In a dirty wayside inn, near the crossroads to Marcburg in the mountains and Cletz Isle in the north, sat Fenric writing a letter addressed to a stranger. The letter did not bear Fenric's name, nor were the words contained within it his own. They were simple words, conveying a simple message in a way Fenric would not have conveyed it. Nothing about the letter was thus his own, safe for the pen strokes making out the characters. They were elegant strokes, starkly contrasting the simplicity of the message, but Fenric took pride in his writing and even when writing for a peasant, he refused to do less than his abilities allowed. Some of it may be benevolence, a naive desire to create beauty even where it was not expected, but Fenric would readily admit that most of it came down to pride. 

“...with love, your cousin Gotfred of Pine Farm.”

Fenric hesitated for a moment at the name.

“And how do you spell your name, friend? With one or two Ts?”

"Just the one," Gotfred said. "Dead plain, me."

Fenric finished the letter with a few final swoops.

"There you are then, Gotfred of Pine Farm. I'll leave your letter to dry for now, then you can hand it to the innkeeper. She assures me that she expects the letter carrier to show up tomorrow morning, so your letter should be on its way soon. Now what did we agree on, three pieces?"

The peasant nodded and produced three small silver coins from his pouch, setting them on the table next to the letter. 

"Three pieces?” asked an unknown voice. “What is a man of your talents doing here, selling his services for a mere three pieces?”

Fenric looked to his left and found the speaker: a red-haired, beardless man – he looked barely more than a youth – wearing a fine, albeit well-travelled, cloak over a blue tunic. Fenric suppressed a smirk. Although light conditions at the inn did not allow him to determine the nature of the man’s footwear, he felt certain he would be wearing leather boots, as well. A highborn man, that was for certain. Maybe even a noble. When Fenric had arrived at the inn a few hours ago, he had taken notice of no such man in the serving room – and he certainly would have, had such a man been present in it. The highborn man must have rented a room. No wonder the innkeeper had seemed in such high spirits. 

“A man of my talents?” Fenric finally said. “I am merely a scribe.”

The highborn man stood with a grace of movement that made Fenric confident that he was dealing with a noble and made his way over to Fenric's table. 

“You are a scribe, certainly, but a most talented one, in my humble opinion,” the man said with the air of someone who was not the least bit humble in his opinions.

“I thank you, Lord, but I fail to see…”

Before Fenric could finish speaking, the noble put down a book next to the silver coins and opened it to a seemingly random page.

“I have been observing your penmanship as you worked on this letter,” the noble said, indicating Gotfred’s letter with a nod. “And it struck me a few lines in that it looked most similar to the penmanship in a favoured book of poetry – penmanship which I have always admired, it should be noted. Do you recognise this writing? Are you perhaps the apprentice of the master who transcribed this volume?” 

A few people had been gathered by Fenric's table. Gotfred was travelling with a woman who had waited loyally beside him as he recited his letter to Fenric, another woman was waiting her turn to have a letter transcribed, and two men playing dice at a neighbouring table had cast curious glances Fenric's way every now again. All five of them had gone completely quiet, their eyes on the noble. 

Fenric allowed himself a small sigh before he bent forward to look at the book. 

To his surprise, Fenric recognised the words and writing both. The words were not his, but they had, on occasion, echoed in his mind throughout the years since he’d first read them. Fenric had transcribed many books when he worked in Silveck and had forgotten many the moment he had finished work on them, but this one… this one he had remembered.

“My lord is right, in a sense,” Fenric said. “I transcribed the version of Praises and Contemplations my Lord owns.”

The noble's eyes lit up and he took a seat by Fenric's table. The woman who had been waiting behind Gotfred to have her letter transcribed rolled her eyes and went to the bar. 

“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Master Scribe,” the noble said with a genuine smile. “I have long wanted to meet the one who worked on my favourite volume. You must excuse my manners, of course, I admit I completely forgot them in the excitement. I am Lord Anshelm.”

Fenric felt his eyes grow big. Not all who had heard seemed to grasp the significance of that name – most may only understand the significance of the title preceding it – but Fenric noticed one of the dice players whisper to the other and knew that he, too, had realised what Fenric just had.

This man was not just any noble. 

This was Lord Anshelm Drotzet, Hirdman of the Realm, brother of the Earl of Otzvic and, most vitally, foster brother of King Roderic.

And he was talking to Fenric about poetry. 

After the initial shock passed, Fenric began to consider the benefits of having the admiration of such a man. Fenric allowed himself to be interrogated on the nature of his work and how he had honed his writing over the years. Doubtlessly, this was costing him money in letters he could have been writing, but there may yet be more value to gain from indulging this man than mere silver. And if his gamble didn't pay off, well… Fenric had enough money to make it to the capital and once he reached it, he would have plenty of opportunities to earn more than he could on the road.

So he made the gamble.

