[Funeral]

        Tiny, slender Aradia came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of
lather on which a dagger and candle lay crossed.  A deep blue robe,
ungirdled, was held gently on the soft evening air behind her.  She held
the bowl aloft and chanted softly into the sunset.

        Halting, she peered down onto the pyre and whispered, solemnly
smoothing the hair back from his brow, kissing him gently on the mouth.

        "The bravest man I know," she called.  "Th'rin."

        Solemnly, she came forward and mounted the platform.  She faced
about and blessed gravely thrice the dais, the surrounding land and the
sleeping forest.  Then, catching sight of Th'rin, she reached up and made
slow passes, touching his forehead and her own and her dead mate's with
sweet oil.  Th'rin, quiet and respectful, stood silently on the top of the
stairs and looked softly at the murmuring face that blessed him, elfin in
its smallness, and at the wild unbound hair, firey and crackling like
bonfires.

        Aradia peeped for an instant at her dragon, and then flashed her
eyes back to the crowd.  She said, in a resounding priestess' tone, "May
the gods grant that Pa'gan go on to live and love as fully in the next life
as he has in this one."

        She gazed straightforward and waited in rapt attention, her hair
glinting here and there with borrowed firelight.  And when the flames'
crackling died into the calm, she took the crowd by the hand and led them
into the hall.

*****
[During the party]

        "YOU!  Is this your idea, bard?"  Analise's shrill voice cut across
the music and conversation to spear through his ears and leave him
squirming like a worm on a hook.

        Terau smiled genially and leaned against one of the nearby mead
barrels.  "Is what my idea, dearie?" he asked sweetly, sipping at his mug.

        She rattled a few sheets of paper by his ear.  "This, this letter!
Was this your idea?"

        He shrugged.  "Perhaps if you tell me what it is, my dear, I can
tell you wether or not it's one of my brilliant plans."

        Analise took a deep breath.  "It is a letter, from our Master, to
me, addressing certain . . . concerns that have apparently been brought to
his ears!  By whom, I can't imagine," she growled, pausing for a reaction.
He had none, so she continued, "He didn't send you one too?"

        Terau shook his head.  "Not that I'm aware of as yet."

        "Fine.  Well then, since this just happens to concern both you and
I quite closely, I suppose that I'll share it with you.  '. . . It has come
to my attention, dear Analise, that you are unhappy with your assignment in
Whiteriver Warren.  As much as I value yours and Terau's skills, I no
longer think that your working together is the best of ideas.  I shall be
rectifying this in the near future.  ---Mastersinger'"

        Inside, Terau's heart skipped a beat.  Good thing the mead barrel
was there to support him.  Good thing the mead was there to support him.
Analise, leaving his Warren!  Things could only be better if--no.  Don't
even dream it.  The powers that be, it seemed, were limiting him to but one
miracle per day.

        Amazingly, he'd been able to hold a straight face, even to put on a
sad one and attempt to console the harpy.  "Analise--I'm sorry to hear
that.  The children and I will miss you, to be sure.  Send my regards to
Cyrano, if you will?"

        She slapped him, hard, across the cheek.  "You're not sorry.  You'd
have sold your only son to the man to have him take me off your hands."

        Damnable woman!  "Analise," he began, shaking his head.  "You know
that isn't--"  But she was already gone, melted into a haze of voices.

*****
[After the party]

        Even through the distant laughter and the memory of music and his
own slight alcoholic haze, Terau could hear the difference as soon as he
staggered across the threshold.  It was the faintest of breaths, a soft
rasping sound that wasn't at all supposed to be in his living room.

        "Hello," he called cautiously.  "Who is that?  Telaran, who is there?"

        The breathing turned into a hoarse chuckle.  "Your ears haven't
begun to fail you, I see."

        Terau chuckled, and relaxed.  "I'd be of no use to you if they had,
Master.  Telaran?  Run off, lad.  Go back to the party, if you choose."

        The Mastersinger chuckled softly, his chair creaking as he settled
down into it.  "Fine son you have there, Terau.  You've done well by him,
considering."

        The blind bard nodded, and sank into his own seat.  "I like to
think so.  I'm proud of the boy.  What brings you here, Cyrano?  Is it
about--"

        "--Analise?" the Mastersinger interrupted.  "Indeed."

        "She read to me from your letter, earlier during the party.  I
can't begin to thank you, Master--she really has been a terrible pain to us
here.  Myself, the children, her own daughter . . . . "

        Cyrano laughed.  "Yes, she does have that particular quality about
her.  However, the rest of the Warren will just have to learn to cope, I
suppose."

        Terau blinked, the blood draining from his face as the import of
what the Mastersinger had said sunk in.  "Learn to cope?  You mean she's .
. . I'm . . . "

        "Indeed, old freind.  I'll arrange a transport for you and your
son, as I myself will not be returning to the city just yet.  Don't worry,
you won't have to bother with those damn'd horses again, I'll find a
dragonrider escort for you two."  Cyrano chuckled slyly.  "Perhaps it would
be a good exercise for the trainees, get them out of the Warren and on a
nice trip.  Maybe that little Landborn girl you seem so interested in?
We'll see."

        "Cyrano, I--"

        "I know, old freind.  But I need you back with me for the time
being."  The seat crackled as he rose, and placed a comforting hand on the
aging bard's shoulder.  "Perhaps it will turn out for the best.  I'll see
you in Ralengarde, my freind."

*****
        NRPG: Yes, I'm leaving.  Not directly at the moment; but my next
post will be the temporary end of Terau's stay at Whiteriver.  I hope to
come back at some point, when I get my life in order.  However, until then,
I'm afraid I must go.

        Thank you, James Joyce.

--mia

***********************************************
Prop me up beside the jukebox when I die
I want to go to Heaven, I just don't wanna go tonight
Fill my boots all up with sand, shove a stiff drink in my hand
And prop me up beside the jukebox when I die.

seraph@wam.umd.edu
http://www.wam.umd.edu/~seraph/