Zachariah stood waiting just outside the stables with a chestnut stallion and full saddlebags when the unexpectedly fierce red-headed serving girl returned. She carried with her a second, additional sheathed blade, and a leather satchel. When she reached him, she stowed her satchel in the saddlebags and for the second time that day offered him a sword, though she still had Fidelity sheathed at her side. “I figure if I’m going to commit theft and flee the castle with you, I might as well get you a blade too. That forgemaster is a real trusting sort. I don’t think he could imagine a servant girl lying.”

Zachariah took the blade from her and put on the baldric. Feeling its weight at his side was somewhat reassuring, even if he was piss poor at using a blade. He mounted the horse and held a hand down towards the serving girl. “You know, I never had a chance to ask your name.” He said. “If we’re to travel together, despite my protests, I should know it.”

She took his hand and was able to sling herself up onto the saddle without too much trouble. “My name’s Sersha. Up until about twenty minutes ago, I was employed by your father. Now, I suppose, I’m self-employed. I don’t really know how this works, you know, running off, starting a new life.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Said Zachariah, spurring the horse on. They sped up swiftly, getting to a trot. Zachariah figured they could get at least forty or fifty miles south of Harth before day’s end, if they kept up a steady pace, resting intermittently.

“So…” Sersha said after a while. “Are you actually going to go to the Dreadhold? I’ve heard it’s a terrible place. Right on the Dreadwater and all.”

Zachariah laughed. “I’m going, if nothing else then because it’s the farthest I can get from my father without sailing off somewhere far away. It’s not just that, though. I want to be someone. The Blight Wardens may live grim, joyless lives, but they’re heroes. They’re defending the rest of us from certain death or worse, with every waking moment. I want to be one of them. Earn a place there, maybe even become a scrivener.”

“You could become a clerk in Pallas. They say it’s warm all year there. Or some place further south, if you want to be from your dad, some place like-”

“Varis? Leanne?”

“Sure, one of those places beyond the mountains. You could live in one of those places, far away from everything.”

“But I wouldn’t be a hero. Besides…” Zachariah trailed off, staring off into the distance.

“You were so sad when I found you not an hour ago. I just think it’s odd how you’ve come around to being a Blight Warden so quickly. Is there something-” Sersha said.

“Shhh.” Zachariah said quietly.

“Don’t shush me, you-”

“Shhh!” He stared intently to the south.

Out from a copse of trees settled atop a distant hill came a line of men and women dressed in all manner of colorful clothes, reds and yellows, purples and blues, all dazzling to the eyes. They sang, loud and boisterous, so much so that Zachariah had heard them faintly before he had seen them, even from a far distance. They were a troupe of traveling troubadours, Zachariah could tell by the look of them. Sersha craned up in order to see what he had seen, and gasped. “troubadours! What fun! And they’re coming north?”

“For the Equinox celebration in two weeks’ time. Though I doubt my father will entertain such rabble.” Zachariah said.

“So you have your father’s lack of humor?” Sersha asked, gazing at the troubadours as they slowly drew closer.

Zachariah bristled. “I have a well-developed sense of humor, I’ll have you know-”

“Hail, travelers on the King’s Road!” The troubadour in the lead of the troop, from perhaps two hundred feet away, hailed them. He was dressed all in bright red and wore a black tricorn hat with a bright blue feather sticking out of it. The two score or so other troubadours, with their pack ponies and even a single, ragged horse drawing an overloaded wagon, broke into an even louder song, and the group drew closer as Zachariah reined in the steed he rode upon, uncertain of what to do.

The troubadours drew up to them and surrounded them, and mostly ceased their singing, save for one who liked to hum a tune at all times. “Hail, ah…” Zachariah trailed off.

The front man took off his hat and bowed deeply. The hollows of his eyes were darkened with coal, and when he smiled one of his teeth shone gold. Zachariah studied the minstrels as they shifted around the lead man like minnows. They all looked well-fed and genuinely happy, with none of the barely-hidden-depression and gaunt faces he’d seen in many a singer, bard, and showman.

“I am Montaine the Magnificent, King of Fools and Buffoons, Mountain of the King’s Road, Lord of Smoke and Mirrors, Sovereign Prince of Summer, and Duke of Devilry. This,” The man said, waving one hand expansively at the many entertainers that milled about, “is my royal court, dressed in their most noble and fine attire.” Several of the merrymen grinned as he waved towards them. A hulking strong man flexed one impressive arm. A man with an accordion played a three-second ditty. A parrot squawked, and a man with no legs who was sitting atop the cart shouted something in a dialect Zachariah couldn’t comprehend. In the back of the caravan, a bent crone draped in black shawls furiously knitted a scarf, locking eyes with Zachariah as he glanced her way. Her eyes shone a brilliant shade of blue, he noted, and her gaze spoke of strange knowledge and many horrors witnessed. They broke eye contact after a moment, and Zachariah shivered.

