Reclaimer

by J. C. Staudt

  The man Stoya had thought was Kent Norch stepped forward. She began speaking the sigils of a spell. When the man threw his arms around Eldrek, she stopped short. Eldrek was laughing. No, not Eldrek. Sir Jalleth. That was what they were calling him.

  “What are you doing, Mommy?” Draithon asked.

  “Never you mind. Come with me.” She led her son by the hand, and together they crossed the bridge and followed the road toward the hut. It wasn’t until they came close that Stoya could make out the strangers’ faces in the dusk.

  “Kestrel?”

  “Lady Mirrowell. How wonderful to see you.” The singer wrapped her in a warm embrace.

  Triolyn stayed where he was, but gave Stoya a polite nod. The third figure, whose long hair Draithon had pointed out, was a woman. She was tall and sturdy, her strawberry locks done in thin braids and her eyes effulgent. Stoya would’ve called her attractive but for the scar in front of her left ear. She was dressed for travel but armed for war, in a fur-lined crimson cloak and leather armor studded with iron rivets. At her sides hung a pair of bludgeons, too crude to be called maces but too well-fashioned to pass for clubs.

  “Don’t call me that,” Stoya said. “My name is Stoya Lyrent, and you shouldn’t be here. What’s more, you’ve brought a stranger.”

  “Not a stranger,” Kestrel said. “A friend.”

  “Everyone is your friend, whether they ought to be or not.”

  “You sound like your husband. Axli is worthy of our trust, milady.”

  “I suppose now she has to be, doesn’t she?”

  “I apologize, Axli. Lady Mirrowell is usually more agreeable—”

  “Ain’t me what needs the apology,” said Axli. “It’s her.”

  Kestrel folded his hands. “I do apologize, Lady Mirrowell.”

  “Will you please stop addressing me that way?”

  “How? As a lady, befitting your station?”

  Stoya lowered her voice to an abrasive whisper. “By all the gods, Kestrel. Have you gone daft in so short a time?”

  Eldrek lifted his hands in a peacekeeping gesture. “Why don’t we all go inside? We ought continue this discourse behind closed doors.”

  Stoya lifted Draithon onto her hip and followed the others as they filed into the hut. Axli sat in the wicker chair while Triolyn took the low stool by the hearth. Kestrel sat on the bench beside the supper table. The hut was small even for three. Now, with twice as many occupants, half of them armed and armored, it felt positively cramped.

  “Excuse us for a moment,” said Eldrek. He motioned for Stoya to bring Draithon outside.

  “What is it?” she asked when they were out of doors.

  “I only have a short while before this wears off,” he reminded her, tugging at his ivory pendant. “The forthcoming conversation is not something the boy should be present for. I’ll entertain him outside while you talk with them.”

  “Don’t you want to be there for this?”

  “Kestrel says they’ve come to see you.”

  “Me? What do they want with me?”

  “He didn’t get that far. Just be quick.”

  “I will,” she promised.

  Stoya entered the hut and closed the door. “Why are you here? What do you want?”

  “We need a caster,” said Kestrel.

  “You’ve come to the wrong place. I am a novice, at best.”

  “That isn’t what Sir Jalleth says.”

  “Eldrek. His name is Eldrek.”

  “Apologies, milady.”

  “Nor am I a lady anymore. When my husband was stripped of his titles, so was I.”

  “It’s Stoya then, is it? Right. Well Stoya, we are in need of a good caster for a very important errand.”

  “I see, and so naturally you thought of me first.”

  “You weren’t our first choice,” said Triolyn.

  “Hush,” Kestrel told him. “What he means is, we didn’t think about you until we remembered you might have reason to lay low for a while.”

  “What do you think I’m doing right now?”

  “Where we’re going is even lower than this. We mean to venture far into the depths of the world. Ten leagues or so, to be exact.”

  “Ten leagues? I hope you’re not referring to Tenleague Deep.”

  “That is precisely the place to which I am referring. We’re going there, and we want you to come with us.”

