A Child of Great Promise: An Altearth Tale

by Ellis L. Knox

  “That I do,” Gonsallo said. For the first time, Talysse heard a strength in his words. She was fascinated to see Detta draw him out.

  “I want to be a great trovador, to write songs that are sung in the halls of the mighty, long after I am gone.”

  “Oh. You are like Lyssie. You long to fly high.”

  He nodded and chuckled. “I do indeed, though I fear it will never happen.”

  “Why not?” Detta reached across to pat Gonsallo on the hand. He startled at the touch, but did not pull away.

  “When I left home,” he said, “I found a patron, a Navarrese nobleman—”

  “Lyssie has a patron,” Detta interrupted. “He is nice.”

  Talysse kept silent at this. She was not at all sure Remigius was nice. She was not sure of very much, these days.

  “This is different. Or, well, I suppose somewhat similar. He was nice as well, and for many months I was content. It was not exactly the halls of the mighty, but I wasn’t exactly writing epics, either. Mostly romances, I confess.”

  “Love stories. I like a good story about love.”

  Gonsallo went on. “When I was not singing for the lord and his men in the great hall, or for his wife and her ladies in the garden, I roamed the countryside, through green valleys and stone villages, listening to the songs and stories of peasants, for I had an idea I might find my epic among the common folk. Their struggles are as worthy as those of viscounts, are they not?”

  Detta nodded.

  “Of course they are,” he agreed with himself. “It did not happen,” he said, after a pause. “A pestilence struck the land, which had already suffered from famine. The lord was kind, but he could no longer support me. Care of his own people came first. It was a right and proper decision. I respected it, but I also had to leave and I had nowhere to go.”

  Gonsallo turned to peer out the window. “We draw near to the village of the fisher elves, I think.”

  “Oh, please don’t stop,” Detta said. “What happened after you left?”

  “Little that was good.”

  “You poor lad.”

  “Poor I was. I passed from one misfortune to another. More than once I slept outside, and dined on air. I managed to find small jobs performing at festivals, but how is one to know when the next one is, and where? It was all rumor and chance.

  “In desperation, I wrote to the senyor in Navarre, begging for any small gift. It was a shameful thing to do.” His voice thickened.

  “There is no shame in need,” Detta said earnestly. “We all need a little help from time to time.”

  “It felt shameful, and still does. But from that moment my fortunes improved. I was at the Twin Marais, to work the festival there, and caught the eye—the ear, rather—of Brasc, the wagonmaster. He took me in as his guest. He did not pay me, but he fed me, which was a kingly gift at the time.

  “I traveled with the karwan to Arles. There, just before we left, I received a letter—not from the senyor, but from his widow. I had left, but the hard times had stayed. The senyor went away to the troll wars in the south, and there died in battle. The senyora told me the estate had recovered somewhat, her two boys would grow to manhood, and I was not to worry. Imagine such pity!

  “A second letter came with the first, this one a letter of introduction from the senyora to the Count of Foix himself. She has family at Orthez. The relationship is distant, but she begged him at least to give me an audience.

  “So there you are, little one—if not a happy ending, at least a hopeful middle.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” Detta said. “Now all you need is your epic.”

  “Indeed,” Gonsallo said, “but enough of all that, for unless I miss my guess, we have arrived in Agde, and now you will see fisher elves.”

  In the shadows, Detta clapped her small hands in delight.

  The wagon stopped amid a clatter of voices. Talysse climbed out of the wagon, and she had hardly put foot to ground before Neus appeared, followed by Jehan.

  “We are among friends here,” the young elf said, “but I would caution the mademoiselle.”

  “Caution?”

  “Not every wagon agrees with Brasc’s decision to take you in.”

  “I know,” Talysse said.

  “Some have,” Neus hastened to add. “Most have, I should say. But as you move around our camp—we make our camp outside the village—you may encounter black looks. Some may cast their third eye upon you.”

  At this, Detta touched the back of her hand to her forehead, the gnome sign to ward off an evil eye.