“Hail, Your Royal Highness, Mountain of the King’s Road.” Zachariah responded after a delay, affecting his most formal tone while not able to suppress a grin. “I am honored to meet one so esteemed. I am Lord Zachariah Lancer--” He caught himself. “Former Lord Zachariah Lancer, that is, also formerly of Castle Harth, now without a surname or a home. And this is my traveling companion, my serving girl, Sersha.” He could practically feel Sersha’s glare on the back of his head.

The King of Fools bowed even deeper, straightened, placed his hat back on his head, and clapped his hands together decisively. “How wonderful to meet a fellow aristocrat, even one stripped of title, on our way north to the seat of your very House, young lord!” He winked at Zachariah. “Though unfortunately,” the Lord of Smoke and Mirrors continued, “we will soon have to part on our respective journeys, I would love to have my motley court journey along with you two intrepid travelers until nightfall, at which point we shall make a merry camp, and in the morning part and go our respective ways. What say you, former Lord of Harth?”

Zachariah stared into the man’s coal-rimmed eyes from atop his horse. The man had warm brown eyes flecked with green and gold, and the longer Zachariah stared into them the more he was reminded of a great nighttime festival, dancing and yelling and singing around a great bonfire, everyone involved merry. Whether aged, bent, and white-haired or young, fair, and full of vigor, everyone was happy, everyone danced, everyone sang. Music flowed freely around that bonfire. Stories, songs, and poems interwove into a gleaming ocean of vivid orange and red light as the world was, just for that night, perfect…

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Zachariah blinked, hard, and realized Sersha had pinched him. “You fell into a daze, fancy boy. You didn’t stop staring into that man’s eyes for a full minute. Are you alright? Did he put some kind of magic on you?”

Zachariah shook himself, breaking eye contact with the

King of Fools and saying quietly over his shoulder to her: “No, no, I’m alright. Besides, magic’s been illegal for centuries, save for the Wizards Three. The only practitioners are the Wizards, the Fell Necromancer, may his name be ever broken, and presumably some vile renegades who skulk in caves and in basements of abandoned homes.”

He raised his voice and turned to address the Duke of Devilry once again. “Your Majesty, seeing as you have rounded ears and are of average height, I imagine you are not one of the Elven Wizards?”

“Nay, Your Lordship.”

“And you are not the Necromancer across the sea, may his name be ever broken?”

“Nay, your Lordship.”

“And you are not a renegade sorcerer who means to cast dark spells upon me and mine?”

“Nay, your Lordship.”

“As the old saying goes, thrice asked, thrice answered. Me and my serving girl would be glad to have you and your court travel with us for the day and camp with us through the night. Good company upon a long journey is always a boon.”

“Oh, happy day! Kaloo kalay!” One of the minstrels burst out, and they all took to dancing and singing again. Zachariah and Sersha dismounted, with Sersha almost falling, but Zachariah just barely grabbing her arm and steadying her in time, to which she thanked him through clenched teeth.

That night, they camped atop a great hill, after having traveled some twenty miles, and several fires were built. Three large wild pigs had been easily hunted down and caught by a couple of the more physically impressive troupe members, and must feasting and merrymaking was had. “Do you all ever sleep?” Sersha said, having sat by the fire tending to the roasting, contenting herself with gazing in wonder and smiling at the whirlwind of raucous revelry that made up her surroundings.

“Of course we do. We sleep in shifts.” Montaine, the King of Fools, responded, plopping himself down near the fire and taking a deep breath of the smoky deliciousness of roasting pig. “Ah, that’s the stuff. To answer your comment, my court sleeps in shifts.” He pointed to under the cart, where under it two carnies were slumbering, peaceful despite their frenetic surroundings, and to a couple of spots around the camp where others slept, undisturbed. “We sleep in shifts so that the party always continues, day and night. Tonight a few of them sleep, tomorrow a few more will. We’ll all be rested over the course of a few days.”

“But that can’t possibly be good for them, sleeping only every third or fourth day? And why must the party go on at all times in the first place?

The King of Fools tapped the side of his nose. “Ah, but you see, with me as their King, my subjects can dance and walk for days without rest, never tiring. Such is my love for them and their love for me. As for why the party must go on at all times, the answer to that is as simple as pie: if my band of delightful miscreants ceases their merriment, why, I would die!” He laughed uproariously, and Sersha laughed, though still more than a little confused.

