'You're a madman,' she said.
'I am bold,' he said. 'There is a difference.'
Each city in Faerie has its own variation on the Procession of the Magi during the solstice festival, but my favorite is in the small city of Hawthorne-by-the-Sea. Rather than the solemn function seen most places, the procession in Hawthorne is a bawdy, ribald affair, replete with laughter and inebriation, in which the townspeople dressed as the magi are insulted and openly mocked by the citizenry as they make their way around the square.
The first in line is a 'general,' representing Leadership. This is a plum assignment and is given to the fattest man in Hawthorne. He barks orders that no one heeds, and does his best to run the parade into walls and blind alleys.
Next comes a 'Master of the Gates,' representing Folding. He complains that walking does not suit him, for he can fold where he wishes.
A 'Master Toucher' follows, representing Awareness, riding a touched donkey, which is in reality two boys in a costume. The donkey wanders back and forth, ignoring the Master Toucher's commands, and insulting him in the foulest language imaginable.
Each magus comes in turn and is ridiculed.The spellhardener representing Binding, carrying a floppy sword made of reeds. The blind Glamourist. The bargemaster representing Motion, who bears a heavy log on his back. A fearful, accident-prone thaumaturge for Resistance. A faux hunchback for Poise, an idiot for Insight, an alwayswrong seer for Premonition, a mean-spirited brute for Empathy.
The final mage is always an Elementalist who pretends to eat horse dung, claiming that he transforms it into roast beef in his mouth. He typically gets the biggest laugh.
The last in the procession is a hooded figure who represents no Gift; the meaning of this figure is lost to the ages. Some say that he represents Death; others believe him to be an avatar of the fabled Thirteenth Gift. No one I spoke to in Hawthorne could tell me what that Gift might be.The crowd does not acknowledge his presence, and when the parade ends, he slips off into the night without revealing his identity.
Stil-Eret, 'The Unruly Eastern Provinces;' Travels at Home and Abroad
Fate is fond of her little reversals. All the better to stab you in the back.
-Master jedron
ilverdun awoke in his tattered bed at Whitemount, feeling unbearably hung over. He sat up, his mouth dry, his ears ringing, his stomach twisting in his belly. He leaned over and retched, but nothing came out.
On the table next to the bed were a pitcher of water and a small loaf of fresh bread. He drained the pitcher without bothering to pour it into the nearby glass and wolfed down the bread. A fresh change of clothes awaited him on the floor.
He had been plagued by dreams. Sela. Ironfoot. Preyia. Falling in flames. Bel Zheret.
He stood up long enough to dress, but then his head started to spin again, and he sat back on the bed. How had he gotten here? He couldn't remember. Everything since his last visit here was a blur, a melange of disconnected images swirling in his mind.
The door opened and Than entered. No-not Ilian. Jedron.
'It's about time you woke up,' he barked. 'This isn't an inn, you know.'
'What happened?'
'My guess is that you had one too many whiskeys last night and now you've come to learn the evils of drink firsthand.'
'I don't remember how I got here. How did I get here from Elenth?'
'Elenth?' said Jedron, his brow furrowed. 'What are you talking about?'
'The last thing I remember I was in the Unseelie city of Elenth. We were to meet a priest named Virum, but then the Bel Zheret appeared and ... I don't remember the rest.'
'You're talking nonsense, boy. You've been here at Whitemount for the past six weeks. And if you're done hallucinating, it's time to get back to your training.'
'What?'
'Training. It's what you were sent here for, remember?'
