Under Fallen Stars - Mel Odom [71]
He'd lost it when it wasn't even his to hold. Despair settled over him, made even worse when he scanned the heavy iron bars keeping them caged.
* * * * *
Pacys sat on a bench inside the Unrolling Scroll, the shrine in Baldur's Gate devoted to the worship of Oghma, the Binder of What is Known. The god was also known as the Patron of Bards, and Pacys had walked within his service ever since discovering his affinity for music. Always before, the old bard had found visiting the shrines, temples, and churches of Oghma to be an uplifting experience, but for the past three days, he'd known only darkness that had chipped away at him until he'd dwindled into the core of himself.
The boy he'd come to find was gone, disappeared into the night. Though he'd searched then, and had Khlinat's help in the following two days, there'd been no clue as to where he'd gone.
It had also been the day the music had gone.
Searching back, Pacys had found he could call up all the notes and fragments and tunes he'd pieced together over the years, most of it coming during the attack on Waterdeep and in the days that followed, but there was nothing new. Every time he went to the well of creation that had always been within him, it was dry. That scared him more than anything ever had in his life. To him, a bard didn't just live to play old tunes, tunes that had already been added to his repertoire. No, it was the search and the finding of new music that made life worth living.
He found himself unwilling and unable to work on even other pieces that had nothing to do with the epic he pursued so diligently. He held his yarting in his lap, but his fingers couldn't coax from the strings any series of notes that lasted for long. Nothing made him want to lift his voice in song.
"You seem distressed."
Blinking, surprised that the priest could get so close to him without his knowledge, Pacys looked up.
The priest showed signs of experience at his chosen vocation, deep-set wrinkles and faded gray eyes that had seen too much, but he was still little more than Pacys's age. His dark hair was shot through with silver, and his beard had gone mostly to gray. He wore a white shirt and trousers, and vest with black and gold braid. A small, boxlike hat sat atop his head.
"Pardon me for interrupting," the priest said, "if I am."
"No," Pacys said, "you're not. Actually I'm grateful for the company. Too much solitude is never good for a man with much on his mind."
The priest gestured toward the empty space on the bench next to Pacys. "May I sit?"
"Of course." The old bard put the yarting aside.
The priest sat and offered his hand. "I'm Father Duhzpin," he said. "I lead this temple."
"You've got a nice place," Pacys said, then introduced himself.
"Blessed Oghma does," Duhzpin agreed. "Though before the Time of Troubles things were much better."
Pacys knew that. He'd crafted songs about the Time of Troubles himself. During that time when the gods themselves had walked the lands, Oghma's chief patriarch Procampur had disappeared. As a result, the churches worshiping Oghma had splintered, no longer a cohesive whole.
"I've noticed you in here the last two days," Duhzpin said, "and though I don't recognize you as a regular parishioner, I felt moved to speak to you." He gazed around at the church. Modestly outfitted, the room was still near to overflowing.
Most of the people prayed for guidance, or for the souls of those who had been taken from them or were on the steadily shorter list of those that were missing since the raid. Great sadness had hung over the church both days Pacys had visited it.
"I appreciate the time," Pacys said, "but I know there are people in here who have much greater problems than I do."
"Maybe," Duhzpin said, "but I've learned to listen to the dictates of Oghma. He placed you in that seat for whatever reason, so I took my own seat. Why don't you tell me of your troubles? They always get lighter when they're shared."
Pacys considered the offer,