Home Fires

[Benreeder]

Flames crackled merrily in the ring of stones, dry wood burning over a bed of coals. Jack set a small pot on the coals, then turned to pull a long twig from the pile of firewood. A few strokes of his knife left a notch near one end of the stick, making it into a hook to pull the pot from the glowing bed of embers. The small half shed was open at one end, letting the fragrant smoke out on the damp breeze.

Jack stood and walked to the open end of the shed, his gaze wandering across the sky until the flash of lightining in the towering clouds drew his attention. Thunder rumbled across the sky, and Jack sent a brief but fervent prayer to whatever gods ruled the skies here that it keep moving North, toward the inferno on the borders. For a few minutes, he contented himself with watching the flashes light up the night to the South, enjoying the cool, humid breeze in his beard.

Eventually, the pot behind him began to burble, and he took up the recently carved stick. The notch caught the handle, and he lifted the pot off the coals, tipping it with another stick to pour some of the boiling water into a mug where a mesh ball filled with a blend of tea waited. He turned one of the timer glasses to let it steep properly, then reached for his spice bag. The oiled pouch he sought was nestled in an outer pocket of the bag, easy to get to. The air took the scent of mint from the steam rising from the cup, and Jack poured a careful measure of dried honey into his mug, drawing the tea strainer out in the same moment. The scent of honey, mint, tea, and wood smoke was a balm to his troubled thoughts, and his furrowed brow smoothed somewhat. He closed his eyes and took a sip of his tea, for a moment a carefree wanderer once more.

Outside, with the wind on his face, a warm fire going, and good tea on his tongue. The log he sat on might have been a world away, where nothing more than the open road awaited him the next day. He opened his eyes, noting the old wagon he’d been working on. It was still a long way from being a true vard, but it would be good enough to sleep in when it rained, and hold all he needed to live comfortably for as long as he needed. The call of the open road was still strong in his blood, and on nights like this, the comfortable bed in the back of the shop felt like a padded prison. When the cartes of his new life weighed on him, he needed the stars for a roof, and a bedroll to lay his head on.

Another sip of his tea dispelled some of the fog of the ale he’d downed earlier, settling his belly a little. Ale and beer sat less than comfortably in hsi stomach, but they were the drink of choice in the taverns of Nora’s Respite. He’d learned to nurse a tankard through an hour or so while he listened to the myriad conversations that went on around him. Through those many hours over the past year, he’d learned a great deal, not least a working knowledge of the varied speech of this new world. This night had seen several Ancuram herbalists at the tavern he’d found, and he mouthed the words he’d heard them speak. One had told stories of Ysobelle the Kind, and how she had freed a tribe of Elves from unjust bondage at the hands of a bandit king. Jack wasn’t sure if it was a Tale for the Season of Challenge, but it fit the moment.

Jack smiled as he savored the sounds of the new words. One of the mysteries of the Ilyani was The Hundred-Fold Path. How to walk the world, be of a thousand places, yet still be Ilyani. And yet, here he was, walking the Hundred-Fold Path, learning the ways of the people he found himself walking among, because that was what an Ilyani DID. For just as much as he was now Jack of Meadowmere, he was still Outremer, “from the Far Away.”

Rain started to pelt the roof of the shed, and Jack went to the raised pallet his bedroll was laid out. For the night, his troubles were far enough distant that he could sleep a little. Sunrise would bring its own troubles, but the night sky had brought rain.

It would do.

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