December 21, The Bard's Apprentice
The Bard's Apprentice
An Excerpt by Jeanette Raleigh
I dropped the sword. Not just any sword, but the sacred sword of the Guardians, passed down through countless generations to the sworn defenders of the realm. Only a thin carpet adorned the chapel’s stone floors, and the clanging of metal silenced the tiniest rustle in the crowd. I suppose the sword has been dropped before. After all, it is much heavier than it looks.
The reverberating echo silenced the crowd, and I stood shamed in the cape and signia of the guard, my black collar sticking to my neck where sweat had begun to collect. With cheeks aflame, I bent and picked up the sword while whispers rose throughout. None audible to me, but I could well imagine what they said, probably a crass comment about the Oracle’s choice of a daft songstress to be the next Guardian or a murmuring query regarding the selection of an apprentice barely into her womanhood.
Sighing, I attempted to lift the blade again, wobbling with sore arms while the prime minister droned on about responsibility. Mind you, of all of the men and women available for the selection, I am the least pious, outspoken with a wit not always appreciated, and never have I held the sword. Why would the Oracle select as Guardian of the realm a woman who had never trained in sword-fighting? Did I mention the Oracle was blind?
My recitation of the oath, no doubt because of my bardic training, flowed well with the words resounding through the halls. The sword after that clanging moment only wavered and wobbled in the air, a testament to the heaviness and the relief my arms would feel when it was all over. Even now they shook.
The greatest joke was on me, thinking the sword ceremonial when it was handed to me in that first moment, so well did it gleam in the sunlight reflecting the gold, pinks, blues, and greens filtering through the stained glass windows. The guardian carried the sword always. And so I would learn to bear the burden. The ceremony ended none too soon, but my burden in life was only beginning.
* * *
I walked through echoing stone halls to the sword-smith who would check for knicks, no doubt caused by my moment of disgrace, and teach me the care of the weapon. Dropping a sword, particularly an ancient, sacred sword passed down through countless generations and entrusted to only a few, is generally frowned upon by more than monks and for more than religious reasons, however, I expected a little more compassion and fewer angry stares. It’s not like I meant to spoil the most sacred moment entrusted to me. And no one told me how heavy it would be.
My cheeks warmed when I handed Karsta the sword. I sat on a stool and waited. His frown and cold words removed any hope I would have of mercy as he carefully examined the blade. “You’re lucky that magic protects the sword. A lesser blade would be damaged. Surely, you were taught better.”
My throat tightened. Why would anyone assume I knew the role of a Guardian or even how to carry a sword? I answered back sharply, even if it was Karsta who frightened soldiers with his own sharp tongue. “I’ve no training as a soldier nor have I held a blade. I didn’t ask to be a guardian and can’t think of one reason, not one, why I was chosen. Perhaps we could make it lighter somehow?”
The incredulous look on Karsta’s face told me I had committed another egregious sin, though which one I didn’t know, probably speaking my mind or joking about sacred objects. Make the sword lighter?” He puffed and stared and seemed at a loss for words. “You were chosen. How is it you’ve only held a sword once?”
Many a time when people asked, I said it with pride, but this time, my heart felt sore with the humiliation. Straightening my back and trying to look haughty, I answered. “I am Ulrich’s apprentice.”
His laughter shocked me. Not a small polite chuckle, no. Karsta belly-laughed as he polished the sword on his lap. “I bet Tanic suffered apoplexy. The gods do have a sense of humor.”
As he wiped tears from his eyes, I pressed my lips together, trying to find something tragic or funny to say, some way to save my last bit of dignity. Being the guardian was considered an honor, but only if deserved.
I found myself watching a man caught in a fit of wonder, an awed acceptance. The laughter was true joy of the spirit, not the teasing of my incapability or woeful lack. Joy of the spirit from Karsta? The tales carried to my ears from gossips wove Karsta into the role of unsmiling ogre.
He really thought the gods had chosen me. I hope the gods got a good laugh. Perhaps they only meant to put a smile on dour Karsta’s face.
“Come back tomorrow after the prime minister has settled you into your new quarters and explained your duties.” Karsta chuckled again, shaking his head. ”A bard’s apprentice.”
You can find Jeanette Raleigh's book Death Knell: A Birdie Morgan Mystery here!
