been five
years old, far too young to have survived without assistance. My theory
is that one or more members of the community survived and cared for the
child."
His voice deepened and, to Derian's surprise, took on
the cadences of a professional storyteller. Like a storyteller, the
earl began with the traditional words:
"Envision with me, if you would be so kind, pale
light dawning on a morning graced with steady rain. Heaven's water
falls on the smoldering wreckage of a community built from youthful
dreams. As it extinguishes the fire, it extinguishes the last faint
hopes of the builders.
"At the edge of farmed fields stands a small group,
perhaps as small as two. One is Prince Barden. His noble face is
blackened with soot and ash, his powerful body stooped with exhaustion,
his expression ravaged with grief, for those still burning embers hold
within their embrace the bodies of his friends and comrades, perhaps
the body of his lady wife."
The earl's voice broke there and Derian liked him better for it. Even in the midst of constructing a pedigree for thefoundling,
a pedigree on which rested Kestrel's own ambitions for advancement, the
man couldn't quite subdue his own sorrow at the loss of his sister.
Suspicious then that he was too gullible, that the
catch in the earl's voice had just been good theater, Derian glanced at
the nobleman, but the tightness around Norvin Norwood's eyes and mouth
was genuine. His voice, though, when he spoke again, had returned to
his control:
"Prince Barden holds in one of his great hands a
small one, that of his small daughter, Blysse. Terrified and confused
by the changes the night has wrought, still the little girl tries to be
brave for her father's sake. He, in turn, takes courage from the
child's need for him.
"After foraging among the ruins for the basic
necessities of existence, the prince leads his daughter into the
forest. There is no benefit to staying near, yet Barden cannot bear to
take himself too far away from this accidental funeral pyre. If he
departs, who will make the offerings to the spirits of the dead?
"So he remains and builds a small shelter in which he
raises his daughter, letting her help him forage and hunt for what they
need to survive in the wilds. Certainly, he made no more permanent
provisions for the future. Doubtless, when the traditional two years of
sacrifices for the dead were ended, Prince Barden planned to return to
his father's kingdom. Once there, if only for his small daughter's
sake, he would beg forgiveness for his rashness and ask to be taken
back into the fold.
"However, before those two years can pass, something
happens to him. Perhaps the heat of the fires that Prince Barden
certainly challenged when attempting to save his people seared his
lungs. Perhaps he broke a limb or caught an illness while hunting in
the freezing cold of winter for food for his daughter. Perhaps it was
simply the final stroke of the ill luck that had dogged his young life.
For whatever reason, when the two years had passed, the prince was too
weak to make the onerous journey across the mountains. Instead, he put
his full energies into teaching his daughter what she would need to
survive.
"At last, his strength failing him, Prince Barden
strapped his own knife about young Blysse's waist, rested her small but
strong hand on the polished garnet on the pommel, made her swear to
fight to survive even when he had passed on. Taking her to the ruins,
he consigned her care to the ancestral spirits to whom he had so
devotedly sacrificed. Shortly thereafter, he joined them.
"Perhaps Blysse buried him in the ruins near those he
had loved. Perhaps, trembling with grief, she was forced to leave his
body to the ministry of the wild creatures. However, like her father,
she remained close by the familiar places. There, nearly wild, we found
her, and so we return her to the embrace of her grandfather."
Earl Kestrel paused, one hand holding Coal's reins,
the other lightly stroking
years old, far too young to have survived without assistance. My theory
is that one or more members of the community survived and cared for the
child."
His voice deepened and, to Derian's surprise, took on
the cadences of a professional storyteller. Like a storyteller, the
earl began with the traditional words:
"Envision with me, if you would be so kind, pale
light dawning on a morning graced with steady rain. Heaven's water
falls on the smoldering wreckage of a community built from youthful
dreams. As it extinguishes the fire, it extinguishes the last faint
hopes of the builders.
"At the edge of farmed fields stands a small group,
perhaps as small as two. One is Prince Barden. His noble face is
blackened with soot and ash, his powerful body stooped with exhaustion,
his expression ravaged with grief, for those still burning embers hold
within their embrace the bodies of his friends and comrades, perhaps
the body of his lady wife."
The earl's voice broke there and Derian liked him better for it. Even in the midst of constructing a pedigree for thefoundling,
a pedigree on which rested Kestrel's own ambitions for advancement, the
man couldn't quite subdue his own sorrow at the loss of his sister.
Suspicious then that he was too gullible, that the
catch in the earl's voice had just been good theater, Derian glanced at
the nobleman, but the tightness around Norvin Norwood's eyes and mouth
was genuine. His voice, though, when he spoke again, had returned to
his control:
"Prince Barden holds in one of his great hands a
small one, that of his small daughter, Blysse. Terrified and confused
by the changes the night has wrought, still the little girl tries to be
brave for her father's sake. He, in turn, takes courage from the
child's need for him.
"After foraging among the ruins for the basic
necessities of existence, the prince leads his daughter into the
forest. There is no benefit to staying near, yet Barden cannot bear to
take himself too far away from this accidental funeral pyre. If he
departs, who will make the offerings to the spirits of the dead?
"So he remains and builds a small shelter in which he
raises his daughter, letting her help him forage and hunt for what they
need to survive in the wilds. Certainly, he made no more permanent
provisions for the future. Doubtless, when the traditional two years of
sacrifices for the dead were ended, Prince Barden planned to return to
his father's kingdom. Once there, if only for his small daughter's
sake, he would beg forgiveness for his rashness and ask to be taken
back into the fold.
"However, before those two years can pass, something
happens to him. Perhaps the heat of the fires that Prince Barden
certainly challenged when attempting to save his people seared his
lungs. Perhaps he broke a limb or caught an illness while hunting in
the freezing cold of winter for food for his daughter. Perhaps it was
simply the final stroke of the ill luck that had dogged his young life.
For whatever reason, when the two years had passed, the prince was too
weak to make the onerous journey across the mountains. Instead, he put
his full energies into teaching his daughter what she would need to
survive.
"At last, his strength failing him, Prince Barden
strapped his own knife about young Blysse's waist, rested her small but
strong hand on the polished garnet on the pommel, made her swear to
fight to survive even when he had passed on. Taking her to the ruins,
he consigned her care to the ancestral spirits to whom he had so
devotedly sacrificed. Shortly thereafter, he joined them.
"Perhaps Blysse buried him in the ruins near those he
had loved. Perhaps, trembling with grief, she was forced to leave his
body to the ministry of the wild creatures. However, like her father,
she remained close by the familiar places. There, nearly wild, we found
her, and so we return her to the embrace of her grandfather."
Earl Kestrel paused, one hand holding Coal's reins,
the other lightly stroking
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