The journey back to Shiningwater was uneventful. It was easier going, it seemed to Kirnoth, as the path gently sloped down toward the village. He and the storyteller both required several rests along the way, but it was Murio who did the complaining. The exertion of the burial had taken much out of him and he was much less energetic than he had been on the way there. He rubbed at the muscles that connected his shoulder to his neck and winced as they went.
It was nearing nightfall when they could smell the chimney smoke and dusk had fully wrapped itself around the day when they at last reached the village.
"Shall we dine?" the mage suggested. "I'm famished."
Murio looked sad.
"I'd better not," he said hesitantly. "Mother will be expecting me and I'll have a full day of chores to do tomorrow. Father won't let me off two days in a row."
"Well, Murio," Kirnoth said offering his hand in friendship. "Thank you for your help today. You've done a poor, tormented boy a great service."
The lad smiled bashfully as he turned and hurried off into the gathering dark.
"You'll dine with me, won't you, Torrik?" the elf asked when they were alone outside The Old Raccoon.
The old man laughed and clapped Kirnoth on the back.
"Oh yes, my friend!" he said. "Oh yes! You've a tale to tell and I am quite eager to hear it!"
The warmth of the fire and the taste of the food and beer melted away the aches of the day. Kirnoth could feel the weight of slumber pressing on him and knew that he'd soon require a bed again. But he had a tale to relate.
"Well, my friend are you ready for your story?" he asked.
Torrik swallowed his half-chewed bite of food and wiped his mouth on his hand.
"You have my undivided attention," he said, washing down his food with a mouthful of ginger beer.
Kirnoth folded his long fingers and took a deep breath.
"Long ago, before this town was inhabited by humans," he began, "it was a prospering elven city. And the King of that city was a good and righteous king and a good father to his son. One day the prince was out in the forest. He happened upon a particularly interesting cave with an intriguing pool. The boy went in to investigate."
Torrik was hanging on his words, his eyes bright and excited. Kirnoth took a sip of beer.
"The king worried about his son, but wanted very much to encourage the prince's strong independent nature," the elf continued. "So the king would follow his son, unbeknownst to the prince, protecting the boy from a distance. When he saw the boy enter the cave, the King had a strong ominous feeling. He followed to protect his son from the unknown danger. The prince heard his father just in time to witness the king's murder at the hands of the Drow. The boy too was murdered by the Drow."
The elf made a pretence of clearing his throat and sipped again at his flagon. Torrik was leaning forward in his chair, eagerly awaiting more. Kirnoth smiled.
"For centuries after the terrible event, the boy blamed himself for his father's untimely and dastardly death," he went on. "The boy's guilt tethered him to this world. He doomed himself to spend the centuries reliving that fateful night, following his father up the hill to his death, never being able to change the course of events."
Kirnoth bowed his head in conclusion.
"Well Torrik, that is my tale," he said. "Was it worth the effort?"
"Fantastic!" Torrik exclaimed, clasping his hands together and smiling. "It was worth that effort and more, my friend. That effort and more"
The storyteller took a sip of his beer and pulled thoughtfully at his beard. "It was this elven boy's bones that we buried?" he asked.
"Yes," Kirnoth said. "You and I and young Murio have put an end to that boy's suffering by finally laying him to rest in his home land and relieving him of the misplaced burden of his father's death."
"How magnificent," Torrik bubbled. "To be a part of the story itself. Simply magnificent. Well, it is certain that I must change my tale to fit the facts. I can't imagine how it is that the story that has been told here for so long could be so wrong!"
"It is my belief that the Drow, in their unfathomable evil, created the tale you told to exacerbate the king and prince's suffering," the elf said.
"Mayhap," Torrik agreed with a nod. "Mayhap. But there have been no reports of dark elves hereabouts. There are rumors from the north, but never here. I wonder..."
His voice trailed off and he continued pulling at his beard. His eyes were fixed on his plate.
