The Reluctant Champion

2. Conversation with a Gnome

The next day dawned clear and bright. Lidah rose with the sun—long habit winning out over weariness—and found Galen up before her. He had bacon on the fire, porridge in the pot, and warm milk sitting in cans by the door. He was just stooping to pick up an empty bowl from outside the kitchen door.

"Good morning," he said.

"Good morning. And what is that?" she asked, looking at the bowl.

"Oh, I put this out for the tomten. Ill chance if I forget his milk."

She raised her eyebrows. "You mentioned the tomten last night. What is it?"

He gave her look for look. "Tomten—house elf—guardian of the hearth. Surely you have such in your land."

"Oh yes." She hesitated, then went on. "The country folk set great store by them, but I confess we don't regard them much."

"That's your loss," he replied. "Care for your tomten is a measure of the health of your household, and"—he winked—"your household's cats."

She chuckled and whatever constraint might have been between them dissipated while they ate their breakfast. But when it was done, she returned to the subject of the night before.

"So—for my father and my land I must ask again: will you come back with me?"

"No," he said gently. "For my father and my land, I cannot come."

She sighed. "My father would make it worth more than a freehold. You could be a lord in my land, or return rich enough to buy a lordship in this one. Will you not come?"

He shook his head. "I will not."

She nodded, accepting defeat. "Then I'd best be going, I suppose."

"That you'll not!" he said. "You're skin and bone already. You bide a few days, you hear me? Rest and eat. Time enough to talk of journeying when you've caught your breath."

"I can't impose on you so."

"Not at all. I'll be working the fields by day. You just rest and take your meals. We'll talk in the evening of what you might do. Is it agreed?"

"But I—" her voice faltered, and she started over. "Yes. Thank you. I'll stay a few days."

"That's right. Now I'm off to see to a few things. You make yourself comfortable."

He half expected her to be gone by the time he returned, but she was there at midday dinner and again at supper. They talked easily now, despite her request and his refusal. They chatted like old friends—old friends long parted, with much to catch up on. They talked of his lands and his hopes for them, of his time at sea, of her travels and what she had seen. He played for her on his flute, simple country airs and ravishing complex melodies that left her breathless. In return, she sang the songs of her country for him, odd quavering songs full of half-tones and shivering slides from note to note. He sat on one side of the fire, improvising a counterpoint to her thin thread of melody, watching the firelight play on the planes of her face and sparkle in her black eyes, caught out of time by this exotic creature who had alighted for a moment in his life.

They did not speak of her quest or what she would do now it was over. Yet they were always aware of it, and her eyes were shadowed. His dreams that night were troubled and obscure

The next day was much the same. Once more she asked the question, "Will you come?" and once more he answered, "I will not." And she accepted his answer without protest.

That day he was mending fences in one of his farthest pastures but her face danced before him all morning, her voice lilting in his ears. He kept finding himself standing, maul or rail in his hands, gazing at nothing. Then with a mental slap he would push himself on—only to have her image dance before him again.