Chapter 2 - The minstrel

Ystal strides through the village, reaching the small center, characterized by the presence of some dry shrub, delimiting a small recreational area; usually, on summer and spring afternoons, the children played noisily, drawing upon themselves the calmed and saddened glances of their parents and fellow villagers. After all, everyone knew that sooner or later, at least half of them, would disappear in some Purge.

The child ignored the pitying looks of the women he happened to meet, pausing in the middle of the shrubs. He looked around, trying to locate the elusive minstrel. It was usually simple: they always wore colorful clothes and rich fabrics, and carried an extraordinary amount of tools, many of which were simply unknown to Ystal. Or at least, so he had been told by those who - last decade - had had the good fortune to meet the unexpected visitor.

"Who knows what he looked like ..." he asked himself in a low voice, awakening from his thoughts only after realizing he was losing concentration.

The child resumed looking around and it took a few minutes to identify someone who could be at least similar to one of them.

He wore a heavy cloak of a pale blue, similar to the cloudless morning sky, identical to that of the day they were experiencing.

Ystal smiled slightly, smugly noticing the loneliness around him. He had really been the first to know and find him.

He approached with a shy step, playing with a corner of his crumpled and dirty shirt: usually, the minstrels were surrounded by people, and it was difficult to ask them a few questions, as Ystal always wanted to do. He would take advantage of that moment of peace to ask everything that was going through his head, to learn something about the outside world.

Reaching the man, he cleared his throat to get his attention.

He saw him turn, with incredible grace. The smile he gave him caught him off guard, forcing him to look away. No one, outside of his mother, had ever smiled at him with such tenderness.

"U-uhm ..." he stammered, biting his lip.

The minstrel tilted his head slightly, peering intently at the child. Olive skin and bright green eyes. Loose, rumpled clothes, presumably not his, too big for his slim physique. Tousled hair, of someone who has just woken up, a very dark brown compared to that of all the other Outsiders he had met.

The man widened his smile, somewhat pleased, as a quick thought flashed through his head.

"Little boy, are you looking for something?" he asked, startling him.

Ystal lifted his face, shaking his head.

"You're a minstrel, aren't you? Could you tell me some stories?" he asked then, blindly trusting his mother's words. If she had talked about a minstrel, then it had to be true.

The man seemed amazed by that request, somewhat amazed and bewildered at the same time.

After a brief moment of silence, which to Ystal felt as heavy and suffocating as a hand pressed to his neck, the minstrel nodded vaguely.

He sat down on the ground, crossing his legs, motioning for Ystal to take a seat.

"I don't know many stories." he admitted.

"Don't you know many? Don't minstrels know all the stories in the world?"

That little statement made the man burst out laughing, in a genuine outburst of laughter.

"No one can know all the stories in the world, not even the best of minstrels. There will always be something that is not said."

The child did not understand the meaning of that sentence, but merely nodded, in order not to disappoint his interlocutor because of his ignorance.

He quickly stood in front of him, ready to listen. Only then did he realize that the minstrel had no instrument, and that he had not pulled down the hood of his cloak.

"What do you use to tell your stories?" he asked, intrigued, but confused at the same time. He was beginning to think he was being teased, and he didn't like that at all. Maybe the villagers had played a joke on him, to annoy him? Was he one of them and, for this reason, he had no tools and did not show his face, if not his lips?

"With my voice, little boy." answered the elusive minstrel, pointing to his lips, "that's enough. You don't need music."

Ystal hesitated for a moment, uncertain, then nodded again. Somehow, it might be convincing.

"So, what do you know? The stories of the first war? Or-"

The man interrupted him, raising his hand a little to signal him to be quiet. Ystal obeyed immediately, being overwhelmed by a strong sense of embarrassment at being scolded.

"None of this. I'm sure you've heard of it many times before. Or am I wrong?"

"No, that's correct. All minstrels tell them" he replied, once again relying on what his parents had said. After all, it was the only thing he could do: trust their words and fervently hope they were truthful.

"Exactly. So, what sense would it make if I did it too? You might as well repeat every night what you already know and have heard. No, that's not what I want to do. I'll tell you a story you don't know." the man began, with a hint of pride in his tone of voice.

Ystal blinked, even more uncertain. He didn't know whether to trust or not, but his way of speaking intrigued him.

-I will listen. It costs me nothing, after all- he thought, still feeling slightly uncomfortable.

"Okay ..." the boy agreed, "so what story are you telling me?"

The minstrel smiled enigmatically. A shiver of an unknown nature ran down Ystal's spine, but the child pretended nothing had happened. He didn't want to listen to his own fears.

"Have you ever heard of Alchemists?"

At that question, Ystal stiffened. Had he heard of it? Everyone knew the history of the Alchemists, for better or for worse. They taught it from the first years of life and woe to forget it. They were cruel and merciless men, who kidnapped and performed strange experiments on men and women like themselves. They had attacked the Kingdom, to bring down the throne, and this had caused their destruction and, consequently, the Purges. It was because of them that Outsiders were forced to go through all that suffering every year.

The boy nodded vigorously, clenching his little hands into fists.

"I heard about it" he said in an angry tone.

The man laughed heartily.

"I guessed. Bad and ugly men who hurt, correct?"

"Exactly." he hissed angrily, turning his head away. He noticed how many children passed by them, without however stopping to listen. It was as if they didn't even notice them. He frowned, looking back at the minstrel, now serious.

"Let me tell you a story. The story of an Alchemist" the minstrel announced at that moment, widening his smile with a mysterious and pleased way, getting the attention of the distracted child again.

Ystal's eyes widened, leaping to his feet.

"Why should I listen to you? You said you were going to tell a different story. The people always say the same things about Alchemists!"

"Yes, it is." sighed the man, shaking his head "that's the problem. Sit down, little boy. Sit and listen. No need to inflame yourself. After all, it's just a story."