Part 3
The time had come for them to sing;
The Master Bards were there;
Encircled in a granite ring
with magic in the air;
Sixteen Master Bards sat still;
Four initiates would sing;
The moon had risen, bright and full,
above the gathering;
The stone bequeathed an eerie glow;
The night grew eerie-calm;
The Master Bards deferred as one
to the greatest of them all.
“We are summoned to this isle
for this sacred task;
Once a decade we compile
all our songs and ask:
“Should new members be allowed
within our special ranks
to become a Master Bard
for all the songs they sang?
“Those with skill of melody,
those with skill of tongue,
are far from such a rarity
that few of them belong;
“Minstrels, troubadours—
they can sing and play,
but Master Bards spin magic words
that others can’t evade!
“Many bards spin magic well;
Many have the gift;
But few there are who can excel—
some are in our midst;
“The test we have is simple:
Four songs you will play!
Spin for us a magic spell
to prove that you should stay!”
The Master of the Master Bards
turned expectantly,
to another Master Bard’s
youthful protégé.
The youth took up his lyre,
propped it on his knee,
thrummed some notes, cleared his throat,
and strung a melody.
This song may be familiar
to such a worthy host;
It is the Song of Aster Gray,
a badly troubled ghost!
I was staying near the palace
of an oft-admired king,
When they called me to bear witness
of her tragic passing.
I took my lyre to her bedside—
She lay as pale as ice—
I played my sweetest ballads,
softest lullabies;
I played and played those soothing songs
until her time had come,
and then I set my lyre down
and left her private room.
She was buried without treasure
in a simple tomb of stone—
a mausoleum for the daughter
of a mistress of the throne.
I was paid and left the palace;
I sought out other songs;
I was still in search of ballads
when the new moon came along.
A farmer offered to provide me
shelter from a coming storm;
The food was simple that he gave me,
but his hearth was toasty-warm;
I repaid him for the kindness;
I sang his daughter lullabies;
I eased her terror from the lightning
and the mighty thunder’s cry!
His music slowed. His voice spoke low.
His eyes went far away.
He barely whispered what came next,
amid his soft refrain.
The lullabies I sang to her
were very much the same
as those I sang to Aster Gray
on her passing day;
The farmer’s daughter, Aster Gray—
they were of an age—
and when I sang those lullabies,
they brought her back again!
Her ghostly apparition—
still as pale as ice!—
slowly manifested—
much to my surprise!
It settled down upon the bed
next to the farmer’s daughter,
and listened to the songs I played,
and lingered long thereafter.
He paused his play. He scanned the ring.
He finished without music.
You may think this song to be
little more than tragic,
He pointed with dramatic flare
just beyond the circle.
But there she is, Aster Gray,
my sad little miracle!
There she was, that apparition,
floating just above the ground
just beyond the circle’s fringe,
making not the slightest sound;
The greatest of the Master Bards,
bemused but not impressed,
turned to the initiate
and asked, “Illusion, yes?”
She is not mere illusion;
She is not mist and fog;
She is an apparition
summoned by my song!
She follows me everywhere;
She haunts my lullabies;
And when I sing of Aster Gray,
she makes a baleful cry!
As if she knew the time was ripe,
She let loose a horrid wail,
A doleful shriek into the night,
as if she were impaled—
The Master of the Master Bards,
waved his aged hand;
He muttered but a few crisp words,
and Aster Gray was gone.
The young man frowned then smiled,
shrugged without concern,
struck a playful little tune,
and finished up his turn:
At least, that’s what I tell them,
when those have dared to ask,
but, yes, it is illusion—
My special bardic cast!
I weave the magic in my songs
to bring them more alive,
but only for the special ones—
when the time is right!
The young bard set aside his lyre;
His mentor deigned to speak;
“A fine display of bardic flair—
Would you not agree?”
Before the murmurs could erupt,
the Master of the Master Bards
held up his hand to interrupt,
and said, “It is a worthy start.
“But that is all; there will be more—
far more before we’re through!
We must consider all the chords
before this night is through!
“He has three more songs to sing;
Three others still to start;
So let us move on with this thing,
and hear another bard!”
Another of the protégés
was given leave to play,
He strummed his lute with playful ease,
and limpid, dainty strain.
I met a woman in the market
who proclaimed to me,
her name was Aaron Breedlove
a man of tragedy!
