Draig

Prologue: Turtle Soup

Three weeks ago
On the road to Siarad
Campsite

One night after dinner, Popple told the children a story. They leaned in, listening intently to the gnome.

"A long long long long long time ago, there was a boy, about thirteen years old. He was the smartest person in the Fens, and his name was Trang.

"There was a war, then, between the Fens and the Fells. A Fellish man named Seamus went into the Fens, and he had a question. 'In your country, can you make drawings of wild animals, like I can, in one minute?'

"Trang said, 'You draw two wild animals in one minute. I'll draw, in one second, TEN wild animals.'

"Seamus went first. He picked up a brush in each hand and drew-- whisha-wisha-wisha-wisha-- and in one minute, with this hand Seamus drew a bear, and with the other hand he drew a lion. Beautiful!

"Trang said, 'You drew very well. Now, in one second – ten wild animals!' He took his ten fingers, and dipped them in ink, and drew them down all at the same time across the paper.

"'Ten worms,' he said. 'I win.'"

Trent Hodges looked at Popple, big brown eyes rounding on his little face. "That was cheating!" he said.

Popple smiled at Trent and winked. "Remember that folk can tell the truth and still fool you, my fine boy. Words matter."

Lord Gisle smoked a pipe next to the fire, watching the exchange. Smoke rings circled his head, hovering before they dissipated in the evening wind. The rich smell of pipe tobacco blended with the scent of the fire, the stew pot and the damp smell of the river. He shifted on his log and looked at Pezzik with unspoken questions.

"Tell us your story," Pezzik urged the Lord. The man was searching for answers, perhaps if she learned more about him then she would be able to give them. "How did you come to seek freedom from the rule of the Conclave? No man comes to such a decision without a story to tell."

Some of the soldiers wandered closer to the fire and settled down around it, resting on logs or on the chairs they had brought down from the boats. The gnomes too, pulled out pipes and sat with an air of expectation. Gisle brushed off his breeches and puffed a long draw on his pipe, exhaling slowly through curled mustaches.

"You asked what led me to oppose Conclave teaching and authority. I've answered this question in villages both across our broken land and in the halls of mountain kings. I usually answer with questions and with facts."

Facts. The word sped like a thrown knife into the night, sharp-edged.

"Fact. I have seen a Cantor lie, yet we are taught that they cannot lie without a dispensation."

Gisle paused. Smoke wreathed his wrinkled forehead as he chose his next words.

"Fact. The Conclave holds other nations in a vise as they collect wealth and favors in exchange for any paltry crumb of influence. They miraculously deliver when it benefits them.

"Fact. All of what we have been told about the Song and the Tree came from one man. Modric. Fact. Few care about the past, and fewer still want truth.

"You deserve more than just facts, more than the skeleton that I share with those who find me a curiosity and a madman. You must have the flesh upon the bones, because indeed I seek the same from you, my gnome friends."

The fire cracked and popped. Sparks whirled upward, dancing in time to the sound of Gisle's rolling Lohewelden accent. He stood, outlined by the flames and began to pace. The intensity of his voice pitched to be heard by all gathered around the fires. The wind sighed in the trees, a gentle background chorus.