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No funeral was needed - Merik/Merieke is Alive!
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I spread my hawk’s wings against the wind and I let them carry me high, until I’m soaring over the walls of St. Sebastian’s like an arrow shot from one of the boys’ bows, a fantastic shot ripping the sky. I circle around over the woods outside the walls until I can look down and see the little meadow where Tristan and I used to go, with the old broken windmill that was our place rising beyond it. I hesitate, but it’s so exhilarating to fly, I keep climbing until the windmill is just a speck below me, and my wings are so strong beneath me I know there’s nothing to keep me from reaching the vast vault of heaven. I speed upward, faster now, almost reaching my goal. Before I can, something calls me back. It’s a voice, urgent and pleading, and try as I might, I can’t resist it. The sun is brilliant overhead. It must be midday, and as I circle down it’s so hot and still in the meadow that no breeze stirs its dry weeds, not even the drone of insects disturbs the perfect silence of the scene below. I circle around again, letting myself glide lazily in the scorching light of noon. Something soft, a gentle breeze, ruffles my feathers soothingly, whispering, urging me to stay, begging me not to fly away again. But the meadow isn’t sleeping. It’s hushed, as though holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. My appearance is deceptive, too. I’m alert; nervous, eager. My keen eyes are searching, looking for someone, waiting for him to appear. As I look, something does enter the meadow, but isn’t a boy. It’s a stag, a great set of antlers held gracefully aloft on its magnificent head, taking a slow, tentative step forward out of the woods, and at first I’m surprised. Then slowly I realize it’s what I’ve been waiting for, all along. As it emerges from among the trees I swoop down and let a shrill, clear cry ring out through the empty sky, and at my call, the beast lifts its head to follow my flight, mesmerized. But as I pass over the windmill, the old structure transforms until its round form becomes the tower of a castle, and a flash of light from its heights blinds me, and I begin to fall. As I do, I see a lone archer, not on the tower as I’d imagined. He’s in the cover of the greenwood at the edge of the forest. I can’t see him clearly, his face is in shadow, but he’s wearing the distinctive garb of an archer of St. Sebastian’s. He’s a flash of black, and my cries become wild alarms of danger. He’s already nocked an arrow, and he’s aimed it straight at the stag. Without thinking, I tighten my fall into a dive. I mean to warn the stag, to drive it away to safety. It’s startled, but it can’t seem to move. It stays rooted in its spot, watching me speed toward it, distracted by my flight. Despite my sharp cries it doesn’t flee, and I see the archer rise and loose his arrow. The arrow finds its mark, but it doesn’t strike the deer. Instead I’m the one falling, faster and faster, an arrow through my heart, until I land hard in the dust, back within the walls of St. Sebastian’s.
I wake with a start, as I jerk in bed at the illusion of falling, and a twinge of pain in my shoulder makes me twitch against the straw mattress under me. My eyes are closed and my head feels hot and hazy, as though I’m still lost in the strangely familiar dream, and somewhere deep in my mind a cry of danger is still echoing. There’s something I need to remember, something important, but I can’t think straight. I can’t seem to remember who or where I am, but that’s not what’s bothering me. It’s something about the dream. Somehow, I know I’ve seen the dream before and that it has something to tell me, something I desperately need to know. Something is whispering through my memory, urging me to stay, urging me to stay asleep until I can remember it. Maddeningly, the effort of trying to catch it back drives the dream further away. I put my hand up to my face to shield my eyes from a bright light that’s filtering through my closed eyelids. My fingers find the rough ridges of scars on my face, and I do remember something. I’m Marieke Verbeke, kicked by a mule at eleven years old, the ugly, scarred girl who dressed as a boy to become a squire named Marek at St. Sebastian’s. The dream is real, too. At least, there was an arrow. I was shot through the heart on the walls of Sir Brecelyn’s tower, when I stepped in front of an arrow speeding toward my father, and I died in his arms. No. I shake my head, trying to clear it. That’s not right. It wasn’t my father with me on the tower, it was Tristan. Tristan! The name flashes out in my memory, and the dazzling brightness surrounding me resolves itself into sharp rays of light that stab through the spaces between my fingers. Against my closed lids, I see his form again outlined by those shafts of light just as he was when I first saw him on the garden wall. It was Tristan whose arms were around me, Tristan whispering to me, begging me not to go. I see him again as clearly as if he were still holding me, as if the mattress pressing on my cheek were