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.