by J. M. Frey
Content with just one of the eight be-flagged books Pip jokingly refers to as her “Neo-Excels,” Alis opens it up—upside down—and starts quietly flicking through the pages, pausing to run her fingers along each of the illustrations she comes upon.
“Bevel did a good job describing the rooms in the scrolls,” Pip says, patting her satchel. “The art department said it was nearly as good as having a blueprint.”
“Yes, and I see that he’s been very good at sticking his nose into the artistic designer’s work, too,” I say, pointing to a sheaf of illustrations and photos that have been left on an out-of-place director’s chair against a wall. They have Bevel’s telltale chicken scratch all over them. His writing of the Overrealm alphabet has improved, but his penmanship has not. “They must have been making the changes over the holiday break.”
Pip nods. “They haven’t filmed any of the interiors yet. Gil says they wanted to do all the locations stuff outside while the weather was nice in the fall. It gave them time to tweak. I guess Kintyre got a bit vocal about a few things, too.”
I snort. “Why does that not surprise me? Bevel’s prediction has rung true.”
“Juan says he’s on set as often as he can be,” Pip agrees. “And Kin said the other day that ‘heroes don’t just quietly retire.’” She snorts.
“Ah yes, Bevel said something similar,” I reply. “Let me see if I can remember the exact wording . . . ah, he said that ‘being a lord was a nice break, but I like adventures. It’s nice to tell stories again. But we’re not actually in danger, so it’s really the best of both worlds.’”
“At least they’re staying out of trouble,” Pip says. “More or less.”
“Agreed. At least until their surrogate gives birth. And then, I think, the trouble will be all theirs.”
“Or doubled,” Pip laughs. “God, twins. I don’t know if I should point my finger and laugh at them, or just start crying. Two babies that are a mix of Kin and Bevel. God help the Overrealm.”
“Cousins!” Alis shrills delightedly, as she does every time someone mentions the forthcoming addition to the Turn family tree.
“And what do you think of the set?” Pip asks, standing in the middle of the library, hugging her satchel and staring at me nervously. “You haven’t said.”
“I think,” I say, reaching out and tugging my wife into my arms, dropping an appreciative kiss on her forehead, “that this is an excellent treat. Thank you for arranging for us to have the set to ourselves today.”
“But how it looks—”
“Bao bei,” I say. “I don’t care how it looks. It is an interpretation; it will never be entirely correct. And I am fine with that. This adaptation cannot tarnish my memories of my childhood home.”
“Okay,” Pip says.
“And I’m ecstatic that we are here, supporting you as you do this,” I say. “I know that it has been difficult for you, learning to love the books again, finding your way through the darkness of our experiences and into this light. I adore that it is you who is midwifing the show. It is appropriate. You, the Reader who wields Authorial Intent.”
“Mmmm,” Pip says, and leans up for another kiss. “I love it when you speak in poncy capitals.”
“Gar Gar!” Alis shouts suddenly, and we are both startled enough that we separate and turn to her. She is standing in the chair, the unwieldy novel clutched in one hand, pointing with the other at the portrait over the library fireplace. A portrait of, ah . . .
“My father,” I correct her. “But the resemblance is remarkable. Well spotted, sweeting.”
Preening under the praise, Alis turns in a joyful circle.
“We sit on our bums in chairs,” Pip reminds her, and Alis plops down onto her bottom and resumes staring at Algar Turn. However, upon closer inspection, I realize that I was the one in the wrong.
While this is the location the portrait of my father has hung for decades in the real Turn Hall, this painting is, indeed, of Elgar.
“M-my good-goodness,” I say. “It . . . A-Alis wa-was right.”
Pip looks up and gasps.
“Well,” I say, moved. “Th-that’s a b-b-bi-bit of a ni-ce tri-ri-but-te.”
“Yeah,” Pip says, and tucks herself under my arm, wrapping her arms around my waist, staring up at the portrait with me. “Are you happy?”
“Yes. And you?”
“Yes,” Pip laughs, and winks at me. “Though, I’m the only person I know whose in-laws have an ISBN number. Do you think Kintyre and Bevel are?”
