Sephtis

44. A grand tale.

The visitor is the bard, Balta. It has been many moons since I last saw him at Droug's wedding feast to Morag. If he is surprised to see me with another people, he does not show it. Ashoka's people welcome him warmly, and because he has traveled far he is given a warm bath, and dressed in fine, clean garments that are the village's gift too him. Then he joins our feast. Though many of his stories and songs are familiar to me, I have never enjoyed them as much as I do this night.

At this nights feast I am a respected guest, and I sit beside Eleutheros, who is at his father's right hand. I have a band of gold about my neck, and bracelets up my arms, and a fine woolen cloak fixed at my left shoulder with a pure silver and jeweled pin, all gifts from the people. I had bathed at Eleutheros' sister's house, and my skin smells of lavender oil, my cheeks reddened from the juices of a crushed roots, and my hair combed till it shines. Ayra had then taken me aside, and made me wear a finely woven, linen tunic that bares my whole back, and many a time tonight I have caught the men eyeing my back hungrily, and I am thankful for my cloak, but I say naught, for if this is their way, I shall not protest. Eleutheros gave me a earthen-colored headband, and I feel awkward in it, for it is the color of his father's house, and I do not think I have the right to wear it. But Eleutheros thinks I have, and often looks at me smiling, his eyes cloaked by the glow of the roaring fire in the hearth. He honors me, by offering choices pieces of meat from his plate. He slices the meat, and gives it to me on the blade of his feasting knife, a large, jeweled blade that hangs from his belt in a leather sheath. It is a new knife, this one, and replaces the one I forced from his hand when he battled Amitz. I take the meat, looking into his eyes, and my kinsfolk seem another world away.

On Ashoka's other side sits Balta, the bard. Although he is an elderly Fae now, his wings are still vivd with color, and he is fiery and spirited, and an impressive actor. His face changes with each story, each poem, and each song that he tells; one breath crying, and the next laughing, and we are all so enthralled by him that we forget to eat.

The feast is lengthy, as it is so interrupted with merriment and entranced silences as we hang onto Balta's every word. But at last, the food is cleared away, and we all sit about the fire and tell stories. Eleutheros' sister tells a funny tale about her first disagreement with her husband, and how she had hit him so hard he had fallen into a bath of cold water. When she had finished she looks at Eleutheros and says:

"Tell us your story brother."

"I do not have one," he says with a laugh. His wings have been freed from the flesh of his back, and are quivering from his laughter, his healing scars shining like molten quicksilver. The firelight is seemingly captured in his wings veins, and swirl with shades of gold and black, so beautiful, and strong, putting many other men's wings to shame.

"Of course you do!" His sister cries. "You fought a wolf, and won. Is that not a grand tale to tell?"

Eleutheros flushes deeply, and looks at me sideways. "It is not so grand a tale," he says, but the people are in an uproar, demanding and imploring him to tell it. So he does, slowly at first, warming to it as he goes.

"There was a time I fought a wolf," Eleutheros says, and the people are very quiet. "He was huge, large as a pony and strong, a mighty fallen warrior from the Moon goddess's own men. I trespassed into his father's lands and angered him. He growled, warning me that this place where I stood belonged to the fallen, and to the cursed and that I had no right to be here. "But I am a warrior," I said to the great wolf form, "This forest is mine, and I shall walk where I please, for I am a man, and you are only a beast." And the wolf growled again, and bared his great fangs at me. So I showed him I am a man, and a warrior, and I fought him. Bare-handed, without my knife, or sword. It was a good fight, full of courage and strength, and the victor was noble, and mighty. So noble was he that, at the end of the fight, when he held my throat between his great jaws, and could have killed me, he walked away. "I give you back your life," He says to me, "because you are only man, and I am a beast of the moon, and of the man. A cursed one am I, stuck, bound forever by your ancestors. And I grant you life, something mine were denied."

I look at Balta, and his eyes are fixed on Eleutheros face, and he is smiling a little. Then his gaze moves to me. I wonder if he realizes I have lived with the wolves, and that it is because of me that Eleutheros fought. I suspect he does know, for this bard can read peoples heart, and I look at my hands.

Ashoka is delighted with the story, and slaps Eleutheros on the shoulder as he returns to his seat.

"Not a bad tale my son, a mix of truth and tales of old. Now, Ashoka, tell us another story. Is there any news of other villages? And what happened to the old Fae down the mountains?"

Many stories the bard tells, stories of battles fought, and marriages, and births, victories, and defeats, heroes and fools. We laugh at many of the tales, recognizing our own foibles. The bard's honesty is never ending, many a Fae has had his reputation ruined by Balta, for the bard had hear of some misguided thing that had been done. It is this reason that he is so respected, and well treated. For if a people is rude, or stingy to him, the whole mountain hears of it. We are all the topics of his stories.

When the story telling is finished pitchers of fermented berry juice are poured, and cold, sliced meat from the feast is passed about on large platters. Eleutheros pours me a potent smelling drink from a flask tied to his own belt, and smiles at me, showing his white teeth. I am not used to so much food, after living so frugally with the wolves, and the feast, combined with the strange drink from Eleutheros and the lack of sleep a great weariness settles upon me. I lean against Eleutheros, and listen to the fire crackling, and the faint songs of the day birds beyond the firmly shuttered windows. It is warm near the flames, and I doze for awhile, with Eleutheros' arm keeping me from falling from my stool, my head on his shoulder.

I am woken by music. The tranquil, lovely sounds of the bard's lyre, and his singing. I sit up straight, with my arms about my knees, and listen, enraptured, barely even noticing how my woolen cloak is removed, and how the woman of the village, one by one, are drawing symbols with wet earth on my bare skin.