  “What would you have me do with my son while I accompany you on this errand? Bring him along?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Kestrel said. “The lad’s walking and talking on his own now, looks like. Soon he’ll be old enough to start learning the mage-song.”

  “Are you mad? Tenleague Deep is one of the most dangerous places in the realms.”

  “It’ll be a learning experience for the little tyke. He is his father’s son, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, and not yet four years old.”

  Kestrel waved a hand. “That’s nothing. We’ll look after him.”

  “Do you know the first thing about looking after a child?”

  Triolyn raised a hand. “I don’t.”

  “You’re welcome to stop talking whenever you like,” Kestrel told him. “Lady Mirro—I apologize—Stoya. I happen to know a great deal about child-rearing. Why, I was once a child myself. And reared with the best of them, as it happens.”

  “You know as much as Triolyn, then.”

  “Less,” said Axli. “He’s never spent so much as two blinks with a child so long as I’ve known him.”

  Kestrel lifted a finger. “As I mentioned previously, I was once—”

  “You’re hopeless,” Axli said. “Now, me on the other hand… I had meself five brothers and sisters growing up, and I the oldest of the lot. I knows me a few things about looking after the little ones.”

  “That’s a rather large family,” Stoya said. “How many of them were brothers, and how many sisters?”

  “I told you. Five of each.”

  Stoya turned to Kestrel. “Who is she, and where did you find her?”

  “Forgive my impertinence. This is Axli Viloxe, our resident administrator of punishment.”

  Axli cleared her throat. Loudly.

  Kestrel gave her a nervous grin. “She is… the most recent addition to our merry band of travelers.”

  “I’m his girl,” said Axli, “though he’s slow enough confessing it.”

  Stoya regarded Kestrel with a musing look. “Really.”

  Kestrel glanced at Axli, then nodded. He gave a wincing smile as if in pain, though Stoya suspected it was only a forethought of things to come. A pang of jealousy struck her, but it fled just as quickly.

  “So,” Kestrel said. “Will you join us?”

  “No. Although I am curious to know what sort of errand this is, if you wouldn’t mind telling me.”

  “Not at all. Truth be told, it’s a rather unexpected one. A quest, of sorts. Not to retrieve an item of great worth, or to destroy such an item, or even to defeat a great evil. Although I suppose there is evil involved. Do you remember that lute of mine?”

  “The one you said belonged to a woman called Noralin? Yes, I do. You always played it beautifully.”

  “Well, as it turns out… Noralin is slightly perturbed at my having it.”

  “You told us Noralin had been dead for hundreds of years.”

  Kestrel winced. “That was relatively true. At the time.”

  “She’s not dead?”

  “Not quite. That being the case, she’s also very angry.”

  “So that’s why you want my help.”

  “I wouldn’t say want. More like desperately need. In a way that’s more urgent than anything I’ve ever needed in all my life.”

  “That bad, is it?”

  “Worse, in some ways. Much worse in others.”

  “Go on.”

  “The lute is cursed. I did not know it until… very recently. The only way to avoid the curse is to return the instrument to Noralin’s gr
ave.”

  “Her grave? Is that where you got it? You’re a graverobber?”

  “I didn’t rob the grave. Just the fellows who did.”

  “And her grave is somewhere in Tenleague Deep.”

  “Exactly. Somewhere.”

  “You don’t know where? Do you have any idea how massive Tenleague Deep is?”

  “A very good idea, as it happens,” said Triolyn. He stood and produced a piece of rolled parchment, then pinned it open from corner to corner on the table. “We’ve managed to procure a map containing what we’re told is the most recent known information about Tenleague Deep. As you can see, the upper levels have been scoured many times over. There is little of value remaining in these areas.”

  “Value? What do you care about value?”

  “Once again my lightning-fisted friend here has said too much,” said Kestrel. “We imagined we might pick up a few treasures along the way down, so as to make the journey worth our while.”

  “Isn’t freeing yourself of the curse worth your while in and of itself?”

  “Quite the opposite, I’m afraid. This lute has been a veritable gold mine for years. Without it I’m only an ordinary singer, living on the sympathies of drunkards and passersby. How many minstrels do you know who can afford tailored silk?”

