Pran sighed. ‘Yes, well at least books can be replaced. And good stories never die.’
As they moved off into the night, Pran rode apart somewhat; and gritting his teeth to contain his rising grief, considered the stars that glittered like motes in a killer’s eye. He well knew the meaning of the manner of his wife’s return and what it entailed for the fate of his brother Io, and Io’s wife and children.
Zuic! How shall I speak to you of this? How will you bear it?
His thoughts turned unwillingly to his younger brother Io, and to Io’s beautiful young wife. Dear, sweet-tempered, gentle Jan. Gone now- forever! With a physical effort of will, he wrenched his mind’s eye away from that dark corridor, down which lay the certain knowledge of how they had met their end, in unimaginable horror, hopelessness and agony!
Unbidden, as though to afford him a means to cope, there came to his mind the book Ralph had mistakenly refered to as a book of fables. In truth it was a very old book of songs, and in Elven fashion many of the songs contained within its pages were based upon true stories.
With a sick, cold feeling, like a pebble dropped down the stone throat of an eternally lightless well, Pran recollected Rani’s favourite, a song that had always left him feeling somewhat shaken. It was called Poor Bagaster, and was about an Elven-woman who had lived long ago. She had been murdered along with her children by her common-law husband, Orn, a local cobbler who had been a man of some importance in their tiny village.