by Peter Hartz
“This is pretty much normal for everyone around here. Some people like fruit, some like oatmeal, there is a lot of variation. We are the only culture in the world that generally eats different foods for breakfast than any other meal. A peculiarity of our way of life, I suppose.” She realized she was rambling a bit again, and picked up a heavy frying pan and held it over counter where the plates were set out, dishing a helping of scrambled eggs with cheese onto each of the three plates resting on the tiled surface, then some bacon from the same pan.
Setting the now empty pan back on the stove, she turned off the flames under both pans, and lifted the second one over to the plates as well, scooping out a helping of hash brown potatoes onto each one. That pan went back on the stove with a clang, and she pulled the oven mitt off her left hand, grabbing two plates and handed one to Giltreas.
“Have a seat at the table. Do you want orange juice, coffee, water, or milk?”
“What would you suggest, My Lady?” It was a graceful question for someone who seemed so out of place.
“I usually have orange juice. That barbarian over there,” she said, pointing to her brother, “usually has coffee.”
“With cream and sugar,” the barbarian in question said cheerfully as he stirred the contents of a large mug with a small spoon. Lifting it to his mouth, he took a gulp, then swallowed. “Ahh. My morning pick-me-up,” he said with a smile, drinking again.
“I should like to try both.” He took his plate over to the table on the small woven mat that had some utensils set out on it already, and then stepped back to the counter. She handed him a mug of coffee, which he set next to his plate. Then he stood and waited.
She glanced at him, and said, “Have a seat. Dig in before it gets cold.”
“My Lady, it would be unseemly for me to sit before the lady of the house, and before my host,” he said graciously.
She hid a smile as she said, “We don’t stand on formality around here. Please, have a seat. I’ll be there in just a moment.” She reached up to a cupboard door that she opened, and pulled out a pair of glasses. Setting them on the counter, she opened the refrigerator next to the stove, and reached in to pull out a tall square container that seemed to be made of brightly-covered stiff paper, poured juice for them both, then put it back into the cold. Then she carried them over to the table, setting one in front of her plate and the other in front of his.
Chapter 6
Giltreas tried not to stare at everything in the room like a poor country peasant in town for the first time, but it was difficult. The room he had awoken to had been… interesting. Large and spacious, with large windows that covered a most of the wall beside the bed that let in light through a soft white covering, seemingly of the finest woven cloth, with some kind of ripple pattern that ran from side to side.
The bed itself was smooth and flat, but soft and comfortable nonetheless, and covered in the finest bedding he had ever laid down upon. Warm, soft blankets made of a flawless expanse of smooth cotton had been pulled over him, and his head had lain upon pillows the like of which he had never seen. The lush comfort had pulled at him, beckoning him to sleep longer. And the floor must have cost a king’s ransom. Some kind of wood, incredibly smooth and polished to a finish of which the finest elvish craftsmen would have been jealous. If it weren’t for the workmanship that deliberately produced an edge along every plank, it would have been difficult to see where one finely-finished piece of wood ended, and another began.
The walls were perfectly smooth as well, adorned in some hue close to the color of the summer leaves of a tree, and the wood bordering the walls at the floor and around the doorways, along with the doors themselves, had been colored a spotless white. The doors were ornately and expertly carved, with a simple recessed square pattern repeating itself six times, three from top to bottom, and two from side to side.
The furnishings in the room were equally of high quality. The headboard, footboard, side table, and dresser along the wall facing the end of the bed had all been of the same beautiful wood, another he could not recognize, and all of the highest construction the likes of which he had not seen in recent memory. Finished to the same tone in a way that subtly brought out the grain without emphasizing it too much, the warm tone and color had been polished to a sheen that fairly glowed to him.
But that had been just the start. When his hosts had come to check on him, their strange attire had pulled at him. They seemed to enjoy rich colors. The robe she wore was a deep burgundy, plush and rich and soft, and luxurious to see. His pants had been a deep blue, cut in a fit and style he had never seen before. His shirt was cut from a smooth cloth made in a gentle green and white pattern that went both across and up and down, forming squares and rectangles, and it buttoned up with pearly white buttons that matched the ones at his cuffs. Under the fine shirt at his neck one could see another shirt of a solid green color that matched the outer shirt.
His hair was fine and brown, as were his eyes. He wore a beard unlike any Giltreas had ever seen before. His cheeks and neck were clean shaven, as was his upper lip. But his chin was covered in a very short, well-groomed affair that was speckled with grey in amongst the brown.
He inquired about where to relieve himself, and was surprised, almost shocked at the result. Surely his hosts were wealthy nobility, to afford a home such as this. A bath-room, indeed. White, elegant constructions, smooth and glassy in finish, with lavish woods everywhere and square, smooth, warm stones under foot, cut square and polished to a deep shine, and set in place with equally impressive skills. He tried not to stare and let his mouth fall open as things were demonstrated to him. Powerfully skilled mages must have done much of the building of this place; of that, he was most certain. Or perhaps dwarvish craftsmen. That would explain much.