  “None who earn an honest wage.”

  “There. Now you see why honesty is out of the question. I must find some way to maintain the lifestyle to which I’ve become accustomed. Exploring the uncharted sections of Tenleague Deep seems as good an option as any.”

  “The same uncharted sections where you plan to deposit a cursed musical instrument? I wish you the best in your efforts. However, you may count me out.”

  “I knew she’d refuse,” said Triolyn. “Didn’t I tell you?”

  “You also said Axli would refuse,” Kestrel pointed out.

  Triolyn gave Axli an appraising look. “There’s time yet.”

  Eldrek burst through the door and staggered inside, clutching his ivory pendant. “It’s time,” he said. “The spell’s wearing off. Tend to the boy.”

  Stoya started toward the door, but Kestrel stopped her. “Please. Allow me to demonstrate my innate knack for children.”

  “Axli,” Stoya said. “I know you less, yet I trust you more. Would you mind?”

  “Not at all.” Axli stood and accompanied Kestrel outside.

  “A good evenfall to you, my lad,” she heard Kestrel say as he closed the door behind him.

  Eldrek stumbled over to lean on his wicker chair. “It hurts more than ever this time.”

  Stoya held out her hands to catch the ivory pendant. They’d learned the best way to perform the transformation was to remove the ward as quickly as possible, like peeling away a bandage. “Never fear. It’ll all be over in a moment. Ready?”

  Eldrek nodded. He tossed her the pendant and burst into feathers. An instant later Ristocule was flapping out the window, leaving his robes in a heap on the floor.

  “Forgot how much I hated that,” Triolyn said.

  “He’s like a live branch bent too far. The ward is slowly breaking him. It hasn’t been easy since we all parted ways.”

  Triolyn folded his arms. “You’ll get no sympathy from me.”

  “Nor would I ask it. I never expected my father would refuse to take us in.”

  “That bastard you call a father is no Lord of Orothwain. He’s Dathrond’s creature, through and through. He isn’t worth the sum of his titles.”

  “Enough. I’ll not hear you speak of him that way.”

  “Best cover your ears, then, for I’ll speak of him that way until I no longer draw breath.”

  “Please refrain while my son is near. I would rather he form his own impression of his grandfather.”

  “If his grandfather ever works up the nerve to receive him.”

  “Triolyn—”

  “I’ll be silent. If only for the boy’s sake.”

  “Thank you.” Stoya summoned the others and sat Draithon on the bench beside the dining table.

  “Forgive my manners,” Kestrel said, taking a seat beside him. “I’ve forgotten to introduce myself. Kestrel Wadget. Pleased to meet your acquaintance.” He stuck out his hand.

  “Why are your ears like that?” Draithon asked him.

  Kestrel turned to Stoya and smiled. “Inquisitive fellow, isn’t he? Well, young Master Ulther—”

  “His name is Lyrent.”

  “Young Master Lyrent,” Kestrel corrected himself, “I’ve a rash of elven blood in my veins, I’m afraid. Though you’ve got some too, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “What’s blood?”

  “Well, it’s—”

  “No more questions, Draithon. Let’s have supper and get you off to bed.”

  Triolyn patted his stomach. “Supper would be welcome about now, I must admit.”

  “You’ll find all you need at the River’s Wend in town,” Stoya said.

  “Brushing us off, are you? Tell me it isn’t true. I was thinking I might play a tune for our young lad, here. Would you like that, Draithon? To hear me play a song on my special lute?”

  “Yes, please,” said Draithon, brightening.

  Kestrel lifted a leather case off his back and withdrew the instrument. It looked different than Alynor remembered. Older; darker somehow. When he began to play, the notes were nothing like she remembered. Instead of a beautiful chorus of strings, the sound which emerged was abrasive and dissonant, a scattering of plucks and twangs.

  “Stop that,” Stoya said. “Stop it right now. Why would you play something so dreadful? And so loud, at that? You’ve put us in enough danger by coming here. I won’t have you sounding that accursed lute within earshot of my child. Out with you, now.”