She said she had a story,
a tragic, woeful tale,
one that bards would sing of—truly!—
about a haunted wishing well.
Here he paused to softly mutter
words too low for them to hear;
In their minds they seemed to gather,
soon becoming all too clear!
He was speaking words of magic,
which his music had enhanced;
They were growing more romantic
as his lute-strings softly danced!
The music eased into a passion
held in place by will alone;
He began to play at random,
wildly shifting pitch and tone;
This display of random patterns
seemed to build upon a frame,
and when his voice returned unbidden,
it struck them all like drops of rain!
Aaron Breedlove was a young man
born of nobles from Old P
ort;
He was raised to learn of ruling,
but was not the ruling sort.
So he left his father’s castle
at a tender, youthful age,
shedding all his royal duties,
seeking for a better way!
Through the weeks that quickly followed,
he became much more aware
that a woman was quite different—
more than form and lustrous hair!
Then one day in drunken stupor,
came he to a wishing well;
Far beyond the grasp of reason,
far too drunk to sanely tell,
he tossed in a pouch of silver—
Not for him a single coin!
As he stood there—no, he tottered—
pondering what could be gained,
an image of the lovely maiden
gave him insight for his wish:
“I wish to understand a woman!
I wish to know just what she is!”
When he finished his transaction,
thinking only of the maid;
There began an odd sensation,
and he felt his manhood fade!
Searching quickly for its presence,
with his dainty fingertips,
He could not conceive its absence—
Yet he could not find a grip!
Overcome by drunken terror,
weeping in a drunken fit,
he ran off in naked horror
trying to locate it!
At length, he slumped against a tree trunk;
At last, exhausted, he passed out;
In the morning, when he woke up,
the wish, the loss, had been forgot!
A headache was consuming him.
A chill was on his skin.
His bladder, full, demanding—
His cold and empty hand—
The urine flowing down his thigh—
brought him to his senses
and reminded him of the night,
of the wish, and of his losses!
A strangled cry escaped his lips—
A high-pitched female squeal!
A frantic search that bore no fruit—
The wish had been for real!
His tones were clipped and hectic;
The magic had been strung;
The bards within the circle
shifted—every one!—
A woman sat for every man,
and each looked on in dread—
could they forbid inclusion
of this wretched bard?
His song was nothing special,
the music sharp and blunt—
But the magic that he could control
was far more than enough!
A dreadful fear enveloped them:
What if the shift he’d done
to change them all to women
became a permanent one!?
Before this fear consumed them,
before they fled their plight,
his wretched song had been resumed,
and sucked them deep inside—
Weeks went by in sorrowed state;
His manhood remained lost;
He sought out wizards, asked for aid,
whatever was the cost!
For two long years he struggled;
For two long years he fought;
For two long years, he remained
a man in a woman’s body.
And then one day, it ended:
He accepted what she was.
He became a lovely maiden;
He became a dainty host;
He became a serving wench;
He became a cook;
He went shopping in the market;
He learned how to knit;
A year of this—and more!—went by
before I heard her tale,
And I agreed a tragedy
about a wishing well
would make a splendid bardic song,
one that I would sing!
And sung I have, that wretched song,
despite the change it brings!
The Master Bards were near to tears;
His lute fell to a mumble;
Several seconds passed before
the lute strings softly hummed;
The gathered bards were patient—
The music still was playing—
They waited for the song to finish—
He turned to them, saying:
Such went that fateful meeting,
in the marketplace,
but I returned anew in spring
to find there was no trace
of the woman Aaron Breedlove,
of that tragic maid;
But of the man named Aaron Breedlove,
much more may be said!
The wish he made that fateful day
had long-since been fulfilled:
He understood the woman’s way;
He understood her skill;
Once he had accepted it,
when man he was no more,
the wish he’d made relented,
and he was man once more!
The magic in the lyrics—
The music in the spell—
The Master Bards were men again!
Their dread was gone as well!
The spell within my ballad,
The feelings that it brought,
We’re only figments in your mind—
No changes have been wrought!
The power of suggestion
and hypnotic play
were all the magic held within
the song I played today!
The Master of the Master Bards
held up his aged hand;
“A potent spell,” was all he said,
then gestured to a man
who held a pair of wooden drums
covered by deerskin.
When silence fell, he nodded once:
“Now you may begin.”
