The Seven Songs (21 page)

At the sight of the village gates in the distance, Galwy released a whoop of joy, jumped down from my shoulders, and scampered ahead of us, his arms flapping like the wings of a young bird. Beyond the gates, smoke poured from the hearths of many low buildings. The structures, while varied sizes, were all made from wide, brown bricks lined with yellow mortar. I almost smiled, noting that they looked like giant loaves of buttered bread themselves.

Bumbelwy, who had remained silent all morning, smacked his lips. “Do you think they’re in the habit of giving visitors a crust of bread? Or do they turn people away hungry?”

“My guess,” answered Rhia, “is that they’re not in the habit of having visitors at all. The only people on this side of Eagles’ Canyon are in—” Abruptly, she caught herself, glancing at me.

“In prison, in the caverns south of here, you were about to say.” I pushed some stray black hairs off my face. “Like Stangmar, the man who was once my father.”

Rhia eyed me sympathetically. “He’s still your father.”

I strode more briskly toward the gates. “Not anymore. I don’t have a father.”

She swallowed. “I know how you feel. I never even knew my father. Or my mother.”

“At least you have Arbassa. And the rest of Drama Wood. As you’ve said before, that’s your real family.”

She worked her tongue, but said nothing.

As we arrived at the wooden gates, which were affixed to two tremendous spruce trees, a guard stepped out of the shadows by one of the trunks. Shaking the thinning locks of sand-colored hair that fell over his ears, he scowled at each of us in turn. Though his sword remained in its scabbard, one of his hands grasped the hilt. Even more than the roasting grains that filled the air, I began to smell the likelihood of trouble.

Warily, he examined my staff. “Be that the magical staff that felled the goblin?”

I blinked in surprise. “You know about that already?”

“Half the village knows by now,” snorted the guard. “Young master Galwy has been telling everyone he can find.”

“You’ll let us pass, then?”

The guard shook his locks again. “I didn’t say that.” He pointed at the staff, eyeing it cautiously. “How do I know you won’t use that to harm any villagers?”

“Well, for the same reason I’m not using it to harm you right now.”

His face tightened, and he gave his sword an anxious tug. “You’ll have to do better than that. You could be an infiltrator, after our secrets. Or an errand boy for the goblins, for all I know.”

Rhia, bristling, stepped forward. “Then why would he have slain the goblin last night?”

“As a ruse, leafy girl.” He ran a hand through his thinning hair. “Tell me, then. Why would a boy, a girl, and a . . . “ He paused, observing Bumbelwy. “And a beggar, of whatever kind, travel all the way to Slantos? Not by chance, I’ll wager.”

“No,” I answered carefully. “Your village is famous, far and near, for its breads. My friends and I would like to learn some of the bread maker’s art.”

His eyes bored into me. “I suspect that’s not all you’d like to learn.”

Remembering Cairpré’s warning, I swallowed. “I seek nothing that won’t be given freely.”

The guard lifted his face to the spruce boughs above him, as if somehow seeking their counsel. He drew a long, slow breath. “Well, all right. I shall let you in—not for what you’ve said, which leaves me quite suspicious, I’ll tell you. But for what you did to help master Galwy.”

With a final shake of his dangling hair, he moved aside, stepping into the shadows under one of the trees. Although I could feel his eyes watching me warily, I didn’t look back again. Nor did the others.

Immediately upon stepping through the gates, I spotted a high, spiraling structure in the middle of the common. Children squealed and jumped, playing around its base, while a steady stream of adults shuttled to and from it. Laden with buckets, baskets, and jugs, they resembled a colony of ants, hauling all the burdens of their society on their backs. Then I noticed a strange rippling on the gold-colored surface of the structure. As if it were moving somehow. As if it were alive.

Except for the few who pointed to my staff, whispering furtively, most of the villagers seemed too preoccupied with their tasks to pay any attention to us. Stepping over a cluster of children playing some sort of game with sticks, I moved cautiously closer to the structure. It seemed to be the source of at least some of the delicious smell that emanated from this village. And its surface was, indeed, moving. A thick, golden liquid flowed slowly from a spout at its highest point, down several spiraling troughs, all the way to a wide pool at its base. Out of this pool, people labored to draw the golden liquid by the bucketful, which they carried briskly into the buildings. At the same time, other people poured flour, milk, and other ingredients into the many vents that ringed the base.