his cheek on mine, with that one lock of hair hanging down over his eyes, his usual mischievous grin replaced by the shock of grief. It was the perfect ending to my strange story with him: I died the hero, the boy who saved him, who’d served him well as his squire. It was the fulfillment of the vow I pledged to St. Sebastian to allow me to stay at the guild, my vow to see Tristan through his first year of trials without ever letting him know I was really a girl, or die trying. I finally outdid all the boys, I made a grand gesture that outdid even Tristan himself. It was the only good way my story could end. It was glorious. But my heart constricts painfully at the loss of him. Slowly, I open my eyes and look around me. All I can see is blinding white. I put my hand down to hover over my chest, to find the arrow gone. It’s as I thought. I’m whole again, and there’s only one place this can be. Despite my sins, my sacrifice and my vow must have brought me here. I should be grateful, and I am, really. But all I can think is, the place is empty. I’m alone, and Tristan isn’t here. At the thought, I feel another sharp jab of pain. Only this time, the pain is entirely real. It’s out of place. If this is paradise, I should be beyond earthly pain. Confused, I bring my hand down to the source of my discomfort, to find a bandage wrapped not over my heart, but tightly around my left shoulder. So the arrow didn’t pierce my heart. I’m not dead. My perfect ending wasn’t the end! I guess I don’t know how to go down in glory, after all. I should be wretched, finding that the saint didn’t actually help me find a way to leave St. Sebastian’s; I’m right back where I was before I climbed the tower, caught between wanting to stay and needing to leave, with no good options. I should be in despair, since there will never be as neat an ending with Tristan, and I now have no idea how it can end. Whatever happens from here, it’s going to be messy. I should be heartbroken. But I’m not. I’m alive, and I’ve never been gladder of anything. There’s nothing like dying to make you desperate to live, no matter what. And even if it means bringing down the walls of St. Sebastian’s around me, I know I’ll seek out Tristan again. That part of the dream was real, too. I’d rather fall from heaven in a heap in the dust back inside St. Sebastian’s than never see Tristan again. But I’m not at St. Sebastian’s now, and I still can’t seem to remember everything that’s happened. Where can I be? I blink my eyes and turn on my mattress, trying to see around me. There’s no sign of Tristan anywhere, and I feel panic rising in my chest. I’ve got to find him, I’ve got to get back to him, and to the others. It’s the only thought that makes any sense, and I can’t shake the feeling of danger that lingers from my vivid dream. I try to rise enough to figure out where I am, to figure out what’s happened. The wound on my shoulder is aching and the binding is tight, but I manage to raise my head enough to see that I’m in a small, spare room with whitewashed stone walls. There’s no decoration at all in the room and it’s furnished only with a small chair, table, and the cot on which I’m lying, but there’s an exterior window and the shutters are thrown open, and light is pouring in. Everything in the room is white, even the simple shift nightdress I’m wearing. It feels so strange to have my legs free, after so many months dressed in boys’ breeches. I could be a little girl again, asleep in my room in my father’s house. But the thought doesn’t comfort me. Instead, it brings me around sharply, and I finally feel awake. With a sense of alarm, I let my hand slide down from the bandage on my shoulder, to find exactly what I expected. Bare flesh below. The binding around my breasts is gone. Wherever I am, I’m a girl again. This is something I can’t be at all glad about. Suddenly a gaunt face leans over to peer down at me with a serious expression. It’s the face of an old man, and he seems to come out of nowhere, to materialize suddenly over my cot. For a moment, I think maybe I was wrong and I am dead after all, and I take a sharp inhalation of breath in my shock at meeting my maker so unexpectedly and when I’m so unprepared. I even have a moment’s guilt at the thought that what I’m thinking about at this supreme moment of judgment is boys. Then I recognize the face. “Abelard! Are you here, too?” I cry in relief, my senses still muddled. “Where would I be, but here at Vendon?” the old monk says, smiling down at me. Of course. I remember saying something about bringing my body to the abbey, to the monks here who are my friends. Only I thought they would bury me, not heal me. I guess I’m lucky that some of the brothers still practice medicine, though the church strictly speaking doesn’t encourage it anymore. I’m certainly not going to complain. “Did I startle you, Marieke? If so, it serves you right!” Abelard says, not unkindly. “Why, the shock you gave us! Imagine our surprise, when a rather unbelievable young man turns up on our doorstep with the body of a dead boy in his arms, and it turns out not to be a boy at all, but our very own Marieke, and alive, after all this time!”