His drums were three in number—
each a different size;
His boots had tiny cymbals—
cleverly disguised;
The largest drum thumped out a beat—
b-BOOM! b-BOOM! b-BOOM!
A heavy thudding, pulsing beat—
b-BOOM! b-BOOM! b-BOOM!
The cymbals tinkled now and then;
The other drums were struck;
Their softer, shriller pattering
stole away their breath—
Their heartbeats matched his rhythm—
b-BOOM! b-BOOM! b-BOOM!
And when he had them in his grip,
he sung of death and gloom!
I trained with sword and shield
throughout my youthful years,
and then there came that fateful day
I first wore battle gear.
I looked and felt a prideful man
in splendid finery;
Complete with tassel-crested helm
and weighty armory;
The feeling didn’t last too long—
I was much surprised
to find an itch I had to scratch,
right between my thighs!
I twitched a bit and ground my teeth
and forced my hand to stay;
The itch grew on relentlessly,
and I began to pray!
“O God of War have mercy!
Grant me strength of will!
The enemy is growing near,
and they’re intent to kill!
“This itch is too distracting;
This itch is in the way!
By all the oaths that I can bring,
Take this itch away!
“I’ll spill much blood, I swear to you!
The enemy will die!
Just end this dreadful itch I have!
I will bravely fight!”
The God of War was silent;
My plea was cast aside;
The itch gre
w more demanding
with each and every stride!
The itch spread wildly down my legs
and up my back and chest;
Ignoring it as best I could,
I went with the rest!
We joined ranks behind the king,
his banner in my hand;
The itch had grown relentlessly—
I could barely stand!
I twitched, I itched, I whimpered—
My comrades looked at me—
And then I dropped the banner—
Ripped my armor free—
I scratched that itch—and all the rest!—
and rolled upon the ground;
I could not stop that wretched itch,
despite the battle sound!
I writhed upon the sodden earth;
The call to arms was made;
I tried to stand; I tried to march—
I ripped my clothes away!
The sound of clashing swords arose
upon the battlefield;
I grabbed my sword, sought out the noise,
and made a vicious yowl!
I must have looked a dreadful sight—
naked with a sword—
a deep red rash from head to foot,
an angry, pain-wracked scowl!
I charged into the melee’s ranks,
but every man I neared,
backed away, did not engage,
as if consumed by fear!
The battle waged throughout the day
and deep into the night;
Though I fumed, though I raged,
no blows I struck that fight!
Twilight fell as dawn approached;
The enemy were dead;
The itch was barely tolerable;
My skin was crimson red;
Welts consumed my chest and thighs;
Blood oozed from open wounds;
I tried to help the injured, tried
to tend their wounds,
but every time I came near,
they paled and shied away;
They put up such a clamor,
that I was sent away.
At noon, the healer came to me;
He looked me up and down;
He shook his head and asked me:
“When did the itch begin?”
I told him all that I could tell;
He shook his head again;
He offered me an ointment;
I spread it on my skin;
The ointment worked like magic;
My itchiness was gone!
I asked him what had caused it—
He shook his head again.
“The armor that you donned today,
The padding underneath,
enflamed your skin because you have
a dreadful allergy.”
My warrior’s days were over;
No cure was there for me;
If ever I wore armor,
that rash would torture me!
I did not leave my sword behind;
I did not cease to train;
I left the service of the king
and never fought again!
The drumbeats and the cymbal
slowly disappeared,
until one sound alone remained,
the first one that they heard:
The steady, thudding, pulsing beat—
b-BOOM! b-BOOM! b-BOOM!
Then he changed its stolid pace,
until it had slowed down
to half a beat each second—
Then slower still it went—
Each time the beat had been reduced
they felt their heartbeats skip!
All at once the beat was stopped—
Their heartbeats also ceased!
They clutched their chests and gasped—
He smiled wickedly!
Then, all at once, he slapped his drum—
a sharp, resounding BOOM!—
All their hearts beat free again,
free from his magic tune!
The Master of the Master Bards
was first to catch his breath;
He glared at the initiate
and then he shook his head!
“Our magic is not meant to kill;
Our magic should not harm;
Our magic ought to help, to heal,
not to raise alarm.
“I do not doubt your talent;
I do not doubt your skill;
But what about your motive?
Is yours an evil will?”
The drummer sat, admonished,
and then his patron spoke:
“Master, do not be so cross—
Can’t you take a joke?”
