"Well."
"What about the wound in your side?"
Pacys stretched gingerly. A sahuagin trident had gouged his side, requiring a number of stitches, and there was the wound in his arm. Still, he appeared to be mending, though slowly.
"Troubling," the old bard admitted, "but not disabling."
Hroman glanced around at the battered and broken shops and taverns. "So many people lost everything they had."
"At least they live," Pacys pointed out, "that those material losses may be grieved over. They'll rebuild."
"In time," Hroman agreed. He scratched at a dried blood stain on his shirt. "So is this the song that you believed you were called for to sing?"
Pacys hesitated, searching his feelings again for the answer himself, finding mostly a brittle, hollow ache left over from the raid. He shook his head. "I don't know."
"I listened for a time just now," Hroman admitted, "before you knew I was there."
Pacys didn't refute the statement. He'd known the priest was there. A man living on the road, singing for his meals and lodging, such a man learned more than just pretty words and a lively tune.
"Your song truly is beautiful, old friend," Hroman said honestly. "I felt the pain of this city and the people who live here, and I felt the fear that still hangs about in the shadows." "There are too many songs like it already, and more coming."
Pacys drew a knife from his boot and cut slices from the small half loaf of bread he'd been given in the food basket. He covered the slices with ham spread made fresh that morning, then passed a sandwich to the priest.
Hroman accepted it with thanks.
"On every street corner," Pacys said, "you'll find a bard. They're all composing songs about the raid, even those who weren't in Waterdeep that night. They've come from far and wide, trailing word of the story back."
"This is what you believed you were called for?"
"Yes," Pacys said, "and I still believe that, but there is something missing."
"What do you mean?"
"I've worked on the song about the raid for days," the old bard replied, "and have it shaped much as I want it, but there's more."
"More? You're sure of that?"
"Yes. Even as much work as I've done on it, the song yet remains unfinished."
"How do you know?"
Pacys smiled at the younger man. "How do you know a prayer is left unfinished?"
"Every priest is trained on the elements of a prayer," Hroman replied. "There's the invitational, the declaration-, the body of the message, and the closing."
"Sadly," Pacys said, "many bards believe it's the same with a song or a tale. Jokes, however, may be so mechanically inclined, but even within that art there are a number of allowances. In your vocation, my friend, the mind trains the ear, but in mine it's the ear that trains the mind."
"You remain hopeful, then."
Pacys smiled. "I yet live, and my song is undone. I've been following it for fourteen years. I can't allow myself to believe that I've been led this far and there will be no crescendo."
Quietly and efficiently, Hroman bowed his head and asked a blessing on the meal. Pacys joined him, finding his spirits even further lifted by the sincere belief in Hroman's words as he asked for peace and healing to descend on the city.
When the priest finished, the bard glanced up and out at the harbor. The morning sun was nearer to noon now, and the water glinted with diamond-bright highlights. He watched as a small group of mermen surfaced beside a large fishing boat with a boom arm hanging out over the water. Ropes led down into the harbor, letting the bard know they were going to attempt another underwater salvage.
"We're missing so many things," Pacys mused.
"They'll be replaced," Hroman stated. "Oghma willing, and if the need for whatever's been lost is strong enough."
"I'm not talking about city things." The old bard offered the small cup of cherry tomatoes that had been packed in the basket. They were exotic, grown in Maztica, and proof that the most exclusive of larders had opened to feed the people who worked in the city. Hroman took a couple with a nod of thanks. "I'm talking about the song. We don't know who arranged the attack on Waterdeep, or why."
"It was the sahuagin," Hroman pointed out. "We all saw them. As to why, the sahuagin have never gotten along with people living on the surface."
"The sahuagin don't use magic," Pacys pointed out. "They don't like it, and they don't trust it. That night, of all things that can be said about it, was filled with magic. It's more than the sahuagin. There's an enemy out there who has aligned himself against Waterdeep… maybe more than just Waterdeep."
"I can only pray that you're wrong," the priest said.
Pacys nodded. "I pray that as well, but in my heart I know I'm right. This song is far bigger than any I've ever done. When I finish, we'll have to know who has commanded this thing and why."
"Not all songs are as neatly sewn," Hroman objected. "In Temdarc's Folly' the hero is kept constantly in the dark as to who's controlling the events in his life, as is the audience. Likewise with 'Lillinin' and 'The Calling of Three Shadows.' There are dozens of songs that don't fit the criteria you're saying exists."
"Not epic songs," Pacys objected in a soft voice. He popped one of the cherry tomatoes into his mouth and chewed. The fruit was pulpy and delicious. "Those all have the same ingredients."
Hroman was silent for a moment, as if hesitant. "Not all of those songs are finished, old friend. 'Cask of Torguein' remains incomplete to this day because the bard who wrote it-"
"Tweul Silverstrings," Pacys said automatically. A bard was trained to give every master his due. Otherwise, how would a true bard worthy of the mantle gain fame?
"-had his heart ripped out by a peryton up in the Cloud Peaks. 'Onyx Eyes' is unfinished because the bard-"
"Lohyis Tautsham," Pacys supplied.
"-was found drained of blood in a spider's web in Un-dermountain. 'Sandcastle Kings In Flight' is only a fragment left by the composer-"
"Harbier Funnelmouth."
"-who hasn't been seen in one hundred and twenty years." Hroman frowned. "I could go on."
"Because your father, Oghma rest his soul," Pacys said, "saw to it you had a good education without being cloistered away in priest's vestments."
Hroman took another bite of his sandwich. "All I'm saying is that we were fortunate to live through the bloodletting the other night, and there are enough people jumping at shadows in this city."
Pacys knew that was true. In response to the attack, all the land-based entrances into Waterdeep had been battened down with a siege mentality. The guard's rakers patrolled well past the harbor. There would be no more surprises.
Yet with all the might and ferocity that earmarked the attack, Pacys knew that whatever enemy the city faced didn't have to depend on surprise. The sahuagin could only come from the sea, but there were no guarantees that the sea devils hadn't aligned themselves with the ores or goblin hordes that occupied the hill country and forests beyond Waterdeep.
Carefully, Pacys steered the conversation onto safer ground, discussing the events and people of the last few days that weighed heavily on Hroman. Several of the junior priests leaned on him for guidance. Few had experienced such a vicious attack before and it left many with their faith shaken.
During the talk, the bard sliced up the small loaf of sweetbread he'd been given in the basket and added grapes and chunks of apple to the repast. His wineskin, thankfully, was plentiful. When the meal and the conversation was completed, Hroman excused himself, nearly asleep as he sat there.