his face so terrible?
Time passed, mostly in silence. The newcomer had dampened the mood that had prevailed earlier, when there had been singing, joking, and good-natured competition for Alowa’s favors. The stranger ate in silence, hidden in his hood. Alowa, gradually, moved from mystification to hurt. Never had she encountered a man so oblivious to her charms.
Frita decided the time for tales had come. His guests had begun drinking to fill the time. The mood was growing sour. Something was needed to lighten it before drink led to unpleasantness. “Brigetta, get the children.” Nodding, his wife rose from her needlework, stirred the younger children from their evening naps and the older from the kitchen. Frita frowned at the youngsters when they began playing with one of the traveler’s dogs.
“Time for tales,” he announced. There were just seven people at the table, including himself. Two of the others were his wife and Alowa. “A rule of the house. Not required. But he who tells the best pays no keep.” His eyes lingered on the one they called the Watcher, a small, nervous, one-eyed rogue. He had arrived nearly a year ago, in company with a gentleman of means, who had behaved like a fugitive. The gentleman had left the Watcher and had hurried northward as if his doom pursued him. Yet nothing had ever come of it.
Frita didn’t like the Watcher. He was a sour, evil, small-minded little man. His only redeeming feature was a fat purse. Alowa made him pay for what she gave everyone else freely, and hinted that his tastes were cruel.
One guest said, “I’m from Itaskia, where I was once a merchant sailor.” And he told of grim sea battles with corsairs out of the Isles, with no quarter given nor taken. Frita listened with half an ear. The feud of Itaskia’s shipping magnates with the Red Brotherhood was a fixture of modern history.
The second visitor began his tale, “I once joined an expedition to the Black Forest, and there I heard this tale.” And he spun an amusing yarn about a toothless dragon who had terrible problems finding sufficiently delicate meals. The smaller children loved it.
Frita had heard it before. He hated to declare an old story the winner.
But, to his surprise, the Watcher volunteered a tale. He hadn’t bothered for months.
He stood, the better to fix his audience’s attention, and used his hands’ freely while speaking. He had trouble moving his left arm. Frita had seen it bare. He had taken a deep wound in the past.
“Long ago and far away,” the Watcher began, in the storyteller’s fashion, “in a time when elves still walked the earth, there was a great elf-king. Mical-gilad was his name, and his passion, conquest. He was a mighty warrior, undefeated in battle or joust. He and his twelve paladins were champions of the world till the events whereof I speak.”
Frita frowned, leaned back. A story new to him. A pity its teller had little feel for the art.
“One day a knight appeared at the gates of the elf-king’s castle. His shield bore an unknown coat of arms. His horse was twice as big as life and black as coal. The gate guards refused him passage. He laughed at them. The gates collapsed.”
Yes, Frita thought, it would make a tale in the mouth of a competent teller. The Watcher described the elf-king’s encoun-ter with He Who Laughs, after the stranger had slain his twelve champions. He then fought the king himself, who overcame him by trickery, but couldn’t kill him because of the unbreachable spells on his armor.
Frita thought he saw where it was going. He had heard so many tales that even the best had become predictable. It was a moral tale about the futility of trying to evade the inevitable.
The elf-king had his opponent thrown on a dung heap outside his castle, whereupon He Who Laughs promised another, more terrible meeting. And, sure enough, the next time the elf-king went a-conquering, he found the knight in black and gold riding with his enemies.
As
Time passed, mostly in silence. The newcomer had dampened the mood that had prevailed earlier, when there had been singing, joking, and good-natured competition for Alowa’s favors. The stranger ate in silence, hidden in his hood. Alowa, gradually, moved from mystification to hurt. Never had she encountered a man so oblivious to her charms.
Frita decided the time for tales had come. His guests had begun drinking to fill the time. The mood was growing sour. Something was needed to lighten it before drink led to unpleasantness. “Brigetta, get the children.” Nodding, his wife rose from her needlework, stirred the younger children from their evening naps and the older from the kitchen. Frita frowned at the youngsters when they began playing with one of the traveler’s dogs.
“Time for tales,” he announced. There were just seven people at the table, including himself. Two of the others were his wife and Alowa. “A rule of the house. Not required. But he who tells the best pays no keep.” His eyes lingered on the one they called the Watcher, a small, nervous, one-eyed rogue. He had arrived nearly a year ago, in company with a gentleman of means, who had behaved like a fugitive. The gentleman had left the Watcher and had hurried northward as if his doom pursued him. Yet nothing had ever come of it.
Frita didn’t like the Watcher. He was a sour, evil, small-minded little man. His only redeeming feature was a fat purse. Alowa made him pay for what she gave everyone else freely, and hinted that his tastes were cruel.
One guest said, “I’m from Itaskia, where I was once a merchant sailor.” And he told of grim sea battles with corsairs out of the Isles, with no quarter given nor taken. Frita listened with half an ear. The feud of Itaskia’s shipping magnates with the Red Brotherhood was a fixture of modern history.
The second visitor began his tale, “I once joined an expedition to the Black Forest, and there I heard this tale.” And he spun an amusing yarn about a toothless dragon who had terrible problems finding sufficiently delicate meals. The smaller children loved it.
Frita had heard it before. He hated to declare an old story the winner.
But, to his surprise, the Watcher volunteered a tale. He hadn’t bothered for months.
He stood, the better to fix his audience’s attention, and used his hands’ freely while speaking. He had trouble moving his left arm. Frita had seen it bare. He had taken a deep wound in the past.
“Long ago and far away,” the Watcher began, in the storyteller’s fashion, “in a time when elves still walked the earth, there was a great elf-king. Mical-gilad was his name, and his passion, conquest. He was a mighty warrior, undefeated in battle or joust. He and his twelve paladins were champions of the world till the events whereof I speak.”
Frita frowned, leaned back. A story new to him. A pity its teller had little feel for the art.
“One day a knight appeared at the gates of the elf-king’s castle. His shield bore an unknown coat of arms. His horse was twice as big as life and black as coal. The gate guards refused him passage. He laughed at them. The gates collapsed.”
Yes, Frita thought, it would make a tale in the mouth of a competent teller. The Watcher described the elf-king’s encoun-ter with He Who Laughs, after the stranger had slain his twelve champions. He then fought the king himself, who overcame him by trickery, but couldn’t kill him because of the unbreachable spells on his armor.
Frita thought he saw where it was going. He had heard so many tales that even the best had become predictable. It was a moral tale about the futility of trying to evade the inevitable.
The elf-king had his opponent thrown on a dung heap outside his castle, whereupon He Who Laughs promised another, more terrible meeting. And, sure enough, the next time the elf-king went a-conquering, he found the knight in black and gold riding with his enemies.
As
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