Back in our own wagon, Kidu and I spent our time in the maintenance of our equipment. A part of me regretted purchasing the wavy parrying dagger, as it was a devil to sharpen. Still, the blade had a special place in my heart, as I remembered using it against yielding flesh and taking a small measure of vengeance.
While we were busy, Larynda chose to spend her time creating more of her Seals. Occasionally she would squawk in irritation when she made a mistake or when a small bump disrupted her script, causing her efforts to be wasted. I tried to read some more scraps from Elwin’s gift book, but gave up as minor motion sickness took me. Instead, I decided to swallow a little of my pride and ask the half-elven girl a few questions to help confirm my theories on magic in this world.
It was surprisingly informative. The little girl, despite her young age, was well-read and knowledgeable, and she helped clarify a few of the points that had been a little troublesome. From her, I learned that Mana was apparently in all living things, from the smallest of rodents to the largest of dragons.
However, only a few creatures, man being one of them, could understand the intricacies of Mana to fully utilize it. One such way was, of course, through spells. The language of a spell was, in essence, a way to twist the meaning of a state of existence, a play on words on the current observed reality. I mentally envisaged the whole thing as a sort of cross between advanced arcane mathematics, with mystical puns, and Mana being the source of power that bridged the gap between. Throughout all of this, Kidu remained impassively quiet, occasionally nodding to some point, as if it confirmed one of his own thoughts.
It was not until near sunset, when the caravan began to slow and settle, the first hints of red and oranges staining the sky, that the caravan master returned. Kidu and Larynda were engaged in one of their practice sessions and they paused in their sparring to look at his triumphant return. He had an air of victory about him, tempered with a look of exhaustion, the setting sun creating a halo about him and his riders. Behind them, a line of six wild and newly-captured horses followed, straining against the ropes that led them. One of the horses was a particularly fine specimen, his coat the color of burned gold that reflected the hues of the oncoming evening.
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They were greeted by the drudges, their animals seen to, and their immediate needs met. The stolen horses were taken away and expertly hobbled and staked close by. I could see from the people’s reactions that this was probably not the first time Laes had engaged in horse theft against the Tides. The riders were excused from guard duty that evening, their colleagues good-naturedly jealous of their success. I saw them clump into small groups and regale each other with their accounts of the day.
Evening stole across the sky, slowly painting the heavens with her first stars. Winding down, the train prepared for the night. Soon enough, once the site had been secured, a fire was lit and the delicious scent of the evening meal began to waft along the cool air.
My own group kept to ourselves, our meal consisting of a sort of long-grained pink rice layered with thinly-cut spiced meat, then slathered with a sweet-smelling sauce. I was told by one of the cooks that this sort of food was eaten only in celebration. Larynda positively stuffed her face, putting off even the wild man, who did not have much in the way of table manners.
As the meal and celebrations came to an end, I decided to tell my companions a tale from my own world, about a certain boy who had been accepted into a school of wizardry. I told them of the adventures of ‘the boy who lived’. Of his friends and his struggle adjusting to his newfound destiny. Some things, however, must have failed to translate well.
“He sounds like a real ungrateful sot! ‘E should be grateful to just have a roof above his head. This boy never did a thing to help right. He was rich too, an’ he never shared with his family. That don’t quite seem right to me!” chimed in Larynda, shocking me with her perspective.
“You say this great wizard, his parents had been killed by another dark mage, yes? Why does he have the time to be playing fanciful ‘games’ in a ditch? Should he not be practicing every day, that he might grow in might, and take his vengeance on that dark mage?” rumbled the big man, his voice tinged with a faint hint of disappointment and irritation.
I had to remind them both that it was a fictitious tale, and reminded myself that I would have to adapt certain parts for this tough audience. Perhaps one of the Greek epics would be more palatable for this lot. In my mind, after all, was a whole world’s collection of stories and tales to tell, their contents fresh and new for this world.