Kirnoth was unable to repress a yawn. Torrik looked up and chuckled.
"It appears that the day's activities have taken their toll, my friend," he said, fishing a few coins out of his purse. "I'll not keep you away from slumber any longer. You've given me much to ponder and I still must pay a visit on Elder Pagetti to tell him of your troubles with Marst."
"Should I accompany you?" Kirnoth asked. He hoped that the answer would be, "No." He had little strength left and his eyes seemed to be weighted down with lead.
"No. No," the old man replied with a scowl. "There's no need for that. Alphond Pagetti and I are old friends and it's been too long since I've called on him. It will be good to speak with him, even if the tidings I bring are poor. But, before I go, tell me: will you be staying in Shiningwater or must you move on?"
"Unfortunately, my good friend, I must be moving on," the elf said. "My reason for leaving my own city was to search out adventure. I sense there are adventures waiting for me the likes of which I have never dreamed."
"You may find adventure right here in Shiningwater," Torrik told him. "There is still the King's sword to recover for one thing. There are also the ruins of his castle a day's ride to the east. The wizard Sirgil sometimes has need of an adventurer to locate some rare spell components. And I'm sure that Murio could benefit from your knowledge."
Kirnoth smiled at the old man and shook his head.
"I have no interest in swords and castles, Torrik," he said. "But you have been a kind friend and I shall not forget you. You gave me the gift of my first adventure and directed me toward the experience of helping a soul in need."
"I understand, my friend," the storyteller replied with a nod. "I'll not try to convince you to stay. Shiningwater is a small town and there is much to see in the rest of the world."
"Thank you for understanding," the mage said. "However, I shan't leave Shiningwater until after you have spoken to the Elder. There may be questions about or consequences to my actions, and I do not want that to fall on your shoulders in my absence."
"I wouldn't worry about that, my friend," the old man said. "There is little love for Marst and his ilk hereabouts and I can certainly speak highly of your character. I think that Alphond was close to running him out of town even before this incident. With my recommendation the penalties imposed may be stiffer yet."
He gave a wink and shuffled off to the front door and into the night.
A southern wind had risen during the night, and it howled around The Old Raccoon like a banshee when Kirnoth awoke the next morning. He felt nearly back to full strength, but he felt less than healthy and his joints were stiff and clumsy yet. Still, the recuperative powers of slumber were doing their part to return him to normal.
Time, he knew, was the only remedy for his condition.
He spent the early morning hours carefully studying his spellbook until his stomach's rumbling could no longer be ignored. He quickly dressed and headed downstairs.
The common room was bustling with activity and awash with morning sunshine. A tall man with dark goatee and a longsword strapped to his belt ambled his way across the room to meet the elf at the stairs.
"Good sir Kirnoth?" the man asked, extending his thick hand in greeting.
"I am," the mage responded and clasped the man's hand.
"I am Arron, Captain of the Guard," the man told him. He turned easily and slipped his hand behind Kirnoth and ushered him toward a table near the hearth. A large, greasy man was sitting alone there, sipping at a flagon of ale.
"Elder Pagetti wishes to speak to you," Arron said. He pressed firmly against Kirnoth's back, urging him toward the table.
Elder Pagetti was an unimpressive specimen, to say the least. He was shorter than Kirnoth, but outweighed him by at least a hundred pounds, probably much more. His clothes were of the same kind worn by others in the village, but his shirt was untucked revealing a bit of hairy stomach. His vest was completely unbuttoned, and the scarf tied at his throat was nearly swallowed by his prodigious jowls. His pantaloons alone could have made a rather spacious tent.
He grunted as Kirnoth approached, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and leaned forward. He smiled and offered his meaty hand.
"Good sir Kirnoth," he said enthusiastically as they shook. "My name is Alphond Pagetti. I am the Village Elder. I understand that you had an altercation with one of Shiningwater's less upstanding citizens."
