The Bards of Bone Plain by Patricia A. McKillip Page A

that nobody understands anymore?”
    â€œBecause it’s the language of secrets, the language of power, the language of lost arts. The word only looks like ‘water.’ Beneath the surface, it becomes something else entirely. And you have the gift to use that power. You told me that in the grubby tavern by the sea when you took the jewels from my harp.” He turned its face; they glittered with a familiar warmth and beauty at Nairn. “They recognized you.”
    Nairn gazed back at them expressionlessly, remembering with what power and what innocence he had taken them. He shifted his eyes to Declan’s barely visible face, the cold tear of moonlight in his owl’s eyes.
    â€œWhy do you want me here?” he asked slowly, sensing he would not like the answer. “Why are you teaching me this?”
    â€œI am learning this as well,” Declan reminded him. “I took the language from your ancient stones. It’s the forgotten power of your land I am trying to waken. The kings of my land know how to use their bards; the greatest of the musicians are the most powerful mages. I can teach you what you will need to know to become the Royal Bard of Belden.”
    Nairn took a step back, nearly lost his balance and tumbled down the hill. “No,” he said harshly. “No. I will never work for that usurper.”
    â€œThink,” Declan said softly. “Think. Of what your status would be in the king’s court. Of the music you have never heard: the court music of the five lost kingdoms and of King Oroh’s land. Of the instruments you could play. Of the knowledge that would come your way. The advantages of wealth and rank, as the king’s most honored bard, would open every court in Belden to you. Even Lord Deste, Odelet’s father, would welcome you under his roof.”
    Nairn whispered, trembling, “How do I know—”
    â€œThat I’m not lying to you again? This was the final request of the King of Belden to me when I left his court: that I find and train the bards most capable of magic in this land. I am doing so. Think about all this. Then decide to stay or go. If you stay, that is what I offer you, in the name of the king.”
    â€œYou didn’t answer—”
    â€œYou’ll never know, will you? If you leave.”
    Nairn stood, mute again, gazing down at the shadowy figure as Declan picked up his harp, ran his fingers down it, shook a glitter of notes into the moonlight.
    He said haltingly, as Declan began to play again, “When I—when I went up the tower steps to talk to Dower Ren, I saw, out of one window, a great, dark tower on the flat land at the bottom of the hill, rising so high that it seemed to stretch into the stars, and they became part of it. Is that what you mean by the power of the land? You must have seen it, too. You were out here playing, then.”
    The harp stilled midphrase; it seemed, for a moment, that Declan’s voice had frozen with his fingers. Nairn heard him draw breath, hesitate; he answered finally, looking up at Nairn, his face in shadow but for his moonstruck eyes.
    â€œI was out here, yes. I was watching the moonrise and thinking about the music of my own land, wondering how much of it will be remembered without its history, how much will wither on this foreign soil. The bell jangled when you opened the front door. It pulled me out of my memories; I began to play, then.
    â€œI saw no tower. I heard no harping but my own. All the magic was for you.”

Chapter Seven
    The formal invitation to the queen’s supper in honor of her brother, Lord Grishold, reached Phelan, as usual, in haphazard fashion. He had wandered out of bed after a long night at the Merry Rampion to be faced with the impending day, which offered nothing, no matter which way he looked at it, but a vast, empty blankness of paper upon which he was expected to write. His father’s house stood on the bank of the