Harp's Promise

By Bonlyn Bradshaw

In a world where only women are allowed to be bards, a young minstryl finds himself in the middle of the Unholy's uprising. Soul-bound to a chaotic harp, Taslor must bring a boy to the mysterious hermit of Mistmarsh to be trained. He must decide if he should follow his heart or listen to the harp's insistent warning that the boy could ruin his l

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lime Press LLC
• Release date: Apr 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9781954304222

Bonlyn Bradshaw

Bonlyn was blessed with a good imagination and a love for books. When her second-grade teacher, Gladys McKnight, dittoed a story of hers, Bonlyn knew she wanted to be a writer. Only her grandfather took her seriously, She vowed to him that if she was ever published, it would be under his name-Bradshaw She has been influenced by Azimov, Edgar Allen Poe, and J R R Tolkien. She wrote mainly science fiction and horror in her youth. Her writing has moved more towards fantasy worlds., but there will always be a place in her heart for Gene Roddenberry.

Book preview

ECVR__Harps_Pride_Bonlyn_Bradshaw_front.jpg

Harp’s Promise

By

Bonlyn Bradshaw

Harp’s Promise by Bonlyn Bradshaw

This book is written to provide information and motivation to readers. Its purpose is not to render any type of psychological, legal, or professional advice of any kind. The content is the sole opinion and expression of the author, and not necessarily that of the publisher.

Copyright © 2021 by Bonlyn Bradshaw

LCCN: 2004096752

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or distributed in any form by any means, including, but not limited to, recording, photocopying, or taking screenshots of parts of the book, without prior written permission from the author or the publisher. Brief quotations for noncommercial purposes, such as book reviews, permitted by Fair Use of the U.S. Copyright Law, are allowed without written permissions, as long as such quotations do not cause damage to the book’s commercial value. For permissions, write to the publisher, whose address is stated below.

First Published, 2005

Printed in the United States of America.

ISBN: 978-1-954304-22-2 (Ebook)

ISBN: 978-1-954304-23-9 (Paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-954304-24-6 (Hardback)

Published by Lime Press LLC

425 West Washington Street

Suffolk VA, 23434 Suite 4

https://www.lime-press.com/

Table of Contents

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

About The Author

Dedication

To Mike, with all my love.

Prologue

Damn you to the fiery, icy blaze of Haal, Valaeron. The king spat at the thin, gray-clad man standing across from him. The frustrated monarch pounded the ornate, oaken table in front of him. Tension thicker than a dragon’s hide blanketed the richly decorated den. Even Queen Annarae remained mute in the shadows of the room.

Damn you, the king repeated, totally unaware of how young he sounded.

I already am, Stevon. The calm voice belied the blazing eyes of a man not used to having his commands questioned. That obstinacy was the only thing the two men had in common. The strawberry blond king pulled at the beard he had grown to cover up his youthfulness. The whiskers failed to do the job. The burly youth raised his hand as if to strike the ancient, frail man in front of him.

The robed elder lifted an eyebrow in mute challenge to the action. Stevon reluctantly lowered his arm, even as his eyes blazed with fury for the Valmage.

We almost lost the child during the birth, the king stated, opting for a different tactic.

The child’s Naming must be witnessed by all your subjects, not just a privileged few! Valaeron growled, wishing the youth in front of him possessed the sense the father had shown. He still missed the man who had been his friend and king for thirty-seven turns of the season cycle.

If the Naming is not proper, when I am gone Valshere will be without a Valmage. You have little choice. When I vanquished your younger brother and placed you on the throne, you promised a boon. The Naming is to be repeated outside, the Valmage stated firmly, his furrowed, salt and pepper eyebrows the only indication of his anger.

The high king sighed in defeat. While he lacked the sense and seasoning of his departed father, he knew that he’d never win an argument with the Valmage. Deep down, the world without magic wielders blessed by the Goddess-God scared him.

Damn you, the king said once more, as if those two words could release all the frustration he was feeling. He tried to ignore the look of shocked disbelief from his young queen. You have your Naming. He raised his hands to silence Annarae’s protests.

I will give private blessings to the twins now, Valaeron stated firmly.

