shamanism. The things that attacked us in Hargan’s Wasteland, the thing that struck the ferry … They are quite different, nothing like our magic … Things like that can only be created with the help of the legendary and mythical House of Power.”
She walked away, treading gently on the soaking wet grass, and I was left alone.
To think.
After what the elfess and the goblin had told me, there were even more riddles, not fewer.
* * * Ranneng was awash with flowers. Sweet-scented roses of every possible color had invaded the entire town. The festival was in its second noisy day, and those who could still stand had spilled out into the streets, bawling out songs and dancing together in circles, gorging themselves on the free food laid out on tables and washing it down with the wine or beer that gushed out of huge barrels in torrents. It had always been this way and it always would be. Once a year, at the end of August, all the people glorified the gods.
Voices singing and yelling, the laughter and the music, the smells of wine, fine fresh bread, and roasted meat—it all mingled together into an atmosphere of vital festive joy.
Djok Imargo was walking down the street with a smile on his face.
He was a tall young man with broad shoulders and a firm jaw, brown eyes, absolutely black hair, and a mischievous smile. He radiated a feeling of calm confidence and high spirits.
People recognized him and waved to him, they shouted to him, inviting him to join one group or another, to drink a mug of beer or take a turn in some antic dance. It was hard not to notice him—tall and well- built, with a quiver of arrows on his hip and a powerful two-yard bow in his hands. Who did not know Djok Imargo, everybody’s favorite, the champion bowman at the last four royal tournaments?
“Hey, Djok, come over here!”
“Djok, dance with me! Oh, Djok!”
“Djok, it’s the royal tournament today! Good luck.”
“Hey, Djok! Let’s have a beer!”
“Five in a row, Djok!”
He smiled, nodded, waved his hand in response to the greetings, but he didn’t stop. Right now he wasn’t really interested in mugs of beer with foaming heads, or accommodating young beauties. At five o’clock today, he would become the champion archer for the fifth time, and only then would he be able to relax and celebrate his success.
It was still too early as yet—the tournament was not due to begin until after midday, and the archery contest was supposed to take place before the final jousts between the knights, just after the general combat and the swordsmen’s competition. Djok still had time to spare, and at the moment he was following the call of his heart.
The Street of Fruits was as crowded as every other part of town. People called to him a few times and slapped him on the shoulders, but he politely refused their invitations.
Djok stopped outside a large shop trading in fruits and vegetables, then pushed open the door and went inside. The bell jingled in greeting to let the owner know that he had a new customer. But then, it was a holiday, and no one was actually selling anything. The center of the room was occupied by a table, with people sitting round it and drinking beer.
“Ah, Djok, my boy!” said one of the men at the table, waving in greeting. “How good to see you! Come on in, don’t be shy. Someone pour the lad a beer.”
“Thank you, Master Lotr, but not just now. I have to keep a clear head today.”
The shopkeeper clapped a hand to his forehead.
“And I forgot, what a memory! Well then, my boy, will you show them all again?”
“I’ll try my best,” Djok replied.
“Plant one in the bull’s-eye for me,” said the scrawny Lotr, handing Djok a peach.
“It’ll be tough for you today, lad,” croaked the innkeeper whose establishment was next door to Master Lotr’s shop. “With a challenger like that!”
“Don’t talk nonsense, pudding head. Where will they find anyone to challenge Djok Imargo?” asked Lotr, raising his mug of beer.
“Nowhere, among the men, but the elves, now … I wouldn’t put my gold piece on Djok, begging your pardon, lad.…”
“What are you talking about, may the gods save you? What elves?” Lotr chuckled.
“The usual kind. Perfectly ordinary dark elves, with fangs. They fire bows much better than men do.”
“But what have elves got to do with the tournament, darkness take you!” the owner of a meat shop put in.
“You mean you still haven’t heard? Don’t you know that there’s a legation of dark elves arriving today to see the king, from the House of the … what is it now … the House of the Black Rose, that’s it. And who’s leading the legation? The crown prince of that house, with a name darkness only knows how to pronounce. And this crown prince has expressed a wish to take part in the tournament; to be precise, in the archery competition. And that’s why you’ll have a tough time of it, ay, lad. You won’t find an elf that easy to beat.”
“We’ll see,” Djok said with an indifferent shrug. He didn’t really believe in the rumors going round the town. “Master Lotr, where’s Lia?”
“In the garden. Go and see her,” the girl’s father replied amiably.
When Djok left, the innkeeper grinned and said: “Did you see how upset he was when I told him about the elf?”
“Ah, nonsense. Djok’s a good lad, he wasn’t upset at all.”
“You know best, Lotr. It’s your daughter he’s chasing, not mine.” The innkeeper chuckled, getting up from the table. The fat man had nothing more to do here, he had said what he had been told to say, and the Master would be pleased with him.
Lotr had the reputation of being a rich shopkeeper. Selling fruit had proved a profitable trade; he supplied his goods to the tables of many noblemen in the capital, even to the king’s. The money poured in, and there was nothing strange about the fact that the inner yard of the shop had been transformed into a flower garden with three gently murmuring fountains. A girl was sitting on a bench beside one of them.
She was busy with her embroidery, and a bloodred poppy and a sky blue harebell had already blossomed on the white fabric. A boy about seven years old was sitting beside the girl. He was launching a little boat into the fountain.
“Lia?” Djok called.
She looked up from her task, smiling the smile that he loved so much.
“Djok! How glad I am to see you!”
“Surely you didn’t think I’d forgotten you?” he asked.
“No, but the royal tournament is today, and you have to be there.”
“Your eyes are worth more to me than any tournament.”
Lia lowered her gaze modestly and smiled. Then she put down her embroidery, got to her feet gracefully, and took a strawberry out of a huge dish of fruit.
“Do you want it?”
“Thank you, your father gave me a peach.” He showed her the succulent fruit with its velvety skin.
“A pity, it’s very good,” said the girl, taking a bite out of the ripe strawberry.
“I’m going to win this tournament for you, Lia,” Djok said, sitting down with her little brother, who was completely absorbed in playing with his boat.
“Ah, Djok! But haven’t you heard what they say about the elf?”
