2 – 7

Market Day in Valdenwood is something to behold. Though we are just on the outskirts of it, already the streets are filled with stalls of goods and the people selling them. As the wagon rolls slowly through the crowded thoroughfare I see baskets piled high with ripened fruits and fresh vegetables, a flat iron griddle with sizzling strips of pale fish, loaves of newly-baked bread, and sweets. Berry tarts with white sugar dusting their cross-cut tops, fruit pies steaming in their tins, paper cones of candied nuts to crunch between one's teeth.

I want it. All of it. My mouth waters from the sheer scent of it all. My stomach growls at the sight.

Then there are the craftsmen. A thick-armed smith, forearms shiny with old burns, hammers on the blade of a hoe bent out of shape by use and hard earth. Sparks fly from the grinding wheel behind him as another puts a new edge to the reaping blade of a scythe. A nimble-fingered woodcarver sits behind an open table of small statues. There are animals of all sorts and other, pleasantly meaningless shapes. With quick, sure cuts he shapes a block of wood in his hands into his latest creation. Sharp-eyed tailors with flashing needles and spools of thread mend tears and patch holes in piles of clothing. A trapper displays piles of clean-cut fur and bunches of neatly-plucked feathers, shining in the sunlight.

I had thought the amount of coin my parents gave me was too much. Now I fear it may not be enough.

What keeps me in my seat is the same thing that draws me out of it: the crush of the crowd below the wagon's high seat. Up here, I'm safe. Down there, I'd be lost and swept away. It's a thought that bids me climb down as much as it does me to stay put. This, coupled with all the time I've spent alone or in small, trusted company, is what keeps me in my seat and my money safe. At least for now.

Then, somehow, I hear music. It's faint, hidden near-entirely by the roar of conversation, shouting, and laughter. The high, quick scrape of a violin's bow over string comes first. It cuts easiest through the noise of the crowd. Then, the drums. A pattering roll that puts an itch in my leg that I can only soothe by tapping my foot along to the beat it keeps. It's only when the crowd parts and we find ourselves in the central square does the last instrument become heard. It's a deeper sound than the violin, but beyond that I don't know it. The three come together to create a jaunty hop of a tune, one that anyone could dance to, even if they were possessed of two or more left feet.

The dozen people, my age or thereabouts, dancing in the square do not have two left feet. They twirl and stomp across the top of a circle of scuffed wood that's been laid over the rough-cut stones. It's not the komo'ka, yet there's an undeniable grace and joy of movement about it nonetheless. Bitterly, I look at my boots and the ruined feet they contain. If I hadn't been an idiot, I would join them.

I look away from the dancers and try to ignore the music. At the latter, I fail, and so my toe keeps tapping as I take in the rest of the square. Through the open doors of a widely built, two-story building I see a bar at which people are liquoring up. I shudder at the reminder of my imagined doom in just such as building as that.

Night after night after night.

Across the square from the bar it blends into the quay, from which the docks reach into the lake. Many a white sail, full of wind, can be seen. Maybe they don't know about the eels. Maybe they do, and mistakenly think eels aren't horrible. Or maybe the eels only come out at night, and everyone's safe from them. Harlan bumps my shoulder with his. “What?” I ask, turning to him. He simply points. I follow the point and see a small crowd gathered around a table. I don't understand. Of course, Harlan's of no help when I look to him for more. “What?” I ask again.

“S'for your feet,” he tells me. “Knows 'er stuff. Don't charge much.”

A healer, then. “And she'll have medicine?”

Harlan shakes his head. “Magic,” he answers.

I understand, now. “Really?!” I ask, disbelief and anticipation lifting my voice higher in pitch than it ought to be. What I get in return is a squinted eye and a shrug. Really, I should know better by now. I look back to the crowded table, narrowing my eye as if the scrum will part miraculously and give me a look at this magi. When it doesn't obey my silent whim I wilt a little, then further when it occurs to me that Harlan and I have reached the end of our shared road. “Well,” I say, “I suppose this where we part ways.”

Harlan nods.

“Thank you, Harlan.” I don't think I'm going to miss the old man, but I like him, and so leaving his company is painful. “You may have saved my life.”

He grunts and looks away, shaking his head. “You'd be all right,” he tells me. Then, with a squint in his eye, adds, “Maybe.”

“Very funny,” I tell him drily. He offers help as I climb down from his wagon, which I take, and with the help of his gnarled, calloused grip the climb is easier done. Back on my feet the aches start up complaining once more.

He sees my wince. “Alright, there?” he asks.

“It's my feet,” I answer, grinning up at him. “I think I hurt them.”

He snorts, then says, “Take care.”

I nod. “And you.”