An Excerpt by Jeanette Raleigh
I dropped the sword. Not just any sword, but the sacred sword of the Guardians, passed down through countless generations to the sworn defenders of the realm. Only a thin carpet adorned the chapel’s stone floors, and the clanging of metal silenced the tiniest rustle in the crowd. I suppose the sword has been dropped before. After all, it is much heavier than it looks.
The reverberating echo silenced the crowd, and I stood shamed in the cape and signia of the guard, my black collar sticking to my neck where sweat had begun to collect. With cheeks aflame, I bent and picked up the sword while whispers rose throughout. None audible to me, but I could well imagine what they said, probably a crass comment about the Oracle’s choice of a daft songstress to be the next Guardian or a murmuring query regarding the selection of an apprentice barely into her womanhood.
Sighing, I attempted to lift the blade again, wobbling with sore arms while the prime minister droned on about responsibility. Mind you, of all of the men and women available for the selection, I am the least pious, outspoken with a wit not always appreciated, and never have I held the sword. Why would the Oracle select as Guardian of the realm a woman who had never trained in sword-fighting? Did I mention the Oracle was blind?
My recitation of the oath, no doubt because of my bardic training, flowed well with the words resounding through the halls. The sword after that clanging moment only wavered and wobbled in the air, a testament to the heaviness and the relief my arms would feel when it was all over. Even now they shook.
The greatest joke was on me, thinking the sword ceremonial when it was handed to me in that first moment, so well did it gleam in the sunlight reflecting the gold, pinks, blues, and greens filtering through the stained glass windows. The guardian carried the sword always. And so I would learn to bear the burden. The ceremony ended none too soon, but my burden in life was only beginning.
* * *
I walked through echoing stone halls to the sword-smith who would check for knicks, no doubt caused by my moment of disgrace, and teach me the care of the weapon. Dropping a sword, particularly an ancient, sacred sword passed down through countless generations and entrusted to only a few, is generally frowned upon by more than monks and for more than religious reasons, however, I expected a little more compassion and fewer angry stares. It’s not like I meant to spoil the most sacred moment entrusted to me. And no one told me how heavy it would be.
My cheeks warmed when I handed Karsta the sword. I sat on a stool and waited. His frown and cold words removed any hope I would have of mercy as he carefully examined the blade. “You’re lucky that magic protects the sword. A lesser blade would be damaged. Surely, you were taught better.”
My throat tightened. Why would anyone assume I knew the role of a Guardian or even how to carry a sword? I answered back sharply, even if it was Karsta who frightened soldiers with his own sharp tongue. “I’ve no training as a soldier nor have I held a blade. I didn’t ask to be a guardian and can’t think of one reason, not one, why I was chosen. Perhaps we could make it lighter somehow?”
The incredulous look on Karsta’s face told me I had committed another egregious sin, though which one I didn’t know, probably speaking my mind or joking about sacred objects. Make the sword lighter?” He puffed and stared and seemed at a loss for words. “You were chosen. How is it you’ve only held a sword once?”
Many a time when people asked, I said it with pride, but this time, my heart felt sore with the humiliation. Straightening my back and trying to look haughty, I answered. “I am Ulrich’s apprentice.”
His laughter shocked me. Not a small polite chuckle, no. Karsta belly-laughed as he polished the sword on his lap. “I bet Tanic suffered apoplexy. The gods do have a sense of humor.”
As he wiped tears from his eyes, I pressed my lips together, trying to find something tragic or funny to say, some way to save my last bit of dignity. Being the guardian was considered an honor, but only if deserved.
I found myself watching a man caught in a fit of wonder, an awed acceptance. The laughter was true joy of the spirit, not the teasing of my incapability or woeful lack. Joy of the spirit from Karsta? The tales carried to my ears from gossips wove Karsta into the role of unsmiling ogre.
He really thought the gods had chosen me. I hope the gods got a good laugh. Perhaps they only meant to put a smile on dour Karsta’s face.
“Come back tomorrow after the prime minister has settled you into your new quarters and explained your duties.” Karsta chuckled again, shaking his head. ”A bard’s apprentice.”
You can find Jeanette Raleigh's book Death Knell: A Birdie Morgan Mystery here!
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