Blood of Elves Read Online Free PDF Page A

left the room. The man at the door removed his cloak and handed it to Mama along with a small but well-filled money-bag.
    “Forgive me, master,” he said, approaching the table and making himself comfortable. “I know this is not a good time to disturb you. But you disappeared out from beneath the oak so quickly… I did not catch you on the High Road as I had intended and did not immediately come across your tracks in this little town. I’ll not take much of your time, believe me—”
    “They always say that, and it’s always a lie,” the bard interrupted. “Leave us alone, Lantieri, and see to it that we’re not disturbed. I’m listening, sir.”
    The man scrutinised him. He had dark, damp, almost tearful eyes, a pointed nose and ugly, narrow lips.
    “I’ll come to the point without wasting your time,” he declared, waiting for the door to close behind Mama. “Your ballads interest me, master. To be more specific, certain characters of which you sang interest me. I am concerned with the true fate of your ballad’s heroes. If I am not mistaken, the true destinies of real people inspired the beautiful work I heard beneath the oak tree? I have in mind… Little Cirilla of Cintra. Queen Calanthe’s granddaughter.”
    Dandilion gazed at the ceiling, drumming his fingers on the table.
    “Honoured sir,” he said dryly, “you are interested in strange matters. You ask strange questions. Something tells me you are not the person I took you to be.”
    “And who did you take me to be, if I may ask?”
    “I’m not sure you may. It depends if you are about to convey greetings to me from any mutual friends. You should have done so initially, but somehow you have forgotten.”
    “I did not forget at all.” The man reached into the breast pocket of his sepia-coloured velvet tunic and pulled out a money-bag somewhat larger than the one he had handed the procuress but just as well-filled, which clinked as it touched the table. “We simply have no mutual friends, Dandilion. But might this purse not suffice to mitigate the lack?”
    “And what do you intend to buy with this meagre purse?” The troubadour pouted. “Mama Lantieri’s entire brothel and all the land surrounding it?”
    “Let us say that I intend to support the arts. And an artist. In order to chat with the artist about his work.”
    “You love art so much, do you, dear sir? Is it so vital for you to talk to an artist that you press money on him before you’ve even introduced yourself and, in doing so, break the most elementary rules of courtesy?”
    “At the beginning of our conversation��� – the stranger’s dark eyes narrowed imperceptibly – “my anonymity did not bother you.”
    “And now it is starting to.”
    “I am not ashamed of my name,” said the man, a faint smile appearing on his narrow lips. “I am called Rience. You do not know me, Master Dandilion, and that is no surprise. You are too famous and well known to know all of your admirers. Yet everyone who admires your talents feels he knows you, knows you so well that a certain degree of familiarity is permissible. This applies to me, too. I know it is a misconception, so please graciously forgive me.”
    “I graciously forgive you.”
    “Then I can count on you agreeing to answer a few questions—”
    “No! No you cannot,” interrupted the poet, putting on airs. “Now, if you will graciously forgive me, I am not willing to discuss the subjects of my work, its inspiration or its characters, fictitious or otherwise. To do so would deprive poetry of its poetic veneer and lead to triteness.”
    “Is that so?”
    “It certainly is. For example, if, having sung the ballad about the miller’s merry wife, I were to announce it’s really about Zvirka, Miller Loach’s wife, and I included an announcement that Zvirka can most easily be bedded every Thursday because on Thursdays the miller goes to market, it would no longer be poetry. It would be either rhyming couplets,