Why bother with the girl? She is nothing special, Stevon commented, drawing a withering look of disapproval from the hazel eyes of his wife. She quickly left the room, slamming the door behind her. The monarch rested his head on the cool table. He was not looking forward to bearing the brunt of his wife’s anger.

Valaeron pointedly ignored the dejected royal and walked over to the cradles. Ever since word of harm to the twins had hissed from the thin lips of the usurper, the babies were never far from their father. He even closed court whenever the twins needed to suckle. As acrid as the aging mage had been with their sire, the look he favored on the two squirming infants within the satin and silver cribs was pure sunshine. He carefully lifted them up in his thin arms. They immediately quieted down. As they burrowed into his arms, the painful memory of another infant curled in his arms crossed his pale face. Forcing that remembrance into the tortured Haal that passed as his soul, the Valmage quietly left the room.

****************

The icy rain had washed away Stevon’s hot temper by the time Valaeron emerged from the castle. The Valmage murmured the ancient name of the ice storm. The sleet stopped. While he would have preferred to do a complete ward against the dark and early winter that laced the land—that would be up to one of the children nestled in his arms. Another Valmage, another innocent life would be sacrificed to become yet another weapon against the Unholy.

It is about time! the king complained through chattering teeth, totally oblivious to the multitude of emotions that pelted the soul of the Valmage. Valaeron offered no comment, handed one well-bundled child to the queen, and started the Naming ceremony.

Chaos. Just Chaos. Dark, swirling Chaos. For untold time, nothing lit the Black Abyss. Then Chaos collided with the Void, resulting in a spark the Spark of Life. From the Eternal Ember, Valshera came to be and with a firm but loving hand, formed the All. The All was divided into four Elyments: Fyre, Wyter, Aer, and Eyrth. Out of these four Elyments bloomed the Suns, Seas, Sky, and World. Valshera looked down upon the barren world with displeasure. The Goddess-God breathed upon the World, and plant life sprang from rock. Watered with Valshera’s own tears, the plants linked with two of the four Elyments, Aer and Wyter, and became part of the All. Satisfied with the beauty of the virgin world, the Goddess-God took bits of Her-His flesh and scattered them upon the World. Then Valshera took a ray of sunlight and empowered the Seeds with it, thus creating animals and Mortals. However, in Her-His haste to populate the World, some of the shards of skin had fallen into the Dark places and received no light. Thus, monsters and the Unholy were created, ensuring Evil along side of Good. While the creatures of Light were linked to both Eyrth and Fyre, Evil knew not of the passion and healing ways of Fyre. It sought only the worldly pleasures of the Eyrth. Weariness fell upon the Goddess-God. Leaving what was—alone, Sh’he divided the four Elyments. Fyre and Wyter became feminine, while Aer and Eyrth were designated masculine. Since plants, animals, and Mortals all bore both masculine and feminine Elyments, they were given the ability to procreate. Only the Unholy lacked this power, thus they formed the Dark Rites to ensure their survival. Saddened by the presence of Evil, Valshera rested. To Uncreate the Unholy would disturb the All, thus destroying Valshera. The Dark Ones, though unwanted, were part of the All forever. The Goddess-God could only rest and watch the Battle between Good and Evil unfold.

Lightning lit the dark heavens. A flash descended from the sky like a forked tongue licking the world. It struck nearby then a crash of thunder drowned out the Old One’s speech. Restless murmurs rose from the impatient mass crowding the streets of Spencerrah. All were familiar with the Tale of Making. They had come to witness a Naming, not to listen to a Sermon.

As Mortals became more sophisticated, they discovered an affinity to the Elyments, the Valmage continued, oblivious to the unrest of the crowd. It was not often that an infant received its soul-name hours after birth. Of the few who were able to reach Soul ability, most were not named until their thirteenth year. But a couple of times each generation, there would be one born so in tune to one of the Elyments, that a soul-name had to be given shortly after birth. Before him was such a child. The fact that the baby’s parents were king and queen of all humanity made the event even more significant.

