“There are more important things right now,” Roan replied with a serious look on his face. “You must tell me how old I am. This is the riddle I have chosen for you.” Roan rubbed his hands together in a calm fashion.
“I assure you, I don’t have time for your games,” Ing said.
“Games are not present. There is but one riddle. Use your sight and you will find the answer.”
“That’s not fair,” Ing burst out. “That’s not a riddle at all. How could I know such a thing?”
“You can find the answer,” Roan said. “I am confident you have the wits about you to solve it. In fact, I’m certain.”
Chapter 5: The Wandering Man
Ing thought to himself about the riddle long and hard. He was eager to get this mess over with. Roan was busy fiddling with a bronze necklace that hung down to his chest. It looked as if his mind was somewhere else. Perhaps the item held sentimental value to him.
Ing spotted a single ring on each of Roan’s fingers. On each ring, a figure was etched. They looked like figures from the calendar that was used many years ago in the land. Roan did not have rings on his thumbs, so it came to a total of eight rings.
Each one of the figures corresponded with a specific month--this much, he knew for sure. He was unsure, however, of which months they corresponded with. He closed his eyes and tried to visualize the books he’d looked at that contained the old calendar. In his mind, he could see the figures forming and he tried to place them beside the proper months.
After several long moments of hard concentration, he believed he had it right. The warrior with sword in hand corresponded to November, the eleventh month; the blacksmith with hammer in hand corresponded to September, the ninth month; and the magician in the robe corresponded to October, the tenth month.
Roan wore two rings with the blacksmith, two with the magician, and four with the warrior.
Ing combined the months together, and came up with eighty-two by a miscalculation. Looking at Roan, he wondered if he could really be that old. He thought of answering the question, but he did not dare take the risk of answering wrong.
After a long while, Ing decided to speak up. “You are eighty-two years old.”
Roan did not respond. “I said you are eighty-two,” he demanded.
Roan stopped fingering the necklace at his chest.
“Eighty-two years old?” he said, looking upon Ing for several moments. “Is that your final answer?” Roan smiled, but his teeth did not show.
Ing was worried he may have miscounted. There was no way this man could be that old. It was sixty-two, he thought to himself. Ing smiled triumphantly at Roan.
“You are sixty-two years old.”
“Yes, Ing, I am sixty-two years old,” Roan said letting out a sigh. He looked around, scanning the horizon until something seemed to catch his eye off in the distance. “We must abstain from speaking for the time being. They are on their way and will intercept us if we do not make haste. Lableck is nearby,” he breathed as he rushed Ing along.
When they reached Garlie, a town in Lableck, Roan came to a halt. “Something isn’t right,” he said. Ing didn’t respond. Ironically, he was the one out of breath.
Roan’s eyes searched the area. “We must be cautious.” Then he began to sing a song as they walked.
In the days of Erdwick there were three
The Warrior, the Magician, and the Blacksmith with the mighty leaf.
The Warrior and Blacksmith fought the Magician
To keep his powers imprisoned.
The trees were tall, the shadows far,
The forest had not yet answered his call,
The waters clear, the grass was green,
In the south there sat his king.
In the north they slowly came,
And built a mighty tower,
To bring shelter from the storm's flame,
And protect themselves on the morrow.
As they neared their final hour
Heavy burdens they set in the lane,
And with it the weapons of power,
Although it caused them sorrow.
In days still old,
The Magician's Rod was struck asunder,
Or so it was told,
And he lost the power he borrowed.
The Rod floated on during the dark thunder,
Found its way to the hold,
To its blunder,
So the Magician knew sorrow.
He gathered his forces and set sail,
Into easterly winds unknown,
The Magician peered over the rail
And looked on to the morrow.
In the ocean his path was shown,
Through the relentless gale,
Ships carried on the wind were blown,
Would the east once again know sorrow?
He sought the far shores where the Warrior did die,
Where leaves of green were in abundance,
In the north people did cry,
And sat before his knees quavering,
To see the Magician in his comeuppance.
Who of those could, did fly,
And called it prudence,
To live free rather than an underling.
When November passed, the Warrior was remembered,
And his memory released sudden joy,
In the snows of December,
They sat there singing.
Filled with such joy,
They knew why he was remembered,
He had lived and set sail, Ahoy!
For the ocean that was shimmering.
In his heart, the Magician felt hatred,
He remembered the peculiar sting,
He called the ones from the Forest to share his labors,
And there came from his beckoning.
To hear the people dance and sing,
He could hear his own slaver,
And in the darkness a general came forth to bring,
His master his soul, which the Magician found enchanting.
As the Magician looked into the horizon,
Within the bowels of his mind,
He saw a vision yet dim,
Of a gate for barring.
Loud rang the hammers no matter the time,
The dark town was filled with loads of iron and tin,
He saw the gate within his mind,
Not caring for the land that he was marring.
But in the south another tale was told,
Of the Blacksmith born in September,
His great-great-grandsons had yet grown old,
And the trees grown old, no less.
The man who aided the Warrior was remembered,
Who forged the legendary Sword,
Long ago, but their blood lives on in embers,
In the
