Under Fallen Stars - Mel Odom [91]
Khlinat stared at him in consternation, backlit by the glow of their campfire.
"What's wrong?" Pacys asked, not understanding.
"Ye were moaning and groaning," Khlinat told him, "like a man being pulled to his grave by a pack of hungry ghouls."
Reluctantly, Pacys sat up. In his older years, he knew sleep no longer returned so casually as it had when he was younger. Some nights sleep had to be wooed like an uncertain lover, and this night he was certain it wouldn't return at all.
"A dream," he told the dwarf.
" 'Tweren't no dream, I'll wager," Khlinat said. His hair hung in shaggy disarray, leaves twisted among it from sleeping on the light pallets they carried.
"A nightmare then."
"Come over here and sit by the fire," Khlinat entreated. "Warm up yer bones a bit and it'll get rid of them nightmares."
Pacys moved a little closer to the fire they kept burning to stave off the chill of the night. Khlinat threw a few more of the branches they'd gathered onto the fire. Stuttering yellow flames licked up anxiously for the dry wood.
"Maybe a bit of that stew I made earlier," Khlinat suggested. "Get your innards warmed up a bit too."
"No, thank you," Pacys said. "The fire will be enough." He held his hands out to the fire, marveling again that they were still in such good shape after all these years. He'd known several bards who'd lost their skill to arthritis or accident.
"So what was this nightmare?" the dwarf asked.
Pacys shook his head. "There were no images. At least, none that I can remember." He hesitated. "There was a song, though, something I could barely understand."
He reached for the yarting in its protective cover beside his pallet. Despite his age, he sat with crossed legs. He'd spent decades on the ground, on tables in taverns, on hassocks in royal chambers, and on ships' decks. The position was natural for him.
Khlinat sat silently beside him, his hands never far from the axe hafts. The rough country had been hard on the dwarf because of his peg leg, but he'd never complained.
It was good, Pacys knew, to be in stouthearted company when the things that lay ahead appeared so uncertain. He slid the yarting from its cover, stroked the strings and tuned it briefly, then reached out for the song.
He closed his eyes, surrendering himself over to it. Since they arrived in the Gulthmere Forest the songs had stayed constantly in his thoughts, almost too many of them to keep track of, yet when he fitted them together, they wove tightly. His fingers found the notes easily, and he wasn't surprised that some of them were new. It was like mining a mountain shot through with veins rich with ore. Despite how many new things were coming to him, he knew there was much more that was not yet his.
Eyes closed in concentration, the old bard smelled the sweet scent of Khlinat's pipe as it smoldered. Though he hadn't thought of it before and didn't know why he hadn't, Pacys reached out for the scent, felt the smooth, wispy nature of it, and blended it into the song as well.
"That's me part," Khlinat said in surprise.
"Yes," Pacys told him, smiling. The music was so vibrant and true, even after hearing only brief pieces and snatches of it in the middle of so many others, the dwarf was able to remember the different verses. He cut out the other music for a moment, leaving only the notes he'd blended for the pipe-weed smoke.
"Me pipe?" Khlinat asked.
Pacys smiled and opened his eyes. "You knew?"
"How could I not?" the dwarf asked. "By Marthammor Duin's long strides, how can ye capture pipe smoke in a song? I've heard bards doing that for people's voices and animals and the like, but not this."
Pacys shook his head. "It's as I've said, my friend, this song is truly meant for my hands and ear alone. I am come into my own." The old bard's heart trip-hammered as he recognized the truth behind the bold statement. He calmed himself through the music, playing out his excitement until he brought it to a