Less than an hour later they had set up camp in what passed as a clearing in the southern forest. The designated turkey had been killed, plucked and put on a spit to roast over the flames. Quell and Zeke were relieved of their burdens and ate heartily from the grass that grew outside of the clearing.
Giordi had bemoaned the scratches he had received from the turkeys. Aalis gave him a salve to apply to his legs and hands.
“Fairest of fair, I thank thee for thy kind attentions.” He said, rubbing the cream into the scratches. “Foul feathered fowl…how tasty yet vile you are…”
“Don’t you think you’re making a mortal wound out of a scratch?” Caste retorted, sitting stiffly with his pack behind him, a book in his hands.
“Alas, I have never been a fan of pain…”
“I thought musicians were meant to suffer for their art.”
“I think that’s only the poor souls who travel with them.” Caste muttered at Judd’s remark.
“I do hope the flight of the turkeys isn’t going to be turned into a song.” Verne leaned against a tree, crossing his legs at the ankles and yawning.
“It’s not exactly the stuff of legend,” Judd grimaced, “running, screaming and hiding from supper.”
“Perhaps it would not be the most popular of verses,” Giordi admitted, “however, it has to be said that in song, all heroes have no flaws and all heroines are pale with golden hair and a figure draped in gossamer and silk.” Aalis shook her head, turning the turkey on the spit. “In my endeavour following Judd LaMogre’s ascent to knighthood, I want to capture something of the humanity in him. The heights of his achievement yet coupled with the flaws and the failures…”
“There’s plenty of those…” Judd sighed.
“Yes but at least the common man would have something to relate to.”
“At least it would be honest.” Caste rolled his eyes.
“Are you calling my work dishonest?”
“Here we go again…” Judd sighed. Verne shook his head and closed his eyes, blotting out the debate that was inevitably going to blow up into a full on squabble.
“You peddle fallacy and sell lies, distorting the truth of the tomes.” Caste glared at Giordi from across the flames. “It is as if you have no regard for the truth.”
“Truth never served me all that well as a minstrel,” Giordi admitted, “for who wants to hear the tale of Sir Andigre the mediocre and his slightly better than average Four Spire knights?”
“Do not forget sorceress Grail, frumpy and plain.” Aalis laughed softly, the gold of the flames dancing across her white dreadlocks.
“Every woman, no matter her station in life, whether the princess of Astaril or the most common born scullery maid, is beautiful in the eyes of her lover.” Giordi said with such sincerity and focussed attention that Aalis’ face filled with a heated blush.
Judd watched the exchanged, equal parts intrigued to disturbed.
“I suppose you would know a great deal about women…” Verne grouched from his place against the tree, breaking the tension between Aalis and Giordi.
“I would not call myself a novice in that area.” Giordi replied as Judd used a knife to cut portions of the turkey away, the juicy flesh snapped up quickly. “But it is not all born from experience alone. It is observation and contemplation that derive the greatest revelations.”
“Huh?” Judd held out a drumstick and Giordi took it.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
“Napkins?” Caste laughed outright at Giordi’s request. Well, perhaps laugh was too generous a term. It was more a short burst of scornful noise but it was about as mirthful as the cleric ever became. Giordi shrugged and held onto the blistered skin of the turkey leg as best he could, biting into it. “Oh for a table laid with a satin cloth, fine porcelain plates, crystal goblets…”
“We’re fortunate just to have food.” Judd protested. “This is more than adequate and without Aalis, we would probably be on the verge of starving.”
“But that is just my point!” Giordi insisted, leaning forward. “Even if Grail just cooked meals for Sir Andigre and the knights, she was a pivotal part of Terra’s establishment. What army does not march on its stomach?”
“I think you are over stating my role in the quest,” Aalis insisted, “and belittling Judd’s.”
Judd smiled warmly at Aalis for her endorsement.
“Besides,” Verne roused himself, tearing at the bird meat with no manners but a happy zeal, “if the historical tomes can be trusted to be accurate…”
“Which they can,” Caste glared at Giordi, “unlike other forms of historical remembering…”
“Grail was a sorceress. If she was a cook, surely the tomes would have said as much.”
