About the Bard

In which the Bard Elisä Voltania introduces herself and explains why she has written this description of the Peoples and Lands of Dômus Môdé.

I am the Bard Elisä Voltania. I am not native to this world having come through the Crystal Cave.

My father was the brother of the king of Voltania. Don’t bother trying to find Voltania on your maps; it’s not in this world. My mother was from—well, no one knows where my mother was from. She came from somewhere else different than the somewhere else I came from—seems to run in our family. Most people misplace little things, like a pouch, a sash, a horse, a relative…the women in my family misplace countries and worlds.

How my father and mother met is told in a wonderful, romantic story sung by the bards of Voltania: My father, the prince, was mortally wounded fighting the enemies of Voltania. My mother was the healer that nursed him back from the edge of death. They fell madly in love and were married with the blessings of the king who was ever so grateful to her for saving his beloved brother, the prince.

According to mother it happened just a little different.

She was in the woods, gathering herbs, for healing and cooking, when the prince came riding through, hunting. While ogling her, rather than watching where he was riding, he got swept off his horse by a low branch and broke his ankle and wrist. She called him “a clumsy oaf who couldn’t ride a horse properly” and tried to treat his injuries. He called her “a vision of loveliness” and tied to make amorous advances. She applied a little pressure to his broken wrist where she thought it might provide the most medicinal benefit and while she had his attention offered to treat his concussion as well. He looked at the large rock in her hand and asked, politely, that he not be treated for a concussion.

From this auspicious beginning they managed to develop a relationship based on mutual respect and understanding. It was passionate, and often loud, but they loved each other deeply—that much the bards got right.

The king was against their marriage at the beginning. He considered it to be an unequal marriage as my father was a Prince of Voltania and my mother was from—nowhere. She brought no additional alliances or power to the kingdom. However, her manners were genteel, her kindness and wit won over the court and her healing skills were uncanny and very welcome. In less than a year the king still thought it was an unequal marriage as he couldn't see what she saw in his brother the prince.

I was born the first cousin of Tannis Arissa Jane Voltania, the Heir to the Throne of Voltania; we shared the same birthday. We grew up together. I was even Tannis's heir for a whole two years until her sister, Alison, was born. As a potential queen, I received the same training they did. However, I was more interested in music, and legends, and romance, and fairy tales, and—anything but actually learning how to be a monarch.

My cousin and I were very close, and I had no wish to even think of harm coming to her. Studying to be the queen seemed to me to be wishing my cousins dead, and I rebelled just a bit—a lot actually, but I'm telling the story and I can say with a straight face that I never exceeded what is proper for a genteel young lady—with a couple of drinks and a good audience I can even sound sincere. My cousin understood, but children don't get to tell the adults what to do, even if the children in question are supposed to become the rulers of their land. I was doomed to be a spare part that would only be used if I lost the ones I loved, or a pawn to be traded to another kingdom for political gain. Not a pleasant situation for a person with imagination.

My father, who would have taken the throne before me, died when I was very young. I never knew him. I knew my Uncle Alfred, the King, right well though. We were a loving family—despite the heir thing—and despite the trying to make me fit into their beliefs of what a proper princess should be. They wouldn't let me study much music for the first few years of my life—at least not officially. My mother taught me when we were alone. She was always singing or humming.

When I was in my ninth year, there came a plague. It wasn't much of a plague. Most of us got a headache and a runny nose, perhaps a mild fever, and one in twenty died. My mother was not one of the nineteen who survived, so to me, it really didn't matter if it was officially a plague or not.

The king assured me that I was a real part of his family. My cousin and I were already so close that the court called us the cousin twins, even though she's tall, willowy, graceful, blond, and beautiful and I'm short, tiny, with light brown hair and…cute. Being tall and graceful gives a certain grandeur to one's words and ideas. Being diminutive and…cute…gets one a nice pat on the head, and when one grows up and develops curves, gets one not so nice pats other places—did I tell you I've gotten pretty good with my knee and with a knife? Anyway, this not about how I became good with knife and knee, but how I was able to become a bard.

My mother had always sung us a lullaby before we had to go to sleep so that we'd be able to have sweet dreams. And I'd heard of a thing called a dirge. So while they prepared for her funeral, I composed my own dirge for my mother, so she could go to her long sleep with sweet dreams.

Only I was told that it wouldn't be proper for me to sing, being a princess and all. Bah! We were supposed to stand and look properly dignified. Double bah! To say good-bye to my mother who laughed by looking dignified! Really! Now that I'm older, I understand that funerals are for the living, but ancient and wise age of eight I thought it was for the “dear departed.” Silly me.