With that Harlan rolls the reins and clicks his tongue. The old, graying donkey pulls the wagon with its old, graying driver away.

- - -

The growing pain in my feet coupled with the sorrow of parting from a new, if brief, friendship leaves me with a need to distract myself while I wait for my turn to see the magi. The music isn't any help. While beautiful, with its pattering drums and merry violin and that brassy strumming instrument I can't name, all it serves to do is remind me of something I can't currently do. I go as far as to turn my back to the dancing circle to keep myself from being tempted. It's unlikely I would be, but I only have the two feet and I'd rather not leave any more up to luck than I already have.

What I do instead is wait. Wait, and wonder. What's this magi doing here? Valdenwood is beautiful in the autumn daylight, its people lively and happy, but it's not the sort of place I imagine a magi would be. Not to mention using their carefully-gathered power and hard-earned skill to do something so mundane as heal common injuries from a stall in the market. Shouldn't they be ensconced in a vast library or classroom, working to re-discover that which the Damnation took from them? Failing that, shouldn't they be at the side of a king, whispering into their ears secrets learned from the dreams of nobles?

But then, what do I know of magi? I've never met one, nor have I seen any magic done. The crowd shifts and thins as a few people leave, wide-eyed and with awed smiles on their faces. My anticipation grows, nearly humming through me, as I shuffle closer. Eyeing the number of people ahead, it won't be too long now.

The Damnation of Elves, to give its full title, was what took magic from the world and changed the shape of this land forever. Before it, the Icewall Mountains did not split the continent nearly in half. Before it, there were elves. To punish their arrogance and greed, the gods wrought a punishment so complete that it wiped all trace of the blood of elves and their empire from all existence. A now-buried empire, entombed beneath a mile of ice.

Since then, the rediscovery of magic has been centuries in the making. Every mind with a scrap of talent for it has bent their will to the task. Except, it would seem, for this one. Does she have a piece of the ice? Without it, she can work no magic. Who was the first, I wonder, to discover that? Which brave idiot thought to cross the Icewalls and bring back a piece of it? Are they thought well of? I hope so.

The crowd parts, enough for me to slip through. With a twist of my shoulders I do just that, and so come to see a magi for the first time in my life.

Coda

You's loud, braying sigh breaks the silence the girl left behind. “Quiet,” Harlan grumbles. Damn animal's going to ignore him, it always does, but it wouldn't be proper to let the thing think it can do as it pleases. It can, but he's not about to let it think that. He takes the reins in one hand to rub back of his neck. Getting old is miserable.

'Round the back of the Rest Luxuriant, Valdenwood's best, biggest, and only tavern, is where he's headed. It's a little courtyard with a wide gate for deliveries such as his. Looks like his isn't the only happening today. There's some barrels and sacks by the door. Drink of some sort, he imagines, and maybe flour. Probably go through a lot of bread at a tavern. People need something to soak up all that booze.

Maybe not. Hell does he know? You comes to a halt unbidden, drooping its fool head like it's hauled the sun 'cross the skies. Sound of it draws the attention of the young lady taking inventory. She turns and sees the animal playing it up. A hand goes to her mouth and her eyes go wide. “Oh, you poor thing!” she exclaims, fully taken in. Hurries to fawn over the beast. You eats it up, leaning hard into her scratches and sighing all mournfully. He grunts as his hip pops stepping down from the seat. “Harlan!” she turns on him, full of reproach. “What have I told you about pushing him so hard?!”

Harlan squints at You, who eyes him right back. “He's fine,” he answers, waving his hand. “Know's you'll baby 'im, is all.”

“Well, someone has to take care of you both,” she says, rubbing between You's eyes. She looks over the animal's long, twitching ears at him. “Heaven knows you don't.”

He grunts. He's in no mood to have his way of living clucked over. Gotten him through the last eighty years, hasn't it? Shouldn't that be good enough? Wagon's rear gate drops open with a clang. He's been meaning to oil the hinges so he doesn't have to use its own weight against it, but that hasn't happened yet. After a moment he's joined at the back. Out of the corner of his eye he watches her count the sacks and stew. “All there?” he asks.

“Yes, of course,” she answers. He's not cheated anyone in his life. Takes pride in it, and feels he ought to. She sighs. He waits. She sighs again. “Harlan...” she says, hesitant like he'll attack if she says something he doesn't want to hear. He hums. If she's going to tell him about that empty house nearby one more time, he's not going to help at all. “How was the trip? Anything happen?”

He thinks on it a moment. Girl who'd just left and this one here. Probably get along nicely. Should he make introductions, as his old mam would put it? He answers, “Not really. Rained th' first day.”

They'll either meet or they won't.