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. In the rationale of
such men, a bandit, a goblin, even a monster was
DIFFERENT when coin and a warm hearth were offered.
Finn, they claimed, had joined resolutely in the search
to lift a curse brought upon Caergoth and the surrounding
peninsula years ago by the fire-bringing Solamnics, Pyrrhus
Alecto and his son Pyrrhus Orestes. His search had entered
its fourth year, his seers and shamans telling him that the
curse would last "as long as Alecto's descendants lived," his
hirelings telling him always that they had just missed
catching Orestes. Desperate, Finn hoped that a
transforming hymn would lift the curse with its beauty and
magic.
The bards needled one another cynically, each asking
when they would write that certain song, make their
fortunes among the bandits. They all laughed the knowing
laughter of bards, then fell silent.
I leaned against the cold rock face, awaiting uncertain
audience. Pelicans and gulls wheeled over the breaking
tide, diving into the ardent waters as the sun settled over the
eastern spur of Ergoth, dark across the cape.
Carelessly, I touched the strings of the harp, felt in my
pockets for the poet's pen and ink. I had traveled hundreds
of miles to this stairwell, this audience. The pain of my
scars rose suddenly to a new and staggering level.
The song of the bards around me was skillful and
glittering and skeptical . . . and empty of the lines I sought.
I would have to brave the echoing caverns below Finn's
lair.
The druidess had told me that I could find the truth
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