He pored over the unknown words so long that he nearly fell asleep. They blurred in front of his eyes, swam together, made new patterns. He shook himself awake, translated all he could. Unable to write his own familiar language, he simply added them to memory, words making images in his head, as stark and elemental as the words themselves.
Mesmerized, he gazed at the mute patterns until they entered his head as well, filling the spaces in his poem he could not render. His tiny room was soundless; the school might well have vanished around him. Only his candle made a sound now and then, a sizzle of wick into melted wax, a flutter at an errant draft that shifted light into shadow for a blink of time on his page.
Three what? A bird’s nest of twigs followed, then another “three,” followed by two pair of crossed twigs. He stared at them stubbornly, willing them to speak, say what they meant, reveal what lay within the patterns.
And suddenly they did.
He felt his heart melt and his hair stiffen at the same time, at a vision of riches, at a vision of an enormity that came at him out of the shadows like a swipe of a vicious claw. His blood pounded; his eyes filled with gold, crowns, jewels, all tossed carelessly into a glittering pile that grew as its image filled his mind. Treasure. Terror. Treasure.
He blinked incredulously at the twigs, and they spoke again. He whispered, echoing them.
Sometime later—hours, days, another night—he stumbled through the dreaming school, the paper in his hand, the words burning in his mind. He ran up the tower steps to Declan’s private chamber door and pounded on it.
Declan opened it. He was still dressed, his expression unruffled by sleep; he might have been waiting for someone, and he seemed completely unsurprised that it was Nairn. Nairn lifted the parchment; it shook in his hand.
“What is this?” he asked. “What is it?”
“Perhaps the oldest poem in Belden. I found it on a standing stone during King Oroh’s first battle on Stirl Plain.”
“But what does it mean?”
“I think it means exactly what it says. Come to the fire. You’re trembling.” He opened the door wider; Nairn crossed Declan’s bedchamber to the hearth, tried to breathe in the warmth, pull it into his embrace.
“They spoke to me,” he said finally, huskily. “They told me what they meant. I saw into them.” He closed his eyes; the bright words burned in his head, waiting for his need of them.
“Tell me what they said.”
“‘On a plain of bone, in a ring of stone ...’ ” He went through it effortlessly, his eyes still shut, seeing again image after image guiding him to the strange, bitter end. “‘... No end of days nor memory.’ ” He opened his eyes, finally beginning to feel the heat, and looked at Declan. “What was that? What did I do?”
The bard looked as strangely pleased as he had when Nairn had coaxed the jewels from his harp. “You found the magic in the words; they spoke to the magic in you. That’s the beginning of power. You were born with the great gift for it, but you had no use for it until you met me. No one here could explain it to you. The bards of the land forgot their magic long ago.”
Nairn was silent, still gazing at him. He had no idea what such words meant before that night; now, he knew enough to begin to feel his way into them, as into unknown waters, find their depths, their hidden currents, their dangers.
“It was always in you,” Declan added. “Born in you. You just had no use for it before. In this land, the bards have forgotten their magic.”
“It’s not that obvious,” Nairn commented, still clinging like a lover to the warmth, as close as he could get to the boundary between desire and danger. “Looking for magic in the simple language of your Circle of Days. ‘Fish,’ ‘Thread,’ ‘Eye.’ ” He heard the words he spoke and shivered suddenly despite the flames. “What made you look there?”
“The poem itself. It promises such marvels to the bard who understands its riddles, its trials, and such sorrow beyond measure to those who fail to understand.”
Nairn was silent. He turned away from the fire to ask the bard with wonder, “How could you read it? You were a stranger, faced with an ancient language carved in stone that no one else spoke.”
He glimpsed the ghost of the bard’s smile, the flick of fire in his eyes. “I saw the power within the words before I even knew what they meant. The way you did, tonight. They made me feel them before they revealed themselves as the simple, ordinary language of daily life. I searched, as King Oroh moved across the five kingdoms, for those who understood that language. I found no one. Until I met you in the Marches, I thought the ancient knowledge had vanished completely from this land.”
“The Circle of Days,” Nairn whispered, seeing such days on the plain, the simplicity of stone, root, spear. “I wonder how they used their power, the ones who spoke the words.”
“I wonder, too,” Declan said softly. “We can only keep studying them; perhaps they’ll tell us that. They are your doorway into King Oroh’s court. Learn them. Work with them. Test them and yourself. But you must also face another test before you can be called Royal Bard of Belden. There is also the matter of music.” Nairn looked at him puzzledly. “The Royal Bard must also be the greatest musician in the realm. How would you fare against the court bards of Belden?”
“I have no idea,” he answered, startled. “I never met one. Will I?”
“By tradition, in my land, the king’s bard is chosen from a great meeting of bards who compete with both their music and their powers to win the position. I cannot do less for King Oroh in Belden. I have heard the music in courts throughout this land. Will you let me teach you?”
Nairn could only stare at him, stunned by the thought of such a contest. One thing to be best at what no one else knew, he thought; another for the master of the bladder-pipe and the marching drum to challenge the court bards of the five kingdoms. Declan came to stand beside him at the hearth. He lifted a hand; poised above Nairn’s shoulder, it hesitated, finally settled. Nairn, looking down at the flames again, did not shake it off. The bard was offering him more than he had ever dreamed, he realized dazedly; he had only to accept it.
“Yes,” he said finally. “Teach me. How else can I learn what else I don’t know?”
Declan smiled, a true smile for once, with neither bitterness nor reserve in it. “The court music will be the easy part,” he promised. “I have all the instruments they use.”
“When—”
“Soon, but not before you are ready.” His hand tightened briefly, then turned Nairn gently toward the door. “Get some sleep.”