“An unbelievable young man?” I repeat. Leave it to me to focus on the wrong thing. “Very handsome he was, and dressed like an archer, from St. Sebastian’s! In quite a state, too. Needless to say, nothing like it had ever happened here before. The Prior was very put out.” “Oh, Abelard! That young man! You didn’t tell him who I was, did you? You didn’t tell him I was a girl?” It’s bad enough that my perfect ending with Tristan is spoiled, but if he’s found out I’m a girl, everything is ruined. If he’s found out, I can’t go back to him. Or to St. Sebastian’s. Maybe that’s even why he isn’t here now. “He seemed to know already.” This brings me up short. I’m still dizzy, and my brain isn’t functioning properly; how could Tristan have already known? When did he find out? If he knew I was a girl, why didn’t he say anything? There’s something I’m not remembering, but I can’t think what it is. It doesn’t make any sense. It’s wrong, somehow. Tristan didn’t know, I’m sure. But Abelard is continuing: “And anyway, it soon became pretty clear.” I look up at Abelard in alarm, to see him blush. To my horror, I know exactly what he means. “Oh, don’t tell me he helped undress me!” “It seemed right at the time,” Abelard concedes sheepishly, as I fall back against the mattress, defeated. There’s no question, then. “You know, Marieke,” Abelard explains, “we’re all monks, so it seemed more fitting, and after all,” he pauses and gives me what I would think was a sly look if it was from anyone else, “from the way he was acting, we did rather think you two were, well …” he breaks off inquiringly, then seeing my expression, he adds: “I guess we were wrong.” We sit in silence for a moment, as my head throbs and I try to understand what’s happened. “I’m sorry, Marieke. Seeing to your wound, that was the important thing. And it wasn’t slight. Nobody was thinking of anything else, I can assure you. Luckily, he got you here in time.” Father Abelard reaches down and takes my hand gently in his, but I try to roll over to face the wall. I don’t want to talk anymore. I’m tired. There’ll be time, later, to hear it all. All I can think of now is: it’s all over, if Tristan knows. And if he helped undress me, he must surely know. I’d promised Tristan that there would be no more lies between us, not important ones, anyway, and now he’s found out my secret when I couldn’t explain, when I couldn’t defend myself. He must think I’ve betrayed him, that I’ve made a fool of him. Why couldn’t I just have died? “Really, I’ve never seen anyone like him,” Abelard muses, but I don’t want to hear it, until he says something that changes everything. “Yes, a most remarkable young man. Built like an ox.” And suddenly I really do remember everything. Of course! It wasn’t Tristan who brought me here. It was his half-brother Taran. I remember him, all right. The thought of him brings on another sharp jab of pain. It isn’t aching, or longing. It stings, like a slap in the face. “In fact, he’s been here every day since then …” “What?!” I cry in alarm. “How long have I been here?” “Five days.” At that, I struggle to get up. Five days, lying on this cot? I have to get up, to get back. I have to find Tristan. “Marieke!” Abelard says firmly, putting out a hand to push me gently back onto the cot. “You’ve had a serious wound. You can’t go anywhere yet. You were delirious for three days!” “Delirious?” I say stupidly, my head swimming, as I fall back heavily under his hand. “Did I, uh, say anything I shouldn’t have?” “Don’t you always?” a blunt voice answers from somewhere behind Father Abelard. I’m not good at recognizing voices, but I’d know that voice anywhere. Sure enough, Taran’s standing at the threshold, looking in. When I see him, I cry out in surprise, and despite myself my voice sounds much more eager than I intend. At the sound of my voice, he also takes a quick step forward, his face lit with what I might think was an eager expression, too, if I didn’t know him better. But I’m scowling now, and when Taran sees it, the look fades and is replaced by his usual masklike countenance. Despite the throbbing in my head, the sound of Taran’s voice and that sarcastic tone of his have brought everything rushing back. I’ve suddenly remembered begging Tristan to let Taran take me down from the tower, and asking him to bring me to the Vendon Abbey. In particular, I’ve remembered just how little Taran seemed to care that I was dying. How glad he looked, in fact. “Ah, son. I see you’re back again,” Abelard says, turning to greet Taran with a smile. “Just can’t stay away, eh? And this time, you’ll be pleased to find the patient finally doing well. Didn’t I tell you we’d have her back in good shape in no time?” “So, you’re awake,” Taran says, taking another step into the room, but not approaching the cot. “Sorry