Jenny: The Deeper Thing

Looking through the dissipating group for her lord Ambrosius, the Guttersnipe shook her head. She thought, quietly, that Domitia was too depressed about not being a real bard. What did that mean? She was given a pat on the shoulder and told, "You have completed your training. Now you are a bard." But what was that, really, in the long run? Being a bard was not long years of training, nor a pat on the shoulder by some learned holy man. That would no more make Domitia a bard than putting a sword in Ambrosius' fist had made him a war-lord. It was the fibre of a person that did that. But glancing at Domitia as she thought it, she knew it was something the girl would have to find for herself. It was a thing between her and the Song-maker, no one else.

"I don't know," she said presently. "Perhaps my Lord Ambrosius knows. He knows things. But good-night, Domitia. Try to sleep. If we make it to tomorrow, we had best not be tired." She smiled, but it was a mirthless smile.

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