Mind you, wandering minstrels are rarely unwelcome, and my strong back’s appreciated where there’s work to do.Ī cluster of horses, still sweaty from the trail, stood by the stables at the courtyard’s far end, held by men at arms while grooms worked to dry them and ward off a fatal chill. It proved a pleasant surprise when the gatekeepers welcomed us. When I’d begun my climb earlier, there’d been a hint of rain clouds, and knowing how fast mountain weather changes, I felt twice fortunate at the prospect of lodging. There looked to be a chill night coming, with the deep, clear sky showing the fragile clarity that only a mountain night possesses.
That ended our conversation for a time, as we needed our breath for walking, then for running the last few hundred paces as they began preparing to raise the drawbridge for the night. “Lead on, friend, for we’ve a ways to go if we’re to arrive before they close the gates for the night.” After bowing, at once courtly and mocking, he glided the last few paces upslope. He’d an open, honest look, and I’d once reckoned myself a good judge of men I felt no ill will in him. No sign of anyone at his back, nor ahead of me despite evidence horses had passed this way shortly before. These roads aren’t always friendly for one alone at night.” I thought of an earlier escape, but relaxed my grip on my staff. “I do, and I’d be grateful for a minstrel’s company. An auspicious invocation when the shadows lengthen. “My thanks, and in my turn I offer you the good will of a fellow traveler. An enigmatic smile lit his face as he observed my scrutiny, and when he replied, his voice was mellow. Oddly ill-equipped, given our distance from the nearest town. He wore a townsman’s clothes, new enough to be unstained by the road’s dust and sweat, and he carried what seemed likely to be a harp bag, but no weapon. He had smooth hands, save for callused fingertips on his right hand. He stood gracefully, hands raised and opened towards me to show them empty, his fine features unperturbed by the taxing climb that lay behind. He pushed a lock of glossy, raven-black hair from his eyes, which were the blue of a deep mountain lake beneath the sun. Gradually, the tightness in my chest eased.īehind me, stone clattered under an incautious foot, and I spun, gripping my staff in both hands, to face the newcomer, eyes moving past him to confirm he was alone. As my breathing slowed, I enjoyed the play of soft pastel light on the slopes, a more pleasant task than following instinct and analyzing the number of towers and errors in their spacing. It had been a pleasant but long uphill climb. I stood a moment, leaning on my staff and catching my breath. Some rewrite the score now and again, but in the end, we must remember: it’s not our hands that shape the larger music.”-unknown pre-Exodus authorĪs I crested the long, steep mountain path, the castle I’d seen from afar rose into view, gilded by a sunset that carpeted my path with my shadow. “Our lives are works composed by an unseen, unknown composer our bodies the instruments upon which that music plays our actions and those of the people who share our lives the chords and harmonies of the symphony.
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