In spite of the fact that the whole troupe of players, including the
fascinating Bryauel, were staying at my parents inn I saw no sight of any
of them until the day the show was due to commence.
It had been several days since the merry band had arrived and during that time a large stage had been erected in the very centre of the village square. Whilst this was certainly a fact, we could all see and touch it, not a one of the locals was able to explain from where it had come. No one had observed anyone, performer or villager alike, engaged in its construction. In fact the whole affair seemed to have been somehow magicked into our little village. A fact that would be verified to me in confidence later. Fascinated, and a little uneasy, we kicked and prodded at the wooden structure, half expecting our limbs to pass through the timber as if it wasn't there. They didn't of course. The stage was as solid as if it had always been standing there in our little square. In fact, in a very real, metaphysical way it had always been there.
The day of the show dawned clear and bright. In fact, as I remember it, the weather that day was never bettered that year or for several that followed.
I don't really know how to say this, but as plain speaking is one of my more remarked upon traits among those that know me well I guess there's nothing to do but be out with it. I could feel the magic that morning. I woke with a tangible sense of destiny. Something was sure to happen that day and I was to be part of it. Looking back at the last sentence I scribed I can read it as you must. An old man's mind remembering what never happened. Giving foreshadowing to events that are to follow. All the better to make the story flow. As most of you know how the tale goes, at least the bare bones of it, which are common knowledge to all, it would be foolish and vain of me to add tricks for dramatic effect. There are powers that pull and shape even the most mundane of lives. It is my belief that I was marked by the Gods for what was to follow. And if that adds the sin of arrogance to the list then so be it.
The show was to commence at noon and would last, as always, until well after midnight. Bards would sing ballads of long ago times and faraway places. Girls would dance to the tunes played by minstrels and the village men-folk would wrestle the group's resident ogre to try to win the cash prize that was offered. Or more accurately they would wrestle the ogre (a kindly, but still remarkably large, example of his species know as Grud, who had travelled with the band for as long as I could remember) hoping to win the notice of some of the villages female residents. To the best of my knowledge Grud retired undefeated some twenty years later. He settled down with a female from a village not far from mine. Obviously unimpressed by the scores of young men who attempted to catch her eye, she'd made eyes at the victor.
The main act would appear after dark. This being mid summer it was always very late before dark fell. One other reason the children looked forward to this festival, more than any other feast day was that staying up late was not just allowed. It was mandatory. The main act was such a significant event that people would talk about it for months afterwards and missing it was impossible to countenance.
For the first time (and as it turned out the last time) I was to be helping my parents behind the makeshift bar that they erected every year, in front of the inn proper, to serve foaming ale and steaming plates of food to the hungry revellers, both locals and performers alike. My father once told me that he took as much money on the day of the performance as he did the rest of the year combined. I had turned sixteen during the previous spring. The age when Commonlands traditions dictate that the boy becomes a man so my days that year were filled not with sneaking past the guards out into the wilderness or playing games in the street with my friends. But with learning to run an inn. From what little I remember, I was learning fast. I had always been good at figures so the money side was no problem. My mother took care of the cleaning, both of the common room and of the guest rooms leaving my father to teach me a little of what he knew about ales and spirits. He stocked all manner of victuals from all over the world. From the darkest Blackburrow stout to the most delicate of elven wines from far away Felwithe, it could truly be said that my fathers inn offered a choice that couldn't be matched in all the Commonlands. He bargained with passing merchants for these rare and exotic (at least to commonlanders) drinks. Many regular visitors knew that when passing through our village the surest way of guaranteeing a bed for the night and breakfast the following morning was to arrive with a barrel or two for my father. Soon after dawn, my father and I were out front of the inn, tapping barrels and wiping the dust from bottles lain away in the cellar for just this day, when Bryauel came walking around the corner, making for the stage. Nudging me, my father whispered in my ear "Here Lin, looks like Master Bryauel weren't keen on stopping in his own room last night". The magician, at considerable expense, had a room of his own in the inn. The rest of the troupe, including Guristan, was staying six or seven to a room. They were always out and about, requesting no breakfast, by the time we rose so we paid them no mind. In my experience bards, minstrels, troubadours and the like are friendly enough folk but fonder of their own company offstage than that of others. I glanced at my father and noticed a hint of a leer in his eyes, as his mind obviously played out some salacious scene involving Bryauel and one of the local widows. I don't know why it bothered me that he was thinking these things but before I knew it the blood began to rise and I found myself glaring openly at him.