I had a plan. I've always got a plan…most of them work…some are even good ideas. I waited until were gathered at her wake and all standing around looking “properly dignified.” Then I took my little bundle of flowers, as if to lay them next to my mother's casket, and while everyone else stood back and was being respectful and “properly dignified”, I climbed up onto her casket and sang my dirge.

I got lost in the song.

When I finished, the king was standing next to the casket, only he wasn't being the king, he was being my Uncle Alfred. It was frightfully quiet, which scared me. He reached up for me and I fell into his arms and cried, which wasn't properly dignified, and he didn't even tell me to stop.

From that day on, I was trained by the best singers and musicians my uncle could find. But that didn't stop the princess lessons.

There was a battle with our neighbors to the south. A simple misunderstanding: they misunderstood that we didn't want to be a vassal state, and we didn't understand why they thought they should collect our taxes and tell us how to live. This was a periodic misunderstanding. You'd think that the Torvalians would figure out that Voltania didn't ever want to be a part of Torval, but they never have. We have a saying, “As thick as a Torvalian.” Perhaps they think we should figure out that Voltania should just give up and be a part or Torval, but we keep winning. They have a saying, “As obstinate as a Voltanian.” Actually, we're kind of proud of their saying. They aren't proud of our saying, but what can you expect…they're Torvalian.

Anyway, many died in the battle, and a nearby village was destroyed and most of the adults were killed. The King said that the kingdom owed it the orphaned children to adopt them and demonstrated his convictions by adopting the child of one of the yeoman archers: Reginald. We girls didn't mind…he was handsome…and he had a melancholy air about him. And he was a hero…something about holding off the enemy and protecting the younger children. We were 10. He was 16. It was so romantic. We followed him around and giggled and he didn't kill us.

When I turned 12, I composed a sticky sweet ballad about how cute he was and sang it from the balcony above the court and he didn't kill me.

He was knighted that same year when he turned 18, and we decorated his horse with flowers and ribbons, pink ribbons, so it would be pretty for the ceremony. He didn't kill us then either.

When we were 13, he was 19 and leading a company. The young ladies of court simpered and swooned around him so we put frogs in their beds and mice in their slippers and made sure he never got time to be alone with any of them and he didn't kill us.

When we were 14, he was 20 and responsible for a shire. My cousin and I got into a fight over him. Reginald separated us and dunked us into a horse trough. My Uncle the King can be very decisive when he wants. Seeing us in trouble he dynamically ambled over to Sir Reginald and in the terrible voice of a true king, politely asked if Reginald would be finished with the trough soon, as some of the horses might need to be watered. We begged our king, in those brief moments when we were let up for air, to save us. Uncle Alfred explained with all the skill of a ruler of a great nation that…glub-glub…he would never…glub-glub…interfere…glub-glub…with such a…glub-glub…skilled leader…glub-glub…as it would…glub-glub…possibly…glub-glub…demonstrate…glub-glub…a lack…glub-glub…of confidence…glub-glub…that would be…glub-glub…bad for…glub-glub…morale. When we were 14 we decided that Sir Reginald made a much better—and safer—brother than a figure of romantic interest.

When we were 15, we learned how to be ladies: how to be gracious and how to influence people with courtesy and kindness and not to put lizards in the wardrobes of other ladies of the court—“SHRIEK!” And not to put snakes in the wardrobes of the other ladies of the court—“SHRIEK!” Nor bats—“SHRIEK!” Ferrets—“SHRIEK!” Beetles—“GAAGH!” Skunks—“Oh MY GAWD!”, or any other living—“SHRIEK!”, or dead—“SHRIEK!” things in the wardrobes of other ladies of the court. I also learned how to hold my breath for long periods of time and how to swim.

When my cousin and I turned 16, and Reginald was 22, he was assigned as the commander of the Southern March. I was allowed to travel with Reginald while he patrolled and organized the area in preparation for the next misunderstanding with Torval. I was to provide music. I was to learn how the people away from court lived. I was to learn how to observe the workings of the kingdom. I was to learn what it was like away from the comforts of civilized living. I was to learn the discipline of military life. The fact that this separated my cousin and me, so that we wouldn't influence each other was purely coincidental. I think they wanted me to learn that being a princess was much more comfortable than traveling as a bard, but except for the part about being away from my cousin, I loved it!