Zachariah approached and dropped an armful of firewood he’d collected into a pile a ways from the fire, then joined the two of them where they sat enjoying the warmth and the meat. “Is it ready?” Zachariah asked, already reaching for a skewer, but his hand was slapped away by Sersha, surprising both of them.

Shooting him a glare, she said: “No, it isn’t done. I won’t have the Lord of Harth getting the runs in my company. Go check the other fires if you’re so hungry.”

Zachariah sat back down, equally embarrassed. “I’ll stay here.” He murmured.

“Oh, you two are a joy. It’s a shame we won’t be able to travel together longer than one night. Now, if you’re willing to tell me, who are you really? If you don’t wish to say, that’s more than alright.”

Zachariah leaned back on the grass and stared up at the stars overhead, for the moment content. What harm could it do? “May I tell our story to his Highness?” He said to Sersha, who nodded. “Well, to keep it short, my name is, or in fact, was Zachariah Lancer, and the maiden who travels with me is, in fact, named Sersha. I was Lord of Harth until this morning, whereafter I have been Zachariah nothing, son of no-one. Just this morning, we set out with what little we have towards Dal Soren, and from there we’ll make our way to the Dreadhold to seek out heroic professions. Sersha was a serving girl for my father. She witnessed how my father treated me, and joined me in leaving as an act of rebellion and because…

“Oh, come off it!” Sersha interjected. “I’m traveling with you because you’re the best way out of that damned castle! This isn’t about you!”

“A fiery temper on this one, and a strong sense of justice.” The Lord of Smoke and Mirrors said.

“So who are you, King of Fools and Buffoons? Tell us your tale, as we have told you ours.” Zachariah said.

“I am a sprite, an elemental of air and merriment, a creature of pure delight, of dance and song and the wind in the tree-boughs. I am one thousand thousand years old, and men dreamt of me before even the Elves made their great journey across the Silver Sea all those years ago. I am the hills, and the rivers, and the night’s sky. I am Montaine, King of Fools, as I have said. Yet that which you see is only a part of me, and within all of me your fragile mind would drown.” He smiled, and took a skewer from the fire, jumped up, and was away in a moment. He laughed merrily as he joined in the dancing, eating as he went.

Zachariah looked to Sersha, and Sersha looked to Zachariah, seeking out any understanding in the other. When none was to be found, they simply went back to enjoying the ambient merriment that infused the air of the hilltop camp.

Zachariah moved closer to Sersha, who was still just watching the partying and tending the skewers. He nudged her, and she jumped. “Do you want to join in? It looks fun.”

“I’ve got meat to tend. And these folk may be welcoming enough, but there’s something fey about them, mark my words.”

“Why can't you just relax for one night? It’s not like we have anything for them to rob, after all, and neither of us is worth anything to anyone. Why not dance?” Zachariah said.

“Then you dance and make merry. I’m happy enough here by the fire.” Sersha responded.

Zachariah rose, and danced. The revelry took him in and spun him about, making him dizzy. He drank strong, dark drinks and vomited them up only to drink more. He danced, frantically, manically, his world undone. At last he slumped down on the ground, and darkness took him.

After a time, an old crone, her face wrinkled and eyes seeming to have naught but darkness alit with starlight within them, sat down beside Sersha. She wore a great dark cloak and stood more than six feet in height, but when she sat she seemed to shrink into the shape of a woman half that height, making Sersha think the firelight had played tricks on her eyes.

The Old Woman extended a wisened old hand, which Sersha shook hesitantly. “I’m Granny Moss.” The old woman croaked. “Would you like to know your fortune?”

“Don’t you need some kind of ball of glass or deck of cards to tell my me what is to come, Granny?” Sersha asked in reply, deciding to humor the obviously not altogether their old woman.

“Why, not at all.” The old crone said. She tapped the side of her large, hooked nose. “Why, I can see already what lies in store for you with hardly a glance.” One steely hand suddenly gripped Sersha’s left forearm so hard it hurt. “You will perform many feats deemed heroic, and a few deemed villainous. You shall wed a great warrior, and bear him no children. You will die with blood on your hands and a blade through your heart.”

“Let. Go.”

The old woman’s grip released, and Sersha pulled her arm away. “Sorry, deary.” Granny Moss said. “I get carried away sometimes.” She rose from where she sat, and again she was more than six feet tall, even with her back curved so much she looked near to broken in half. “Have a nice night.”

Sersha eventually slept, and when she did, her dreams were troubled.