The candles light burns brightly, so I do believe I can manage to write my ale before the stars celestial flames settle, and the dawn’s first golden rays shine above the land.

I knew I wanted to be a bard from the moment I heard one spin a tale. His voice was like honey, his fingers long and as delicate as lace. I sat, watching, entranced by the lovely sounds coming from his mouth. My own jaws must have been hanging open, I was so captivated. My father, who was sitting next to me, let out a low chortle and nudged me. I looked up at him and began interrogating on how I could be able to become like the Honey-Voiced man. He laughed at my stream of questions, but was also surprised that I wanted to purse the bardic craft.

My father bought me an instrument, however only a small lute with only a few strings. But I plucked at those strings ‘til my fingers grew numb and my ears tired of the simple melodies.

My father and I lived near a good-sized stream, a simple forest on the other side. Often times I was found there, the music of Nature pulling at my soul. A few times did I try to match the serene murmuring of the stream with my voice or instrument, but they sounded like sharp shrills when compared to the soft babbling.

Still, I pursued. Oh, was I determined to become a wonderful musician! Alas, we were not the most well off family, so my father could not hire a teacher. He was but a carpenter, mending the roofs the elderly women of the town for a penny.

I do not know why I didn’t give up sooner, perhaps in some way I knew that something would at last click and I would be able to hold a note in tune. But for many long years did my voice sound harsh, my fingers stumbled across the lute clumsily.

One day, when I was at the age of 16 I believe, I was trudging down the main road of the town. ‘Twas dusk on a fall night, and not many were about. My father was doing poorly in his business, and my own patience had grown to an end. I was going to end it all – by throwing my lute off of the cliff.

Down the road a-ways road a tall women in her middle age. She was dressed decently, although the clothes looked tattered, as did the ivory stallion she rode. When she neared she eyed my instrument and me, and her voice was rough when she spoke. "You’re a bard, right?" she asked. Eyes raising to her, I shrugged but gave no other answer.

"Well, you must be. There’s some lady down that road," here she pointed behind her, "who’s going on about a young bard. That she needed to talk to her, or something. " She looked me up and down a second more. "You fit the description," she said.

I had to admit I was interested, as far as I could tell there were no others with lutes walking down the street. I waved a hand at her and muttered my thanks, then continued forward. The cliff was not my destination, but the woman the horse-backed one spoke of.

I soon neared a path that led off of the main road – one I had never seen before and I had lived in the town all of my life. None the less, I followed it, seeing a bright light being none other then a fire a-ways off. I was upon it much quicker then I had expected, and upon the women as well. Was she a sight!

Dark green hair was piled upon her head, face wrinkled with age and wisdom. Her eyes were closed, and all around her were birds . . . of every type I had ever seen! Some rested in her hair, others on her shoulders, and still others about the fire. It was to my knowledge that birds usually slept during the night, and did not perch around a fire. They seemed perfectly content, however, so I did not bother to voice my questions.

I stood in front of her, my lute still clutched clumsily in my hand. A wrinkled eye opened and looked up at me. It snapped shut, then both popped exposed, a large smile appearing across her lips.

"Why hello Naraya! I was hoping that you would come for a visit! It’s been a while, it has." She pushed herself to her feet and spun in a circle, the grey cloths she was draped in forming a strange curtain about her.

To me, she was very quickly seeming eccentric. I didn’t ever remember meeting her, and knew she couldn’t possibly know me unless it was without my knowledge. All at once she lunged forward and took up my hands, spinning me around with her. Aye, I was frightened. You would be too when some crazy old crone who claimed to know you suddenly made you join her dizzying dance. As soon as it began, it was over, and I was released.

She cackled in a friendly fashion and clapped her hands together. I managed to spit out, "Who are you?"

Her gleeful laugh echoed around the area, and she began skipping around the fire, singing the most beautiful song I had ever heard. The birds that had left came back, and began to join into the song. Apparently she just thought it a ‘little ditty’, but I was as spellbound by it as I was by the Honey-Voiced bard’s song.

"Oh, Naraya! You know me very well." She said after the song ended. Her skipping slowed and she came to a stop in front of me. "You have asked of my help a number of times, actually." She looked thoughtful, then broke into a ballad about the moon and a farmer’s cow.

My first assumption was that she had perhaps swallowed something not meant to be swallowed. My next was that she was Cerridwen – Goddess of magick, astrology, poetry, knowledge, and bards. She was my Goddess, and it was true – I had asked to her to grant me even a snippet of musical talent. I looked over to the crone, who was twirling yet again, and almost dismissed the idea. I thought Cerridwen to be a young maiden, calm and sophisticated. But – the old woman did have the voice and talent to be her . . . I spoke my ponderings, and she answered, "Right the first time, Naraya!" She fell to the ground with not grace at all, managing to land in a sitting position. A hand waved to a seat across from her. I did as she bid, but more so carefully then she performed the task. She grinned wide, showing rows of teeth. I offered a meek smile in return, wondering if I was supposed to say anything. She seemed to be enjoying my discomfort, but then she did finally speak. "There’s much talent in you, Light-One." I recognized the use of my middle name, Sinthe, meaning light in the elven language. "It’s locked up, I believe." She leaned forward and jabbed a finger at my forehead. I drew back hastily and cast her a glare. She didn’t seem to notice it. "Yes, locked up. Let it out, Naraya! Free, like the birds’ overhead. Like the night’s air, the morning’s dew! Free!" My brows were then raised as far as they could possibly rise. I knew I looked confused. She sighed loudly and thrust a clenched fist towards me. "Here, just use this if you don’t understand me." She said in exasperated tones. A music note charm fell into my palm. I could sense magick – or what I thought was magick, being inexperienced and all – coursing through the charm. "But . . . but . . . that’s like . . . cheating."

