BansheeRoadTrip

November 1

They said a cold spell in August was a bad omen. Since he was on the streets tonight without a coin in his purse or a crumb in his belly, Raoli believed it. In fact, if he didn't keep moving or let his fingers creep out from under his armpits, he predicted that he'd freeze to death.

"This is your fault, Lord," he muttered, then found himself saying it again just to listen to the rhythm of it. Yes, there was a song there -- a planh, perhaps. A new tune came into his mind, and words along with it.

This is your fault, Lord --
The starry sky,
The winds that sigh,
A man to wonder why.
If you had not made
These long ago,
I would not know
Feet cold and slow.

It needed a few more verses, of course. As it stood, it would make the Pure Ones think he was one of them. He made a face, his frozen cheeks reluctant to cooperate. But maybe if he wrote a little praise of women's bodies into it, they'd leave him alone.

Unfortunately, he'd have to make those lines from memory or convention. A rising young joglar attracts plenty of sympathetic female ears -- and other parts -- but a poor one whose songs are out of fashion is out of luck. Maybe he shouldn't be so picky about getting praised by the Pure Ones.

The wind pushed its way into his clothing. Raoli pulled his cloak a little tighter around him. The Pure Ones said that prayer could waft your soul away from the cares of this world, especially if you'd been fasting. His belly rumbled its disagreement with this view.

This is your fault, Lord --
Red lips, black hair,
Breasts white and fair,
And hips that babies bear.
If you'd not made love,
Hearts would be free,
My purse heavy.
There'd be a home for me.

But this was no time to remember Galiana. Thinking of her just added blackness to the night and chill to the breeze. He walked a little faster. He'd come on the long pilgrimage to Starfield to repent and try to forget her. So far, it didn't seem to be working. At this rate, he'd die like the hero of a romance,
with her angel's face and devil's heart on his mind. A burst of anger shot through him.

This is your fault, Lord --
You called me here.
Now I'm in fear
This task is too severe.
I'm a pilgrim, not
A martyr, Lord!
Is this reward
One my flesh can afford?

The wind was picking up. He'd have to find a doorway to huddle in, and hope the watch wasn't feeling energetic. He started looking at his surroundings for the first time in hours. He was in one of those little streets where inns for the foreign pilgrims clustered. Too bad the walls were too tall to climb, even if his poor fingers had been up to the task and he'd had no fear of watchdogs.

Then he passed an odd, round house. Memory gnawed at him like his hunger. Someone had told him about a round inn in Starfield, once. His steps slowed. Had it been Johanot? Yes, in Westtown. "There's a little round inn in Starfield owned by the king of some barbarian land. All the travelers from that country stay there for free. Some kind of vow, probably. Anyway, they love musicians. Just knock on the door and show them your instrument, and they'll give you a good meal before they even ask your name."

It was late, but light was streaming out through the crack under the door of the place. It was too late; they'd certainly turn him away -- but it was worth a try. He stumbled over to the door and began to pound on it.

Mission Statement

I've unofficially joined NaNoWriMo (ie, I didn't bother to sign up at the webpage or anything). So, as National NovelWriting Month begins today, I've put up this blog and will start posting my novel as I write it.

Basically it's a fantasy novel that takes place in a Europe that never was, in the time of the troubadours -- unless I get sick of this concept and turn it into an sf novel. (More realism may ensue as I finish the puppy and have time to do factchecking research.) I'm probably going to be thinking up all kinds of annoying names and such, and I'm definitely going to make everyone sit through my poetry. So abandon hope, all ye who enter here.