to disappoint you!” I snap. “Just what is that supposed to mean?” he says, frowning, but not coming any closer. “Don’t pretend you’re not disappointed I’m still alive! I saw the look on your face, on the tower. You couldn’t wait for me to die! I should have been more thoughtful, and died quickly! I’m so sorry to have taken up so much of your precious time, since I’m sure you had other, more pressing matters you wanted to attend to!” I’m pretty pleased with myself at remembering this taunt. Yes, it’s all coming back to me now. At some point during this exchange, Father Abelard’s quietly slipped from the chair next to me, but I confess, I hardly notice him go out of the room. I’m too focused on Taran. He’s leaning up against the far wall, and after an initial angry look crosses his face, he listens to my outburst with his usual impassive demeanor. “Are you quite finished?” he says flatly. “For the love of St. Peter! I knew you weren’t dying.” When I give him a disbelieving look, he continues sarcastically, “The others all seem to believe anything you tell them. You’re a boy. You’re dying. They’d probably have believed you if you’d told them you were St. Sebastian himself! If you’d really been dying, if that arrow had really gone through your heart, you’d have been dead almost instantly. There wouldn’t have been time for all that drivel you and Tristan were spewing at each other.” I open my mouth to make a snide retort, but I can’t think of one. He’s right. I, of all people, should have known it. After all, it took my own father only minutes to die of just such a wound. But the memory of Taran’s face as he watched me die still hurts. I’m still angry about it, so I cry out indignantly, “A likely story! If you knew I wasn’t dying, why didn’t you say so?” He raises his eyebrows, and I think I see a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “And let them all take off your tunic right there, and inspect your wound? Besides,” he continues, in a voice that sounds much less amused, “it would have been a pity to cut short your touching scene with DuBois. It was all very moving. The ‘arrows won’t kill me’ bit was particularly inspired.” “And all too true, apparently.” It’s all I can manage. “So it would seem.” I turn my head to face the wall to hide my confusion. Everything he’s saying is true. If he hadn’t played along and pretended to think I was dying, I would have been discovered as a girl right then and there. But I’m still furious with him. I can picture his face when our eyes met on the tower, and I can feel again the squeeze of pain I felt when I saw how little he cared that I was slipping away. I can’t shake the feeling. It’s as though I’ve carried that image with me to the grave. “I was wounded! How could you be so sure I wouldn’t die?” “I, for one, had good reason to know just how much padding you wrap around your chest.” “Surely that binding alone couldn’t have stopped the arrow,” I say, forgetting my anger for a minute, wondering just how I did manage to survive an arrow at point-blank range. “No. Not alone.
But it wasn’t the only thing you had strapped around your chest.” He points to the table by my bed, and when I turned to look, I see my St. Sebastian’s medal, dented and twisted, lying next to me. So the arrow hit the medal. I was right all along: St. Sebastian isn’t subtle. It’s the oldest trick in the book. St. Sebastian isn’t done with me, after all. “You had that medal pushed down between the layers of that blasted binding you wear. The arrow pushed it hard against the padding on your chest. The force of the blow seems to have knocked the senses out of you, and it certainly gave you a nasty bruise.” He falters for a moment when I drop my eyes, and I know we’re both thinking about just how he knows this. When a blush starts to creep up my neck, he continues hurriedly, “The point slid up and into your shoulder, too. You’ve got a pretty big cut just below the armpit on that side. I imagine it did feel like you were dying. With that arrow stuck tight in place by your bindings, it looked like it, too. And for some reason, you also seemed rather eager to believe it.” “What about the others? What did you tell them?” I ask, ignoring the question his last words imply. “Nothing. They all think you’re dead.” “By the Saint! It’s been five days! Why haven’t you told them I’m alive?” I cry, struggling to get into a sitting position, ready to fly out the door and find Tristan. Five days! It’s not just the thought of what Tristan must be feeling, believing me dead, that propels me. It’s also the irrational thought that maybe he’s already forgotten me, that every minute is taking me further away from him, and that he’s going on without me. But when I sit up the room spins, and I have to grip the edge of the cot to stay upright.
