he afternoon eased by with the methodical chirps and ticks of crickets and grasshoppers, the constant rumble of the wagon wheels, and an occasional whinny from the horses. The lull, much like the presence of the sun, lingered and entranced most of the travelers in a lazy sort of daydream. The quiet slipped into the evening like a lengthening shadow. Whispers of color in the sky hinted at nightfall and the promise of stars and a watchful moon.
The wagons circled as before, but now there was a grand fire to coax the group together for a warm supper of soup and rolls. Wine was served with the meal, courtesy of a generous noble who shared the same affection for the drink as Arcturus. Thus the encampment abandoned their quiet conversations for stories, jokes, and even a song or two as led by the caravan minstrel.
“Moments like these are when I think most of Markanturos,” Arcturus mused. “Good wine, good company, and...” He looked skeptically at the empty soup bowl beside him. “Well, we cannot expect a lavish feast, I suppose.” He hiccupped and apologized to his neighbors. A sudden idea struck him, and he wagged a finger at Jaharo. “You have your maps?”
“I do,” the cartographer said, regarding him curiously.
“Might I—might we—” Arcturus gestured to Kariayla, “feast our eyes upon your work?”
“I’m afraid the light is failing us, Arcturus,” Jaharo said.
“Never mind that.”
Jaharo shrugged and went to obtain a map from one of the bags on his horse. When he returned, Arcturus murmured a few words, and the tip of his staff began to glow with a soft, white light.
“A remarkable walking aid,” Jaharo said, impressed. He unrolled a map before them, anchoring the corners down with nearby rocks.
“It’s amazing,” Kariayla whispered, seeing all of Northern Secramore illustrated in detail. “One would think our world is much smaller than it is.” Her eyes roved over the names of places she had never seen or heard of before. There were shapes of kingdoms and territories that looked like broken fragments of glass fitted back together to create the great continent. The tallest mountains she had known were just a few peaks among many, their ranges spanning across the land to shape mortal boundaries as well as border vast forests and deserts. Rivers ran across the paper like veins, and the lengthy road known as the Traders’ Ring connected every major territory from east to west. Her eyes drifted and lingered upon the Haloan Mountains at the southern edge of the continent. Without a thought, her finger traced lightly along the territory there: Nemeloreah. Her homeland.
“You are not so far from home, my dear,” Arcturus said. “My travels lead me east, but perhaps you would rather travel south.”
“No,” she said, a little too quickly. Then she added, “There is so much to see. So much I want to see.”
“Indeed,” he agreed. “There are those born with the thirst for the horizon, ever restless, ever wandering. But for all the wonders one might witness, we have but one home, and that is forever etched in our hearts. It is as much a part of us as our hands or our feet, and it does define us no matter how far or how long we stray.”
“What of your home, Arcturus?” she asked. “What is it like in Markanturos? Will you return there?”
He sighed. “Will I return? I cannot say. Memory is an instrument of extremes. Bad experiences grow worse with the passage of time, but so, too, grows the fondness for what we appreciate.” He took a long drink, paused, and drank again. “With all the time that has passed since I left Markanturos, I cannot imagine much has changed in my absence. We are, you see, a long-lived race, resistant and slow to change...perhaps to a fault.”
Arcturus finished his cup and poured another. “But what I remember, for the sake of fondness, are strolls along the walkways. There is not a home without an herb garden, and you can smell them as you pass. The
The wagons circled as before, but now there was a grand fire to coax the group together for a warm supper of soup and rolls. Wine was served with the meal, courtesy of a generous noble who shared the same affection for the drink as Arcturus. Thus the encampment abandoned their quiet conversations for stories, jokes, and even a song or two as led by the caravan minstrel.
“Moments like these are when I think most of Markanturos,” Arcturus mused. “Good wine, good company, and...” He looked skeptically at the empty soup bowl beside him. “Well, we cannot expect a lavish feast, I suppose.” He hiccupped and apologized to his neighbors. A sudden idea struck him, and he wagged a finger at Jaharo. “You have your maps?”
“I do,” the cartographer said, regarding him curiously.
“Might I—might we—” Arcturus gestured to Kariayla, “feast our eyes upon your work?”
“I’m afraid the light is failing us, Arcturus,” Jaharo said.
“Never mind that.”
Jaharo shrugged and went to obtain a map from one of the bags on his horse. When he returned, Arcturus murmured a few words, and the tip of his staff began to glow with a soft, white light.
“A remarkable walking aid,” Jaharo said, impressed. He unrolled a map before them, anchoring the corners down with nearby rocks.
“It’s amazing,” Kariayla whispered, seeing all of Northern Secramore illustrated in detail. “One would think our world is much smaller than it is.” Her eyes roved over the names of places she had never seen or heard of before. There were shapes of kingdoms and territories that looked like broken fragments of glass fitted back together to create the great continent. The tallest mountains she had known were just a few peaks among many, their ranges spanning across the land to shape mortal boundaries as well as border vast forests and deserts. Rivers ran across the paper like veins, and the lengthy road known as the Traders’ Ring connected every major territory from east to west. Her eyes drifted and lingered upon the Haloan Mountains at the southern edge of the continent. Without a thought, her finger traced lightly along the territory there: Nemeloreah. Her homeland.
“You are not so far from home, my dear,” Arcturus said. “My travels lead me east, but perhaps you would rather travel south.”
“No,” she said, a little too quickly. Then she added, “There is so much to see. So much I want to see.”
“Indeed,” he agreed. “There are those born with the thirst for the horizon, ever restless, ever wandering. But for all the wonders one might witness, we have but one home, and that is forever etched in our hearts. It is as much a part of us as our hands or our feet, and it does define us no matter how far or how long we stray.”
“What of your home, Arcturus?” she asked. “What is it like in Markanturos? Will you return there?”
He sighed. “Will I return? I cannot say. Memory is an instrument of extremes. Bad experiences grow worse with the passage of time, but so, too, grows the fondness for what we appreciate.” He took a long drink, paused, and drank again. “With all the time that has passed since I left Markanturos, I cannot imagine much has changed in my absence. We are, you see, a long-lived race, resistant and slow to change...perhaps to a fault.”
Arcturus finished his cup and poured another. “But what I remember, for the sake of fondness, are strolls along the walkways. There is not a home without an herb garden, and you can smell them as you pass. The
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