Near North Gate, XXVIII Frostaire, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Nine. Before Prime.
Dale, Hamral, Mendelor, Mot, Renton, Ruik, Friar Sidrach Landry, St. James, Valerius, Vandoren, Wyk.
It is dark and still in the empty town square. A thin layer of snow, a few fingers deep, had fallen in the night and now covers everything.
“Hurry up, Dale,” says St. James, his teeth chattering in the cold. “Quit interfering with yourself.”
Dale quickens his pace to join the rest of the consortes.
“I have little interest in the luxurious accommodations of the powerful and affluent Bishop,” says Friar Sidrach, tucking his hands under his armpits as he walks. “No indeed, my sons. We Gerardians are sworn to lives of poverty. But I would like to glimpse at that marvelous babe, Agnes.”
“We could hardly decline such a remarkable invitation, Friar,” says Valerius. “Even if it means some of us must need compromise their fine sense of ideals.”
“Humph,” answers Friar Sidrach. “Do you realize that this is the first day of Advent? We should probably spend this day fasting and contemplating greater things than the pleasant hospitalities of the Bishop.”
“Well, with his inky robes, at least Valerius is dressed for the occasion,” adds Ruik.
“What’s this?” asks Mendelor, peering ahead. Standing near the gate is a large man, bundled in heavy furs, standing beside an old and thin horse. Next to the horse is a tethered pony, heavily loaded with gear.
“By the Cup!” cries Sir Will Garnfellow, as if genuinely surprised to suddenly meet the consortes in this place at such an hour. “I had heard that you lads were bound for Canglen. What happy coincidence that we should meet now, as I am headed for that very same city!”
“Leave off, Sir Girth,” says St. James. “We don’t need any more hands.”
“Oh, my dear, dear lad,” says Garnfellow, with a hearty laugh. “Do not worry yourself. It is no trouble for me at all, no trouble at all. I am only too glad to lend my services to a righteous cause. And as I said, I was already heading in the very same direction, anyway.”
“I think what St. James is trying to say here,” says Vandoren, sweetly, “Is that our mission is urgent and possibly… perilous. We think it best to travel discretely, and without the fanfare that naturally accompanies a man of your… great… stature.”
“Nonsense!” roars Garnfellow. “As to peril…” And here the fat knight, after a couple of tugs, draws forth a battered, bejeweled longsword from its scabbard, holding it high. “As to peril, let me say that is has been too long since Sir Will has played at sharps with the vicious rucks, or with the wicked strong-thieves that plague the highways. Let all such dastards tremble in fear!” With a gasp, Garnfellow sheaths the blade. “And as for discretion, I must tell you that in my day I traveled with—nay, I led several very delicate diplomatic missions on behalf of my liege. No, lad, worry not: the Sir Will Garnfellow you see before you is not simply a fierce and formidable warrior. I am, if I say so myself, also well known as a most cunning and subtle negotiator!”
Sir Will takes a couple of deep breaths and then heaves himself into the saddle; his pitiable old horse nearly buckles under the load.
“Now lads, ONWARD, TO ADVENTURE!”
Garnfellow rides triumphantly through the north gate, and militiamen on the wall wave to him as he passes. St. James shrugs and follows, the rest of the consortes close behind. Not far from the gate Garnfellow startles two crows, which had been feasting on some rotten vegetables tossed from the wall. As they caw and flutter away, Noxumbra shuffles about on Valerius’s shoulder.
“Two,” murmurs Valerius. “A fortuitous sign, consortes. A surprise—perhaps a gift, or maybe a discovery.”
“What the hell is he babbling on about?” asks St. James.
“Counting crows,” answers Friar Sidrach. “Many of the simple folk hereabouts believe they can spae the future from counting crows.”
“Auspice,” mutters Valerius. “It is properly called auspice, and it is a most ancient form of divination, known to the Tynans. And it is a bit more involved than making a simple tally.”
“Bah, you and your pagans,” says Friar Sidrach. “Only the Five know for sure what is to come.”
Noxumbra suddenly croaks and takes flight.
“I believe I’ve heard one of the rhymes,” says Vandoren.
One for sorrow
Two for joy
three for a girl
Four for a boy
Five for silver
Six for gold
Seven for a secret
Ne’er to be told.
“Well, I don’t know much about counting crows,” says Ruik, “But I have a little song that might lighten our hearts for the long, cold journey ahead of us.
Wyk! Wyk! Ya best be quick!
Her pa’s just ‘round the bend!
An’ if he catches ya scroggin’ away
Yer life will surely end!
The consortes all laugh heartily at this jest. Wyk blushes and grins for a while, but after several more paces he soon adopts a very uncharacteristic, almost wistful look, as if he were thinking of something that happened long ago in a distant place.
The Village of Higham, The Feast of St. Rosemund, VII Whitland, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Nine. Nones.
Dale, Hamral, Mendelor, Mot, Renton, Ruik, Friar Sidrach Landry, St. James, Valerius, Vandoren, Sir Will Garnfellow, Wyk.
“With all of this snow,” says Friar Sidrach, “I fear it will be another week or more before we reach Canglen.”
“Aye, good Friar,” says Garnfellow. “This is nasty weather for travel. The snows set in early this year. Perhaps, the Five willing, this means we are due for an early spring.”
