The Tales of the Wanderer Volume One: A Book of Underrealm (The Underrealm Volumes 4) Garrett Robinson (poetry books to read TXT) 📖

did not look up at him, even though he could not see me, for I suddenly felt like a very foolish child. But Dryleaf reached over and took up my hand and squeezed it between his leathery fingers. I looked up to find him smiling gently, his gaze seemingly just over my left shoulder.

“The honor would be mine,” he said.

And so, in hesitant, stumbling tones, I sang him the song I had spent the last few months writing.

What sorrow feel we

Who mourning raise our hands

To farewell bid to he

Who watchfully guarded the nine lands

Stranger, will not you weep

Do you know he who fell from high

In a bed of stones and there to sleep

And ages will pass him by

Do you know Jordel of Adair

Who walked miles long

His mighty arm, his silver hair

His shining blade, his armor strong

For none could meet one so bold

Or kindness in such measure great

Without weeping when he lay there cold

The master of his own fate

He saw along his own trail

And knew the fate that loomed

With his head high, in shining mail

Jordel rode forth to meet his doom

Our tears we must bring to close

And bitter our grief we must allay

Jordel his own resting place chose

To bring us all through night to day

My voice faded in the chamber, and Dryleaf sat nodding in the firelight, his head bobbing in time with the pace at which I had sung. I could not even look at him, such was my embarrassment.

“You can tell me,” I said. “It is not very good.”

“I can hear the heart of it. You have done a rare thing. A fine thing.”

“How very diplomatic of you,” I said, with an embarrassed snort. My face was beet-red. “But those are fair words holding little substance. You are trying to try to make me feel better.”

“Stop it, boy,” said Dryleaf. It was one of the only times he ever spoke sharply to me. “You think it will make you feel better to hear it, so let me make it plain that you are wrong: No, your song is not very good. Of course it is not. You said you have never written one before, and you have been trying to do it all on your own. And it is not even finished.”

“No, just a great deal of time wasted, it seems.” I already knew the song was poor, but hearing it from the old man, who was always so kind, was like a knife in the gut.

“Wasted?” said Dryleaf incredulously. “No. You could have brought it to me sooner, and then things might have gone a bit faster. But no work upon a song is wasted. You have done the important work, my boy, you have the most important piece. You have the heart of it. Your language is off, the poetry lacks, and your rhythm … well. But these are dressings. These are the niceties you drape atop the soul of the song itself. If the soul is weak, all the dressings in the world will yield you nothing. You have spent your time wrestling with the hardest task, the part that too many bards eschew. But your work has borne fruit. Now it is ready to be honed, like a blade on a whetstone.”

“I will work on it more, then,” I said. “Thank you for your advice.” I made to rise, but Dryleaf reached out suddenly and seized my hand.

“Sit down, boy, sit down,” he said. “You have struggled too long at this alone.”

“It is mine.” I could hardly understand the sense of jealousy and selfishness rising up in me, and I did not enjoy it, but neither could I rid myself of it. “I have to do this on my own. It is important to me.”

He released my hand and leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “I am sure it is. It is clear you loved him.”

My anger abated somewhat, and I spoke softly. “I did.”

“Then do him justice, and let the song become something great. You feel you must do this yourself, because you think it would be weak to beg help from another. Forgive me, but it is very like Mag.”

I scoffed. “Mag? Mag has no interest in songs.”

Dryleaf shook his head. “Not in songs. But in other things. She is the greatest warrior of her age. Everyone knows it. She feels the weight of it. It makes her feel that she must always take on more, and do it alone.”

“She fought beside us against the trolls.”

“I have no doubt,” he said, “that if she thought you would have stayed behind and let her face them alone, she would have. And she took it upon herself to slay the pack leader, and to subdue Kaita.”

I looked down at my hands in my lap. “She asked me to come with her, when she left Northwood.”

“Did she?” said Dryleaf. “That, then, was a rare moment of wisdom. I think that, if you do not want both your roads to end in tragedy, you must teach her to show such wisdom more often. You should not learn her way of doing things, but persuade her to a wiser course instead. She needs your help if she is to accomplish her aims. If she tries to do it alone, she will fail, Uncut Lady or not.” He took a deep breath. “It is a lesson many never learn. Your sister thought she could succeed on her own. But look how she fared here, before you came. In the end, only you and Mag brought even the faintest hope of success.”

We fell silent. I thought upon what Dryleaf had said, and I saw, swimming before me, the face of Maia. She needs you to save her, he had said to me.

After a little while, I stood and made for the door. But I stopped by Dryleaf’s chair and reached down for his hand. He squeezed my fingers again, gently.

“Thank you,” I said quietly. “It is late now. But we will