“It’s all rather tricky, isn’t it?’ Taran is saying, frowning down at me. “Here, you’re a girl named Marieke. Until you’re healed, it’s better nobody knows where you are, isn’t it? It wouldn’t do to have half the guild trying to get in here.” He pauses, and then continues in a different tone. “That’s not the only reason,” he says slowly. “I thought it was up to you to decide. I rather got the impression you were planning to leave. Now you can, with no questions asked. You’re free and clear. You can be a girl again.” “Ugh! You should have just let me die!” I cry disingenuously, putting a hand to my temple. “You weren’t dying.” I squeeze my eyes shut, and when I speak again, I’m talking to myself as much as to Taran. “Why on earth would I want to be a girl again? What is there for me as a girl, anyway?” “Father Abelard could find you a position.” “What could I do?” I say bitterly. “Be a scullery maid? Work in a field? Even a brothel wouldn’t take me.” I open my eyes and glare at him. “How can I do any of that, after being at St. Sebastian’s? Would you want to go work in a kitchen?” “I’m not a girl.” “What does that matter?” I cry. “Why should I want to be a drudge, because of my sex? I’m a terrible cook, but I’m a damned good squire! I don’t want to knit. I want to shoot!” I know I must look ridiculous. Out of my squire’s clothes I’m finding it hard to play the part of the boy convincingly, but Taran also seems to be finding it hard to treat me with his usual contempt now that I’m dressed like a girl. Probably that ingrained notion of treating women with courtesy is too much even for him to overcome fully. I think he doesn’t know how to treat me now. He’s never been good with girls. Somehow, we both seem different, away from the guild. “Besides,” I add defiantly, “If what you’re saying is true, the saint saved me! That must mean he wants me to complete my vow, all of it, to see Tristan through to the very end. I’ve got to get back! Back to St. Sebastian’s!” “That’s what it’s really all about, isn’t it?” Taran says, his voice flat. “It’s about DuBois.” I can’t answer. I really don’t know. I do want to get back to Tristan. I’m desperate to get back to him, in fact. But I don’t think that’s all of it, anymore. “Has it occurred to you,” he says slowly, “that if this is a message from St. Sebastian, maybe what it means is that he’s giving you a second chance? He’s giving you a chance to end things differently, a chance to try being a girl again? Don’t you owe it to the saint, owe it to yourself, to give it a try? Don’t you think it would be the best — the best for him, for you, and for the guild?”
~~~
Marek/Marieke was saved by her St. Sebastian medal, now twisted and bent, along with her bindings around her chest...She is now in the Abbey with Father Abelard in attendance as she wakes for the first time after 5 days... She was slowly remembering when Father Abelard mentioned the young man who had brought her to the Abbey. At first, she panicked, thinking it had been Tristan, her Journey for whom she was a squire. But, instead, as she remembered, she had asked Taran to bring her to the Abbey for burial, but he had gotten her there so quickly that they were able to save her. Thankfully, they were of those who had decided to continue the use of medicinal help even though the church was now against it...
And there, readers, you will meet the two individuals, Marieke and Taran, who will be with you throughout the entire series, as one of the most frustrating, extraordinary, and yet, heartbreaking lust/love plots that I personally had ever read...
What do I care if your face is ugly or beautiful? What’s it to me? What does it matter that it’s always wearing a scowl, or gaping to say something intensely irritating, or that I can’t bear to see it one more minute, looking up at him? It’s the face I see when I close my eyes, it’s the one I want to see when I open them, it’s the one I’m always looking for, the one I can’t forget. I want to slap it, kiss it, throttle it, hold it in my hands and never let it go. It’s the only one I feel anything about. It’s the one I feel everything about. What’s it to me? It’s yours.
Personally I had no problem believing what this poem which was written in a secret contest was meant to portray... But then, I've watched the plot thicken already and am quite clear in my assumption. By the last book, if I'm wrong, I will be very disappointed! LOL
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Let's step back and talk about the relationship between a squire and his Journey... They are with each other constantly and in all ways working toward the instructional development of the Journey, especially as they arrive at competition times... Tristant is an openly friend man, once he had found his new squire, Marek... Marek in turn, along with Tristan, was for the first time in her life, surrounded by beautiful boys, often in various states of dress. Marek found she was responding. Tristan was so beautiful and, frankly, sexy... But as their relationship had developed and he started calling her his little brother, Marek found her emotional relationship had become predominant--Tristant was more like a brother or, a younger replacement for her beloved father... most of the time...
Not so with Taran... Their eyes would meet and connect... There were times of friendship developing... But now, Taran was the only boy in the Guild that knew she was a girl! Mostly by the realization that Marek was not going to die, but needed medical attention--his having to remove her clothes, rather than having Father Abelard forced to do it... There is at least one other incident when Marek thought she was totally alone to bathe in a nearby pond, only to have Taran watching her... In fact, he would often be around where she would catch him... There was no doubt that her thoughts about Taran were not for a family member... And, readers will know how he feels as well...