"It is not," she said stubbornly. "But fine, if I must teach you I will."

And that she did.

There’s not much to say about the night that followed, except that I became a much better minstrel then I ever thought I would, or could, be. My voice was not as fine as silk, but it wasn’t like shards of glass cutting your skin, either. I was able to perfect it as well as it could be perfected without her help and without that of the charm either, though I did keep it close at hand.

I didn’t share my song or music with anyone but my father, whom I only sang for very rarely. I think he noticed something had changed about me, but if he did he did not voice it to me.

‘Twas late fall, a few years later when I was 19 or so, and my father asked me to go on a search for firewood for the winter that would soon be upon us. Green light filtered through the boughs of the trees, casting deep shadows upon the forest floor on which I treaded. ‘Twas pure luck I stumbled across him, a young noble. His hair was raven black, and no breath came from his pale lips. I knew he was dead. Now, I had never seen a dead man, much less a noble, so close. So, I did what I first thought of doing, sitting down and weeping. True, I didn’t know him, but all the same; I wept. It soon came to be of how little that was accomplishing, so I began to sing. My voice did sound my own, but I didn’t have to give a passing thought about the words spilling out of it. My hand was clasped around the small music note, unaware that in my singing and grief, the magicks had awakened in it. And so did the boy. He lay still; listening to me lament about the death of a youth, when abruptly he sat up and took my hand in his. "You have a nice voice, my lady! I’m sure my parents would love to hear it." Again my silver brows arched. His awakening did not surprise me, actually. He leapt to his feet and I followed suit. "So, are ya gonna come back to the castle with me?" He inquired, young eyes hopeful. "I think you saved my life, and it’s sorta required that you meet my mother and father."

"Castle?" I asked, the boys’ youthful enthusiasm was overwhelming, especially after him being . . . not alive.

"Oh yeah, my parents are the King and Queen. Isn’t that neat?" I nodded slightly; wondering how he’d fallen deceased in the first place, and how my song brought him to life . . . it was all very strange.

He took my sleeve in his hand and tugged at it. "C’mon! Let’s get back soon! It’s almost dinner time!"

I nodded again and followed after him, having to walk quickly to keep up with his pace. We made good time, and were able to make it to the castle D’nerah not too long after the sun had set behind the hills. I had seen the castle before, possibly passed by it a few times before, but had never entered, especially escorted by a young princeling!

When I reached the castle I introduced myself, and their son jumped into his royal fathers’ lap. The Queen and King were of course grateful for their son’s safe return, and were most curious when I explained how I went about it. They sent Corrim to his bed early for punishment for leaving the castle without permission, then asked me to sing for them. My lute was at home, but I obliged and began singing of a mother loosing her son and husband both in a war, then throwing herself into the ocean in her grief. It was a very old tune, the story even older. The Queen’s eyes looked as if they would overflow at any moment and the King wore a sad smile.

"My lady Naraya Daethorn," He said. "Once this castle had a guild of bards, called Rubylyre. It was made up of the best bards and minstrels from everywhere, all across the lands. People traveled from all across the earth to be a part of it. It stopped running a long while back, before my rule. I’m not sure why exactly, thought I’m sure it must say in some of the old scrolls." He gave me a friendly smile.

"What I’m offering, if for you to start the guild back up. Find members, and let the gift of music to be heard again. You, of course, would be the leader."

I looked at him, astonished, and he laughed. "With that angle’s voice, no other could surpass you! Oh, of course you’ll want to life here. There’s a wonderful room near where the scrolls are kept, that’s where you might find some nice songs or instruments. Feel free to look!"

The astonished look remained upon my face. "Go on now, I’ll send news to your home." He said.

I bowed low, and heard him chuckling merrily as I turned towards the room.

The next few months I settled in, and searched and translated some of the scrolls. I was granted a house of sorts for holding the meetings, once the guilds got up and running. He told me I could use it as an Inn to earn money, even though he supplied for my father and I both most gratefully. I was given the title, "High Minstrel", and the music note charm was hung on a circlet of silver twined with gold, signifying my rank. In the room with the scrolls I did find instruments, buried deep in locked chests. A small harp, flute and lyre are now in my possession, each lending great magickal power to the user.

I’ve yet to complete the guild and begin searching for new bards, but I believe that will happen soon. The house still needs to be fixed up as well . . .

Aye, the candle has finally grown small and the first lights of morn are peeking over

the horizon. Here I must stop, and perhaps continue at a later time. Merry part!

~ Nayara Daethorne