  “So much for hospitality,” Triolyn said.

  “Now, Master Dorr,” said Kestrel, “we must honor the lady’s wishes. We’ll take our leave, Mistress Lyrent. If you should change your mind—”

  “I won’t.”

  “Fair enough. But you should know we’re heading to Galmeston by way of the north road. It’s a week-long journey, after which we plan to spend another week in the Thraihmish capital in search of a new caster. Assuming we find one worthy of the charge, we’ll strike south again for Tenleague Deep.”

  “Why don’t we just look for a caster in Trebelow?” Axli asked. “It would save us five days’ travel at least.”

  “Alas, Galmeston is the only city in this region large enough to afford us a decent chance at finding a skilled caster. It is our last resort, since Lady—since Mistress Lyrent has refused us. Trebelow and Westenreach are too small and too wild to hold much hope for our cause.”

  “Trebelow’s not so small,” said Axli. “It’s rather large, in fact.”

  “Nevertheless, Lord Goldane’s township is full of trappers and hunters and rivermen. We won’t find the sort of caster we need there. Galmeston it must be.”

  “With luck, you’ll find someone long before a week has passed,” Stoya said.

  “With luck, you’ll change your mind.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  “We’ve grown used to not counting on your household,” said Triolyn.

  Stoya shot him an irritated look, but Triolyn did not return her gaze.

  “Fare thee well, Mistress Lyrent,” Kestrel said, rising to his feet.

  “Best of good fortune to you as well,” she said.

  The three travelers gathered their things and left the hut. When they were gone, Stoya barred the door and set about making a stew for herself and Draithon.

  “Mommy?” asked the boy between slurps.

  “Yes, pumpkin.”

  “Has Poppy gone away again?”

  “I’m afraid he has.”

  “When will he be back?”

  “I could not say, darling. Soon, I hope.”

  Draithon stared out the window for a moment, beads of brown dribbling down his chin. “Me too. There are bad things out there.”
>
  “What bad things, pumpkin?”

  He shrugged.

  “Are you being silly?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She paused. “Whatever’s out there, you needn’t worry. Even when Poppy is away, I’m certain he’s watching over us.”

  Chapter 5

  Darion had never been seasick before. The waves had not been especially choppy this voyage, nor had the Urchin run afoul of any major storms. Aside from a few brief squalls which came and went within hours, the open ocean had been kind to the merchant vessel. Yet as the ship drew closer to the northern coast of Berliac, Darion’s insides had begun to flutter like too many pigeons in a cage.

  Now the voyage was over. The Urchin was coming into port, and the icy winds which had blown it south from Korengad were mixing with warmer drafts to herald the early glow of summer. It was a time of new meade and fireflies, when all the world seemed to burst forth from winter’s forgotten faces. The weather had been warming for months in the five realms, but Darion had missed all that. There was only one season in Korengad, and he’d been living in it for an unbroken plenitude of days.

  Though the ship had grown still at its mooring, the cabin was spinning as Darion pushed himself to his feet. He shouldered his pack and lumbered up the stairs to the deck, fighting off a wave of nausea. It was some comfort when he found himself standing in his first warm, bright afternoon in years. The thick fur cloak Rudgar King had given him was making him sweat, but he was enjoying the feel of it so much he kept it on.

  When they lowered the gangplank, Darion made his way off the ship and headed for the closest garment maker’s shop, where he traded the fur cloak for a thinner one made of black satin. A satisfactory choice given the new climate. He lifted the deep hood and left the shop before the owner could make small talk. From a stable near the docks he bought a palomino mare named Posey. She was old, but in good health, and would serve until he reached the Greenkeep.

  There was a tavern he knew on the forested side of the city, near where the Shadewood encroached on the streets and avenues of Belgard in sandy rootbound copulas. Feeling too sick to ride, Darion walked the animal by the reins and didn’t reach the Hawk’s Barrel until dusk. The common room was loud with patrons, each one drab in attire and colorful in language, a canvas onto which Darion intended to paint himself. The aromas of pipe smoke and spilt ale lay heavy on the air as he sat at an empty table and waited for service.