Well, there she was. Gerald stared at the covered body laid on
the stone table in the medical center. All that the woman was, her 
kindness, her laughter, the boundless energy...all that remained was
here. Funny, that she should be here while the people closest to her would
be gone. He expected Tair'n or R'ven to be here; perhaps they couldn't
stand the pain, though. It was true, the funeral would be soon and she
would be laid to rest, but it seemed beneath the dignity of the woman 
for her body to be left so...alone. Ah, well. A solitary tear slowly ran
its way down his cheek. Goodbye, Warrenlady, I will miss your kindness.
Gerald turned and made his way to the dining hall.

        The place was quiet, but that was to be expected. Where the 
murmur of conversation and humor usually overcame the clink of plate
and cup, there were sullen mutters and quiet whispers. Gerald tried
to eat, but couldn't seem to find much of an appetite; he spent long 
moments staring at his plate. After a while, one of the members of his
wing leaned over and murmured to him; "Let's have some music, would you?
This quiet is getting overbearing." 

        Gerald started to protest, then met the rider's eyes and found he
didn't really have a reason not to; his protests of incompetence would
merely make things more miserable for him. He reached back and pulled his
harp out of its case (he always brought his harp everywhere he went)
and began to play.

        The notes flowed from his instrument like a babbling stream, 
music swirling over the heads of the assembled warren, filling the hall.
Harp playing was a common occurence at dinner, but tonight was different;
the listeners quieted, each one contemplating private thoughts, knowing
that this was a tribute to Velara. Gerald couldn't hold to the major 
chords; his sadness manifested in minor keys, the notes reflecting the
mood of the diners. Gerald himself was in a fey mood. His visit at the
medical center had chilled him, saddened him, made him feel more alone 
and self-conscious than he had in a long while. Suddenly, he wished he were
anywhere but in this huge hall with the harp in his hands, playing the
sorrow of the warren. His hands, though, kept playing, the large clumsy-
looking fingers deftly plucking the strings, palms slithering across notes,
and he realized with a shock that hardly thinking of it, he was playing
something new, something he had never played before. The music grew,
swelling, almost moving of its own accord; the tone and cadence changed
as his attention focused, changing the song of sorrow to something more
hopeful. Gerald controlled the tempo, softened the notes, making his 
tribute gentle, like a soft breeze. Finally, he brought back the minor
chords, echoing his sadness, before drifting the ending to silence.

        He looked up. Around him, he could see that people were looking
at him, respecful, quiet, waiting. In a way, the silence was more
poignant than applause. He bent his head, flushing, embarrased at the
attention. Silently he rose and exited, oblivious to the fact that he
had just given the best performance of his life. Behind him, he left a
gift of peace in the dining hall. Instead of sorrow, the faces showed
happier memories, and hope for the future.

        He felt a touch at his mind as he exited into the chilly night 
air. It was, of course, Random.

        <Gerald, what did you do? You've...changed things in there,
somehow.>

        *I....played.*

                        Allen E. Veazey
                        wolf@dbtech.net

     "I have made this letter longer than usual, only because
      I have not had the time to make it shorter."
                --Blaise Pascal, Provincial Letters