Songsmith

Prologue

Life as a songsmith, a forger and singer of tales, seems to the uninitiated (that is, those who have never tried it) to be a most carefree existence, full of travel, romance and perhaps (only now and then, for spice) a little danger. In truth, it seldom reaches such memorable heights, being mostly work like unto any other.

One listens, one remembers, then one wrestles with words and musical notes to hammer all into a coherent whole, hoping fervently that the finished product will elicit smiles instead of frowns, or, worse, yawns. One learns to count the night’s takings from the clinks in the harp case, discerning the clear ring of silver from the thud of bronze and copper or (fortune be praised) the weighty, rare whisper of gold—all by sound alone. One spends nights huddled under the lash of rain, or stinging snow, with perhaps naught but a pocket of sullen fire to hold back the hungry night. One learns to heat brook water and sip it slowly in lieu of real food, trying thus to fool an empty belly…

No, my lords and ladies, gathered here in this age-held citadel to hear the songsmith and sip your wine, the life of a bard is hardly carefree.

There are times, though, when the music and the tale are worth it all. Then the tune flows like the ripple of a fine horse’s mane, words spring nearly unbidden to the singer’s lips. Such a time is now, following the toasts and congratulations that accompany a day of ceremony, high feasting and joy, here in such a lordly keep. Now, after the singing of some of the oldest, best tales, it is time for the birth of a new one… a tale that songsmiths will hold in special honor, for reasons soon to be made clear to you.

So… an opening chord-sweep, a strum to mimic the sound of wind harrying a cold, early spring mist in the backwater alley of a darkened waterfront, and the new tale opens…