When we were almost 18, the Torvalians decided to lose another war. They attacked through all the passes at once and found that splitting up their forces to attack strong points was a bad idea. They broke through only in one place and poured a large army through. We met them on the Fields of Carlin-Tor and defeated them. It would have gone much better for us, except that Uncle Alfred was mortally wounded. Sir Reginald rallied our forces and won the battle.

My Uncle was dying. My cousin's father was dying. The weapon used prevented normal healing magic. It's one of the reasons we don't like the people of Torval, they like weapons like that. As I held his hand to hear his last words to take to his daughter and heir, I felt his wound as if it were mine…so I stopped listening and pulled his wound into me. And it worked…sort of…mostly…only he was a 250-pound healthy warrior, all muscle and no fat; and I was 100 pound, when wearing armor, tiny bard, untrained at the art of shared healing. Such a small body can't share the wounds of such a large and vigorous warrior without some problems. I was lucky to live.

I recovered 2 months later, to hear that I'd given the king over a month of additional time: time to crown his daughter on her 18th birthday, time to create Sir Reginald Baron Nightwing and designate him as Captain General of the South March, and time to die quietly in his own bed, having heard that I was recovering. Time enough to write me a note telling me how proud he was of the woman I'd become.

Have I mentioned that I don't like the people of Torval? Have you noticed that I tend to understate certain things—such as how I really don't like the people of Torval? Anyway, I thought I'd mention how much I really, really, dislike the Torvalians for those of you who can appreciate the perversity of the universe. You see, we took some prisoners.

I don't know how your country treats prisoners of war, but we do hideous things like, heal their wounds, feed them, let them—in some cases make them—take baths, give them clean clothes, cots, tents—we also guard them and don't let them go home until their homeland admits that it was a bad idea to visit our fair country with out making proper travel arrangements. Sometimes this takes years. Sometimes, some of the prisoners decide that they liked being prisoners in Voltania better than they like being free back in their homeland. We got a significant amount of new population that way.

One of the prisoners was a prince. A prince like I'm a princess—close enough to the throne to be forced to take princess lessons, but far enough from the throne to be expendable. Only he got to take prince lessons, which are a whole lot more fun.

When I recovered, I was one of the translators privileged to communicate with the prisoners. I know it was a privilege because they told me so—repeatedly. I speak seven languages, princess lessons—“You have to be able to speak the languages of the peoples around you—yada, yada, yada.” You get the idea. Only I like learning languages; I have a talent for learning languages. And traveling bards like to know languages as it helps with such things as ordering ale and finding the outhouse and such.

Anyway, it had been a couple of months, and the prisoners were mostly settled in while we waited for Torval to get around to deciding that they wanted them back more than they wanted to invade. We had the prisoners make wooden buildings inside their stockade because we knew it would take a while for the Torvalians to realize they'd lost again and we didn't want our prisoners to freeze during the winter.

To be “polite” to our “guest” the prince and respectful of his rank, it was decided I should take over the task of talking to him. I am a princess, after all. Of course, Torvalians have no use for females, except as breeders, so being interviewed by a woman, even if she is a princess, irritated him no end.

I enjoyed myself immensely.

He was concerned about the fact that we hadn't started torturing him to learn his military secrets. Torvalians! Why would we want any of their military secrets? They lose! I explained this to him and he didn't seem to like it much.

I tried to explain that we didn't do the torture thing, but he just thought that it was part of a ploy to extract his military secrets. He seemed to be fixated on that whole torture thing. I offered to arrange for his torture should he try to share his military secrets, as we didn't want our officers taught how to lose. He didn't like that idea either.

Then he remembered that he was only talking to a mere female who couldn't be expected to grasp the importance of his military secrets. He patted me on the head and said I should go back to my needlepoint or whatever “cute” little girls did in Voltania; so I showed him what this “cute” little girl had learned to do with her knee and he graciously bowed down and showed me what he had for lunch—all over my boots.

And then the prince saw the Queen.

And then the Queen saw the prince.

And it was sighing. And it was simpering. And, oh the suffering:
“You killed my father.”
“You're our hereditary enemies.”
“You'll never understand our ways.”
Simper! Sigh!

GAHHH!

It was every bard's dream: star crossed lovers from rival kingdoms; young lovers with the world against them. I loved tales like this—when…I…was…TWELVE! And of course she had to confide in me, her “dear” cousin, her “sympathetic” cousin, her “life long friend closer than a sister” cousin. Between the simpering, and posturing, the sighs and the suffering, I almost went to Prince Rupert—Yeah…Rupert—and showed him my lunch. And he only had one pair of boots.