“See, that’s always bothered me.” Judd admitted, leaning against his swag, wiping at his mouth with his sleeve. “Grail was a sorceress but witches are condemned by the Order of the Grail.”
“Your point?” Caste asked, genuinely stumped.
“You mean,” Giordi waved the remains of his drumstick, “what separates a sorceress from a witch?”
“Yeah. I mean, sorcery seems pretty close to witchcraft so how does the Order of the Grail justify condemning one and not the other?”
Caste put his hand on his face. “By the star of Astaril…I’m travelling with fools and ignoramuses.” He sighed and lifted his countenance with a calm and experienced air. “A witch is defined as one who has been touched by the waters of Maul. We know from experience and exposure that such victims are imbued with unnatural and often dangerous powers.” Judd’s eyes flickered to Aalis as Caste spoke but he turned them back to an almost glare-like stare at the cleric, trying not to draw attention to their healer/cook. “The term ‘sorceress’ was only ever used once to describe the ability that Grail possessed.”
“From the songs and stories I’ve heard,” Giordi cleared his throat, “Grail was thought to be able to command the monsters to retreat, to change the seasons…to heal mortal wounds and even to possess the minds of men.”
“While I would not wish to defame the infallibility of minstrel musings,” Caste’s voice had been sauteed in sarcasm, “the accounts of Grail, while vague, are more along the lines of simply being knowledgeable.”
“You mean knowledgeable as in…reading, writing…spell casting…”
“No,” Caste argued, leaning forward, “consider that the civilisation of Terra only began once Andigre united the clans, sharing knowledge and even forming a single language. Clans were led by the strongest but after Andigre and his knights were able to protect the north as the labourers built the wall, elevation amongst one’s peers came by knowledge and understanding. Long past are the days of brutes with clubs claiming lordship.”
“Sounds like a knight to me…” Giordi murmured.
“And so,” Caste said sternly, eyeing the minstrel so he’d stop talking, “as education did not exist, Grail was probably a third generation healer and her knowledge only extended to knowing which plants healed and which killed and how to dress a wound.”
“And cook a meal?” Giordi said, gesturing to Aalis who was cutting as much meat from the turkey corpse as she could.
Caste glanced at Aalis briefly then looked away. “Yes, very possibly although not definitively.”
“Is that why you stopped seeing Aalis as a witch?” Judd said then cursed his words as he realised he’d just announced what he’d been trying so hard not to imply. Aalis looked at him, pale and uncertain and then all eyes turned to Giordi. “I…I mean…”
“A witch you say?” Giordi raised his eyebrows.
Aalis licked her lips. “We…have not had this conversation yet, have we?”
“She’s not a witch.” Judd insisted.
“Despite claiming to be so.” Caste argued.
“She’s a healer.”
“Who said her name was Dragoslava and maintained a ‘witch-like’ reputation.”
“She explained why, acting out of self preservation.”
“How can you possibly say that when the words themselves invoke persecution?”
Aalis gazed at Giordi and shrugged helplessly. “It is not a popular subject.”
“Who could possibly think you are a witch?” Aalis gestured to her appearance. “It matters little to me.” Giordi said lightly, silencing Judd and Caste’s bickering. “When you have travelled around as much as I, you see so much more than just the gilded inhabitants of Astaril…”
“Gilded…” Caste huffed.
“There’s a whole world beyond its borders and if you’re not breaking the rules of the Order of the Grail, who am I to judge you?”
Aalis smiled, the tension escaping their campsite. “Thank you, Giordi.”
“Always an utmost pleasure, my lady.” He chuckled then yawned. “Fresh air, full belly and a warm campfire…I will see you all in the morning.” With that he lay down with his hands behind his head, his eyes open at the canopy of leaves and, beyond that, the sky full of stars.
“Giordi,” Verne tilted his head, “you know you need to close your eyes to sleep?”
“Until the deep recess of sleep take me, I will write melodies in my mind.”