Kirnoth sat across from the man and Captain Arron drew up another chair between the two. Briefly, the elf explained his story much as he had to Torrik the day before. During it all, Elder Pagetti ate sausages and drank ale. Arron listened to the tale intently asking a question or two as Kirnoth spoke.
"Humph," Pagetti said when the mage had finished. "I've always thought that Marst would come to no good. It's sad really. His parents are both such good people."
"Marst hasn't been seen in Shiningwater for several days," the Captain told Kirnoth. "The riff-raff that he associates with have likewise left town."
"We have no way of knowing where they have gotten to," Pagetti added, mopping at his sweating forehead with his handkerchief. "And we have no real way to enforce Shiningwater's laws beyond the village borders. But now that I have heard your complaint, you can consider the matter officially lodged. Master Torrik has sworn Oath on your behalf. No one of equal standing in the village is willing to do the same for Marst. Justice will await his return."
Captain Arron nodded gravely.
"And now, if you have nothing to add to the complaint, you are free to leave the village," he told the elf.
"Thank you sirs," Kirnoth replied. "It was a pleasure meeting both of you. I think I shall say my good-byes, get my affairs in order and leave in the morning."
He got to his feet and nodded politely at each man.
"Take care on your journey, good sir," Arron said. "If Shiningwater can fall prey to bandits then I daresay that the open road will be little better."
Kirnoth spent the rest of the day going through his gear and tending to his bills. Lorillard charged him an even 16 gold for the care of his horse and his outstanding room and board fees. The innkeeper gave him a new tunic in exchange for an afternoon's entertainment. The elf's sleight-of-hand trickery kept The Old Raccoon's patrons amused throughout the day.
He barely found time to study his spellbook a bit before he supped that evening with Torrik one last time.
The storyteller would not hear of being repaid for the warm coat and mittens.
"I'm but one man," he said. "What use does one man have for two coats?"
He suggested that Kirnoth visit Barnacus, the capital of The Realms. It lay some distance to the east in Elcaden along the coast of the Tyredemia Sea. It was, he told the elf, reported to be an open city meaning that all manner of races were likely to be found within its walls. It seemed a likely locale to search out adventure.
In turn, Kirnoth suggested to Torrik that perhaps Murio could adventure to get the king's sword as it seemed relatively safe to do that now. The storyteller apologized to the mage for young Murio's absence and promised to tell the boy of Kirnoth's idea.
In fact, the elf did not have an opportunity to once more thank the lad for his help. The next morning, after a large breakfast, he caught sight of a shepherd tending his flock amidst an ancient circle of standing stones on a hilltop far from the road. Kirnoth thought it might be Murio; the figure returned the elf's wave as he moved south along the narrow trail away from Shiningwater.
With a full belly and the sun warming the morning he headed toward the caravan route, Longway, which he knew would lead eastward into Elcaden.
Before he ever reached Strenchburg Junction, the first village he'd come to that officially paid allegiance to the Realm of Elcaden, he had to pass through several other human settlements. They all had a certain similarity: Roseberry, Dagger Rock, Moorwall. Each a small cluster of wooden buildings running along the caravan route. Each cluster had at least one inn where the people gathered to eat and drink and swap gossip. In Roseberry it was The Waxing Moon; in Dagger Rock there had been three: The Happy Half-ogre, The Hearthfire Inn, and Dagger Rock Tavern; and in Moorwall he'd stayed at the Much Moor Ale Inn. He thought that was a particularly clever name and told the owner, Solemn, as much. In Strenchburg Junction, he'd stayed at Hammond's Rest and did a bit of entertaining to get his room for free.
No where was his stay as interesting as it had been in Shiningwater, and no where were any of the Inn's patrons as friendly as Torrik had been. Still he was able to travel and rest as he chose moving ever eastward along the Longway and eventually onto Merchant's Way. Where a more determined rider might have done it in half the time, it took him a moonsdance of travel at his own unhurried pace to reach the heart of Elcaden.