The floor was cold and rough to the touch as Ronan woke. He stared at the hole in the roof, and a man in dark clothing prodded him with a long stick.
“Is this some selcouth tradition of Narran—resting on a weary traveler’s firepit and his food?”
The heat on the base of his back made him roll away, and he kept rolling until there was no chance for the cloth to burst into flames. He climbed up, feeling sore.
“There is no such—selcouth?”
“Peculiar,” the stranger advised, glancing over to see if the food was salvageable.
“No, we have no peculiar traditions like that in Narran. The roof of this—” Ronan glanced around, disoriented. “A cave? Of course—a cave. The roof caved in on my way home.”
The man paused his digging and frowned. “Is hospitality selcouth to you?”
“No, hospitality is not selcouth to me,” Ronan said, sarcasm dripping from his lips like drool.
But the man merely grabbed his things and snapped, “Then show me some. You destroyed my meal, broke my shelter, and whine like a babe. You owe me.”
“I didn’t intentionally fall through the roof,” Ronan said, eyeing the man. He was tall, his face obscured by a beard and the shadow of his hood.
“Yet your arse ruined my food and shattered my pan,” the man replied. “It’s not selcouth of me to ask for compensation.”
Ronan glanced down at the broken pan. “I can pay for it.”
The man shook his head, his cloak rustling. “I can’t eat a coin. I want food. And since you claim hospitality isn’t selcouth to you, prove it. Then we can part ways quickly.”
Ronan considered it and decided to play the host. His house was close by, and if he didn’t pay but simply shared some food, it would be a cheap price to pay.
“Well, if that’s your promise, then sure—follow me.”
Ronan glanced around, and the man pointed past him. Following the gesture, Ronan spotted a faint light in that direction.
“Right. Follow me.”
The cave entrance was just a few steps away, but it was low, forcing him to bow down. Suddenly, he was shoved from behind and landed on his belly.
“What in Neurul’s name was that?” he nearly bellowed, rolling over to see the stranger gripping a snake by its neck.
“I feel you, brother. He reeks of it. But today, he’ll feed me, and you can save your poison for bigger rats.”
Ronan scrambled out of the cave and into the sunlight. He watched as the man set the snake on the ground, letting it slither back into the darkness. Ronan recognized the markings—it wouldn’t have killed him, but the agony of two weeks was nothing he desired.
“You startled it,” the man said, offering his hand. Ronan took it and was yanked up like a crawling weed, his feet dangling for a moment.
Ronan brushed off the dust and grime, then glanced at the setting sun. There was still enough light to get home without trouble, but now, in the proper light, he was no longer certain he wanted to host the man.
Ronan was the tallest man in town, yet the stranger towered over him like an oak, his fingers sleek but powerful—the hands of a man who used them. His clothes were plain: grey, black, and dirt blended them almost invisibly against the dark entrance of the cave. The skin around his eyes was tanned, and the rest of his face lay hidden beneath a beard, the mouth barely visible under the heavy moustache. He did not seem overly muscular, yet Ronan had the feeling he was strong enough to break him if they ever came to blows.
Ronan decided that turning him away would probably lead to trouble, but at least in town, he could call for help.
“I reek of what?” Ronan said.
The ends of the moustache moved—Ronan guessed it to be a smile of sorts.
“Alchemists call it spirit of hartshorn. Rats and mice smell of it. Men too, when they squirt into their pants.”
Ronan sniffed and felt the slight wetness in his pantaloons. “Piss? I smell of piss, and snakes want to bite me?”
“They want to eat. You smell like a rat, so they act. Animals live like that.”
Ronan wondered at what point he had soiled himself. It wasn’t much, but enough that it bothered him now. He was sure it must have been when he fell and lost consciousness.
“Well, my home is close. I shall endure until then,” Ronan said and started to walk awkwardly in the knowledge of the stain rubbing against him with each step.
“What brings you here, in Narran?” Ronan said, struggling to keep pace with the stranger, whose long legs ate up the path like a ravenous goat.
“I came to see an old friend—if he’s still alive. And I travel to keep my vellichor sated.”
Ronan was silent for a while but then gave in. “You speak in riddles, like something from an old book. What does vellichor mean?”
The man made a short sound. Ronan ignored it, but it was unmistakably a laugh.
