started the song of the dead. Wallen joined me, and Sharp, and then all the others. The Master of Paths flew over us, his loud cry joining the song.

The path was now clear, for all of us. We all stepped forward.

I blinked, finding myself on the steps of the Bardhall, my hands resting on silent strings. I had my answer – but how was I to put it into words that would satisfy the Grandmaster?

Then I saw that my fingers were filthy, my nails crusted with dirt. Blood flowed from scraped palms. My clothes were stained; sweat dripped down my face. I raised my face to Grandmaster Meiltung, and saw that he also was streaked with filth and sweat. All the Bards on the steps were so marked, and I could see tears coursing down Sharp’s face.

Grandmaster Meiltung looked down at his own filthy, bleeding hands, then wiped them on trousers which were no cleaner. He spoke in a shaken voice. "There will be a Bardhall at Songless Castle, Journeyman Gerard."

I was a Bard.

Chapter 20.2.5

"Play the Cycle of Songs," Grandmaster Meiltung said, without smiling.

And so I did. The notes bubbled from my harp, like water from a spring, smooth and refreshing. When I finished all the Masters smiled at me – save Meiltung.

"Play your original ballad, child."

I nodded to Peter and set my hands on my harp.

"The Flight of the Lady," he announced, then took a deep breath. I plucked the first string of notes, then launched into a complicated harmony that matched his mellow tenor voice.

"A Monk, a Bard, and One-in-training
Set out upon the road.
They went to visit Rockridge Castle:
Carved it was of stone,
Of black and ice-cold stone."

And thus, in a brief but lively narrative we summarized my journey of the last month, and ended with:

"For it is true that the Bard’s a Bard,
But the Monk is a Bard-in-training;
And the One-in-training is a Lord,
None other than Lord Reinard –
Oh, she has wed Lord Reinard!

A monk, a Bard, and one-in-training
Set out upon the road.
They went to visit Rockridge Castle
To catch themselves a Lady –
Lord Reinard caught his lady!"

The steps rocked with laughter then, from Bards and townsfolk alike. Grandmaster Meiltung stood glowering, his arms crossed, as he waited for the mirth to end. Wallen – it was hard to think of him by his more formal title when he stood barefoot and ragged among the boys, scowled at me, but his hands were not clenched.

Finally the crowd quieted. The Grandmaster looked at me, lifted his chin, and asked, "So tell us, Gerard of Jerden, Child of the Bardhall – why should we rebuild the Bardhall to please the murderers in Songless?"

I did not need to look at Wallen to see that he now clenched his fists, and I did not fault him. My own hands twitched in anger.

But peace is essential to the exercize. Shoving aside my personal thoughts, I wrapped my mind about the question. I considered it rationally, then set my fingers on the strings and my feet on the path. I let the music come as it would, out through my fingers and into the strings, resonating in first the soundbox and then in the people around me. I drew on the nervousness of the one who went before me and those who would someday follow, the anger of the Grandmaster and the outrage of my Lord Reinard, the commands I had been given by both the Master of Paths and the Prince of the Forest, and all the joys and pains of my life – these things wove themselves into the music and came forth in a silvery shine. Somewhere in the distance spindice rolled across the floor, changing human lives with each roll, and a dragon with emerald eyes flapped his heavy wings.

As I followed the path that led through the dark forest of the Spirit world, I watched sunbeams dance down through the tree-tops and light on vibrant wildflowers. A sparkling creek chuckled nearby; birds sang gleefully.

Then I passed a curve and found my way was blocked.

Chapter 20.2.4

Staring at the step, Breck bit his lip. It was a fair question, one for which we all knew the answer: to succeed, we must know how we can fail. However, it was also a pointed reminder of Breck’s previous humiliation, and from the green-tinged paleness on his face I knew it had found its mark.