Lightning tore through the clouds, and a torrent of rain plastered the thinning, white hair to the speaker’s head. He frowned in dismay. The ward against the ice storm had been dispersed. He looked up into the darkening sky. His eyebrows knitted in irritation when he noticed the telltale scarlet hue of the clouds. Despite all his attempts, the Unholy had taken notice of the ceremony. He carefully transferred the child to his left arm. Raising his free hand above his head, he cried, In verra duska Unholy en Valshera’s eliminus! His hand emitted a blue flame that surrounded the glen. Horrible screams filled the air—then everything was silent. The scarlet hue left the clouds as Valshera’s might dispersed the Unholy and their foul storm. The bluish light of the protection spell lit up the old man’s face, revealing a smile of grim satisfaction. The spell would keep the Unholy at bay for the time being. He glanced down at the infant cradled in his arms. The true expulsion of Unholy would be up to future soul children of the Goddess-God. Within the tiny hand was a power the Valmage hoped could rebuild the Stornn Fellowship. Valaeron closed his eyes as if to ward off the horrible memory of the doomed Valmages battling the Dark One. He had been fourteen at the time. And while a grateful world cried in joy that one member of the House of Stornn had escaped, Valaeron’s inaction at the time scorched his laden soul. The rest of Valshere accepted what Valaeron could not, even after all these years. Had he acted, the last Valmage would have died. Thunder gratefully roused him from his tortured memories.

Any last disgruntled murmurs from the crowd had been suppressed into a sullen silence. The old man’s repulsion of the Unholy’s attack had confirmed the rumor that the Naming was done by Valaeron himself. That knowledge told them that their prince was kin to Stornn! For all its ruinous attempts, the Unholy had missed a distant cousin of that house. The sole known survivor was the queen. Lucky for Valshere that Rycus Stornn had been as randy as a rabbit. The Unholy had not been able to track down all of his bastards!

Clearing his throat, Valaeron continued. The affinity to the Elyments manifested in various abilities. Those akin to Aer became the magic manipulators, while those who followed Eyrth were warrior-born. The ones led by Wyter went down the bardic path; those chosen by Fyre became healers.

An icy wind encouraged the drizzle into a downpour. The Valmage held the shivering child close to him. The crying child snuggled as rain was making a hopeless tangle of the Valmage’s salt and pepper beard. The frail frame that seemed to be the bane of all magic wielders was providing little warmth from the onslaught of cold. He eyed the baby wistfully, envying the nest of blankets it nestled in. A fur coat just did not do the mage image proud. Flowing robes, though far more dramatic, put him one step closer to pneumonia. Besides, it was imperative that the Naming be outside to hide what must stay hidden.

The King cleared his throat. Sensing that the child’s father might order the Naming to be continued indoors, Valaeron raised his voice to be heard over the storm. Three levels exist in ability. The lowest is when an individual accepts the Elyment: warrior, sorcaerer, doctor, and minstryl. Any of the rare crossovers occur at this level. A few are able to internalize the Elyment. Aer becomes mind, Eyrth becomes body, and Fyre becomes heart, while Wyter becomes spirit. Warrior to champion, sorcaerer to wizaerd, doctor to healer, minstryl to bard. Then, there is the highest level, obtainable only by birthright. The soul level, when Mortals can touch Valshera Her-Himself. Val, the Male aspect of the Goddess-God, lends his name to the ones that follow magic and the warrior ways—Valmages and Valguards. The Female aspect, Shera, allows Her name to be used by the bards and healers—Sherlyrists and Shershammons. Thus mortals fit into the Will of Valshera.

Many in the crowd sighed, relieved that part of the ceremony was over. The excitement of being in the presence of Valaeron had been numbed by the cold. Their quiet protests, in the form of exaggerated yawns, were ignored by the Valmage. Rain and cold not withstanding, the child was going to have a proper Naming. Besides, they were not the ones dressed in thin, flowing robes.

Only one thing remained before the Naming.

Speak now the truth of Valshera with me! he commanded in his baritone voice.

Male and Female exist in the All, the crowd recited joyfully, happy that the Naming was almost over. Visions of warm fires accompanied by hearty stews brought smiles to frozen faces. Any enthusiasm of the Naming, or being in the presence of a Valmage, had been washed away in the icy downpour.

The name you hold now and forever is Ava... Thunder roared, drowning out the rest of the Valmage’s sentence. One woman, the infant’s nanny, gasped. Other than that, all was quiet as Valaeron finished the Naming rite.

