The Bards of Bone Plain Read Free

Sabrina breathe to Frazer, and memory opened its door, shed light upon teacher and student.
    â€œâ€˜Up or down go you at night,’ ” Frazer recited promptly, “ ‘or by the light of day?’”
    Phelan emitted a dry sound from the back of his throat, but no other comment. He shifted his attention to the dark-haired, strawberry-cheeked Estacia, next in the circle, who picked up the rhythm without a falter.
    â€œâ€˜Vine are you to twine and bind the branching hawthorn bough?’ ”
    â€œThe clues,” Phelan said glibly when they had muddled their way through the rest of the riddles, “will become obvious to those who complete their years of study and training here. The more you learn of such ancient poetry, the more you realize that all poetry, and therefore all riddles, are rooted in the Three Trials of Bone Plain. Which are what?”
    â€œThe Turning Tower,” Frazer said quickly, perhaps to redeem himself.
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œThe Inexhaustible Cauldron,” said the rawboned Hinton, all spindly shanks and flashing spectacles.
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œThe Oracular Stone,” answered Aleron the indolent, who was bright enough, but preferred the easy question.
    â€œYes. Now. Of all the bards in the history of Belden, which bard passed all three tests?”
    There was silence again. A dead oak leaf, plucked by the spring wind, spiraled crazily off a branch and sailed away. “Your muses are everywhere around you,” Phelan reminded them as the silence lengthened. “Your aids to memory, and creation. Sun, wind, earth, water, stone, tree. All speak the language of the bard. Of poetry.” The leaf was flying across the grass toward the great standing stones that circled the crown of the knoll above the river in a dance that had begun before Belden had a name.
    â€œWhere,” Frazer asked suddenly, “exactly, is Bone Plain? Are we on it?”
    â€œMaybe,” Phelan answered, quoting his research. “No one has yet found conclusive evidence for any particular place. Most likely it existed only in the realm of poetry. Or it was translated into poetry from some more practical, prosaic event, which a mortal bard might have a chance of enduring. As we know, stones do not speak, nor do cauldrons yield an unending supply of stew except in poetry. Do you remember the bard who passed the tests?”
    Frazer shook his head. Then he guessed, “Nairn?”
    â€œNo. Not Nairn. Great a bard as he was, he failed even the least complicated of the trials: the Test of the Flowing Cauldron. Which was what? Anyone?”
    â€œThe test of love, generosity, and inspiration,” Sabrina said.
    â€œThereby rendering himself at once immortal and uninspired. Not a good example to follow.”
    â€œSo where is he?” Frazer asked.
    â€œWho?”
    â€œNairn. You said he’s immortal.”
    There was another silence, during which the teacher contemplated his student. Frazer’s wild face, with its lean, wolfish bones framed by long, golden hair, looked completely perplexed.
    â€œWhere is your mind today?” Phelan wondered mildly. “Lost, it seems, along with Nairn in the mists of poetry. Between the lines. He did exist once; that is a matter of documented history. But the exacting demands of storytelling, requiring a sacrifice, transformed him from history into poetry.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œInto a cautionary tale.”
    â€œAbout what?” Frazer persisted. “I’m confused. Why a cautionary tale about an illusion, if that’s what Bone Plain is? And if not, then where do we go to find the tower that will give us three choices: to die, or go mad, or to become a poet? I want to become a bard. I want to be the greatest bard that Belden has ever known. Must I enter that tower? That metaphor?”
    â€œNo,” Phelan said gravely, hiding an urge to laugh at the notion. “It’s not a