“Sir Conrad... Conrad Hardae? Gods’ wisdom, what are you doing here, sir!” the scholar exclaimed when he opened the door with newly awakened eyes, blinking in bafflement.
Conrad smiled at the man’s startled expression, but his voice became serious with the thought of his duty. “I have to send a message to Silverstream, old friend.”
22
The Bard
The next morning, Nathelion was feeling ecstatic when he walked out of his expensive room in The Green Gown, note in hand. He’d been quite productive throughout the night — indeed, even inspired — and what had come of it was a piece of written art describing how he had had a divine vision at midnight in which a radiant celestial told him how to defeat the Queen Beyond. It was quite imaginative and certain to impress Alwarul when the old man read it. After having finished the message, he had even found some very renewing rest, the nightmares seemingly gone. Now he would just need to sneak down into the common room and leave the note with one of the serving maids, with instructions to comment on how full of purpose he had looked when she delivered it to the old man. And then he’d be free, free from this mad endeavor of going into Rurhav and free to seek his own way instead.
When he descended into the brightly lit common room, however, his joy soured. Molgrimin was there, sitting with someone by one of the tables near the door. Two people in the common room, and of course one of them is the dwarf!
Molgrimin was drunk, naturally, but he still did not fail to notice Nathelion and call him over in a loud voice that sounded very obnoxious in the early hour. “Nathan, come here!”
Nathelion could only slip the note into his pocket and patiently join the moinguir and his company. He would have to wait for a better opportunity to steal away.
“We were just talking of our adventure, Nathan,” Molgrimin said when he took a seat, and Nathelion was dismayed to see that the guest at the table was the bloody bard who had been performing the day before. The man kept his hair long, to the point of easily being mistaken for a woman, and his face was unblemished in a way that made Nathelion suspect that he used some powder... No, he did use powder, giving his face a pale tone that was not at all natural. His fine clothes were green and white satin, excessively embroidered with threads of gold, and the rigid collar framed his thin cheeks. Lace spilled out over his chest and from his sleeves. Nathelion took a dislike to him at once.
“I’m telling this fine bard...eh, Arisfin, was it?”
“Arisfae Mirenas,” the man corrected, his voice rising as if introducing a show, and then he turned a perfectly white smile to Nathelion. “Your friend here has told me quite a story indeed. I have grown rather intrigued by this quest of yours.”
Nathelion just smiled back coldly. How much has Molgrimin told him?
“It seems perilous, with this ‘Queen Beyond,’ and even the hells, involved!”
Too much. Nathelion’s face turned into a frozen mask while he awaited the bard’s proper derision. Instead it was Molgrimin who blabbed on, though. “Aye, Arisfae shall perhaps write a song of our quest! Any true adventurer needs his adventures to be sung. How else shall folk know who did the deeds, who slew the beasts, and who saved the day, eh? Here is a chance to have our glory known far and wide!” Molgrimin hoisted his stoop in a solitary toast and drained whatever beverage it contained before calling a waitress to have it refilled.
Did he even stop drinking yesterday? “I’m sure Molgrimin has been a great inspiration to you,” Nathelion said. “Quite a gem, yes?”
“Indeed,” the snob answered, unabashed, a shrewd smile playing on his lips. “But what was your name again? Did he call you ‘Nathan’?”
“Aye, but his full name is Nathelion Nightshadow,” Molgrimin said, loading it with great meaning. Then he hiccupped. “Didn’t I tell ye?”
The amusement was there at once in the man’s unblemished face. “Nathelion Nightshadow.” He treated this flaw with such ease that his voice almost sounded lazy. “How curious a name. But surely now, it is not a name that was given to you?”
Nathelion tried to keep his anger from showing, refusing to let himself be provoked by this man. “Yes, Arisfae Mirenas, I suppose it is quite a mouthful,” he said.
The snob’s smirk stiffened. “My name happens to be of ilesefen origin,” the singer enlightened him, and then he chuckled softly. “Or ‘elven,’ if you know that term better.”