  “Do not be afraid. It would be best for you to pay no attention at all. Walk on. The fisher elves—you will know them by their dress and speech—have no such prejudice. I invite you to come see how we trade with the Settled. Oh—that is the polite, proper name for those who live outside the wagons.”

  “I’ve heard the other,” Talysse said. “Gadj.”

  Neus winced. “That is not a nice word,” he said. “‘Settled’ is proper.”

  Talysse and her companions waited for Neus to secure the wagon in its place for the night and tend to the horses, then the five of them turned to the village of fisher elves. A few minutes’ walk took them into the center.

  The elf village arced around a little bay, each building standing on heavy stilts. The tide was out, and slim blue boats lay like stranded fish across the mud flats. Nets were strung up on poles, drying in the high sun. An old man, his hair gray and thin, worked at repairing one of the nets. He was either whistling or else singing in a high, thin voice.

  The houses were all the same—wood planks arranged vertically like posts, worn to an uneven gray by wind and crusted white by sea salt, with heavy, thatched roofs. The smell of fish was inescapable.

  She supposed most days the villagers would be about their business, but today the karwan had captured all their attention. A circle of people formed between the village and the wagoneer camp, a hundred or so in all, counting the women and the handful of children who played almost silently.

  Neus was right; it was easy to tell the fisher elves from the routiers. Though they were all elves, the fisher elves wore their hair long, and even the men held it bound in a headscarf—she supposed because of sea winds, she supposed. Their clothing was simple, plain, and practical. The men wore shirts of red or blue with a deep V that showed much of their chest, and wide pantalons that many wore rolled up above their knees. The women favored blue smocks unadorned and pleated, with bright yellow shirts and a close-fitted cap of dark blue. All were barefoot or else wore heavy wooden shoes. Their skin was the color of hazelnuts.

  At the center on a low platform stood one of the wagoneers, a man Talysse did not know. In a clear, somewhat stilted voice he spoke in a language strange to her, save for a few words here and there. She caught “Empire” and its variants, along with “troll.” He spoke with broad gestures that made her guess he was describing a battle of some sort. Then he recited a long list of names in a sad, slow voice.

  He was followed by one of the fisher elves, a droopy fellow in a plain tunic and tall boots. He spoke in a slow drawl that was much more understandable, about finding a wrecked ship. She heard the name Perpignan.

  “Fisher elves catch more than fish,” Gonsallo explained. “They can dive hundreds of feet deep—legends talk of a hundred fathoms and more. There, they catch strange fish never found in shallower waters, but they also find sunken treasures of all sorts. Some say they converse with mermen.”

  “Pish,” Detta said. “A merman’s just a legend.”

  Gonsallo only smiled and shrugged. Talysse said nothing. She was less sure these days about what was or was not legend. The distinction had been clearer back in Saldemer.

  Another wagoneer stepped to the dais.

  “Why do they give speeches?” she asked. “Why not just talk to each other?”

  “What is said to all is known by all,” Jehan intoned. Talysse turned to him, curious, but he did not elaborate. Gonsallo di
d.

  “There is plenty of talk,” he said, “once the trading starts, and on into the night. When speaking one to another, though, it is easy to speak rumor as fact, to take facts and exaggerate them, or even to fabricate whole stories. When one stands at the Speaking Table”—he nodded at the platform—“the whole community hears it. They do not hesitate to call out corrections.”

  “But,” Talysse said, “what are they saying?”

  “They are hearing the messages. Or maybe telling. I’m not sure.”

  “Messages?”

  “Come. We go around. It is rude to watch when it is not your business.”

  As they continued on their way toward the village, and Jehan elaborated.

  “Wagoneers—all elves, really—are good at remembering,” Jehan said. “With training, some get very good at it, able to remember and recite messages than can go on for hours.”

  “Truly?”

  “Truly. This is how elves pass information from one community to another. They use three messengers so the message is rendered clearly and reliably. Earlier, these three would have stood before any who cared to listen and given tidings—what has happened through the Empire. Now they deliver personal messages and hear new messages to be delivered elsewhere.”