The Master of the Master Bards
rebuked him yet again:
“Such folly is misguided
and you should understand!”
“Indeed, I do—both you and he;
His humor is perverse!
His bardic skill exemplary!
Forgive his playful jest!
“Look beyond your discomfort!
Look beyond your fear!
See what sits amid our court:
A Master Bard for sure!”
The Master of the Master Bards
sadly shook his head;
“Perhaps it’s you who are misguided,
if you think the jest was good.”
He waved away the protest,
“No matter, we shall see
who among the four there is
on which we’ll all agree.
“For now, there is but one to play,
and when his song is through;
We shall retire to consider
what we are to do.”
The conflict wasn’t over,
but had been set aside;
His mentor turned and winked at him;
His harp lay at his side;
The Master of the Master Bards—
His mentor and his friend—
Gestured with sincerity,
and said, “You may begin.”
He set the harp upon his knee;
He strummed an impish chain;
He shook his head in misery—
There was no way to win.
He sighed and set the harp aside.
He looked upon the bards.
He sought the magic deep inside.
He lifted up his harp.
I do not know if this is true
or just some minstrel’s tale,
but I will sing and play it through,
then bid you all farewell!
His mentor frowned and stared at him;
the others looked askance;
But once the song had been begun,
it put them in a trance!
In the rafters of a temple
was a wicked, wicked man,
who came to steal the silver
in the coffers of the clan.
He crouched inside of shadow
like a spider for a fly;
He watched the priestess praying
and the others walking by;
With an effort more than human
that he thought could not be done,
he waited without patience
as they walked out, one by one,
and then the priestess was alone,
her candle burning low;
He scampered down the temple wall
and landed in a roll.
A sudden flash of burnished steel;
Darts went singing past;
They found a home with sickly speed,
deep in the priestess’ flesh.
The priestess doubled over
with a squawk and muted prayer;
The poison tips had done their job
with little left to spare.
The wicked man was ruthless;
He rifled through her corpse;
He took the pendant from her neck
and earrings from her lobes! r />
The copper coin she’d kept for luck
had failed her on this day;
It came to rest with subtle clunk,
when he put it fast away.
Then off he went with silent speed
to get the altar stones;
He knew the temple rooms by rote:
They once had been his home!
He found the treasure room with ease,
despite the traps they’d set;
He placed his feet with purpose,
and his thoughts were firmly set.
Three coffers stood within the room.
Two were filled with death.
The third one had a needle trap,
where silver bars were kept.
With that chilling thought in mind,
he worked with special care;
When the poison needle flew,
he wasn’t standing there;
Before the deadly trap reset,
he smashed the coffer’s lock
and placed the silver that he found
beneath his priestly smock.
He eased his way with cautious steps
back to the outer hall;
He scampered with a spider’s skill
up the temple wall;
He rested on the rafter’s perch
until the morning light,
and when the hue and cry went out,
he joined in the fright!
His agitation was sincere,
if from a different source;
He was afraid he would get caught
and lose his life, of course!
But in the crowded temple hall—
Priests were everywhere—
One more priest was just ignored,
and he escaped from there.
An acolyte with nervous eyes
and too much intellect
confronted him outside the halls
and quickly met his death.
The body fell with wilting ease,
and soon it would be found;
The wicked man fled with haste
to leave the temple ground.
When he reached the sacred grove
where he had left his steed,
he found the tether had been cut—
and cursed the other thief!
He heard the cries of hungry dogs,
and chills slipped down his spine;
They settled in his empty gut
and told him he would die!
As the notes were finely gathered;
When his words had all been sung;
He released the tautened harp strings;
Into darkness, he was flung!
As his body slumped and tumbled,
all the Master Bards looked on;
Then his mentor, fearful, stumbled,
sought a pulse—the faintest one!
They were frantic, tried their magic—
His protégé did not respond;
Several seconds passed by, hectic,
then a voice came from beyond:
He is but a young apprentice;
He does not belong with us;
Does he have such mighty magic?
Does he have a wondrous voice?
I am Randolph Weaving Fingers—
You may know me from before—
I was one among your number,
in the tepid days of yore!
An ancient bard emerged from shadow,
moved into their startled midst,
picked up harp and started playing,
gentle, soothing, tragic riffs.
I’ll sing to you of awe and wonder
at the mighty task I saw
and bring to you a broken feather
from the wing of Dragon’s Claw!
