Lawrence Watt-Evans: Taking Flight

He looked down the slope at the road below, still faintly visible in the gathering gloom as a pale strip of bare dirt between the dark expanses of grass on either side. On the near side that grass was at the foot of the hill he sat upon, while on the opposite side, the north, the land flattened out remarkably.

He was beyond the hills, at any rate.

This was cattle country, so there were no tilled fields to be seen, and at this hour all the livestock had gone home, wherever home might be. The road below was the only work of human origin anywhere in sight.

Kelder was pretty sure that that road was the Great Highway. He stared at it in disappointment.

It was not at all what he had expected.

He had imagined that he would find it bustling with travelers, with caravans and wandering minstrels, escaping slaves and marching armies, as busy as a village square on market day. He had thought it would be lined with inns and shops, that he would be able to trot on down and find jolly company in some tavern, where he could spend his scrupulously-hoarded coins on ale and oranges, and then win more coins from careless strangers who dared to dice with him-and the fact that he had never played dice before did not trouble his fantasies at all. He had envisioned himself watching a wizard perform wonders, and then escorting a comely wench up the stairs, flinging a few bits to a minstrel by the hearth as he passed, making clever remarks in half a dozen languages. Everyone would admire his wit and bravery, and he would be well on his way to fulfilling the seer’s prophecy.

Instead he saw nothing but a long, barren strip of hard-packed dirt, winding its way between the hills on either side, and utterly empty of life.

He sighed, and pulled open the flap of his pack.

He should have known better, he told himself as he pulled out his blanket. Life was not what the seers and storytellers made it out to be. Much as he hated to admit it, it looked just about as drab and dreary as his sisters had always said it was. It wasn’t just the family farm that was tedious, as he had always thought; it was, it now appeared, the entire World.

And he should have guessed that, he told himself, from his previous expeditions.

The first time he had run away had been the week after his visit to Zindre the Seer at the village market. He had only been twelve.

That had been rash, and he had been young; Zindre had never implied that he would begin his journey so young.

Kelder had had reasons, though. His father, determined to keep the family farm in the family and having let all three of Kelder’s older sisters arrange to marry away, had adamantly refused to arrange an apprenticeship or a marriage for Kelder; Kelder was going to inherit the farm, whether he wanted it or not, and settling the legacy on him meant no apprenticeship, no arranged marriage.

It had meant that Kelder was expected to spend the rest of his life on that same piece of ground, seeing nothing of the World, learning nothing of interest, doing no good for anyone, but only carrying on the family traditions. That was hardly roaming “free and unfettered,” as the seer had promised, or being “a champion of the lost and forlorn.”

Kelder had not wanted to spend the rest of his life on that same piece of ground carrying on the family traditions.

So, frustrated and furious, he had left, convinced excitement and adventure must surely wait just across the ridge. He had wandered off that first time without so much as a stale biscuit in the way of supplies, and had crossed the ridge, only to find more dismal little farms much like his own family’s.

He had stayed away a single night, but his hunger the following morning had driven him back to his mother’s arms.

The next time he left, when he was thirteen, he had packed a lunch and stuffed a dozen bits in iron into his belt-purse, and had marched over not just one ridge, but a dozen or more-four or five miles, at least, and maybe farther. He had known that soldiers were said to march twenty or thirty miles a day, but he had been satisfied; he hadn’t hurried, had rested often, and the hills had slowed him down.

And when darkness had come spilling over the sky, he had spent the night huddled under a haystack. He had continued the following day-but around noon, when his lunch was long gone and he had still seen nothing but more ridges and more little farms, he had decided that the time of the prophecy’s fulfillment had not yet come, and he had turned back.

The spring after that, at fourteen, he had plotted and planned for a month before he set out to seek his fortune. He had carried sensible foods, a good blanket, three copper bits and a dozen iron, and a sharp knife.

He had made it to his intended destination, Shulara Keep, by noon of the second day, and he had done so without much difficulty. But then, after the initial thrill of seeing a genuine castle had faded somewhat, and the excitement of the crowds in the market square had dimmed, he had found himself unsure what to do next. He had not dared to speak to anyone-they were all strangers.

Finally, when the castle guard had shooed him out at sunset, he had given up and again headed home.

At fifteen he had decided to try again. He had again gone to Shulara Keep, and then continued to the west, until on the morning of the third day he had come to Elankora Castle. Elankora was “beyond the hills,” and while it wasn’t any place particularly interesting, it was a “strange land” in that it wasn’t Shulara, so it was a step in the right direction.

There he had encountered a problem that had never occurred to him. Most of the people of Elankora spoke no Shularan, and he, for his own part, knew only a dozen words in Elankoran. Realizing his mistake, and frustrated by the language barrier, he had turned homeward once more.

That was last year. This time he had prepared for that. He had found tutors-which had not been easy-and had learned a smattering of several dialects, judging that he could pick up more with practice when the need arose.

Old Chanden had taught him some Aryomoric and a few words of Uramoric. Tikri Tikri’s son, across the valley, had turned out to speak Trader’s Tongue, and Kelder had learned as much of that as he could-it was said that throughout the World, merchants who spoke Trader’s Tongue could be found in every land.

Several neighbors spoke Elankoran and Ressamoric, but he could not find anyone willing to waste time teaching him; he had to settle for picking up a few bits and pieces.

Most amazing of all, though, Luralla the Inquisitive, that bane of his childhood, spoke Ethsharitic! Her grandmother had taught her-though why her recently-deceased grandmother had spoken it no one seemed to know.

It had even been worth putting up with Luralla’s teasing to learn that! After all, it was said that the Hegemony of Ethshar was bigger than all the Small Kingdoms put together-so it was said, and he had never heard it contradicted, so he judged it to be the truth.

And if he was to see great cities and vast plains, that could well mean Ethshar.

Kelder had discovered, to his pleased surprise, that each language he attempted was easier than the one before. He had feared that his brain would fill up with words until he could fit no more, but instead he had found patterns, similarities between the different tongues, so that learning a third language was easier than a second, and the fourth was easier still.

Even so, a year’s spare time, given the distractions caused by all his chores on the farm, was not enough to really become fluent in any of them. He felt he could get by well enough in Trader’s Tongue, and knew enough Ethsharitic to avoid disaster in the event no other tongue would serve. In Aryomoric he was, he judged, about on a par with a three-year-old, while in Uramoric and Ressamoric and Elankoran he knew only scattered phrases.