The Foiling of Gorsfeld
Copyright © 2011 by M.K. Theodoratus
All Rights Reserved.
The weaver’s apprentices waited in the dining hall for a story while Renna, their master, cradled her café in her hands and dozed before the hearth. The flickering oil lamps added a fishy note to the ambient food smells. The nights after the Dark Solstice were long, and no one wanted to seek their beds so soon after supper. The wind whistled outside, and the hearth fire crackled inside, a perfect night to coax a tale from Renna, if she didn’t fall asleep on them.
The master weaver’s voice rasped in the silence. “So, what story would you hear tonight?”
A brave apprentice in front prompted his master. “Why do the people living along the river Soleis hate the rest of us in the Marches?”
From across the room, another protested. “Tell a story from the early days before the Half-Elven won their freedom for a change. Everyone knows we won the Rebellion.”
Renna drained her cup and, with a wave of her hand, sent it gently sailing across the room, to where the dirty dishes were stacked. “Hummm. Those with long memories might say the Felds of the Soleis had just cause to hate Mariah and our other leaders.” The old woman paused. “Would you like to know why?”