And I bequeath you magic, Aer, and the Male aspect of the Goddess-God. Valmage recognizes future Valmage! The cycle continues! Warmth and food forgotten, all stood entranced by the Naming. It was one thing to know that a child could be a Valmage; it was another thing altogether to witness such an event. For many long moments, the people stared at the shivering old man holding the infant. The only sounds were the weak protesting cries of the forgotten twin that the queen held.

Quiet, little princess! Annarae murmured in soft tones to the well-bundled child. Your brother is named and is one with Val! The infant wanted the shelter and food that the crowd had abandoned. It did not matter that its twin was going to be a Valmage, or that, unknown to almost everyone, they had witnessed a most unusual Naming.

Chapter One

Playing for a bunch of loonies! the young man growled under his breath as he trotted toward the asylum. He brushed at the unruly mass of red curls that were always in his eyes. How that witch learned about my rogue talent is beyond me, but her wagging tongue has made it even more difficult to find work. The youth complained to no one. Blue eyes, turned to ice by his foul mood, squinted to make out the dark towers of the asylum that rose over the city walls of Caslar.

A grand carriage sped past the redheaded young man, splattering mud and water all over him. He muttered a dark retort as the dirt ruined his one nice set of clothes. Now how could he convince his employer that he was worth the ten silver he wanted to be paid?

Eat mud, fey lyrist! a drunken youth from within the carriage called, much to the amusement of his buxom companion.

Taslor’s mood became darker. This was not the first time he had been accused of seeking intimate company with men. Such was the bane of any male minstryl. The rest of the world assumed that all male harpers could not wait to jump into bed together. His own lack of a relationship sometimes made him wonder if they were right. Not that he had ever been drawn to a man, but women held no interest either. Except for that one brief fling with a certain flaxen-haired healer.

Taslor visibly winced at that painful memory. The only things left from that disastrous relationship were an aching heart and the nickname Harper. It was Harper who faced the ridicule and cruelty of the world. Taslor was safely locked away.

His stomach growled, thankfully taking his mind off a part of his life he’d rather forget. When was the last time he had eaten? Playing for a bunch of crazy people may not be prestigious, but it was a job. Both parties would benefit from the odd arrangement. The city of Caslar would not have to pay a true doctor, while the few coins he earned would buy him a long overdue meal.

He strode past the rusty iron gates and into the city proper. Actually, city was a grandiose term for the chaotic collection of pathetic wood and brick dwellings scattered on a double dozen dirt roads. Only the lord’s manor was impressive. Its white marble magnificence shone like a jewel among stones.

The harp case on his back identified him as a harper—a male minstryl. Several townspeople murmured crossover and scurried out of his way. He pointedly ignored the hex signs some of Caslar’s inhabitants made at him. Many of them held to the common belief that crossovers were in league with the Unholy. The superstition went as far as crossovers donating their souls to the Dark Rites for abilities of the opposite gender. That was why many referred to crossovers as The Soulless Ones. One boy threw a rock. It hit him hard in the leg. Taslor screamed a nonsense rhyme left over from his brief childhood.

Rickety, Rickety, scratchy old cat

Sent by Aer to do mages’ combat.

Feminine magic and strange warrior blades

Combined with odd bardic invades

The realm of dark places,

And each one faces

Terror’s mournful call,

Unraveling the mystery behind

Valshera’s All!

He accompanied the song with a bunch of wild, meaningless gestures that sent the boy screaming, running down the cobblestone road as if Unholy minions were chasing him. Taslor smiled with dark satisfaction. While his prank didn’t do the image of a male minstryl much good, he felt much better. He reached the asylum without further incident.

The asylum, or rather Palace of the Perplexed, as some enlightened individual named it, was a foreboding sight. Located in the heart of the worst section of the city, it served as a barbaric reminder of a less civilized past. The gray, moss-encrusted stone building jutted above the rest of the slum like some sinister overlord. Fancy names could not hide the fact that it was little more than a prison for the insane. Two terrible gargoyles guarding the iron gate crowned the whole horrible scene. Swallowing an irrational fear, Taslor knocked on the door. The dour creature that answered blended into the eerie surroundings beautifully.

