The Reading
The Reading The solemn company rides, The distance between villages, Grows greater with every passing year, Though none can say why. They carry the records, The great tome, Though only one among them, Has the skill to discern its meaning, For though highly esteemed, What use have hunters and herdsmen, For that arcane art? Still, some with the aptitude are found, Fostered, For some writings are survived, And new ones made, If slowly, and only by a few. The scribe among them, Is closely guarded, His letters young yet, And his sword but newly held. Tomorrow marks his first Reading, And he practices from his slate, Scratching the marks over and again, The low murmur of his art their only sound, For their beasts feet are muffled. They dare not announce their presence, As the Sheriffs are busy elsewhere, And bandits have been reported near to here. But they will dare this passage, Though dark has descended on the world, And