“It is hard to say,” answers the Gerardian, softly.
The consortes sit in the large, warm kitchen in the rectory of Higham’s only parish. Outside can be heard the laughter of merry villagers, celebrating the popular Feast of St. Rosemund, when many young girls try to learn the name of their future husbands by observing the falling spiral of an apple peel.
“Well, in any case,” says Garnfellow, “At least the snow has brought a temporary halt to the fighting. Perhaps next summer, our Pentian armies will finally defeat Tereus once and for all, and liberate the Frounter.”
“I don’t see why the hell we don’t attack the rucks right now,” says St. James.
“Ah, lad,” says Garnfellow. “It’s hard enough to supply an army in high summer, when there is food aplenty. Imagine trying to feed a thousand men on the march in bitterest Caulding!”
“But that’s just when the rucks attacked, last year,” says St. James.
“True, true,” answers Garnfellow. “But their attack succeeded in part because it was so unexpected. And I understand that the invasion cost Tereus dearly.”
“Well, he must have done something right,” says St. James.
“Undoubtedly, the Shaithim must have granted him some wicked power,” says Garnfellow.
“Enough!” cries Friar Sidrach, slamming his flask of ale onto the table. “Enough of this dark talk. The Worms are but deceivers only, they cannot grant a man a single fart without the Five willing it to be so. Gracious! This is the day of sweet Saint Rosemund, who died rather than renounce her faith to the pagans. Let us respect her feast!”
Before the City of Canglen, XVI Whitland, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Nine. Nones.
Dale, Hamral, Mendelor, Mot, Renton, Ruik, Friar Sidrach Landry, St. James, Valerius, Vandoren, Sir Will Garnfellow, Wyk.
The city of Canglen lies at the base of a long, hilly region and straddles the banks of the river Tenage. Canglen is either a very large town or a small city, as reckoned by the men of Frilond: half again as large as Heremac, though not so great as Abbermark. What is perhaps most striking to a traveller approaching Canglen is the great wall that encircles almost the entire town, a reminder that the city marks the beginning of the Frounter.
The town is dominated by two great structures: The Cathedral of St. Daniel the Convert, and the Fortress of the Warder Order. The Cathedral was mostly completed over ten years ago, though construction continues in fits and starts, as annual funding permits. St. Daniel is fashioned in the modern style, with gently curving forms framing five great spires that rise almost a hundred feet towards the heavens.
“By the Cup!” exclaims Garnfellow, looking down on the city. “We’ve made it!”
The Cathedral of St. Daniel the Convert, The Feast of St. Thirsten, XVI Whitland, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Nine. Nones.
Clement, Dale, Hamral, Mendelor, Mot, Renton,Ruik, Friar Sidrach Landry, St. James, Valerius, Vandoren, Sir Will Garnfellow, Wyk.
“Ah, friends,” says Clement, “It has been too long since I have seen you. Though good Sir Dunstan keeps me informed of your doings. Would that I could have been with you at Abberlane last Whitsunday!”
“I’m not sure your Cynthia would have approved of you abandoning your studies,” says Vandoren, with a smile.
Clement blushes.
“No, you are right there, my friend. Soon you will have to call me Clement Physic, and seek me out to patch you back up after scrapes with ruck-men.”
“So you may return to Heremac?” asks Friar Sidrach.
“Perhaps,” answers Clement, “The Five willing. Dear Father Carder is eager to have us near, but until Tereus has been driven out, I suspect we will stay here.”
“Not to worry, lad,” says Garnfellow. “The rucks will be on the run, soon enough!”
“I hope so,” answers Clement. “Well, Bishop Martin has certainly set you all up nicely.”
Clement gestures to the sumptuous lodgings provided.
“Indeed, indeed,” says Ruik. “His Grace is most generous.”
“Have you met the Bishop yet?” asks Clement. “I am curious as to what he wants of you.”
“No,” says Vandoren, “We have been told that Bishop Martin has been busy composing his homily for the Yule, though he will grant an audience to us soon.”
“Well,” says Ruik, “While we wait, I thought I might as well present Wyk with this…”
Ruik draws for a small sack.
“What’s this?” asks Wyk.
“It is customary,” says Ruik, “On Saint Thirsten’s Day, for an employer to present his retainers with a gift of new livery. Please accept this humble handsel.”
“I never was a retainer, before,” says Wyk, looking at the new set of clothing. “I think I could get to like this.”
“And I have not forgotten the custom, either,” says Valerius, handing Mot a new set of clothing.
“Pretty clothes!” says Mot, carefully stroking the cloth like a new pet.
Dale looks at St. James.
“Oh, I, uh, uh,” stammers St. James. “Oh, why, right here! Here’s your present,” says St. James, disappearing and returning a few moments later with a small sack, stuffed with wrinkled clothes. “But you really should try these on later, my friend.”
Dale looks in the sack, and draws forth a set of trousers.
“These look a bit small,” he says, holding them against his own leg. The pants barely reach his knees.
“Oh, those can be mended,” says St. James.
“Excuse me, but those look like my trousers!” exclaims Ruik.
“What? What?” says St. James. “Damn that tailor! Trying to swindle me! I’ll get even with him, you can bet on that!”
Further discussion ends as Dunstan enters the room.
“It is time,” the old man announces. “The Bishop is ready to see you.”