Read Online Days Of Light And Shadow by Greg Curtis - Free Book Online
Authors: Greg Curtis
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of course. Not the nobles.
All he had to do was swallow his pride and get through his next three years in this land. And maybe then he could finally go home and celebrate by running through the streets barefoot. Drinking himself into a stupor in some of the inns with his friends. Or hunting frogs. That had always been fun. And even more fun when he’d made it back to the castle and his mother and heard her lament the state of his clothes. She’d always lamented his boyish ways, and he’d always secretly loved it when she did. It was even worth being thrust into the bath.
It had been so long since he had been home. Since he had seen the endless green grass of the grazing lands. Since he had spent some time with his family, instead of simply sending endless letters.
That in the end was the truth. If Leafshade truly lacked in anything it was really in that it wasn’t his home, and he missed his home.
He missed the dirty streets of Greenlands, streets filled with traders and children and various others all jostling one another as they went about their day. He missed the cat calls of the women of the night as they advertised their availability, and the cries of the traders as they too advertised their wares. He missed the rough, worn stone work of the buildings, houses and shops that might not be so pretty but which would stand for a thousand years. He missed being able to just cut loose and run barefoot and free in the markets with not a care in the world. He missed being able to drink himself under the table in any of a dozen inns and knowing that when he did he wouldn’t be alone. He missed the women too. Real women with curves, not these refined sticks in elegant robes.
But those were dreams from the past. A dozen years in the past. For the present there were no dreams, only duties. And formality of course.
“Envoy.” Just as he was dismissing Pita to go about his duties Iros heard his name called and looked up. Elder Yossirion was heading his way at a more than respectable pace, waving enthusiastically to him as his quarterstaff tapped out a somewhat hurried tattoo on the stone path, and the sight made him smile.
The elder’s robe was somewhat disarrayed, threadbare in places, his long golden hair floated freely in the gentle breeze, unrestrained as it should normally be, and his walk was as ever a little too fast for the measured pace that was expected among his people. The elder was possibly the most unelven elf he had ever met. But then he was an elder and Iros suspected it was a matter of pride with him that he didn’t conform.
Just being an elder was a mark of nonconformity. Priests still kept the names of their houses, but taking that next step to the status of elder meant putting aside that connection. If the elder could be said to have any house, it was the Grove.
He still didn’t fully understand the relationship between the high lord and the Grove. He wasn’t completely sure that the elves did either. But what he did know was that where the high lord was a spoilt little child from the great houses, playing at being a ruler, the priesthood actually seemed to run much of the place. Finell could make his grand pronouncements, set in motion his laws and his policies, but if the priesthood didn’t like them, they would soon be forgotten. He suspected that that was in part why the people had tolerated Finell’s rule these past two and a half years. They ignored it.
“Elder.” Iros greeted him politely, actually quite pleased to see the elf. If there was one person in this city that he could enjoy spending time with, it was Yossirion. The man was interesting company, and he could play a truly outstanding game of quo’ril, the most vexing strategic board game he had ever encountered. Add to that that he had magic, a subject that Iros was eternally fascinated by, and it was no wonder that he’d spent many a pleasant afternoon speaking with the elder. Too often
All he had to do was swallow his pride and get through his next three years in this land. And maybe then he could finally go home and celebrate by running through the streets barefoot. Drinking himself into a stupor in some of the inns with his friends. Or hunting frogs. That had always been fun. And even more fun when he’d made it back to the castle and his mother and heard her lament the state of his clothes. She’d always lamented his boyish ways, and he’d always secretly loved it when she did. It was even worth being thrust into the bath.
It had been so long since he had been home. Since he had seen the endless green grass of the grazing lands. Since he had spent some time with his family, instead of simply sending endless letters.
That in the end was the truth. If Leafshade truly lacked in anything it was really in that it wasn’t his home, and he missed his home.
He missed the dirty streets of Greenlands, streets filled with traders and children and various others all jostling one another as they went about their day. He missed the cat calls of the women of the night as they advertised their availability, and the cries of the traders as they too advertised their wares. He missed the rough, worn stone work of the buildings, houses and shops that might not be so pretty but which would stand for a thousand years. He missed being able to just cut loose and run barefoot and free in the markets with not a care in the world. He missed being able to drink himself under the table in any of a dozen inns and knowing that when he did he wouldn’t be alone. He missed the women too. Real women with curves, not these refined sticks in elegant robes.
But those were dreams from the past. A dozen years in the past. For the present there were no dreams, only duties. And formality of course.
“Envoy.” Just as he was dismissing Pita to go about his duties Iros heard his name called and looked up. Elder Yossirion was heading his way at a more than respectable pace, waving enthusiastically to him as his quarterstaff tapped out a somewhat hurried tattoo on the stone path, and the sight made him smile.
The elder’s robe was somewhat disarrayed, threadbare in places, his long golden hair floated freely in the gentle breeze, unrestrained as it should normally be, and his walk was as ever a little too fast for the measured pace that was expected among his people. The elder was possibly the most unelven elf he had ever met. But then he was an elder and Iros suspected it was a matter of pride with him that he didn’t conform.
Just being an elder was a mark of nonconformity. Priests still kept the names of their houses, but taking that next step to the status of elder meant putting aside that connection. If the elder could be said to have any house, it was the Grove.
He still didn’t fully understand the relationship between the high lord and the Grove. He wasn’t completely sure that the elves did either. But what he did know was that where the high lord was a spoilt little child from the great houses, playing at being a ruler, the priesthood actually seemed to run much of the place. Finell could make his grand pronouncements, set in motion his laws and his policies, but if the priesthood didn’t like them, they would soon be forgotten. He suspected that that was in part why the people had tolerated Finell’s rule these past two and a half years. They ignored it.
“Elder.” Iros greeted him politely, actually quite pleased to see the elf. If there was one person in this city that he could enjoy spending time with, it was Yossirion. The man was interesting company, and he could play a truly outstanding game of quo’ril, the most vexing strategic board game he had ever encountered. Add to that that he had magic, a subject that Iros was eternally fascinated by, and it was no wonder that he’d spent many a pleasant afternoon speaking with the elder. Too often
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