  “Why don’t they just write letters? Seems a bit silly.”

  “Elves have a saying: With pen and ink, one can say anything.” Gonsallo nodded agreement with this.

  “Well, that’s what pen and ink is for, obviously,” Talysse said. “Don’t roll your eyes at me; I hate when you do that.”

  “Pardon,” Jehan said gruffly. “The saying means that on paper a person might tell any sort of lie, but when it is said in front of others, it is harder to lie, and if told, the lie will be remembered as a lie. The lie on paper continues to lie. Elves trust a person’s word more than they trust his writing.”

  “They probably can’t write anyway,” Talysse said. She didn’t mean to be scornful, but it sounded like it.

  “Most do not write. It is a point of pride with them. Routiers don’t write either, saying that it impairs memory.”

  “That’s plain dumb,” Talysse declared. “If they wrote things down, they would not need to remember so much.” She nodded her head in satisfaction.

  “Also, the speech is in Old Elvish,” Gonsallo chimed in. “A rather limited tongue, said to be the very thing spoken in the First Land.”

  “Not ‘said to be’,” Jehan said gruffly, “but is in fact.”

  “In any case,” Gonsallo said, “the language is limited and formal. Harder to lie in it, or so I understand.”

  “It is precise,” Jehan said.

  “It also allows elves from all over Europa to communicate reliably, by way of the wagoneers and these Tellings.”

  Talysse wanted to know more about the First Land, but Jehan hushed them.

  “This one I must hear.”

  The speaker, a fisher elf, went on for a long time. Talysse thought she caught a word or two, something about Arelat, but the cadences were so odd she gave up trying to follow.

  He was the last speaker, and when he had finished, the assembly dispersed in a wave of murmurs. Jehan spoke in his own.

  “I need to talk this over with Brasc. Others too, likely.”

  “What did you hear?” Talysse asked.

  “Too much and not enough.”

  “Huh. And why did I expect a straight answer?”

  “You should go back to the convidat. Eat. Do not wander. As soon as I can, I will return and bring you your straight answer.”

  Talysse bit off a retort. She did not want to ruin a chance at an answer, especially a clear one. So far, all her questions were clearer than any of her answers.

  She had barely finished eating when Jehan returned. His eyebrows sat low and he walked fast.

  “He’s thinking,” Talysse whispered to Detta.

  “Oh dear,” the gnome whispered back. “Is that bad?”

  “Come,” Jehan said. “There is time now to train.” He took up his quarterstaff.

  Talysse scrambled to her feet. Detta followed suit.

  “Might I come as well?” Gonsallo asked.

  “No.”

  Silently, Talysse urged the Catalan to be quiet. Jehan’s moods could go as quickly as they came. She fell in behind the elf.

  “You and Madame Ardetta stay here. Go into the village, if you wish. Pass the time.”

  “What did you find out from Brasc?” Gonsallo asked.

  “Nothing. He is otherwise occupied. So there is time.”

  He begrudged her this training, she was sure of it. All she wanted now was to get away before some idle comment should give him a reason to turn aside. This moment was important to her. It was her chance to prove herself to him, to be more than a burden. To be worthy.

  “When you strike,” Jehan said, “you exhale. This is natural and beneficial, part of the energy you expend.”

  Talysse wiped a trickle of sweat from her neck; she hoped the lesson would end soon.

  “To make this more effective, you will learn to exclaim as you strike.” With that, the elf struck the ground at her feet, uttering a loud cry as he did so. Talysse flinched and stepped back, more at the cry than the blow, for the latter happened too fast to see.

  “You will try.”

  “Try what, yelling?”

  “Yes. As I did.” He regarded her with that bland earnestness that so irritated her. Learning to fight should be exciting, or at least challenging. It should not be learning how to shout.

  “This is just boring,” she said. “And now it’s silly as well as boring.”

  “You may stop learning, if you wish.”

  “I’ll do it, but I won’t like it.”

