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For you remember the SONG OF HUMA, that HE TOOK
UP THE DRAGONLANCE, HE TOOK UP THE STORY,
and the story, whatever it was, lay somewhere upon each of
the weapons, so at times you might imagine that they
gleamed with some light beyond polishing, beyond tricks of
reflected sun or moonlight.
But I had grown up among legends, and though I had to
admire the workmanship of the lances, had handled several
of them in the long days of waiting, like the most Measured
of our knights I believed this light, this mystery, was the
play of wishes and dreams over an exquisite but finally
quite ordinary weapon. And believing this I refused the
instructions of elf and female in the use of the lances.
Instead of instructions, I listened to the laughter of
gamblers and the songs, songs which, if not invented in
secret by Breca, were invented in secret by one much like
him:
OH WHERE THE NORTH WALL IS CRUMBLING,
LET US PUT MORTAR AND BRICK,
LET US STACK LIMESTONE ON LIMESTONE
LAID DOWN WITH A PROMISE AND LICK,
AND WHEREVER LIMESTONE WILL FAIL US
AND MORTAR AND BRICK GIVE WAY,
LET US STACK FOOTMAN ON FOOTMAN
LAID DOWN WITH THE PROMISE OF PAY.
And listened to the politics from on high, to the
speculations of Heros and the grumbling of the foot
soldiers
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