Nathelion knew both, but not that they were real. There are elves? He didn’t want to seem uneducated, not before this pompous fop, so he kept silent. Arisfae continued in a proud voice: “My House hails from the lands outside Iliarc, and we can count our history one thousand years back. It is widely recognized that my family has some Ilesefen blood. Now, where do you hail from?”
Nathelion almost gnashed his teeth at the question and what answer he’d have to give. As if he can’t see that I’m no one already. “Widowswood,” he grudgingly admitted, bracing himself for whatever quip was to follow. Strangely, though, Arisfae seemed more surprised than demeaning.
“Widowswood?” the bard asked. “Well, isn’t that something. Truly, you should introduce yourself as ‘Nathelion of Widowswood,’” he mused, as if practicing some refined sensibility for drama. Nathelion assumed that it was sarcasm at first, but the bard made him uncertain. “Or perhaps ‘Nightshadow of Widowswood.’ Of course, without the noble blood, there is the risk of sounding pretentious.”
There was something Nathelion couldn’t refrain from asking. “Why would Widowswood interest you? You’ll find no elves there, I can assure you.” He wanted to probe without revealing ignorance, hoping to find out what he seemed to have missed completely about his home. Sir Wilfrey had already spoken as if there were this whole history to the place, and not a very bright one at that. Long Winter? Cannibals? He had pondered the knight’s words without getting any wiser for it, though he supposed the things Sir Wilfrey had spoken of were likely to be tales rather than something factual. Indeed, if there was anything that the people of Widowswood could inspire, it was solemnity. And the very name of the place, no doubt, lent itself readily to the creation of myth. He had never expected that they’d be well known, though.
“Oh, Widowswood has precious little to recommend it, to be sure,” Arisfae said, taking his bait. “But its sheer morbidity does provide a certain edge when called upon. People enjoy a bit of mystery and horror. Introduce yourself as coming from Widowswood, and people will at once be searching for a cruel streak in you, or a persevering one.” The singer gave a short, disdainful look at Nathelion’s garb. “Judging by your clothes, I can’t rule out either.”
“And I can only imagine what qualities are bred around Iliarc,” Nathelion replied tonelessly.
“Ah, to be honest, I don’t think you could, though. It is a less illiterate place. Tragedies are more read about than experienced. Different than, say, Widowswood.”
“I rather enjoy reading, myself,” Nathelion said, feeling painfully boyish. “Though not so much of the tragedies of others.”
Arisfae grinned almost happily at that. “My, my, you know how to read, do you? I guess you are peculiar in more ways than your name, then. But I should almost have expected it from your...rhetoric. Commoners mostly shrink away when faced with their betters.”
“Are you sure it isn’t your music that makes them shrink away?” Nathelion suggested, running out of patience.
“Please, friend,” Arisfae said with a sigh. “I play five instruments. And I learned to play the harp when I was but six years old.”
“Five instruments, Nathan!” Molgrimin repeated with enthusiasm. “And he learnt the harp when he was six years only! Imagine what songs he can make of our adventure!”
Arisfae gave his sword a questioning look. “I wonder how it comes that you carry such a fine sword. Surely, you’re not so base as to have stolen it?”
The question hit Nathelion like a hammer. I did steal it.
“No,” Molgrimin assured the man. “Nathelion is a
master swordsman, Arisfae. There is none to match him.”
“Well, I wouldn’t expect anyone matching him, necessarily,” Arisfae said. “Is it true, though? Are you a swordsman at all?”
Nathelion boiled with anger, almost unable to keep it from showing. If he wanted to be truthful, he should say that he was no swordsman. That he had never even trained with the sword. “The sword is my instrument.”
Molgrimin nodded fervently. “Ye’ll not meet a swifter blade, that be for certain. He is a warrior, friend, born to do battle — aye, ye can trust me on that.”
“However strong your honor, my moinguir friend,” Arisfae said, not taking his amused eyes from Nathelion. “I had to be certain.”
“Eh, ye can probably ask Sir Conrad, and he’ll tell ye the same. Perhaps we could get back to discussing the adventure? Or rather, the songs of it.”