  She spun the quarterstaff and struck the ground to one side of the elf.

  “Hah,” she stated as she did so.

  “Again. At my toes, if you please. Be more vociferous in your cry.”

  “Yah!” she yelled, this time managing to strike at the front of his feet, but well short of them.

  “Again. Louder. And closer.”

  “Hee yah!” She was louder, but the blow landed even further away.

  “Again.”

  She tried out an entire vocabulary of cries and shouts. After a while, she had to admit that some sounds worked better than others. Weirdly, some even produced better accuracy. She sweated freely now, and was getting thirsty. In part to slow the pace, she asked him a question.

  “I notice you don’t shout. Why is that?”

  “You will not shout with every blow. Use it for the killing strike, to add strength.”

  Killing strike? She had not been thinking about killing anyone. She steered away from the topic.

  “I think I have my sound, though ‘yah’ isn’t much of a battle cry.” She chuckled at her own joke. She needed a break.

  “A battle cry is for an army. It encourages the soldiers. You will have no need for that.”

  “No army?”

  “We are your comrades. We need no encouragement.”

  She gulped. He had done it again. Boring, boring, superior and cold, followed by more boring. Then, without warning, he slipped past her defenses and touched her heart. She wondered if he even knew.

  We are your comrades.

  “Again,” said the elf chevalier, but Talysse had had enough.

  “Yah,” she declared evenly. “I’m hungry. Let’s go eat.”

  That evening, the fisher elves invited the whole of the wagons to a feast. Cook fires sprang up along the sandy beach, their light supplemented by torches that cast a strange, blue light courtesy of a plant-like substance the elves had harvested from the sea. Glowing blue pillars marked the way from one fire to the next, like incandescent hallways. The moon rose, laying a coat of silver on the sand and lighting up the waves while casting all else into darkness. The fine spray tossed from the line of breakers made Talysse think of the white horses of the gardiens. She felt a sudden pang of loss
.

  Odd that she should miss people she’d known only a few days, but they had been so welcoming, making her feel at home. Ceranne was so gallant and kind. The men were brave and handsome. And the horses! Oh, Tachette! Their faces and voices were as near in memory as those of the fisher elves in person.

  “Lyssie, are you cold, dove?” Detta looked at her, concerned.

  “I’m all right, tante.”

  “You shivered. I thought you might be cold.”

  “I’m quite all right,” Talysse insisted in a tone that silenced the gnome.

  There was no home for her in a cabano. She knew this. Nor was there a home for her here among the wagoneers, no matter how much she wished there were.

  A home with humans.

  A home with elves.

  Both seemed to fit, yet neither felt right. What was wrong with her? She told herself she must find her parents before she could think about a home, but that didn’t feel quite true either. No matter where she was—cenobitum, cabano, karwan—she was always the outsider. She was always peering over a wall at someone else’s contentment.

  Don’t be such a child, she scolded herself. There are no walls here, only friends and campfires. Enough with moping.

  “Come, tante,” she said abruptly, getting to her feet. “Let’s dance.”

  Elf music does not proceed song by song. Rather, it begins with a rhythm, or sometimes with a lone melody, and others join in. Pipes, lutes, citterns, horns, and voices—these meet, mingle, feed off each other without cessation. As players join or leave, as a mood or idea rises, the musicians adjust. A melody shifts, the rhythm follows. A singer may suddenly sing in words, a verse or a whole epic. Others join or echo. There is no audience, or else everyone is both audience and performer. Even the dancing becomes part of it.

  Every campfire birthed its own song, though twice during the night all were caught up in a single refrain that rose until the stars themselves stopped to listen. Talysse threw herself among these currents of elf music, longing to find refuge there. She danced endlessly. Detta dropped out, spent, but Talysse kept on. She did not cease to sway even as she ate, even when she rested. She danced like breathing.

  She became so lost in the music she was unaware that for close to an hour she flew as she danced, with the air as her partner. She danced to lose her worries and so she danced until she had lost herself. All thought fell away, and the music embraced her like the unending ocean.