“A fountain.” I stared, utterly amazed. “A fountain of bread.”

“Dough, you mean.” Rhia bent over the churning pool. “They must use the golden stuff—doesn’t it remind you of honey, but thicker?—as dough to start some of their breads.”

“All of our breads, in fact.”

We whirled around to see a plump, fair-haired man with ruddy cheeks, who was filling two large pitchers from the fountain. His ears, like other Fincayrans, were slightly pointed at the top. Yet his voice, like his face, seemed quite unusual, both scornful and mirthful at once. He was, I felt sure, one or the other. Which one I could not tell.

When the pitchers had nearly overflowed, he pulled them out of the pool. Resting them on his sizeable belly, he observed us for a moment. “Visitors, eh? We don’t like visitors.”

Unsure whether he was being unfriendly, or merely playful, I spoke up. “I would like to learn a little about bread baking. Could you help me?”

“I could,” he answered gruffly. Or teasingly. “But I’m too busy now.” He started to walk away. “Try some other day.”

“I don’t have another day!” I ran over to his side, keeping with him as he strode toward one of the buildings. “Won’t you please show me a little of your art?”

“No,” he declared. “I told you I’m—”

He tripped, tumbling over two scruffy boys, about the same age as Galwy, who were fighting over a loaf of blue-speckled bread. While only one of the pitchers fell to the ground, it smashed into dozens of pieces, all oozing with golden liquid from the fountain.

“Now see what you’ve done!” With a growl that was clearly serious, not playful, he stooped down to gather the broken pieces. Seeing me start to assist, he waved me away angrily. “Go away, boy! I don’t need your help.”

Glumly, I turned back to the bread fountain. I trudged toward it, barely noticing the rich aromas it continued to spill into the air. Rhia, having seen what happened, shook her head in dismay. She knew, as did I, that all of our efforts up to this point would be worthless unless we could find what we needed here in Slantos.

As I passed the two squabbling boys, who looked like twin brothers, I could tell that their argument was about to explode into a full-scale fight. Fists clenched, voices snarled. One boy tried to step on the blue-speckled loaf, which lay at the other one’s feet. The second boy’s nostrils flared. He roared angrily and charged at his enemy.

Slipping my staff through my belt, I stepped between them. Holding one boy by the collar of his tunic, and the other by the shoulder, I tried my best to keep them apart. Both shouted and struggled against me, kicking wildly at my legs. Finally, when my arms were about to give out, I released them and quickly snatched up the loaf of bread.

I raised the loaf, now more dirty brown than blue. “Is this what you’re fighting about?”

“It’s mine!” cried one.

“No, mine!” shouted the other.

Both of them lunged at the bread, but I held it just out of reach of their grasping hands. Ignoring their angry squeals, I waved it above them. Still warm, it smelled of sweet molasses. “Now,” I demanded, “would you like to know how you can both have some?”

One boy cocked his head skeptically. “How?”

I glanced furtively over my shoulder. “I can tell you, but only on the condition that you keep it a secret.”

The boys considered the idea, then nodded their heads in unison.

I kneeled down, then whispered something to them. Eyes wide, they listened intently. Finally, when I had finished, I handed them the loaf. They sat down on the spot, and within seconds, both of their mouths were bulging with bread.

“Not bad.”

I looked up to find the plump man gazing at me. “Tell me, boy. How did you ever get them to share the loaf?”

Standing up, I pulled my staff from my belt. “Simple, really. I merely suggested that they each take turns having a bite.” I grinned slightly. “And I also told them that if they couldn’t manage that, I would eat the bread myself.”

The man released a deep, guttural sound that could have been either a laugh or a groan. Scrunching up his face, he appeared to regard me with new respect. Or new concern. It was hard to tell. At last he spoke, removing any doubt. “If you’d like to learn a little about bread baking, boy, follow me.”

23:
N
AMING

The man strode to one of the loaf-shaped buildings at the far edge of the common. Before entering, he tossed the fragments of his broken pitcher into a pail outside the door. Then he wiped his plump hand on his tan tunic, already stained by many other wipings. Laying his hand on the wall by the door, he gave the brown bricks a grateful tap.

