photo by argo
The following is a short excerpt from Keith R. Potempa’s high fantasy novel-in-progress Daughters of Oyr.
“Raincaller everyone,” the man said, gesturing in the cellist’s direction, and the crowd roared. “A queen in her own right.” A tired smile flickered in the darkness as the woman swept up her curls with one hand. “And I,” the bare-chested man paused, bowing for dramatic effect, “am Brother Madrigal.” The silence was so thick that glasses were heard clinking behind the far-away bar. The barkeep swore breathlessly at his bar-backs: clean faster. “There are many names for what I am,” he continued slowly, exaggeratedly, as he paced about the stage, dragging a thick leather whip at his side. “Priest, cleric, parson, minister, vicar, shepherd, friar, man of the cloth. Man of the cloth and staff I am, ordained in eighteen religions, including yours.” His voice was melodious and hinted at an ancient wisdom. Yet outright, he looked an overweight, unkempt fool, covered from face to stomach with a thick layer of the the same wiry hair. “You may call me Brother. For though I walk the path of your gods and mine, I am a father of none. You may call me Madrigal, though you will die on my blade sooner than you will hear me sing. So do not ask. You may call me Brother Madrigal or you may call me Madrigal. I am sorry to say, but there is no short way to say my name.”
“Mad!” someone shouted from the crowd and was met with laughter.
“He certainly is mad!” came a reply. “Get him off the stage!”
Brother Madrigal continued, ignoring the response.
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All original fiction is ©2009 Keith R. Potempa and is not to be reproduced in any form without prior written consent of the of the author.