When finished with his morning ritual, he had opened the door, and followed the smells to the kitchen, only to find the Lady of the house herself cooking for them all. He kept silent, but was all along expecting servants to come from somewhere to take over for her. A woman of her obvious breeding and high social standing should not be doing such menial work herself. It was unseemly. But as he watched, she completed her tasks with a practiced ease that told him she was more than comfortable where she was.
Giltreas had known a few nobles such as her: the independent kind that prided themselves on being able to do many things that others of their standing would have found beneath them. They usually had other ideas that were equally outrageous to their fellows as well. Nobles were too important, and too busy, to have their time taken up with the labors best left to servants. They were meant to have their every need taken care of, because that was the way of it since time immemorial.
Giltreas personally found the whole argument tedious and quite boring. Nobility was overrated. Not that he would ever admit he felt that way. His heritage and upbringing had served to wash out any awe he might have of others, and left him with a cynical eye that his cousin had poked him about every chance she got. But he knew better than to insult the proper sensibilities of the effete, over-pampered nobility he came upon. And was, sometimes, directed by his patron to dispatch. Upon those occasions, he wasted not the words nor the breath necessary to put forth such ‘blasphemous’ ideas, but got on to the business at hand with all skill and dispatch. Which was just as well. The wolf did not commune with the hare he was to prey upon, after all.
The morning meal was quickly consumed, and was every bit as fine as the sights and smells of it had promised. The orange juice was a delight. Coffee after the meal was not really something he enjoyed, but he consumed it dutifully, with generous helpings of both cream and sugar to make it more palatable. Still, the aroma was enticing. He supposed he could get to enjoy it eventually. It seemed to give him some extra energy, which bore some thinking upon.
The man, David, cleaned up the kitchen, rinsing the dishes in a sink somewhat similar to that in the bath room, with water coming out of a silvery pipe that sprang up from the back of the sink
. He then placed the dishes into a white cabinet under the counter, and swung the door back up to close it off from view.
Dave poured himself another cup of coffee, needing the pickup the caffeine was providing, before he followed Michelle and Giltreas back out to the sitting area. Glancing at his watch, he estimated that his wife should be arriving soon – and just as he sat down, Sadie woofed a warning or greeting: she heard a car.
◆◆◆
Allison turned around the corner, and almost stopped the car where it was as she took in the sight of the black Suburban parked in the yard. Then remembering the code words in the phone conversation earlier, she pulled into the yard and parked. Getting out, she grabbed her purse, slung it over one her head and one shoulder. She closed the driver’s door, and opened the back door. She lifted the small black and white dog down, holding on to his leash so he wouldn’t run off into the woods like last time. He pulled at her with all his twenty-three pounds in that direction, but she just held him back while she grabbed her purse and swung the door shut.
Max led her over to some grass in front of the porch, and relieved himself. Then he looked up as the door opened, and started barking. “Max, knock it off!” An exercise in futility, she knew, but she could wish, anyways.
Dave came out of the door, and she stopped a moment to read his expression, trying to get clues to see if she needed to be on her guard. Her hand was in her purse, closed around the grip of her trusty Glock 10mm pistol. For a normal trip up to the cottage, she would have left it behind, but she wanted it nearby in case it was needed, since she had no idea what had happened. She hoped to God it wasn’t needed.
Dave smiled at her and met her at the base of the stairs with a hug. “What’s going on? Who owns the Suburban? What – ?”
He cut her off, saying “Come in the house. Someone took a run at Michelle, but thanks to a new friend, she is ok. Better than ok.” His words gave her more questions than answers, but she followed him inside.
And stopped to stare at two people, whom at first glance she was certain she had never met, who were sitting on the couch and loveseat.
The man was dressed strangely, and Allie unknowingly had the same thought Michelle did the first time she saw him; that he was in the Renaissance Festival. It was going on right now, she remembered. Then she realized that her mind was wandering. ‘Focus,’ she told herself. She looked at the other person, a young woman, who looked barely twenty, wearing the robe Allie knew belonged to her older sister-in-law. And the young woman looked perfect, like she just stepped out of a fashion magazine or something. But there was something about her that tugged at Allie, something familiar. The woman looked so similar to a younger version of… Then, in a rush, it came to her.
“Oh… my… God…” Allie’s mouth dropped open, and she stood there stunned. “Michelle?!?”
“Yeah, Allie, it’s me. Apparently our friend here has found something Ponce de Leon looked for several centuries ago.” Michelle tried to make it sound relaxed, or calm, or anything rational. It was nothing of the sort.
“I did only what I was called to do, my lady. My Patron played a part, I suspect. However, I do not know what has caused such a transformation of such… completeness. Whatever it is about, I am certain we will know if He wants us to.” The newcomer’s speech was soft, and gentle, but with a nearly perfect accent. Nearly.