“Ever seen bricks like this?”

“No. Are they made from a special kind of mud?”

His expression turned grumpy. Or amused. “Actually, they’re made from a special kind of flour. The ingredients give it unusual hardness, you see.” He tapped the bricks again. “Knowing your ingredients, boy, is the first principle of baking bread.”

Something about how he said
knowing your ingredients
made me think he meant something more than merely recognizing different grains and herbs. Tempted though I was to ask him to explain, I held my tongue for fear of pushing too hard.

“This one,” he continued, “we call brickloaf. Baked six times for extra strength.” He pressed his stubby fingers against the wall. “These bricks will outlive me by a hundred years.”

Rhia, who had followed us, gazed at the bricks in wonder. “I’ve eaten some hard bread before, but not that hard.”

The rotund man turned to her. Suddenly he started to laugh, so hard that his belly shook and golden liquid sloshed out of his remaining pitcher. “A good one, forest girl.”

She smiled. “You may call me Rhia.”

“And me Merlin.”

The man nodded. “And me Pluton.”

“Pluton,” I repeated. “Isn’t that a Greek name? From the story of Demeter and the first harvest of corn?”

“Why yes, boy. How do you come to know about the Greeks?”

My throat went dry. “My mother taught me.”

“Indeed, as did mine. No child is born in Slantos who doesn’t learn the tales of harvesting and baking from many different lands. And it’s not unusual to give a child a name from one of those tales.” He gave me an ambiguous look. “Of course, that’s not my true name.”

Rhia and I traded glances. Remembering Urnalda’s comment about true names, I felt tempted to ask more. Besides, it troubled me that I could see no connection between the domestic art of bread baking and the magical art of Naming. But I held back. Things had taken a positive turn, and I did not want to alter that. Better to wait for another moment to learn about Naming.

Pluton lifted the door latch. “Come on in, both of you.”

As we started to follow him inside, I suddenly remembered Bumbelwy. Scanning the bustling common, I quickly found him, still standing by the bread fountain. He was leaning against its base, peering hungrily at the pool of golden liquid. Children, probably curious about his belled hat, were gathering around him. He seemed unlikely to get into any trouble, and I didn’t want to stretch Pluton’s hospitality any further than necessary, so I decided just to leave him there.

As we entered the building, a new wave of aromas washed over us. I smelled roasting barley, some nectar as sweet as roses in bloom, and several spices I could not identify. The main room looked like the kitchen of a bustling inn, with pots boiling on the hearth, dried herbs and roots and bark shavings dangling from the ceiling, and bags of grain and flour sitting on the shelves. The room held six or seven people busily stirring, pouring, slicing, mixing, testing, and baking. From their expressions, it was clear that they both enjoyed their work and took it quite seriously.

Sunlight streamed into the room through rows of narrow windows. Yet the main source of light was the hearth itself, a complex of stone ovens and fire pits that covered almost an entire wall. Rather than burning wood, the hearth’s fires used some sort of flat, gray cakes as fuel. No doubt they came from another mysterious recipe of the Slantos.

Above the hearth, high enough to be well out of reach, hung a massive sword, its hilt blackened by many years of fires beneath it. The metal scabbard had rusted with age; the leather belt had been eaten away. Something about the old sword made me curious to examine it more closely. Yet with the swirl of activity in the room, I soon forgot about it.

A tall girl, with apple cheeks and black hair that fell to her shoulders, approached Pluton. She looked quite different from anyone else I had seen in the village, partly because of her dark hair, partly because of her slender form. Her eyes, as black as my own, glowed with intelligence. The girl reached for the pitcher of golden liquid, then froze when she noticed Rhia and me standing to the side.

Pluton flicked his hand toward us. “This is Merlin, and Rhia. They’re here to learn a bit about baking.” Indicating the girl, he added brusquely, or just distractedly, “This is my apprentice, Vivian. Came to me when her parents, whom I’d known from my travels in the south, died in a terrible flood. How long ago was that now?”

“Six years, Breadmaster Pluton.” She took the pitcher, her hands embracing it with the care of a mother holding a newborn. Still watching us warily, she asked, “Are you not concerned about them?”