“Of course,” he said, regretting that he could not hold her longer. “You were saying…?”
“Your friend was watering his horses. I told him where he was and he looked a bit happier then. I asked him if he had pans for sale, but he laughed and said he couldn’t help me. He needed his things in Weyurn, in…” She thought hard. “I think he called it… Mafidina?”
“Mifurdania,” Rodario corrected her. “We used to have a theater there.” At last he had got a hint, a clue, as to the whereabouts of his missing friend; the next stage of the Curiosum tour was now determined. He had a further question: “Did he say at all what he was going to be doing?”
“Trading,” she answered. “Then to travel on.” She suppressed a yawn but Rodario noticed. “Why did you split up if you were such friends?”
“Oh, sleep has you in its arms now, Tassia. I’ll explain it all to you soon enough.” He took her bag. “Here, I’ll carry that.”
A sudden gust of wind made the caravan shake. Rain rattled down. They would both of them be soaked through as soon as they put a foot outside.
Rodario looked at Tassia. “Right, you can sleep here. Let us share a broken bed,” he offered and she smiled in acceptance. They both slipped under the sheets and listened in the dark to the sounds of nature. After a while Rodario felt a hand on his chest.
“When I called you witty, good-looking and desirable before, only one of those was a lie,” she whispered and he heard her take off her dress.
“Be careful what you say next.” He gave a quiet laugh. So his charm still worked. Even in the dark and without the use of words. She kissed his cheek. He got the feeling that Tassia was not entirely inexperienced.
“You are not the best-looking man I’ve ever seen,” she said, snuggling close; he felt her warm skin and smelled the fragrance of her hair. “But the other two things are true.”
“Then you could add the one with the greatest stamina,” he laughed, kissing her on the mouth. Yet again a woman had chosen him to provide happiness. He was glad to be of service.
Girdlegard,
Kingdom of Tabain,
Two Miles South of the Capital Goldensheaf,
Spring, 6241st Solar Cycle
I f the kingdom of Tabain had two defining features they were the almost infinite stretch of its sunshine-yellow rolling cornfields, and its squat low-lying houses built of blocks of stone as long as a man is tall, as high as a child may grow, as wide as an arm is long.
“It’s like a sheet of gold-leaf a clumsy worker has torn holes in,” was Prince Mallen of Idoslane’s judgment as he surveyed the golden landscape. It lay as flat as a board at his horse’s feet. There were a few hillocks, perhaps ten or twenty paces high, which, from wishful thinking and ignorance, the Tabainer populace of the center and the south had designated mountains. None of them had ever seen the ranges proper, let alone another kingdom.
“It’s perfect territory for our heavy cavalry to storm. We’d thunder through and conquer it all in a whirlwind attack,” enthused Alvaro, companion to Mallen and commander of his bodyguard. He caught the disapproving look. “Of course, I don’t mean that seriously, my prince,” he added quickly, clearing his throat in embarrassment.
“Do you not see how they build their houses and their keeps, Alvaro?” Prince Mallen pointed to their destination, the city of Goldensheaf with its royal fortress, over to their left. The segments of his costly armor clanked as he moved. “How would we take that? There’s not a single tree in sight to make a siege ladder, no rocks for our catapults. And, of course, no wood to make the catapults from in the first place.” He patted the neck of his stallion reassuringly. “And I don’t mean that seriously, either, of course.” He grinned and clapped Alvaro on the shoulder. “King Nate is welcome to his smooth little country.” He set his horse in motion again and the troop moved off. They would soon be in Goldensheaf itself, visiting in response to an invitation from the sovereign.
Alvaro still felt uneasy about what he had said. “Your Highness, forgive me my words, if you will.” He rode at Mallen’s side and searched for the right thing to say. “I was brought up to measure myself against orcs and other beasts and always to defend my beloved Idoslane against invading hordes, but now…” As he shrugged his shoulders in excuse, his harness clinked. “… now men like me have nothing to do. Idleness puts warlike schemes into our heads, my prince.”
Mallen unfastened the old-fashioned helmet from his belt and set it on his blond head, securing it with the leather chin strap. “I know. There are many warriors who are kicking their heels.”
“Palandiell knows the truth of that!” snorted Alvaro, relieved to hear he was understood. “The odd robber and band of highwaymen really don’t present the same challenge. I have fought against Nod’onn, against the avatars, against marauding orcs.” He hit himself on his armored breastplate. “My sword is rusting in its sheath; I put on my leather doublet and my arms hardly know what movements to make.” He sighed. “It is good that Girdlegard and in particular that Idoslane no longer need fighting men. But it is hard for the likes of us.”
“But instead of fighting battles you can travel with me and see new things,” smiled Mallen. He was enjoying the sunshine and soaking up the fragrance of the ripening sun-drenched ears of corn. He looked up at the sky and saw two raptors were circling above the crops, searching the ground for prey. “You would never have been able to do that before. All thanks to those orcs you seem to be missing now.”
“You are right, Your Highness. I am being selfish and unjust.”
The route taken by the troop of forty horsemen and four wagons led to a generously broad road through the fields directly to the heart of Goldensheaf. The town was tucked down into the earth and even the fortifications looked as if they had purposely been made less high than one might expect.
The men admired the fields, heavy with ripening crops. This was the first winter barley, promising a rich harvest. Then the summer crop would be sown; it would fill Tabain’s barns and storehouses up to the rafters and help to feed the neighboring kingdoms as well. That is, if they were spared the destructive storms notorious in these flat plains.
“It must be the way of the landscape itself that tremendous storms are such a feature. Not even in the mountains of the dwarves or in the kingdom of Urgon do they suffer the whirlwinds they get here, when everything is dragged up from the ground,” mused Alvaro, watching the crops wave in the strong breeze.
“That’s why their houses are made solid as fortresses,” said Mallen. “Any normal house would get blown away at once. And the corpse of any man caught in a tornado like that might never be found.”
Alvaro looked up at the clear blue sky. “Let’s hope we’re spared that spectacle.”
They rode on, entering the city. Goldensheaf opened its gates in welcome. Hundreds of citizens lined the streets of the capital and waved flags and scarves; others strewed flower petals from windows and rooftops in honor of the guests. Strains of joyful, if unfamiliar, music interwove with the shouts and cheers of the townspeople.
Mallen noticed that none of the houses was taller than the occasional two-storey building. To lighten the overall impression of grayness, some of the stone blocks had been painted. Other people had taken the easier path and decorated their houses with colorful banners in various widths.
“It’s good to feel so welcome,” remarked Alvaro, thoroughly enjoying being the center of attention.
A delegation of youths and maidens in dazzling white robes and carrying sheaves and garlands drew near to serve the officers with refreshments: wine and slices of different types of fruit.