Ward’Duke Haskel is not accepting admissions until next Winter-Aer, the gnome-like creature said gruffly as he started to close the door. No, he was a gnome, the minstryl decided silently. Instead of the deep green complexion of the gnomic race, however, the creature’s skin was olive-toned. That in and of itself told the minstryl that it was part human.

I’m not seeking refuge for myself or anyone else, Taslor explained hastily. I was summoned here by Ward’Duke Haskel, fair sir, Taslor said, wondering why the name Haskel sounded familiar.

Golden eyes widened in surprise. Astonished that Ward’Duke Haskel would seek anyone, and even more amazed that the boy referred to him as fair sir. A Sare Fir, more likely, he thought, as he was reminded of the knotty, foul-smelling conifers that were indigenous to the Swelky Swamp. He leaned forward toward the lad, squinting his amber eyes to size up the youth. Blindness was not the reason behind the boy’s unusual address. He spied the harp case slung over a muddy shoulder and a lute shaped bundle cradled under the boy’s arm. The glib tongue of a minstryl—what was that silly belief about male harpers being fey?

Taslor squirmed visibly under the old man’s scrutiny. He had heard tales about the strange, green-toned gnomes that dwelled east of Holliger’s Wake. He wondered how much of the legend was true.

About us cannibalizing each other and doing worse to our enemies? The gnome chuckled in a deep, gravely voice.

Taslor winced. The tale had been correct about the telepathic ability of the gnomes.

And enough of the story is true to keep it honest! the old gnome said, smiling, revealing a double row of sharp teeth. Just as all male minstryls are fey! he added as he beckoned the minstryl to enter. Taslor favored the short creature’s back with a wary glance. He felt that he had been given a lesson, but he wasn’t sure what he had been taught. The humpbacked gnome led the young minstryl down a damp, stone corridor. Thin flames rising from foul-smelling torches cast eerie shadows upon the gray, granite walls. Taslor crinkled his nose in silent protest of the stench. Why didn’t the Ward’Duke utilize a magical light source?

Magic further bewilders the mentally disturbed! the gnome explained, reading his thoughts. Taslor jumped as a hand grabbed for him from a space in the wall. He had not realized that he was passing through a ward. A frustrated wail came from within the wall.

Don’t let Dor’ree fool you, the gnome warned. She would break your neck if given a chance. The Dark Ones do not leave much conscience after their Unholy Rite. All that remains is a mad, violent shell.

Dark One? You mean she... Taslor whispered, barely resisting the urge to be physically sick.

Dark Ones, the gnome corrected. An uneasy feeling crept up Taslor’s spine when the gnome said Dark Ones. Maybe there was a difference in the way the ancient creature pronounced it. The offices of Ward’Duke Haskel! his guide announced with a flourish as he pushed open heavy, ebony doors. The gnome puffed visibly with the effort, while Taslor looked around the exquisite room. Old tapestries covered three of the four stone walls. On the fourth wall was a mural depicting Tranmal’VaArk, the recognized defender of the insane. The man had died trying to get rights for them. Under the picture was an elaborate mahogany desk almost buried under a mountain of parchments.

It is not quite as grand as the royal throne room, the gnome explained. Damn him and his telepathy! Taslor thought darkly.

He might be somewhat filled with his own importance, the old creature continued, ignoring the minstryl’s mental outburst, but his heart is in the right place.

Thank you for your vote of confidence, chancellor! a deep voice boomed behind them. Minstryl and gnome turned as one. A tall, auburn-haired man stood in the doorway. While a full beard and mustache guarded stern lips, a mischievous twinkle lit up smoky green eyes.

Taslor bowed deeply to the green-clad giant. Minstryl Harper at your command, Sir Ward’Duke! He announced formally. The Ward’Duke responded with a hearty chuckle.

So formal! Was I ever as punctilious, chancellor?

No, never, Ward’Duke! the gnome said as his smile revealed his awful, pointed teeth. Taslor suppressed a shudder. The gnome, sensing the young minstryl’s discomfort, ran a forked, purple tongue over the yellow teeth. Taslor paled at the horrible effect the motion created.

Bought the whole cannibal story, chancellor? The Ward’Duke asked, laughing so hard, that tears streamed down his face.

