A Final Wish

1587-11-22
Merryen’s Bedside, Maraisbourg

When Merryen could no longer stand, we carried him to the chamber above the hall. The blankets were coarse. His breath was shallow. The brazier burned clean and low.

He crooked a finger and I came close with the lute on my knees, unsure if he wanted song or vow.

“You have heart and hands in balance,” he said. “What I can give ends here. What you need next lies south. Find an old friend in the city of red towers. His name is Aquil Maros. He will make your cuts sing.”

Bonona. I had sung of it and never seen it. He watched my face, then added, “Keep the lute. Let steel learn from it. Do not let craft harden into noise.”

I told him I would go when the roads opened. He squeezed my hand once. The hall below was quiet. The brazier flickered. I sat there until the ash settled.