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he servant cannot leave quickly enough for the bard's wishes. When he is once more alone in the room he hastily finishes with the harp, returning it to the case. He looks about the room, frowning as he walks about, clapping his hands once or twice and listening for an echo as he seeks the worst possible place to play from. A spot in the corner seems to do the trick. From the strange fall of the returning echo it occurs to Caeric that there might be old, bricked-up passages within the fort. His mind is racing from what little he has learned and remembered. By all accounts the wraith was a magical creature. An instrument fashioned of such, if he could play it well. Dangerous. Unpredictable. Caution is in order, yet this was something his teachers had only dreamed of, such creatures only legend across the sea. He takes a deep breath, and another, willing himself to hold calm lest he lose control should the myths hold any truth. The bone flute is cool and smooth in his hands, lovingly polished by its former owners; it seems almost innocuous. Positioning himself carefully, the Bard raises the flute to his lips. The tune he offers is a simple one, the basic entry and relaxation melodies even a bare apprentice can manage. Still playing the slow, calming melody he relaxes his mind, lowering the shields that have been tightly in place for far too long. Eyes drifting shut, he listens, watching with the Bard's eyes, reading the way the sounds flow as though it were music on a page. He changes the tune, the melody shifting to play the underlying theme that he sees, listening and watching all the while, seeing what he can glean of the character of the flute and of that which gave its horn for it. The flute's tone is moonlight and honey, and the shadows in the room seem more sharp-edged than they were before...but the room's dim light is brighter, too. As he plays, he has a sudden vision of a creature much like a deer with sleek brown fur, but its chest and belly are covered with pearly scales, and from its brow rises a crescent-shaped horn that shines almost silver. The creature regards him with starlit eyes and says, "For every yin, there is a yang. If you would wake one, you must wake the other." The vision disperses...and Caeric finds that the room's lamps (which the servant lit during their discussion) have burned quite low indeed. Strangely, he feels refreshed despite the passing of time. [Yes, I said there were no magical items. Call it a spiritual resonance.] Caeric leans back against the wall, slowly sliding down until he sits there in the corner, knees up against his chest, the flute held loosely in one hand. Soon enough the lamps flicker, the last wisps of smoke dancing up into the air, yet he seems not to notice the darkness that engulfs the room, lost in his thoughts, replaying the melodies in his mind. At long last, but a few hours before the sky will grow pale once more, he rises, stepping unerringly to the bed and collapsing upon it, full clad, flute stil held in his hand.
he next day Caeric is dressed and fully packed when the servant comes for him. The wraith's flute has displaced his own flute, now residing in the case at his side. When led to the Magistra, his words confirm her suspicions. "Truth," he says, "can mean many things. And truth about something such as wraiths may mean yet more. But I will see what I can learn, and what I learn you will hear. Qenar it is." The Magistra smiles upon him, and nods to a servant, who presents him with some extra supplies. "Thank you, Master Bard." Beyond that Caeric is quiet this morning, seeming eager to be on his way and to reach Qenar. Liessira adds, "I think that it would be much less remarkable if you and Tonar were to leave separately. There is a route that will lead you more directly to Qenar, but it involves a brief passage through the desert. Often caravans to Harava will take on travellers for a fee...and in your case, I think, the fee might be entertainment for long, dusty nights." Her eyes crinkle, and more than ever it seems certain that she, too, was once a musician, or one familiar with the arts of music. She draws out a map and unrolls it before him. "Here is the route that I suggest; I have heard from other travellers and merchants, who reckon it fairly safe, and one with your talents no doubt is adept at survival. If you would prefer another route that is your affair, however." [Harava is Qenar's southernmost city.] The bard frowns, considering the suggestion with the memories of the past--a mercenary's practicality and a fugitive's paranoia. After a moment he nods slowly, speaking softly. "Would that I could choose a less than obvious path, but in this I shall be ruled by your suggestion Magistra. The desert will have to do. Now though. Your servant mentioned friends in Avrezin whom I would contact or send word to regarding your request or anything else that may come up?" The Magistra's face is grave. "There is unrest in Avrezin, my messengers tell me, and in some places, a distrust of foreigners. The desert folk stand aloof from such matters and I feel they will be more welcoming, especially to a musician." She folds her hands, then continues, "My agents will recognize the bone flute." Then she hands him a scroll case, saying, "Here are descriptions and places where you may find my agents. Memorize the words and destroy it--an easy task, I am sure, for a bard. One agent, who may be near Qenar, is not listed. Should you come across a mage who calls herself Lirixa, know her as someone whom I trust." A certain wry humor lurks in her gaze, though she doesn't reveal what amuses her. 
Back: Caeric & Tonar's Prologue 9 Candle image provided by Clipart Castle.
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