The Bard Speaks by Montgomery Mahaffey Page A

The boy was four when he came to live with his grandfather. The Bard was determined to redeem his grandson from the torment of his soul, casting his own grief aside to care for a child who needed him desperately. It was a year before the nightmares stopped. Light returned to the boy’s eyes and he was finally able to see the world he was living in, and the child’s new world was made of nothing but love.
    Through it all, on the same night every week, the children always arrived at the Bard’s cabin to listen to his stories. The Bard was forever thankful because their presence brought a harmony that was lacking until his grandson was healed.
    As fire climbed the mountain of logs, the youngest child moved to sit with the little boy who had the same large black eyes as his grandfather.
    The Bard took his place before the hearth, his figure a dark silhouette in front of the fiery mound. The children heard the soft hiss of deep breathing. Before he spoke, he always claimed a moment to enjoy the fragrance of wood burning. Then his voice rang clear, rising from the depths of his belly and rolling in subtle cadence. The Village Bard began another tale about his favorite villainess, the woman known as the Thief of Hearts.
    “In the south of this country, there’s a fashion town built into the upper walls of high cliffs where the sea crashes into the walls below. The buildings of this village change color throughout the day, depending on the place of the sun in the sky. In evening time, the town is invisible. The buildings have the same muddy pink hue of stone bluffs at sundown. Nobody knows how this town was built. The structures are ancient, and those skills were not passed to the masons of today. They don’t have the knowing to carve deep into the rock, to find the support for buildings jutting out from the cliffs and hanging over the ocean. During winter storms, the waves get high enough to flood the streets with salt water. Yet the village stands, half buried in stone, half suspended over the sea.”
    “The road to this fashion town is treachery. Guests must wind down a steep slope to reach the gates. Many a horse digs its heels in and refuses to go down that road. It’s wise to travel light here, for more than one carriage has toppled at a curve and fallen down to the rocky sea, taking the horses, driver, and passengers to certain death.”
    “Who would go to such a place, you wonder. But it’s a fashion town. It’s the place for the rich, the beautiful, and the very indulgent. The commerce of this village is pleasure and the danger of getting there is part of the appeal. The season is short— only three months from the peak of spring to mid summer. Then the heat becomes uncomfortable.”
    “This is the place for decadent Patrons who would rather play than work, hiding their excesses from the peasants who toil hard for their wealth. This is the place for the spoiled, indolent sons of nobility. They arrive in packs, handsome wolves on the prowl for something unique to excite their senses. This is the place for the powerful whose decisions affect us all. They come to this fashion town for relief from the responsibilities of state and commerce, from their families and their mistresses. They escape for a brief holiday of stolen freedom. It is only through invitation that one can pass through the town gates. The guest list changes every year.”
    “Desire is promised gratification in this fashion town. This is the place for courtesans, the women who bring fantasy to life. Ecstasy is their art. The pursuit of pleasure is their livelihood. Only the most beautiful and notorious are invited to work their trade in this decadent oasis for the elite. Those who are both gifted and sensible can retire after three seasons. The very best of them make a fortune that rivals the wealth of their lovers; then they are free to leave this life before it erodes their looks and allure.”
    “All roads lead to the casino in this fashion