“Yes, well,” Arisfae answered thoughtfully, putting a hand to his chin, “I think, perhaps, that I should follow you on your journey. If sorcery and beasts are involved, I shall be there to immortalize it all.”
“Ye’d follow us?” Molgrimin asked with a toothy grin. “Ye’d follow us through Rurhav? Ye hear that, Nathan? Wouldn’t that be great?”
Sure. I’m not coming, so bring whoever the hell you want...
“Wait, wait,” Arisfae said before Nathelion could even answer. “Are you telling me that this serf will travel through Rurhav?”
Nathelion saw red at once. “You think you dare anything that I don’t?”
Molgrimin looked confident when he answered Arisfae’s question. “Of course, friend. Nathan is the one who shall vanquish the darkness.” He said it as if referring to some day-to-day matter. “He is the hero of the story.”
Arisfae looked from Molgrimin to Nathelion and back, and then he settled his eyes on the moinguir. “Surely, you mean that the Reclaimer is the hero. I immediately assumed...Sir Conrad is your prophesied one, isn’t he?”
“Well...” Molgrimin leaned his head back and forth, wrestling with a difficult explanation and a want to cushion it. “Not quite. See, the Reclaimer is not really part of the quest quest. I mean to say, he is part of the quest, just not the quest in full, eh...”
“What are you saying?” Arisfae asked impatiently. “Is the Reclaimer accompanying you or not?”
“Oh, he is accompanying us. Aye, he is accompanying us,” the dwarf assured him, and then he mumbled, “For a while.”
“How far? He is going through Rurhav, isn’t he...?”
“Aye, that, he is,” Molgrimin confirmed. “As far as to Lourne, by the looks of things.”
“Good, good. Yes, that will be quite marvelous.” Arisfae gave a slow and satiated nod.
Of course, he is just interested in following the Reclaimer, Nathelion realized. He would have to be raving mad to credit the stuff that Molgrimin takes from Alwarul. And he isn’t mad, just a bit underhanded.
“So, when will we be leaving?” the bard asked the dwarf. “I have some packing to do, of course. Many instruments.”
“And maybe some makeup,” Nathelion muttered under his breath, though the man seemed not to have heard.
Molgrimin answered the bard’s question. “The knight will say when we’re leaving soon, I think. Today or tomorrow.”
“Of course. Then I shall be making myself ready for our departure.” When Arisfae got up from his chair, he took the time to say a few quiet words to Nathelion. “Do not be angry, friend. Surely, you are too clever to trust this dwarf about his prowess. Or your own. Not everyone can be a hero.”
“There are all kinds of heroes,” Nathelion replied softly, watching Molgrimin drain another stoop. But it felt useless.
“Oh, how philosophical,” Arisfae said. “There’s one kind of hero that matters, that the people care to hear of and worship. The dwarf...perhaps he could have been one with another two feet to his height. And you, now.” The singer grinned cruelly at Nathelion. “Aren’t you a bit too much peasant to be a hero?”
“Aren’t you a bit too cynical to be a bard?”
Arisfae chuckled softly; it sounded like small bells pealing. “Now, I guess this shall be the last time we meet. You are not demented like the dwarf, or as brave. It takes certain people to survive in the Hills, you know, certain people to be masters of their own lives.” He leaned in to whisper in Nathelion’s ear, his breath smelling of mint. “So, why don’t you just crawl back to Widowswood and finish your tragedy there.”
Nathelion rose abruptly, and the bard was as swift in backing away, perhaps believing that he would need to defend himself. “Molgrimin,” Nathelion said, making the dwarf look up with a puzzled expression, “let’s go.”
“What’s this now?” the bard asked with a leer, but Nathelion would not speak to him.
“Up, Molgrimin, we are going,” he said instead, tasting the sweetness of freedom. “We have to get supplies.”
