Songs of the Dying Earth

Dringo reciprocated. “Dringo, a lonely traveler myself. I’m curious that you are so versed in magic and yet so young. I doubt we’d have made it otherwise.”

Gasterlo lifted a hand in modesty. “My earlier spell could not hold the creatures at bay a moment longer and the power to guard our environs is well beyond my paltry abilities. In fact, it is to become a Master Magician that I left the comforts of an indolent life and venture forth. What entices you? You don’t have the look of a vagabond nor the errant.”

Dringo hesitated a moment only. What harm can come from openness? “I seek my father. I have — at least so said my mother — only his looks and nothing else that connects me to the man who sired me.”

“A noble cause, Dringo! We will ponder our futures over that ale I promised. We draw near the periphery of the town and already I can smell the roasting of meats, and my throat yearns for something other than the fusty water I carry.”

As they approached, the town exhibited a liveliness surprising for the lack of nyctophobia so common in the folk that dared to live within the Ambit. Shutters were open on many of the small cottages that abutted the road creating a warm lambency to their path. Cries of greetings and well wishes were generously spoken by those who happened to peer out as the two strangers passed. One would think that they had just heard that the dying sun was to be invigorated on the morrow and that they expected to wake to a dawn of renewed brilliance, such was their obvious mood of sanguinity.

The road led to a small area of shops. Gasterlo pointed to the only two-story building. A weathered plank hung from an equally feeble gibbet. A flickering lantern shared the crossbeam throwing shadowy light on the crudely lettered sign: GRIPPO’S HOSTELRY. “Our destination, it would seem. I see nothing ahead more promising.” Gasterlo held the wooden door open and the travelers entered the inn.

Inside, the bonhomie was even more in evidence. Every table and chair was taken by smiling, red faced men. An elevated side room seemed to be the center of attention to all within, though many turned to look as Dringo and Gasterlo entered. From the raised alcove a young man stood up and shouted: “Gasterlo! We had all but given up. Come have a seat.” He roughly pushed the shoulders of an old man sitting nearby. “Make room for our friend.” The man rose with a subservient nod. Several others moved to the side allowing Dringo to glimpse the speaker’s companions. Four additional young men, two dressed in elaborate doublets of brocatelle and two clad in flowing robes similar to those worn by Gasterlo, were seated on benches that flanked a table of knurled deobado. Succulent food was spread across its surface, and Dringo’s stomach lurched in an attack of envy.

Gasterlo stepped up, turned back to Dringo who had hesitated and said, “My cohorts. Join us.”

Just then an officious innkeeper bustled up, shoving several local patrons out of the way. “Make room! Don’t hinder their path, you uncouth rogues. Let these high goombahs join their friends.” He guided them through the crowd to the table. “I assume you’ll be wanting a gill, or do you wish something stronger? An absynthea? A green croate? I am Grippo and I’m at your service.”

“Beer is fine,” replied Gasterlo without glancing at the innkeeper. He clasped his friend with a hearty embrace. “Cavour Senthgorr, you look well. Are you ready to start training?”

“Indeed,” he replied. “For too long have we been dogwadled by our powerful fathers. They perch in their manses content to watch the dying sun sink deeper into morbidity while they use their maugism to taunt their rivals and play games of spite with the small folk.”

“Precisely!” agreed Gasterlo. “If nothing else, let the Twenty-first Eon, if this be our last, be marked by a renewed thrust of triumphant vibrancy — but here, let me introduce Dringo. We two barely escaped the maw of a visp — or some other equally horrible death — not moments ago.” Gasterlo named his friends around the table: Cavour Senthgorr; Tryllo Makshaw; Zimmy Garke; Luppie Fross and Popo Killraye. All were sons of magicians of greater or lesser renown and were to be fellow students at the collegeum. Dringo felt diminished and uncomfortable; the young men were noticeably of higher status and breeding.

Room was made at the table and they took seats. The beer arrived delivered by a lass of sturdy stock who smiled shyly at Dringo. Gasterlo pulled out his purse, but Cavour halted him, “Our expenses are covered. The school has set up an account. However, you might add a few tercels into the common pot.”

“The munificence of our fathers surprises me,” said Gasterlo.

Dringo ventured into the conversation: “Was it you who lofted the encirclement around the town?”