“You say about the same way that Michelle does.” Allie knew she was drifting a bit, and tried to center herself.
“I am not surprised. The Learn Language spell I cast in the night of last is not perfect. I can only learn that way what she knows and how she says it, not the best way to say everything, and not always what it means. I do not seem to have any gaps in my speech so far that you are unable to understand, however, so I suspect for that reason, and others, that Michelle is quite learned and educated,” he stated calmly, then tried to not be uncomfortable as the three of them stared at him in shock.
“What is it that has stunned you so?” Giltreas asked calmly.
Michelle was the first to speak up. “Is magic what happened to me to change me so much? I mean, I don’t even recognize myself. I never remember looking this good before, except maybe before the accident.”
“Of a certainty it was magic, and some few different ways, my lady. After I dispatched the four brigands that had beset themselves upon you, I then turned myself to the task of bringing you back. I cured the poisons in your body, and cured the sickness which had grown throughout you, with potions. I healed you of your wounds (which seems to have erased all your old scars and injuries as well, not an unusual thing to happen) with mind magic, and cured the blindness they inflicted upon you with another potion. Then with my patron’s help, I revived you with cleric skill. You had passed over just as I made it to the small clearing you were in.” He took a breath, and noticed that they were staring at him more intensely. “Have you not healers that can do such as this available to you?”
Michelle’s head was reeling. Did he really say revive, as in resurrect? That she was… DEAD? No way. Never in a million years. Her mind slammed the door hard on that thought, walled it off, bricked over the wall, and ran screaming (figuratively anyways) away from it.
“No, we don’t have people who can do magic like that here. There is no such thing here as magic. Wait, is that what happened when you did something at the end to cause that huge explosion?” Things began to make a strange, impossible sense.
“I cast a spell to learn your language, so we might speak with each other, yes. The spell must have worked, because we are speaking, but I remember nothing else until waking up with your small companion laying her head upon my side in that room’s bed. How did I get there? Did I walk? I don’t think my strength was that used up that I wouldn’t remember doing so, but stranger things have happened. What is this explosion you speak of?” His turn to be confused, he supposed.
“I started asking you questions, and you put a hand up to stop me. Then you reached into a pouch at your left hip, pulled out something, and chanted a few words. Whatever was in your hand glowed briefly, then it disappeared, and a buzzing sound started to come from you. After a moment, you reached out to me and touched me, which caused a bright white light and huge boom. I was thrown away from you, and you had some kind of injury on the right side of your head, like it exploded. I could even see that parts of your skull were missing, and you were bleeding badly. But as I watched, the blood filled in the wound, and turned to skin and bone. Even the hair that was destroyed by the blast grew back. You didn’t wake up, though.
“I drove the Suburban those… men… had come here in, back through the trees up to the clearing, picked you up and laid you in back, drove back to the cottage, and carried you into the house. I got you onto the bed, tried to make you comfortable, and left you there to sleep. You were breathing normally, and you had a strong pulse, so it looked like you were going to be ok. I couldn’t find any sign of the wound on your head, so I hoped everything was alright.
“Dave showed up here with Sadie and Abby, and I let him peek in at you for a moment, just so he could know I was telling the truth –“
“I never doubted you, sis.” Dave interjected.
“– I know that, but you had to look; I would have – then I waited for you to wake up. The rest you know from there.”
Giltreas was silent for a moment. Lady Michelle’s description of the event when he cast the spell was not unlike what happens when a spell fails or is turned by another caster or spell, but when that happens, the spell does not succeed. He had never seen otherwise. In this case, however, it succeeded.
He turned to look at Michelle in astonishment.
and he contemplated for a moment. Then, on a whim, he spoke in another language back to her.
She seemed almost amused. And yet, stunned, of course.
In the language of his father, he spoke again.
She seemed to consider for a moment, then spoke slowly and carefully, for this language was hard on the human throat.
Allie and Dave watched this exchange in almost awe, having no idea what was said. Dave was about to ask what was going on, when Michelle spoke again. ‘Must be getting slow in my old age,’ he thought with an internal smile.
Now in English, she asked “Did you learn those languages before? Or did your spell do this?”
“It must have been the spell, because I have never heard the like of them before. What races of beings speak in those tongues?”
“Those are human languages. Humans are the only beings we know that we can speak with, that have spoken language.” His question was strange to her, and bent her thinking slowly in a new direction, but before she could think her way to the question slowly forming in the back of her mind, he spoke up.
“It appears that the spell did something unexpected. Instead of my learning your first language, the spell taught me all languages you know. And you seem to have learned languages from me, a first that I have never heard of afore. My mage teacher told me how the spell works, and what it cannot do, and this is certainly something unexpected. I wonder if anything else happened because of it.”