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“In Bronsel, of course,” Torgish said, looking surprised.
“But is that not far away from here?” Gwen asked.
“If you call a mile far,” Torgish said, waving lazily at the west,
“although yes, most people would consider Bronsel not to be within
walking distance.”
“Oh,” Gwen said. She had always been taught that Bronsel was a
faraway place, a place “her ladyship will never see,” and that there were
barbaric ways of execution. In truth, once Gwen had seen the Meadows
of Paradise, which separated Bronsel from the Elea Mountains, all of this
floated from her head. Torgish waved his scythe carelessly towards
Bronsel.
“Oh?” he said, “oh? You say oh when I speak of my great home? Sir
Kenkye is a proud man, and he most certainly does not like commoners
saying oh when his subjects tell them of Bronsel!”
“Beg your pardon, sir, er, I’ve never been to Bronsel,” Gwen said.
“Well, then,” Torgish said.
“Hey Torg, whaddya doin’ now? Wanderin’ off again, jus’ like I
though ye would!” A big man who seemed to be in charge of them all
stepped forward.
“Look, Galis, I can’t cut all of those big outlandish stacks the rest of
the men are cutting!” Torgish shouted.
“Fine, fine,” Galis said, swaggering away.
“Galis is our chief. He’s the third cousin of Sir Kenkye,” Torgish
explained.
“Doesn’t Sir Kenkye rule over you?” Gwen asked, confused. In Lien
there was no under-chief. Esper took care of everything, no matter how
trivial.
Torgish shrugged.
“If you could call it ruling. Drinking, more like. He’s also known for
his many affairs with the women of the court and even peasant women,”
he said.
“Are you poisoning people’s minds against my dear cousin Kenkye?”
Galis swaggered back, waving his scythe menacingly.
The Realm of Possibilities
41
“Of course not, Galis!” Torgish exclaimed, trying to resist a laugh.
“Well, then, stop yammering and get working!” Galis shouted
moodily, walking away to lecture some other farmers.
“Just go ride to Bronsel, all right? It’s easy enough, if you know the
way,” Torgish whispered to Gwen.
“Okay,” Gwen said, mounting Fireflake.
“And good luck!” Torgish shouted.
After an hour’s ride, Bronsel came to view. Gwen was amazed by its
grand mansions and the summer villas where the people of Sir Kenkye’s
court spent their leisure time. Everywhere, shopkeepers in clean-pressed
shirts and puffed black breeches strolled around on the cobblestone
street, commenting on the beautiful weather. Booksellers sat near the
small fountains, burying their long, wrinkly noses in big, leather bound
books. Young girls in frilly dresses playfully chasing each other,
exchanging gossip. Sometimes a peasant or two would emerge from some
drab building, dragging cages full of squawking geese. Shepherd-boys
and shepherdesses proudly led their fluffy white sheep. Amidst it all,
Gwen was merely a girl—she was no Gwendolyn of Lien there. A queer
girl perhaps, but a girl nevertheless.
Torgish met her a few hours later at a hitching post.
“Come in here,” he said, leading her into a small, dim shop. He pulled
back the plain, moth-bitten black curtains, letting light filter through.
“Let’s see…hmm…bit o’ milk, some bread and cheese,” Torgish
hummed to himself as he pulled down a jug of milk, a loaf of bread, and
a block of cheese down from a cupboard. After rummaging in a drawer a
bit, he also pulled out a somewhat rusty knife.
“Bread and cheese is all I can offer you,” Torgish said, cutting a slice
of cheese and placing it onto a piece of bread.
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