appeared, a small man with white hair sticking out at all angles. Age seemed to have collapsed his face, so wrinkled it was. His eyes shone, though, a pale blue, like lapis bezeled in leather.
“My name is Leovigild Ackenzal,” Leoff replied. “Artwair said to kindly ask if I might rest here a bell or so.”
“Artwair, eh?” The old man scratched his chin. “Auy. Wilquamen. I haet Gilmer Oercsun. Be at my home.” He gestured a bit impatiently.
“That’s very kind,” Leoff replied.
Inside, the lowest floor of the malend tower was a single cozy room. A hearth was set into one wall, where a cookfire crackled. An iron pot hung over the flame, as well as a spit that had two large perch skewered on it. A small bed was butted up against the opposite wall, and two three-legged stools sat nearer the fire. From the roof beams hung nets of onions, a few bunches of herbs, a wicker basket, swingle-blades, hoes, and hatchets. A ladder led to the next floor.
In the center of the room, a large wooden shaft lifted in and out of a stone-lined hole in the floor, presumably driven somehow by the windwheel above.
“Unburden ‘zuer poor mule,” the windsmith said. “Haveth-yus huher?”
“I beg your pardon?” Artwair’s dialect had been strange. The windsmith’s was nearly unintelligible.
“Yu’s an faerganger, eh?” His speech slowed a bit. “Funny accent you have. I’ll try to keep with the king’s tongue. So. Have you eaten? You have hungry?”
“I don’t want to inconvenience you,” Leoff said. “My friend ought to be back soon.”
“That means you’ve hungry,” the old man said.
Leoff went back out and took his things off the mule, then let her roam on the top of the dike. He knew from experience that she wouldn’t go far.
When he reentered the malend, he found one of the fish awaiting him on a wooden plate, along with a chunk of black bread and some boiled barley. The windsmith was already sitting on one of the stools, his plate on his knees.
“I don’t have a board just now,” he apologized. “I had to burn it. Wood from upriver has been a little spotty, these last few ninedays.”
“Again, thank you for your kindness,” Leoff said, picking at the crisp skin of the fish.
“Nay, think nothing of it. But where is Artwair gang, that you can’t go?”
“He’s afraid something’s wrong in Broogh.”
“Hm. Has been quiet there this even’, that’s sure. Was wonderin’ about it minself.” He frowned. “Like as so, don’t think I even heard the vespers bell.”
If that brought Gilmer any further thoughts, he didn’t share them, but tucked into his meal. Leoff followed suit.
When the meal was done, Gilmer tossed the bones in the fire. “Where’ve you come from, then?” he asked Leoff.
“Glastir, on the coast,” he replied.
“That’s far, auy? Mikle far. And how do you know Artwair?”
“I met him on the road. He’s escorting me to Eslen.”
“Oh, gang to the court? Dark times, there, since the night of the purple moon. Dark times everywhere.”
“I saw that moon,” Leoff said. “Very strange. It reminded me of a song.”
“An unhealthy song, I’ll wager.”
“An old one, and puzzling.”
“Sing a bit of it?”
“Ah, well . . .” Leoff cleared his throat.
Riciar over fields did ride
Beneath the mountains of the west
And there the palest queen he spied
In lilies fair taking her rest
Her arms shone like the fullest moon
Her eyes glimed like the dew
On her gown rang silver bells
Her hair with precious diamonds strewn
All hail to thee, oh my great queen
All hail to thee he cried
For thou must be the greatest saint
That ere a man has spied
Said she truly I am no saint
I am no goddess bright
But it’s the queen of Alvish lands
You’ve come upon tonight
Oh Riciar welcome to my fields
Beneath the mountains of the west
Come and take with me repose
Of mortal knights I love thee best
And I will show thee wonders three
And what the future
“My name is Leovigild Ackenzal,” Leoff replied. “Artwair said to kindly ask if I might rest here a bell or so.”
“Artwair, eh?” The old man scratched his chin. “Auy. Wilquamen. I haet Gilmer Oercsun. Be at my home.” He gestured a bit impatiently.
“That’s very kind,” Leoff replied.
Inside, the lowest floor of the malend tower was a single cozy room. A hearth was set into one wall, where a cookfire crackled. An iron pot hung over the flame, as well as a spit that had two large perch skewered on it. A small bed was butted up against the opposite wall, and two three-legged stools sat nearer the fire. From the roof beams hung nets of onions, a few bunches of herbs, a wicker basket, swingle-blades, hoes, and hatchets. A ladder led to the next floor.
In the center of the room, a large wooden shaft lifted in and out of a stone-lined hole in the floor, presumably driven somehow by the windwheel above.
“Unburden ‘zuer poor mule,” the windsmith said. “Haveth-yus huher?”
“I beg your pardon?” Artwair’s dialect had been strange. The windsmith’s was nearly unintelligible.
“Yu’s an faerganger, eh?” His speech slowed a bit. “Funny accent you have. I’ll try to keep with the king’s tongue. So. Have you eaten? You have hungry?”
“I don’t want to inconvenience you,” Leoff said. “My friend ought to be back soon.”
“That means you’ve hungry,” the old man said.
Leoff went back out and took his things off the mule, then let her roam on the top of the dike. He knew from experience that she wouldn’t go far.
When he reentered the malend, he found one of the fish awaiting him on a wooden plate, along with a chunk of black bread and some boiled barley. The windsmith was already sitting on one of the stools, his plate on his knees.
“I don’t have a board just now,” he apologized. “I had to burn it. Wood from upriver has been a little spotty, these last few ninedays.”
“Again, thank you for your kindness,” Leoff said, picking at the crisp skin of the fish.
“Nay, think nothing of it. But where is Artwair gang, that you can’t go?”
“He’s afraid something’s wrong in Broogh.”
“Hm. Has been quiet there this even’, that’s sure. Was wonderin’ about it minself.” He frowned. “Like as so, don’t think I even heard the vespers bell.”
If that brought Gilmer any further thoughts, he didn’t share them, but tucked into his meal. Leoff followed suit.
When the meal was done, Gilmer tossed the bones in the fire. “Where’ve you come from, then?” he asked Leoff.
“Glastir, on the coast,” he replied.
“That’s far, auy? Mikle far. And how do you know Artwair?”
“I met him on the road. He’s escorting me to Eslen.”
“Oh, gang to the court? Dark times, there, since the night of the purple moon. Dark times everywhere.”
“I saw that moon,” Leoff said. “Very strange. It reminded me of a song.”
“An unhealthy song, I’ll wager.”
“An old one, and puzzling.”
“Sing a bit of it?”
“Ah, well . . .” Leoff cleared his throat.
Riciar over fields did ride
Beneath the mountains of the west
And there the palest queen he spied
In lilies fair taking her rest
Her arms shone like the fullest moon
Her eyes glimed like the dew
On her gown rang silver bells
Her hair with precious diamonds strewn
All hail to thee, oh my great queen
All hail to thee he cried
For thou must be the greatest saint
That ere a man has spied
Said she truly I am no saint
I am no goddess bright
But it’s the queen of Alvish lands
You’ve come upon tonight
Oh Riciar welcome to my fields
Beneath the mountains of the west
Come and take with me repose
Of mortal knights I love thee best
And I will show thee wonders three
And what the future
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