Everything! the gnome managed to gasp, equally incapacitated by laughter.

Taslor’s face turned a deep crimson. He glared hotly at the two laughing men, ashamed at being the butt of a joke.

Harper, despite your gullibility and staid ways, you’re alright! the giant boomed, trying to regain his composure.

Taslor bent his head, shamefaced. I thought I was needed here. I can see I was summoned for your personal amusement. He glanced up at the two men. I am sick of being laughed at, feared, and beaten! he barely whispered, as a lonely tear slid down his face. The mischievous twinkle in Haskel’s eyes dimmed to mild concern. He had never expected a street-hardened minstryl to be so emotional. The Ward’Duke and old gnome stared sadly at the young minstryl, their merriment washed away by that solitary tear.

Minstryl Harper, the Ward’Duke said as gently as his baritone voice would allow, forgive the misplaced humor of two miserable men. Taslor looked at the giant in utter amazement. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had apologized to him. Never had such an important man asked his forgiveness.

Harper, the inmates need you, the gnome spoke, almost all gruffness out of his voice. Taslor’s eyes widened. To be called by your given name by a gnome was usually an overture of friendship. If the gnome offered his...

Friendship can be given, respect has to be won! the chancellor stated, looking at the minstryl meaningfully.

Another lesson?

The Ward’Duke suddenly looked old—age acquired from too many burdens and not enough relief. We are overcrowded and surrounded by people who do not care one bit what happens to these inmates.

Taslor’s eyes lit up with sudden recognition. You’re the one responsible for Haskel’s Reform! he exclaimed, finally remembering why the name Haskel was familiar. "One of my first poetic attempts was based on your struggle for the insane....

Armed with desire and justice true

Haskel proposed Reform long overdue...."

I have followed your work for several years, Harper, the gnome said suddenly, much to the embarrassment of the young minstryl.

Before the stunned youth could ask why, the Ward’Duke spoke.

Do not confuse desperation with honorable ambition, he stated roughly. I, too, thought ‘VaArk was an idiot, he said, gesturing towards the tapestry. I was just as blind as the next, until Dor…. He faltered on the name. Taslor looked up into the agonized face of the giant. The auburn man nodded in response to the minstryl’s mute question. Dor’ree is my wife. We were happily expecting our first child when the Unholy took hold of her. The child died instantly; my wife was not as lucky. Over the years, an absurd hope that someday Dor’ree would return to her soulless body prevented me from giving her last rites. I just couldn’t legally murder her while her soulless body still lived! Haskel said, his face lined with grief. When I heard of your special talent, I knew I had to summon you here, to help my wife.... Even a few minutes of relief from her pain would be Valshera-sent. Name a price, minstryl. If it is reasonable enough, I will pay!"

Taslor named a price four times the original one agreed on. He almost immediately felt ashamed, but the growling in his stomach pushed aside any guilt. A couple of weeks of regular meals were not easily found. The smoky green eyes of the giant looked down at the youth.

You raised the price, but your demands still are quite reasonable. It is nice that you can acknowledge your worth. He looked at the chancellor. Show him to his quarters. After he has rested, you can take him to Dor’ree.

My quarters? Taslor asked, confused.

The price you have mentioned will be given to you on a weekly basis, until your services are no longer required, Haskel explained, dismissing him. The giant sat down at the mahogany desk, and immediately started reviewing the large pile of papers on it.

Taslor was so busy congratulating himself on his surprisingly good fortune that he had forgotten to ask the chancellor why the gnome had been following his career so closely. By the time he thought of the question, the gnome had shown him his room, handed him a key, and melted into the damp, dimly lit hallways of the asylum. Maybe he was looking for a way to help the Ward’Duke, he thought as he put the key in the lock. Somehow, that answer failed to satisfy him.

Chapter Two

Look out, Harper! the chancellor screamed as the arm reached for the minstryl, grabbing at his lute. The instrument was flung against the far wall and shattered into a thousand pieces. That could have been my head, Taslor thought grimly as he sifted through the splintered wood.

And would have been if not for my timely arrival, the gnome said as he watched the unhappy youth pick up what was left of his ruined instrument from the stone floor of the corridor.