Only the world wasn't against them. We understand dynastic marriages, and this one had some good points like, possibly, a few extra years of peace and a Prince Consort who was thick enough that he probably wouldn't be able to interfere with the way we do things in Voltania. Besides, they actually liked each other. Torval, of course didn't really care; I'm not sure they'd even noticed he was gone. Our laws would prevent him from ruling, he'd be Prince Consort and not King.

This went on for a year, we all got used to the simpering and sighing, the moon faced looks, the angst filled meetings and tender partings. I became much closer to the queen's sister during this time. We shared a common opinion of His Thickness, Prince Rupert of Torval. An opinion we never shared with the Queen—it would have hurt her feelings—or shared with any other member of the court—the royal family should never appear divided—very bad for the family business.

Then, just after we turned 19, Torval decided that they wanted him back. Seems they used up their other heirs and rulers in a civil war. Nice of them. Saved us the effort.

Then they discovered the potential for a dynastic alliance. A bard could weep. No heroic stands, no heroic speeches. Nope. Just tiny-minded bureaucrats sitting around a table arguing whether olives or pickles would be served at the wedding feast—they grow olives.

So now my cousin rules 2 kingdoms, but Rupert rules only one. In our country he is the Prince Consort and she's the Queen and, in their country, she's actually The Queen, even though she's only a woman. Maybe their diplomats should have concentrated more on the political details and less on the olives.

By the way, they served both olives and pickles at the wedding, which took almost a week to decide. Torvalians!

However, my cousin was happy. And I have to admit, once he got the hang of it, Prince Rupert, the King of the other place, became a pretty good king and prince. They were married before she turned 20.

When we were 21, I became 4th in line for the throne. Beautiful twins, his eyes, her brains [Thank the Powers, fasting!].

I still don't like Torvalians, but Rupert's all right, in a thick sort of way.

Alison, the Queen's sister was married that year, a straightforward love match. Which would have been all right, but then my cousins started looking at me as if I needed to get married.

When I was 22, I became 5th in line for the throne: Alison's girl is sweet little thing.

I had spent most my time away from court: partly as an ambassador and mostly to avoid my cousins' match making. The Torvalians don't improve in close proximity, though they do like music, even if sung by a female. However, they seem to think that a single female that travels and performs, even of royal birth, even if escorted by Sir Reginald and several knights, a couple of mages, two elves and a dwarven smith, is a person of questionable morality. Unfortunately, I could not demonstrate how I'd greeted their prince the first time, being an ambassador and all—besides, there were too many of them. Further, Sir Reginald decided that as long as the Torvalians didn't do anything but make crude references about unattached females, that the “kingdom” could stand the insult. I think he still remembered that ballad.

When I was 23, there was a rebellion by the more conservative elements of Torval. Yes, it did take them four years to figure out that someone else was in charge. This time they did a little better with their plans. They ambushed Sir Reginald and I and chased us into the hills where they hunted us for a couple of days until the few of us that survived took refuge in the cave that seemed to have crystal walls that sparkled as if some god had captured a rainbow and turned it inside out to make a cave. Upon leaving the Crystal Cave we found ourselves in Dômus Môdé. Seems the Crystal Cave is famous—notorious—for bring people into Dômus Môdé.

Sir Reginald has been adopted by Vargans and my other companions have scattered to the Seven Winds. I fell in with a disreputable bunch of adventurers that consisted of a couple of Svartelves; a dwarf that works with water; an ex-queen who is now a champion of fire and whose magical horse, Inferno, is, I suspect, smarter than she is; a champion of cold with an equally cold horse; an elder air mage, who links to earth and talks with elementals, a couple of mages with more power than any one mage should have—one of them has been known to heal cities—and a bard who is really a prince—no relation—just coincidence. Oh, yes, and Rose, a priestess of sorts who seems to think that I'm supposed to be her successor.

I can never return to the Voltania I knew, so I travel these new lands, singing and doing magic. Yeah, I do magic now—isn't that amazing.

The magic thing is Rose's fault. Rose is really Lady Rose of the Old Families—no relation to The Lady of The Rose. She has adopted me—or I her. She needed an heir of the proper bloodline and spiritual attitude to take her place as the Lady Trigairen, the Wanderer of the Old Families. I'm not of her bloodline, not from this world and we will not discuss my attitude, thank you very much, but she decided that I'd do. She says it's because I'm pure of heart—hah!—have an overwhelming sense of duty—bah!—and a fanatic desire to help people—ah, no. Other than this small error in judgment on her part, she's actually pretty good at reading people. Really!

In my travels, I have covered much of Dômus Môdé and I will here share with you my notes of its various peoples and some of its lands.