It had been several days since the merry band had arrived and during that time a large stage had been erected in the very centre of the village square. Whilst this was certainly a fact, we could all see and touch it, not a one of the locals was able to explain from where it had come. No one had observed anyone, performer or villager alike, engaged in its construction. In fact the whole affair seemed to have been somehow magicked into our little village. A fact that would be verified to me in confidence later. Fascinated, and a little uneasy, we kicked and prodded at the wooden structure, half expecting our limbs to pass through the timber as if it wasn't there. They didn't of course. The stage was as solid as if it had always been standing there in our little square. In fact, in a very real, metaphysical way it had always been there.
The day of the show dawned clear and bright. In fact, as I remember it, the weather that day was never bettered that year or for several that followed.
I don't really know how to say this, but as plain speaking is one of my more remarked upon traits among those that know me well I guess there's nothing to do but be out with it. I could feel the magic that morning. I woke with a tangible sense of destiny. Something was sure to happen that day and I was to be part of it. Looking back at the last sentence I scribed I can read it as you must. An old man's mind remembering what never happened. Giving foreshadowing to events that are to follow. All the better to make the story flow. As most of you know how the tale goes, at least the bare bones of it, which are common knowledge to all, it would be foolish and vain of me to add tricks for dramatic effect. There are powers that pull and shape even the most mundane of lives. It is my belief that I was marked by the Gods for what was to follow. And if that adds the sin of arrogance to the list then so be it.
The show was to commence at noon and would last, as always, until well after midnight. Bards would sing ballads of long ago times and faraway places. Girls would dance to the tunes played by minstrels and the village men-folk would wrestle the group's resident ogre to try to win the cash prize that was offered. Or more accurately they would wrestle the ogre (a kindly, but still remarkably large, example of his species know as Grud, who had travelled with the band for as long as I could remember) hoping to win the notice of some of the villages female residents. To the best of my knowledge Grud retired undefeated some twenty years later. He settled down with a female from a village not far from mine. Obviously unimpressed by the scores of young men who attempted to catch her eye, she'd made eyes at the victor.
The main act would appear after dark. This being mid summer it was always very late before dark fell. One other reason the children looked forward to this festival, more than any other feast day was that staying up late was not just allowed. It was mandatory. The main act was such a significant event that people would talk about it for months afterwards and missing it was impossible to countenance.
For the first time (and as it turned out the last time) I was to be helping my parents behind the makeshift bar that they erected every year, in front of the inn proper, to serve foaming ale and steaming plates of food to the hungry revellers, both locals and performers alike. My father once told me that he took as much money on the day of the performance as he did the rest of the year combined. I had turned sixteen during the previous spring. The age when Commonlands traditions dictate that the boy becomes a man so my days that year were filled not with sneaking past the guards out into the wilderness or playing games in the street with my friends. But with learning to run an inn. From what little I remember, I was learning fast. I had always been good at figures so the money side was no problem. My mother took care of the cleaning, both of the common room and of the guest rooms leaving my father to teach me a little of what he knew about ales and spirits. He stocked all manner of victuals from all over the world. From the darkest Blackburrow stout to the most delicate of elven wines from far away Felwithe, it could truly be said that my fathers inn offered a choice that couldn't be matched in all the Commonlands. He bargained with passing merchants for these rare and exotic (at least to commonlanders) drinks. Many regular visitors knew that when passing through our village the surest way of guaranteeing a bed for the night and breakfast the following morning was to arrive with a barrel or two for my father. Soon after dawn, my father and I were out front of the inn, tapping barrels and wiping the dust from bottles lain away in the cellar for just this day, when Bryauel came walking around the corner, making for the stage. Nudging me, my father whispered in my ear "Here Lin, looks like Master Bryauel weren't keen on stopping in his own room last night". The magician, at considerable expense, had a room of his own in the inn. The rest of the troupe, including Guristan, was staying six or seven to a room. They were always out and about, requesting no breakfast, by the time we rose so we paid them no mind. In my experience bards, minstrels, troubadours and the like are friendly enough folk but fonder of their own company offstage than that of others. I glanced at my father and noticed a hint of a leer in his eyes, as his mind obviously played out some salacious scene involving Bryauel and one of the local widows. I don't know why it bothered me that he was thinking these things but before I knew it the blood began to rise and I found myself glaring openly at him.