Author: Tristraam
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II
Alethea blinks in confusion. The camp was gone. So were the hills. She glances about, trying to make sense of the scene before her. She is standing in the middle of a market square. Around her, busy as ants, people jostle to and fro.
To her left comes a piercing wail. She turns to see a Fier’Dal woman nursing a small child, his knees scraped and bleeding where he has fallen. The dust-covered remains of an ice-lolly lay melting by his feet.
Her vision blurs suddenly as an object is thrust in her face.
“Fancy an Underfoot Pasty, treacle? Two for the price of one, three for a quilver! (1)” bubbles a portly, bespectacled halfling female, hovering the greasy morsel in front of Alethea’s face.
Waving dismissively at the old peddler, she mutters, “Thank you, no…” and stops abruptly. Something about the woman catches her. The halfling woman. Either she was the tallest halfling Alethea had ever seen, or…
The pasty-seller begins to turn away, looking for another potential customer. Frantically, Alethea grabs the merchant by the shoulders, spinning her back around. She leans in close, peering at the twin reflections in the old woman’s glasses. Two figures stare back at her, confused expressions on their tiny faces.
The startled merchant peers at her warily a moment. Recovering her composure, she smiles at the young girl, "Change your mind, poppin?"
“That’s not me!” Althea whispers in panic. And yet… there is something familiar about the diminutive doppelgangers. Squinting her eyes, she leans in closer, entranced.
A sudden series of explosions brings her out of the bewilderment. Tearing her gaze away, she looks up to see three gnomes, huddled on the back of an ox cart. They chitter away excitedly, their powder-burned faces glowing as they struggle to erect a giant rocket. Two of the gnomes hold the ponderous projectile steady while the third, a look of mischievous joy on his face, holds a torch beneath it. There is a sudden roar and a shower of sparks as it launches, ejecting the gnomes from the cart with a loud “whoosh!” The missile zips upward, its smoky trail cutting a path through the sky. A moment later there is a huge eruption as the rocket detonates into bloom, showering a colourful conflagration over the marketplace. The gnomes, patting away the rash of tiny fires that have broken out over their clothing, trot back to the cart, giggling perniciously.
“Fireworks!” Alethea blurts, “there haven’t been gnomish fireworks in the Fay (2) since…” She puzzles a moment, her mind racing in recollection.
Looking around, her fingers stroke her cheek absently as she takes in her surroundings. She turns back to the halfing, her eyes widening in epiphany.
“I remember this day!” she breathes, grasping the woman’s arm, “I’m twelve years old. Mother’s sent me to buy vegetables!”
“That’s nice dear,” says the old merchant, nervously patting Alethea’s hand, her eyes searching for a means of escape.
She shakes her head. A cold wave of vision slips over her: snowy hills, a tent, the glow of a campfire. And then it is gone. Releasing the struggling woman from her grasp, she scans the market, searching for the vegetable-mongers.
Her voice changes slightly as she turns to leave. “I must get going. Mother will be most upset if I’m late. She’s having a dinner party tonight, with important guests!” she says, her speech comes in the melodic trill of a child.
The merchant, regaining some of her commercial expertise, holds up the pasty, ”Plenty of veg in these, love. Why, your mum’ll thank you for bringing home such a tasty…”
Ignoring the woman’s half-hearted sales pitch, Alethea pulls the hood of her cloak back over her head and slips into the crowd, working her way towards one of the fruit and vegetable stands.
The halfing watches Alethea disappear into the thick forest of bodies. “Elves,” she mutters, shaking her head. Spotting a group of rather podgy humans, she quickly tests her merchant’s smile. Satisfied that it is sufficiently cheerful, she scampers after them, pasties at the ready.
(1) A quilver is four silver pieces in Fay-speak, the sylvan dialect spoken in the area surrounding the village of Del’Sance.
(2) The Fay is what the locals call their region of the Faydark, which lies approximately three days’ ride from the capital of Felwithe. It is a rural community, comprised of mostly hamlets and farms. The tiny village of Del’Sance lies in the centre of the area, and acts as the gathering place for farmers and traders to sell their wares.
--continued--
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