Still, the boy bent forward and forced out a meditation melody, a tune that turned in a slowly shifting circle. For long moments he played, his face as tense as a harpstring, twitching every few bars as he rejected one path for another. The other Bards watched him with an assortment of faces: some bored, some hopeful, some with the keenness of a hunter harrying its prey. The Grandmaster stood over Breck like a hound certain of its kill, and for this reason I wanted Breck to succeed.

That and the promise from the Grandmaster that if Breck did not fail, neither would I.

Finally the strings stilled. Breck looked up and spoke in a voice that could barely be heard. "Failure gives us time to, to try harder."

Truly uninspired. I wasn’t the only one to shake my head.

With a confident smile Grandmaster Meiltung hooked his thumbs in his belt and glanced back at the other Masters. With barely perceptible gestures they made their vote, and the smile from the Grandmaster’s face. He turned back to Breck. "Rise up, Journeyman Breck – the doors to the Guildhall open before you."

Smiling broadly, Breck leapt to his feet, then caught the harp before it could tumble. Clutching it close, he made his way to the throng of Journeymen, who greeted him with slaps and smiles. In the feast to follow, he would be made drunk and his hand numbed with herbs, and then the harp of the Bards would be tattooed across the back. A harp with a single string, yet room to hold six more. With luck and a little help from the gods, I would join him.

"They gave it to him," Treble muttered. "But they’ll keep him here for a few summers more."

I nodded. Their choice was wise, all paths considered.

And now my turn had come. I rose to meet it.

Chapter 20.2.3

Breck bent his head and hands to the task. The notes came out smooth and perfect as he worked through the Cycle of Songs, a set of tunes that marked each stage of a person’s life. Birth was a simple melody with a steady heartbeat, then a long, joyful rise. With a ripple of sound it changed to Growth, a swelling, circular air that slowly became more complex. With Maturity it deepened, moving to a lower register, and then came the fast-paced, giddy dance of Pairing. Livelihood, a sturdy melody with a strong beat, gave way to the whisper of Old Age. Then all the harmonies gathered into a single strand of notes that faded into a soft hum of the strings – Death, and the journey beyond it.

A flawless performance. Breck had indeed worked hard – but his only reward was a stern nod from the Grandmaster. "Now play your original ballad."

With a shaking voice, Breck forced out the title. "Ballad of the Willow Tree." He bowed his head, plucked the harp strings, and sang.

"My name is William Willow –
I am naught but a tree.
I bow my head down o’er this bank
And weep for all to see.

Once – I was a true man
With a heart and hands and eyes;
But now I’m rooted to this soil
With a pain that never dies.

I had myself a maiden,
Fair Bridgett was her name.
But I was just a toy to her,
For loving was her game."

The ballad went on to tell William’s tragic story. He had loved his Bridgett so much that he had bragged about her to all he met, and even traveled into the Eastern Green Forest to tell the trees. There he met a tall man in a dark cloak who laughed at his story and told him that no woman ever truly loves a man. William claimed that his Bridgett was different; the stranger replied that the woman would be in the arms of another when William left the forest. Taking offense, William had called the man a liar, and said that on his soul he would prove his Bridgett to be true. At this the man threw off his cloak and revealed himself to be Oberon, lord of the Herart of the Eastern Green Forest. He then offered a bargain: if Bridgett did indeed prove true, then William could return and fill his hat with jewels and silver, but if Bridgett was false, then William was to lose his soul and belong to the forest forever. William agreed, then left the forest in search of his true love. But:

"I saw her with the iron-smith’s son
Embracing by the river;
Her took her face between his hands
And then he sweetly kissed her.

And then he pulled his knife out
And stepped up to a tree;
With swift, deep strokes he carved their names
Inside a heart – on me.

My name is William Willow –
I am naught but a tree.
I bow my head down o’er this bank
And weep for all to see."

An interesting idea, carefully played, but the tune was stiff and unremarkable. And long – Master Iving wasn’t the only one to blink himself awake at the end.

Grandmaster Meiltung did not comment on it, however. He only closed his eyes, then recited, as if from memory, "For everything there is a purpose. What is the purpose of failure?"