"Say, Lord, where are you headed tomorrow?" 

"Silveck."

"Same as myself, then…" Fenric said, having already expected as much.

Lord Anshelm frowned in thought and tapped his index finger against his lips a few times, while Fenric waited with bated breath for Lord Anshelm’s mind to go where he needed it to.

"And you know bookstaves as well as runestaves, I expect?"

Fenric nodded.

"Then… you wouldn't happen to be looking for more permanent employment, would you?"

"That depends, I suppose…" 

"I travel a great deal, you see, and on my travels, it is necessary that I take a great deal of notes and write a great deal of letters. I have long wished to employ someone for such a job, yet have always hesitated, have always let a certain perfectionism get in the way of good sense. But you, Master Scribe... I should be so lucky to have my thoughts put to parchment with your skill!" 

Fenric hesitated for a moment. This was dangerous. Very dangerous. Yet it was a danger with potential. Indeed, it was the exact danger he’d courted when he’d asked where Lord Anshelm was travelling to, having already suspected the answer. The potential here was so great that Fenric could scarcely justify not pursuing it. And yet, he could not help but hesitate in the face of such danger.

“I understand, of course, that not all enjoy travel, and I do not wish for you to feel pressured, whether by my rank or my flattery, to accept a position you do not desire."

But accept it Fenric did. He steeled himself and determined to hold on to this golden opportunity with all his might. It would be an unimaginable waste to let it pass him by. 

"You misunderstand, Lord. I am honoured and I'll gladly accept your offer. It is just… I have allowed you to call me a master scribe with no correction, but a correction is now in order – I am only a journeyman of the craft, not a master." 

Lord Anshelm waved a hand dismissively. 

"I of all people understand that it is not our titles that determine our qualifications, my good man. You may not be a master to the scribe guild, but it’s my opinion that your penmanship speaks for itself." 

Fenric bowed his head to show a humility he almost felt. 

"My lord flatters me.”

“Not at all,” said Lord Anshelm. “I merely speak the truth as I see it. Now will you do it?”

Fenric observed Lord Anshelm for a moment before answering. A determined man, that much was obvious. Even a bit rude without meaning to be, which Fenric would not have expected of a man who regularly attended court. Was such unawareness not beaten out of men like Lord Anshelm as boys? Perhaps he was merely less careful when there was no-one around whom it would be dangerous to insult… There was an almost boyish eagerness to him as well, at least when he spoke of poetry or penmanship. And to think, this was one of the most powerful men in the land… 

“I have already agreed to as much, Lord,” Fenric said. “I am flattered by my lord’s interest in my services and can start working with my lord without delay.”

Lord Anshelm frowned. Confusion, not displeasure, Fenric’s mind supplied. 

“You were not travelling to Silveck to take on a new position, then?”

Fenric shook his head.

“I was of course hoping to find a position once there, but I don’t have one lined up at present.”

In fact, Fenric had been planning to keep writing letters for the masses for a little while, rather than seeking a formal position just yet. Letter writing afforded more flexibility – flexibility he needed for his more clandestine agendas. He would have to let that go, now. Let someone else take over those tasks. This, though? This promised to be priceless in the face of those tasks. He hoped the old crone would see things the same way. 

“Well, wonderful, then!” Lord Anshelm said. “It must have been Fate who brought us together in this inn tonight, Scribe! We have been brought together for a purpose, I can feel it! There is a poem in Praises and Contemplations for just this occasion, let me find it.”

Before Fenric could get a word in, Lord Anshelm started flipping through his book. It only took him a few tries to find the poem in question, having clearly read it enough times to remember its whereabouts. 

“Here!” he said triumphantly, pointing to the third stanza of a longer poem. 

“Tis known, a road's a home whilst you are there,

though lonely it may be with naught to share.

Yet if, with friendly foot, a fellow follows,

matching step by step and bend by bend,

the gift you have received will never hollow,

for with you he will stay 'till very end.”

Right, Fenric remembered this. Well, the gist of it, at least. This was from The Virtues of Travel or something to that effect. A meditation, actually, not a praise. Praises and Meditations was a collection of poems by Ingilund Gold-Word, a bard who’d lived about half a century ago. His early poetry consisted of a mix of poems describing the good qualities and deeds of the king and those in his circle – paid for by said king, of course – and poems about the natural world. These had come to be known as Ingilund’s “praises”. Later in his life, after amassing a fortune, Ingilund Gold-Word had written poems about a wide array of subjects and his opinions on them. These were then the “meditations.” Ingilund Gold-Word’s poems had never been published in a collected volume in his own time, so the title Praises and Meditations had been an invention of whichever master scribe had first taken it upon himself to include all the poems in a single book. 

“Very fitting, Lord,” Fenric said with a respectful nod of his head. “I hope to live up to your expectations.”

Though I certainly won’t stay with you till the very end.