On the Road South

1587-11-25
The Road from Maraisbourg

The road unspooled in muddy brown and autumn gold. I left the city with the salute still in my ears and Merryen’s charge in my pack. Spires fell away into vineyard rows, then into fields where stubble caught the light like filings around a magnet.

At crossings I was asked the old question. Soldier or minstrel. I said both. It felt true.

Morning practice made a small ring of footprints in the frost. Oberhau until my shoulders warmed. Zornhau into the empty air to test my structure. Krumphau against a willow switch to learn the curve without haste. I set my measure to my stride and kept both even.

By noon the river was an arm at my left. Red towers rose at intervals, short and old, their caps wrapped in scaffolds. Mason-priests chalked seams and struck tuning lines that thrummed in the wind. A ferryman said the towers would be taught to speak to each other. He spat and said the song would be theirs, not the river’s.

Toward evening I shared a fire with road wardens who watched the bridges. They spoke softly about zealots that tested routes with coals hidden in baskets and about ashfast devotees who doused shrine braziers by moonlight. I listened and asked nothing. The lesson was to walk, learn, and keep the line clear.

The journey tempered more than the blade. It filed impatience and set edges that heat alone could not.