Paul Thompson - The Qualinesti

“The west bank of the Astradine River,” said the kender.

Rufus gave her a strand of venison jerky he’d bought from the Kagonesti settlers. Verhanna gnawed on the tough meat in silence for a while, then finally said, “Now I remember. The goblins!That rotten scab of a creature bit me. The wound festered.” Suddenly she twisted around and lifted the horsehair poncho draped over her. “It’s gone!” she shouted. Verhanna lowered the piece of blanket. “Who healed me? My muscles aren’t even sore!”

The kender pointed away from their campsite. “Him,” Rufus said simply.

Seated on a fallen log a dozen paces distant was Greenhands, bare-chested now since Verhanna was using his poncho. His hair, which had appeared yellow by torchlight, was revealed by the light of day to be of purest white. Kith-Kanan’s daughter picked her way down the mossy riverbank toward him. The strange elf was gazing placidly across the sluggish stream, which was still depleted by the three-day onslaught of the sun.

Verhanna opened her mouth—to demand, question, challenge—but she closed it again without speaking. There was something unsettling about this elf, something compelling. He was not handsome by elven standards. His cheeks were broad, but not high; his chin and nose were not fashionably narrow; his lips were full, not thin; and his forehead was massive, almost human in proportion. However, he was unmistakably elven, with almond-shaped eyes, elegantly pointed ears, and exquisitely long, tapering fingers. The expression on his face was serene.

“Hello,” the Qualinesti princess finally said. His green eyes left off their study of the river and found her. A chill passed through Verhanna. She’d never seen any elf with eyes that color, and his gaze was direct—unwavering and unnerving. “Can you speak?”

“I speak.”

“Thank Astra.” She paused, embarrassed at the debt she owed him and unsure what to say. After a long moment, during which the elf’s eyes never left her, she added rather hastily, “Rufus tells me you healed me. I—I wanted to thank you.”

“It needed to be done,” replied Greenhands. The wild elves whose wagon had been stuck in the mud hailed them, and the elder Kagonesti male called for Greenhands to join them.

“Come along,” the Kagonesti said. “We’re bound for Qualinost.”

The strange elf replied, “I cannot go.” Still his eyes remained on Verhanna.

The Kagonesti father tied off his reins and jumped down from the wagon. “What’s that? Is this warrior holding you back?” he asked, glaring at the warrior maiden.

“I am not,” she replied tartly.

“I must go to the west,” Greenhands said. He rose and faced in that direction. “To the High Place. They must come with me.” He indicated Verhanna and Rufus, who had managed to join them quietly for a change. Kivinellis, riding in the wagon with the Kagonesti’s family, jumped off and ran to Verhanna.

“I want to go, too!” he declared. The father protested strongly. A young boy couldn’t wander around with a kender, a warrior, and a simpleminded elf.

Verhanna ignored the Kagonesti and turned to Greenhands. “Why do you have to go west with us?” she wanted to know.

His brow furrowed in thought. “I have to find my father,” he said.

“Who is your father?”

“I do not know. I have never seen him.”

In spite of these vague replies, Greenhands was obstinate. He must go west, and Verhanna and Rufus must go with him. Defeated, the Kagonesti returned to his wagon, propelling Kivinellis ahead of him. The elf boy complained all the way.

“Poor little fellow,” said Rufus. “Couldn’t we keep him, my captain?”

Verhanna’s attention was all on Greenhands. “No, he’s better off with a family,” she said distantly. “Astra only knows where we’re headed—” The creak of wheels interrupted her. The loaded wagon lurched onto level ground and pulled away. Kivinellis, his blond head shining among the dark elves, waved forlornly from the back of the wagon. He was securely held by the Kagonesti’s wife. Verhanna returned the wave, then turned back to Greenhands.

“I need some answers,” Verhanna declared. “Who are you?”

“I have no name,” was the mild answer.

“Greenhands, that’s your name,” said the kender. He clasped the elf’s grass-hued hand in both of his small ones. “Pleased to meetcha. I’m Rufus Wrinklecap, forester and scout. And that’s my captain, Verhanna. Her father is Kith-Kanan, the Speaker of the Sun.”

Greenhands seemed startled, even bewildered, by this flood of information.

“Never mind,” said Verhanna, shaking her head. Awkwardly she put a hand on the elf’s bare shoulder. His skin was warm and smooth. When she touched him, Verhanna felt a tingle shoot up her arm. She didn’t know if it was due to some force passing between them or if it was simply her own nervousness. Greenhands didn’t seem to notice anything odd.

Looking him directly in the eyes, Verhanna asked firmly, “Who are you? Really?”

He shrugged. “Greenhands.”

A flush of irritation washed over the warrior maiden. She was intrigued by this odd fellow and deeply grateful that he’d saved her life, but his naive and evasive replies were getting under her skin.

“I guess you’d better come with us,” she stated. “My father would want me to bring you to Qualinost.”

“What about the slavers?” asked Rufus.

“This is more important.”

Greenhands shook his head. “I cannot go with you. I must go to the High Place.” He pointed west, toward the Kharolis Mountains. “There. To find my father.”

Verhanna’s eyes narrowed, and her jaw clenched. Rufus intervened quickly. “It’s not so far off the track to Qualinost, my captain. We could swing by the mountains first. You know,” he said, changing the subject completely, “my father was a famous pot thrower.”

Suitably distracted, Verhanna hitched the horse blanket up on her shoulders and looked at her scout. “You mean he made pots—threw them—on a wheel?” she asked.

“No, he threw them at my Uncle Four-Thumbs. In the carnival.”

Suddenly Verhanna realized Greenhands was no longer with them. He was twenty paces away, loping along with the morning sun at his back. She called out for him to stop.

“You must stay with us!” she shouted.

Wind stirred his long, loose hair. He stopped, eyes fixed on the western horizon, while Verhanna retired to a stand of trees to dress. Now that the perishing heat was over, she donned her breastplate, childrons, and greaves over a fresh haqueton. Rufus did one of his usual vaults to reach the broad back of his red-coated Thoradin mount, and together they rode to where Greenhands waited.

“Do you ride?” Verhanna asked, returning the poncho to Greenhands. “There’s room behind Wart if you do.”

“There’s room for most of Balifor up here,” opined Rufus.

Greenhands pulled the poncho on over his head. “I’ll walk,” he said.

“It’s a long way to the mountains,” she warned, leaning on the pommel of her saddle. “You’ll never be able to keep pace with the horses.”

“I’ll walk,” he repeated, with exactly the same intonation.

She shook her head. “Suit yourself.”

They topped a low rise and were out of the shallow valley cut by the river and back on the grass-covered plain. To the south, the blue humps of the Kharolis foothills were plainly visible in the clear morning sky, but Greenhands went resolutely west.

So intent were Verhanna and Rufus on keeping their eyes on Greenhands that neither bothered to look back at the riverbank. What had been a mud flat the night before was now a blossoming meadow. Grass had sprung up knee high in a few short hours, and a thousand colors of wild flowers bloomed where once there had been nothing but mud and cattails. Moreover, this strange growth narrowed as it entered the upland. Eventually it thinned to a point—the exact trail where Greenhands trod.