But it got complicated... Taran was betrothed into a marriage alliance about which he had no control. Well, readers will be privy to all those private moments where the two were loving or hating... Because no way around it, Tristan and Taran were enemies... Half-Brothers... Worse, their father impregnated both his wife and a lover at the same time and bragged about it to everybody...with no shame! The shame was there, however, for both Taran and Tristan... And while Tristan received financial support for the Guild, Tristan had no real standing in the world in which his father lived--the aristocracy... And, when he met his brother's betrothed, he did not know of that arrangement...Nor did he plan to fall deeply in life with Taran's intended...
In fact, despite this being a Guild based upon a Saint of the Catholic Church, there was always two vices--drinking and sexual exploits on the minds of the boys...and...men... at that time. One minor point, though, I assumed since the Abbey made wine for sale... My guess is that water had already been discovered to be dangerous to actually drink during these times... Thus the wine... often to excess... But that didn't explain the dozens of sexual encounters (briefly described, most of the time)...
In any event, as Marek moved closer to being fully healed and able to leave the Abbey, she wound up being taken to the local convent... I could be wrong, but I don't think Marek lasted there more than a day! LOL I empathized with her... Soon she was on her way back to all of her friends at Saint Sebastian's! Returning to her routine duties, once all of the Journeys and Squires had welcomed her back "from the dead!"
Soon, however, she was to learn that a certain visitor to the Guild was a man whose voice sounded very much like the man who had killed her father... Soon, a prime reason for coming to Sebastian's was to learn more about her father--both his early life and who had killed him. Now the investigation would become a priority when this man was to host a visit of the School members to his home... and will continue on through the books. More and more was coming out that an execution of, possibly the prince was to occur... during the scheduled competition. More of the conspiracy that Marieke had heard from the men who killed her father, was being rumored and spreading...
At the same time, assumed to be a rumor as well, a plague was spreading...from Rome to France. Soon a cultish religious group, the “Flagellants,” were marching through town, blood dripping from some as they attempted to ward off the plague's coming... If you don't know about this group, check it out...I'm not going into detail...
Those at St. Sebastian's believed that they would be safe--be saved by their patron saint... It depends upon how you look at it... The Guild was within a walled area... Yet, when the plague, indeed, arrived, all of the community members were in danger and deaths started immediately... And, finally, those community members decided that if the Guild was not going to help people outside, then they would move inside those walls!
Everybody within the Guild took turns guarding the walls, but that soon was not enough... The Guild's Master contacted a friend who owned a castle and the entire residents of the Guild moved there for the duration. When they finally returned, great damage had been done. The only thing that had not been destroyed was the painting of Saint Sebastian but one arrow had been shot into one of his eyes... Everybody began to work to rebuild, but finally more men were brought in and the journeys and squires once again began to daily practice to prepare for the mandatory money-making trials which would be used to not only entertain, but select those Journeys who would be moving forward if they won...
Marek is such a treat for readers, especially for women... Even as one of the smallest "boys" in service, her knowledge and basic intuition has made her influential in many ways. She begins to help in the shop, putting forth the arrows faster than anybody else. She supports her Journey, even when he goes off on tangents and conducts himself as less than a Journeyman should... She interacts with all the squires on a personal basis, willing to help others and even starts to train them--although her initiative is frowned upon by the Head Master...
And, as the second book ends, even with all the turmoil she has gone through, Marieke admits, at least to herself, that she's in love with Taran...
Historical lovers...this series is for you. A personal note: one review I read commented that the language used was too modern... While this may be true, for me, it was perfect. I avoid fantasies, for instance, where names and language is "created" to fit their concept of what their fantasy requires... I find these books tedious and with little opportunity to fall into the story as opposed to having to be learning the language as we read... Roland uses all the technical language correctly. That, to me, is most important. And, the complexity and melodrama that she presents to us requires close attention to detail. I, for one, was glad I didn't also have to contend with some strange medieval words/phrases... Her characters are all delightful and effectively presented as individuals with a deep love for the Guild and others with whom they dwell... The only very small problem I found was that, in typing the manuscripts, two words were often transposed (these would never be found by spellcheck or grammarcheck) A Content Editor or proofreader must read the content to discover these...Small blips which do not detract from the storyline...
Look for Masters: The Archers of Saint Sebastian coming next...
The lyre player returns... I've not been able to find any songs with words from the book but there several in the book, which I will share at least one... clearly to supplement the story...
GABixlerReviews@aol.com
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