Those monks are known by many people
as a mercenary band;
They work for any who pay silver
to perform the tasks at hand.
I stumbled on their mad endeavor
late one chilly afternoon,
and then I could not help but wonder
if their deaths were coming soon!
Even madmen would not enter
in the lair of Darkwing Bane—
How could they expect to kill her
and her mighty dragon flame?
I thought to leave them in their glory,
but my curiosity
was too strong to be denied it,
and I went so I could see.
Her cavern lay before their army
of two dozen half-crazed monks.
I hesitated for a moment,
then I followed where they slunk.
I saw their skillful, silent passage
through the darkened tunnel-way.
The first one fell into a pitfall
filled with molded spikes of clay!
Not a single sound he uttered,
though his pain was plain to see!
When we reached the dragon’s shelter,
they were down to ten and three!
Then, in silence full of furor,
all of them attacked as one!
Weapons glistened on her armor—
Spears and staves about her danced!
She awoke in storming anger,
lashing out with sharpened claw;
Monks were shaken, bruised and battered—
One was hanging from her maw!
Horror filled me as they battled;
Body parts were strewn about;
Still the monks would not surrender,
dwindling without a shout!
Then the dragon roared in anger,
rearing back its mighty head;
Then I saw her lunging forward,
falling as if she were dead!
I sought to find a wound or reason
that had caused her quick demise,
and I saw it in her belly,
just above her massive thigh:
A spear had buried in her gullet,
struck her heart a fatal blow;
As she fell, the monk who struck it
had been sadly crushed below.
Death and blood were strewn about me;
No one else remained alive;
The monks had died in silent glory
as they took the dragon’s life!
For a moment full of silence,
I looked on the carnage there;
Then I shrugged and started searching
for the dragon’s treasure trove!
Randolph Weaving Fingers finished,
dropped the harp, and disappeared!
Then another apparition
made its way among the bards.
He was bedecked in dented plate,
and broken shield and sword;
When he spoke, his voice rang out
deep and bold and strong!
Hold! Hold! Hold them back!
Keep your men from running!
Hold! Hold! Hold them back!
The enemy is coming!
Guard your flanks! Watch your back!
Aim with steady finger!
Kill the bastards who attack!
Kill them all for King Ur!
This is the chorus that was sung
upon the battlefield,
by the haggard warriors when
King Ur refused to yield!
They stood their ground with pike and sword
in mud and bloody bodies,
waiting for the great attack
of King Curry’s armies.
Days went past, the hour came,
and hunger fed their bellies;
Then they saw, upon the ridge,
the flag of Curry’s army!
Hold! Hold! Hold them back!
Keep your men from running!
Hold! Hold! Hold them back!
The enemy is coming!
Guard your flanks! Watch your back!
Aim with steady finger!
Kill the bastards who attack! r />
Kill them all for King Ur!
First the arrows filled the air
and landed without mercy;
Then the rush of man and beast
from King Curry’s army!
Good King Ur would not retreat;
They waited for the skirmish;
King Curry’s men saw them there
and came on without worries!
Halfway down the valley’s rim,
King Curry’s army waited;
Arrows filled the air again
with volleys unabated!
Hold! Hold! Hold them back!
Keep your men from running!
Hold! Hold! Hold them back!
The enemy is coming!
Guard your flanks! Watch your back!
Aim with steady finger!
Kill the bastards who attack!
Kill them all for King Ur!
Good King Ur declared retreat
and moved his army backward;
Onward came King Curry’s men,
marching ever onward!
Arrows would not fly again;
Archers stumbled forward,
falling down the muddy slope
that King Ur had covered!
With the order he had sent,
the trap was built and hidden;
Unbeknownst to Curry’s men,
the archers had been stricken!
Soon the word was passed around
from Good King Ur to others,
and his army made their way
around the pitfalls’ borders!
Hold! Hold! Hold them back!
Keep your men from running!
Hold! Hold! Hold them back!
The enemy is coming!
Guard your flanks! Watch your back!
Aim with steady finger!
Kill the bastards who attack!
Kill them all for King Ur!
The rush was made and soundly blocked
as battle waged eternal;
When the carnage broke at last,
King Curry won his funeral!
Good Kind Ur, the war’s victor,
went through his tattered army
telling them that he was proud
of beating Curry’s army!
