Another day in icy Vindurhal, and the snow-storms are still blowing. I am writing this by candlelight, though it be almost midday, because it is so cold and bleak.
My stomach is better, after eating of that Snow-Pearl plant Norliriel found in the snow yesterday. It did not smell bad, so I thought to nibble on a tiny piece of a leaf, only to be told too late that it was a powerful plant, and, had I eaten more of the leaf, things may not have gone well for me.
As it was, I sat by the fire rubbing my stomach, drinking a little wine for the pain in my side, unable to rest, and unwilling to wake Norliriel, lest I annoy her by my folly. Annunghil came up, and asked what was wrong. I told him, and he said he would gladly give me medicine, if he knew what kind of medicine to give, but he had not the skill, so I contented myself with wine.
Others were stirring in the camp by now, Barangolf, and his cousin Tinurendis, and then lovely Brasseniel sat down beside me to block the cruel wind. I was drifting in and out of warm sleep, every now and again hiccuping, feeling my innards prickle at the leaf of the Snow-Pearl.
I awoke to hear Barangolf saying a poem about a bumblebee. And the more I heard, the more silly it seemed to me. Then Tinurendis told one of Eryn Galen, and Tancamir said one of birds and trees. Everyone was taking turns, and Brasseniel turning to me smiled prettily and begged me to tell a poem. I could not say no to her, so holding my hand to my side, I said what we needed was a tale of wood and fire, and told the old Firewood poem, not very well, because I kept hiccuping, and I think I forgot one or two of the verses, but this shortened its telling, and that suited me.
Tinurendis said it reminded her of a tale, one about fire and curtains, very popular in the Greenwood, it seems, because Barangolf laughed, and said he never tired of hearing it, and Tinurendis agreed, saying she never tired of telling it, and neither did anyone else in the King’s Guard.
She told a tale of a drunken fool’s running away with himself on a festival night with a candelabra balanced on his head who tripped over a fruit bowl and set the feast-hall on fire. This is the first time that I ever heard this story told to amuse. Her words shocked me. The tale was told so wrongly, and so badly besides, that I could not keep quiet. I leapt to my feet, and cried out that it did not happen that way at all!
Then I realized my great mistake, and Tinurendis coming up to me with a strange expression, said that her story was known by another name, The Tale of Parnard the Fool. She peered at my face, and said she could not believe it at first, but it must be true: the person in the story that all the recruits in the King’s Guard laughed to tell about was standing right before her eyes!
I felt the old anger rise up, and said I knew folk were spreading lies and rumours about me when I was abroad, but little did I know I would be made a laughing-stock! And then I said that we should not aid the Greenwood after all, and I would be letting Lord Anglachelm know of my change of heart.
Then I stalked away a short distance, very angry and shamed, and stood in the blizzard, fool that I am, until Brasseniel calling me by my name found me, and placing her hand on my arm consoled me, saying, it was such a little thing, and I should not be bothered by it.
But, I said to her, I am remembered as a black sheep; and I will not abide a place where I am made a butt until the starlight’s ending. I said I was no longer Parnard of the Greenwood, but Lord Ambassador of Bar-en-Vanimar. I would not go thither and have folk mock me, and I would never return there again.
Brasseniel’s eyes grew cold and hard as she looked at me, and said, So that is it, then? You will wash your hands of all of the Greenwood, your people, because recruits laugh when they remember a time when you had too much to drink?
I hung my head, feeling heartily ashamed. No, I told her, I would not forsake my kindred; my words were spoken rashly, out of anger and my bitter sorrow. Yet my mind was ill at ease, and I was loath to return to the campfire, not knowing what other tales of foolery Barangolf’s folk might have heard about me. Not that there were many more such tales, but I did not like to think it. I did not know what to say to them, but she counseled me, saying, I would likely not need to say anything; they would fawn at my feet with apologies.
That was not the case, when I returned to the campfire; and I was not able to secure any vows or promises from Tinuredis or Barangolf to never retell the tale again. Yet it matters not what these two do, because it is so common a tale now, only that they should not tell it to Sogadan, else I will never be able to forget what had been done. And this they said they would never do.
