We sit in the Great Hall, the old wizard and I, staring into the embers of a fading fire. One hand picks idle notes from my harp and the other conveys cup after cup of ale to my mouth. Nevvyn chews upon his moustaches and rocks slowly back and forth. With the exception of one teary-eyed serving girl, we are alone with our grief.

No! I am not drunk! YET! Nor yet will I get as drunk as I would like to! I must compose a lament for our dead Rian. Then, after she is properly mourned and put to rest... then I will get well and truly drunk!

"I can't believe she's gone," the old man mutters. "It was a sore wound, but she was strong! She was a fighter! I thought she was doing well." He pauses to drain his cup and hold it up for a refill. The girl-child with the ale skin hurries over and then fades back into the shadows.

Dairenn's voice is brittle and glassy this night. I fear she is infected with the keening going on upon the green. The few left at the keep have gathered there. They are building a funeral pyre. They are using the wood left from the Beltaine blaze. Nine sacred woods to send our Rian off to the Otherlands.

"What's to become of us?" I ask the spiraling smoke. "The last of the true Niafer blood lays sleeping with his wet-nurse in the clan Guest-House. Born too soon... too early... too small... too frail. It's more than likely that he'll not last the night."

I take a sip from my cup and then toss the dregs into the fire. I up-end the cup on the boards and apply both hands to the harp. The melody is coming. The words are racing about in my head. I grab two and jam them together. I begin catching whole phrases and linking them to the rest. The song is beginning to take form. It shall be ready when we gather 'round the fire.