Quickly heard throughout the ranks,
the battle cry erupted;
Good King Ur, it has been said,
was struck by tears of love that
he was shedding for the fallen
and the living wounded;
All the men who saw this feat
would leave there most astounded!
Hold! Hold! Hold them back!
Keep your men from running!
Hold! Hold! Hold them back!
The enemy is coming!
Guard your flanks! Watch your back!
Aim with steady finger!
Kill the bastards who attack!
Kill them all for King Ur!
Hold! Hold! Hold them back!
Keep your men from running!
Hold! Hold! Hold them back!
The enemy is coming!
Guard your flanks! Watch your back!
Aim with steady finger!
Kill the bastards who attack!
Kill them all for King Ur!
As the strident echoes faded,
the balladeer did too!
Then another wandered in
to sing as if on cue:
That old clod has never sung
any song worth singing;
His repertoire has never sprung
the joy he should be bringing!
Battle hymns and ballads,
warfare glorified!
He was a morbid, boorish bard,
long before he died!
But die he did, and we were sad,
for none could take his place;
Enough of gloom! Let us be glad!
Put on a happy face!
It happened in the midst of summer;
Unexpectedly, it came!
A storm blew up, quite unnatural,
that bestowed a yellow rain!
Never had I seen such nonsense
as a yellow puddle deep
with the sun still shining brightly
on the giant yellow stream!
Not a warning had been given
ere the yellow rain appeared;
Not a cloud or peal of thunder—
The yellow rain was everywhere!
As quickly as the rain had started,
it fizzled to a drippy end!
Had this yellow rain departed?
Would it start to rain again?
Then I heard a sigh—loud and heavy—
coming from somewhere behind;
I turned to search the cloudless heavens—
and I saw a massive thigh!
No more yellow rain was coming;
No more tinkles from above;
For the giant I was watching
had decided he was done!
Looking quickly for a river
that was free of yellow rain,
I dove in and scrubbed with vigor
to remove the yellow stain!
Pausing for expected laughter,
finding that there would be none,
he resorted to another
brief refrain to get him some!
Come, now, fellows, that was funny—
Perfect low-brow humor that!
Lighten up! Enjoy the moment!
I will help you do just that!
I once frolicked with the faeries
in their magic faerie hall!
Perchance we need their faerie magic
to remove this dreadful pall!
With a playful bit of magic,
he brought forth a faerie storm!
They erupted from the shadows,
quickly taking shape and form!
Flitting this way, flitting that way,
they confused the dreadful scene;
All at once, they departed,
with a playful, impish scream!
In their wake, their anger risen,
Master Bards prepared to weave
all the spells that they had mastered
to make the apparitions leave!
Then the Master of the Masters
cried out in alarm:
“Where is he?!” he asked in fear:
His protégé was gone!
“I am here,” said his apprentice
as he moved into the ring;
“I have finished weaving magic:
Four songs did I bring!”
His mentor wrestled with emotions—
relief and anger, fear and rage—
“How could you—” he started, harshly, then
demanded he explain!
“The test demanded I show magic;
Four songs I was told to sing;
The first was played to set the stage;
Then with magic, I could bring
“the bards who sang their favored songs—
Long-dead though they are—
Appeared as apparitions—
Although in truth they were
“mere projections of my mind
given solid form;
No ghosts were they! Their songs were mine!
Shall I sing three more?”
The Master of the Master Bards—
His mentor and his friend!—
Spoke for all the Master Bards:
“Your test is at an end.
“The magic that you have displayed,
The songs that you have sung;
Will be discussed when we debate
if you should be among
the ranks of all the Master Bards
or cast out from our ranks.”
Then he turned to face the others:
“Shall we take a break?”
The test concluded, decisions made,
Three Master Bards were named;
One there was
they forced to leave:
The one who played the drums!
His skill was great, they all had said,
but not his humor spun;
The evil magic he had played
was of concern to some;
They told him he could try again,
when next they gathered here;
Ten more years he’d have to wait
to be a Master Bard.
He left without objection;
His mentor chose to stay;
For sixteen days they traded songs;
For sixteen days they played!
The meeting of the bards disbanded;
Sharing of the songs was done;
The Master Bards took separate roads,
in small groups or alone;
His mentor led him to the road
that led back to his home,
then took his leave—this time for good—
no longer would he roam.
He stayed but for a few days time
in his brother’s inn;
Then sought adventure one more time
as wanderlust set in!