endurance was not what it had been.
Nothing was what it had been. When he pictured himself before the events in the Inkadh Grove, he no longer recognized the Bard he was: that man was a stranger, carefree and heedless, no more reckoning of danger than a child. Now he saw death everywhere, a dark pulse in everything living. The world was a different place, and he moved through it as a different person.
He rested only for a short while, then swept his long legs off the bed and stood up slowly, wincing. He went to the casement and looked out joylessly at the darkening day. From here, on the second floor, he could see over the inner courtyard of the Bardhouse, where a herb garden was planted between paths of grey stone that were now blackened with rain. The sun was obscured by heavy clouds that hung low over the School, draining even the red roof tiles of colour. He felt cold and comfortless, although a fire burned brightly in the hearth behind him. Then he shook himself, as if he could shoulder off his black mood, and went to find Nelac.
Nelac was, as Dernhil had hoped, in his rooms. He answered the door with a faint frown of irritation, which cleared as soon as he recognized Dernhil.
“I’m sorry for the interruption,” said Dernhil, looking over Nelac’s shoulder into the room, where a young Bard was staring at him from a table covered with books and paper. “Shall I come back later? I just wanted to see if you were free.”
“No, no, it’s fine,” said Nelac, drawing him inside. “Selmana and I were just about to finish.” He directed a glance of amusement over at Selmana, who had shut the biggest of the volumes with a loud bang. “I’m giving her some help with the Reading. I suspect that Selmana wishes that it were true that you could absorb knowledge from books by sleeping on them; but, alas, the only way to do so is by reading them.”
“If I slept on the
Aximidiaë
, I’d have the biggest crick in my neck and I would never walk straight for the rest of my life,” said Selmana.
Dernhil laughed. “So you are a Maker,” he said. “If only Poryphia had thought to write in proper Annaren, instead of the language of her own time!”
“And if only everything she said were not so important!” Selmana was gathering up her notes. “Maybe when I grow up I’ll translate it, so that other poor Bards don’t have to suffer as I do.”
“That is a fine ambition,” said Nelac. “Do you know Dernhil of Gent? Dernhil, this is a stray student of mine, Selmana.”
Selmana shook Dernhil’s hand. “I knew that I recognized your face!” she said. “I couldn’t quite place it, but of course I saw you when you were last here.” She seemed about to say something else, but checked herself, blushing, and glanced at Nelac. “I’ll leave now, I see you want to talk. I’ll come again next week, yes? You don’t know how glad I am of your help…”
“But of course,” said Nelac. As he showed her out, Dernhil stood by the fire, looking around Nelac’s sitting room. Oddly, this time its familiarity was reassuring. Like most Bard quarters, it blended an attention to beauty with comfortable disorder; but what he felt most of all was Nelac’s calming presence. He sat down on the couch and stretched his legs out towards the fire.
“Can I offer you a wine?” said Nelac. “I was planning to eat here later, and you’re welcome to join me, if you’re not too tired…”
“Is it that obvious?” said Dernhil.
“Only to eyes that know you well.”
Dernhil smiled ruefully. “You’re too courteous,” he said. “I’m sure I look as bad as I feel. But yes to both wine and dinner, although I fear I might fall asleep on your most comfortable couch. I was hoping we’d have time to talk properly today.”
Nelac handed Dernhil a glass and sat down, examining him gravely.
“I can’t but wonder what brought you here,” he said. “I didn’t think to see you in Lirigon again.”
“I can’t pretend that
Nothing was what it had been. When he pictured himself before the events in the Inkadh Grove, he no longer recognized the Bard he was: that man was a stranger, carefree and heedless, no more reckoning of danger than a child. Now he saw death everywhere, a dark pulse in everything living. The world was a different place, and he moved through it as a different person.
He rested only for a short while, then swept his long legs off the bed and stood up slowly, wincing. He went to the casement and looked out joylessly at the darkening day. From here, on the second floor, he could see over the inner courtyard of the Bardhouse, where a herb garden was planted between paths of grey stone that were now blackened with rain. The sun was obscured by heavy clouds that hung low over the School, draining even the red roof tiles of colour. He felt cold and comfortless, although a fire burned brightly in the hearth behind him. Then he shook himself, as if he could shoulder off his black mood, and went to find Nelac.
Nelac was, as Dernhil had hoped, in his rooms. He answered the door with a faint frown of irritation, which cleared as soon as he recognized Dernhil.
“I’m sorry for the interruption,” said Dernhil, looking over Nelac’s shoulder into the room, where a young Bard was staring at him from a table covered with books and paper. “Shall I come back later? I just wanted to see if you were free.”
“No, no, it’s fine,” said Nelac, drawing him inside. “Selmana and I were just about to finish.” He directed a glance of amusement over at Selmana, who had shut the biggest of the volumes with a loud bang. “I’m giving her some help with the Reading. I suspect that Selmana wishes that it were true that you could absorb knowledge from books by sleeping on them; but, alas, the only way to do so is by reading them.”
“If I slept on the
Aximidiaë
, I’d have the biggest crick in my neck and I would never walk straight for the rest of my life,” said Selmana.
Dernhil laughed. “So you are a Maker,” he said. “If only Poryphia had thought to write in proper Annaren, instead of the language of her own time!”
“And if only everything she said were not so important!” Selmana was gathering up her notes. “Maybe when I grow up I’ll translate it, so that other poor Bards don’t have to suffer as I do.”
“That is a fine ambition,” said Nelac. “Do you know Dernhil of Gent? Dernhil, this is a stray student of mine, Selmana.”
Selmana shook Dernhil’s hand. “I knew that I recognized your face!” she said. “I couldn’t quite place it, but of course I saw you when you were last here.” She seemed about to say something else, but checked herself, blushing, and glanced at Nelac. “I’ll leave now, I see you want to talk. I’ll come again next week, yes? You don’t know how glad I am of your help…”
“But of course,” said Nelac. As he showed her out, Dernhil stood by the fire, looking around Nelac’s sitting room. Oddly, this time its familiarity was reassuring. Like most Bard quarters, it blended an attention to beauty with comfortable disorder; but what he felt most of all was Nelac’s calming presence. He sat down on the couch and stretched his legs out towards the fire.
“Can I offer you a wine?” said Nelac. “I was planning to eat here later, and you’re welcome to join me, if you’re not too tired…”
“Is it that obvious?” said Dernhil.
“Only to eyes that know you well.”
Dernhil smiled ruefully. “You’re too courteous,” he said. “I’m sure I look as bad as I feel. But yes to both wine and dinner, although I fear I might fall asleep on your most comfortable couch. I was hoping we’d have time to talk properly today.”
Nelac handed Dernhil a glass and sat down, examining him gravely.
“I can’t but wonder what brought you here,” he said. “I didn’t think to see you in Lirigon again.”
“I can’t pretend that
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