“It is a longing for a bookshop long forgotten, filled with tomes from ages past and mysteries lost to time. I once read a tale where Nanau the Bard was struck with vellichor after eating a pie made in a vellum-lined pan that once held the ichor of a Braineater beast.”
Ronan almost stopped at the words but hurried after the man. “Nanau, the master of the lute?”
The man nodded. “He has many names, I hear—one for each town he’s been thrown out of.”
Ronan began to wonder who the man really was. He was certainly not from Narran—the odd words alone made that clear—but the way he spoke of Nanau made it seem he actually knew the renowned bard.
“By the way, I’m Ronan,” he said.
The man took a long look at him before answering. Then, in a sudden burst, he declared, “You may call me Randaz—like that strip of leather the shoemaker uses before planting the heel.”
To Ronan, it sounded as though it took effort to say the name. Whereupon, long, fanciful tales came like rain—unhindered.
“Okay, Randaz. That’s my house there, by the orchard—and by Neurul, my apples are the best in the region. Nay, in the nation! I was returning from selling a barrel of them when I fell through the path,” Ronan said, beaming with pride. He was known as Ronan the Appleman—sometimes to his face, but mostly behind his back—and he took pride in the title.
Randaz was silent until they reached the edge of the orchard. “You fling out the name of Neurul as if it were chaff. People tend to be more careful when uttering the name of the one who walks in shadows.”
Ronan shrugged. “It’s just a name. Why would he think saying it is a bad thing? I don’t blame him with my utterances or call for him. I praise him, if you think about it. My apples are great, and I place them beside his name—neither is worse for the comparison.”
He opened the gate and ushered Randaz in.
“I see. And I think he would agree,” Randaz said.
“Who would?” Ronan asked, closing the gate.
“Neurul.”
Randaz said as they entered the house.
The man ate slowly, very deliberately, as if there was nothing else in the world but the bread, stew, and him. Ronan had finished ages ago—both the meal and a stack of apples—but felt it impolite to bother the man while he was eating. Yet there was one question that needed an answer: Was the man going to leave, or would he insist on staying the night?
“What? I didn’t say anything,” Ronan protested.
Randaz reached for something, and Ronan slid back in his chair.
“Your eyes tell me you fear me,” Randaz said. “But even more, you fear that no one here would even read an elegy for you.”
Ronan got up and walked to the fireplace where the pokers stood. “You use words that unnerve me.”
Randaz’s hand hovered over the bread before pocketing it. “Elegy unnerves you? Hmm. I’ve noticed people are uncomfortable with anything related to death.”
Ronan grabbed a poker and stirred the embers. “Who wouldn’t be? When you die, you lose everything—your life included. People singing an elegy afterward seems almost futile.” He watched the flames flicker. “Life is fleeting, but memories are eternal.”
Randaz stuffed another piece of bread into his pocket. Ronan said, “What memories? I’ll be dead.”
He glanced at Ronan. “Do you know what happens after you die?”
Ronan shook his head.
“People say nobody knows—yet they still leave elegies behind, begging to be remembered.”
“That does nothing to me,” Ronan said.
Randaz seemed to smile as he rose. “Come with me to the orchard. I have something to show you. We can talk about elegies there—amidst your beloved apple trees.”
Randaz walked out. Ronan hesitated, but with Randaz already outside and the poker still in his hand, he decided to see what the strange man was up to.
He stepped out, and Randaz began to sing—a haunting tune in a strong, clear voice. It was an elegy. A beautiful one.
As the song progressed, Ronan realized it was about him—about his apples, his toil. He barely noticed the poker slipping from his fingers. His gaze fixed instead on the ladders lying on the ground beside a broken branch—one he had planned to remove.
Even after Randaz fell silent, the elegy seemed to echo through the orchard. Ronan stared at him, understanding dawning.
“That was… my elegy? It was…”
Randaz nodded. “People will remember you well. Some won’t. But that is life.”
Ronan stammered. “Am I dead?”
Randaz nodded again and pointed toward the ladder, where Ronan saw—himself.
“Who are you?” Ronan whispered. “Dangiir?”
Randaz shook his head. “I am just an usher. I will accompany you to him… and deliver this elegy to the singer at your funeral.”