23
Five Silver Crescents
Nathelion was used to walking away from laughter, and he knew that even once you closed the door to it, it was still there with you. When he walked down the dim morning streets of Richard’s Defense together with the adventure-hungry dwarf, he could not help but think of how justified the bard’s mirth was. A deluded moinguir and, he guessed, a deluded farmhand going to prepare for a trip through Rurhav as if it wouldn’t be their deaths. What’s more, he didn’t even know how much of Alwarul’s insane dribble Molgrimin had presented to the man as truth. Arisfae might think that he actually fancied himself a hero, an ignorant peasant having been goaded into a grandiose self-perception by a senile old man assuring him that he was chosen. The thought of that was almost unbearable, making him grimace despite himself.
People passing them by frowned at his face. No doubt, they wondered if he was insane. He did himself. What am I doing here? I was just going to leave the note and then get away. I should just...bloody leave now and forget about that bard’s smirk.
But he couldn’t leave now, not after what he had said, not after what Arisfae had said. He’d know then for sure that the snob was completely, reasonably right and that he himself truly was the overstepping commoner who should just have lowered his eyes at the derision. Damn it, I can’t leave! His big mouth had trapped him. You should’ve just walked past and left when Molgrimin called for you. But you didn’t, did you? You had to go and sit down with the snob and then talk back. I hope you liked the conversation, because something in Rurhav is going to eat you for it.
He was too certain of his fate to share Molgrimin’s enthusiasm when they walked into various shops to buy food for the journey: fat sausages, bread, hams, and thick rolls of cheese. The dwarf was finding jokes for most of the things when he wasn’t just being loud in general. For some reason, the shopkeepers didn’t seem to mind, though. Look, there’s nothing holding you here, no guards to arrest you. You can get away. Right now. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to leave now.
He actually laughed a bit at his situation, amused at how he had managed to commit himself to the exact opposite of what he had intended. The only thing he could do was laugh.
Molgrimin seemed to interpret his despairing mirth in some brighter way. “Aye,” he said, chuckling along. “These truly are the glory days, eh? Soon, we’ll be in the wild lands of Rurhav, with beasts and savages lurking in every shadow, waiting to slay us for our possessions or for eating us.” Molgrimin hoisted the sack that they had filled with foodstuff. “I think we have enough now to grow fat and juicy even in the Hills! Should we go back and say that we are ready?”
Nathelion stared at the food, almost feeling sickened. He didn’t want to go back to The Green Gown, though, since this would be his last time in civilization. Ever. He might as well burn every single one of his lousy, stolen coppers. He thought about that for a moment, and then he realized that he’d like to die warm. “I’ll need to buy some good clothes,” he said and nodded to himself with an increasingly lyrical smile playing on his lips. “Yes, some good, warm
clothes.”
“Aye, I guess that Rurhav might be a bit cold,” Molgrimin replied, shrugging. “If ye are bothered by cold, I mean. If ye... I mean...if cold is a concern for some people...”
Nathelion was already walking away to find a clothier, and the moinguir soon ran after him. There was a very elegant corner shop only a few streets from The Green Gown, the building as well-kept and luxurious as any in the district. The shop windows showed life-size mannequins dressed in silk and satin, all the clothing very intricately cut and embroidered. Nathelion’s pouch was still fat, but the coins were copper. He wondered how much it would get him.
A light silver bell chimed pleasantly when they walked in through the door to be greeted by more mannequins in extravagant outfits, and the walls were filled with shelves boasting heavy rolls of rich fabrics of all colors and all kinds. A fat, powdered man came to the counter from an adjacent room to attend to his customers, but he frowned upon seeing Nathelion in his filthy rags.
When Molgrimin appeared behind Nathelion, though, looking very casually at all the clothes, the storekeeper immediately changed his expression. “My lords, my good lords, welcome to the Golden Needle! We have all the finest fabrics here, shipped from lush Miye in the far south and brought by caravans from sandy Kalabahar in the east. We have the finest tailors you will find in the Harp, all recognized masters in the guild and able to make clothes fine enough for royalty.” The merchant smiled broadly at Molgrimin. “My name is Jeldavan Tuft, and I am the proprietor of this not at all humble company. Who might you be, my good lord?”
“My name is Molgrimin,” the moinguir said, and then he gestured to Nathelion. “My friend is Nathelion Nightshadow.”
The Unchosen: Book One of The Queen Beyond Page 24