“Kintyre has joined a dojo in Seattle, and has decided he wants to be a stunt man when he grows up. And Bevel Wordsmith has discovered fan fiction. I think they are both as happy as they will ever be, in the Overrealm.”
Pip laughs. “He wrote the scroll-sagas to learn one sort of writing. It makes utter sense that he would write fan fiction here to learn another. Did you know that Elgar’s publisher is absolutely hounding him for a contract?”
“Oh?” I ask, because of course I knew. I was the first person Bevel came to with the offer, asking me to interpret the legal jargon for him.
“Yeah, apparently all his fan fiction is the stuff that happened around the eight books Elgar wrote, and of course, he’s got the voice nailed down.”
“Naturally,” I say. “As it is his own.”
“Elgar’s agent, Kim, is going bananas for it. They want to make an anthology. They will call it The Untold Tales.”
“Will he do it, do you think?”
“It’d be good for him, if he did,” Pip says. “I really think that. And he’s had two meetings with them already.”
“Well, then,” I say. Alis rockets off the chair, and into my knees, reaching up to be included in our hug. “A third meeting will decide it, then.”
“Of course. Third time’s the charm,” Pip says, and kisses first Alis, then me, sweetly. I curl my arms over her shoulders, press her close to me, and kiss her again, a little less sweet this time.
“It always is,” I say. “Three quests. Three confrontations with the Viceroy. Three little Turns in this room right now. We even won the day by threes.”
Pip grins and kisses me silent. Then she stops and pulls back, her brow wrinkled prettily as she considers what I just said. “Wait, what three things did we use?”
“Swords, and Words, and hacking,” I say. “Your cleverness, my skills, and Kintyre and Bevel’s brawn.”
Pip blinks up at me, suddenly grinning, eyebrows arched high with mirth. “Huh,” she says, brown eyes twinkling mischievously. “Fucking trilogies.”
The End
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My first set of thanks goes to my agent, Laurie McLean, who was such a massive champion of The Untold Tale and what I was trying to do with it, and who started me on the path of pursuing a series when I thought Pip and Forsyth’s story was done after one book.
My REUTS Team, Ashley, Kisa, Cal, and Voule, for not only producing some seriously gorgeous books and covers out of my blundering mass of words, but who were also cool with me accidentally expanding the series by like, a lot, and for being open and willing to letting me meddle. I’ve never felt so strongly that I have a valid voice in the publishing process, and I appreciate it immensely. I think we’ve made something really awesome together, folks.
Cory (Kora), Todd (Todd), Cheryl (Turtle), and Bob (Bob), who won the right to name a character in this book from a contest, but who didn’t know their characters would become vital ones. Thanks!
To my beta-readers, Cory and Ashley, who help me sound more clever than I really am.
Alix Malorie and Anna Tan, who did marvelous de-bloat edits and sensitivity reads.
Devon Taylor-Black for creating the tabletop campaign the characters play in this book, so that I knew it would be a viable setting and adventure when I described it. Devon has also been a tireless champion of this series, and an insightful, thorough beta-reader who isn’t afraid to tell it like it is. Thanks must also go to her husband, Gavin, who is
also a huge supporter, her son Taran, who allows me to cuddle him and tell him stories, and baby Aurora, who arrived like a good omen as soon as her mother had turned the manuscript back to me.
Adrienne Kress, who has been there to hold my hand, to get me to just shut up and put something on the page, and who sees my work as what it could be instead of what it is, and thus helps me see it that way, too. (Is it Monday? Are we Famous yet?) And for Adrienne’s Atticus, who was the inspiration for Linux, and who I would never hurt that way, little buddy.
Sunny Hope, who egged me on with word sprints, and gifs of kittens, and virtual soup and wine.
Nicole Chiou, my wonderful cousin and, thankfully, willing translator.
Mike Perschon, who believes so strongly in my work that he teaches it to the next generation. And to all the students and faculty of Grant MacEwan University for inviting me to speak to you, and to share my love of Hain with you.
Liana K, for late-night academic conversations that helped me figure out the arc of the characters’ journeys and reminded me of the point of these novels when I was floundering in the plot.
Julie Czerneda, for her unwavering love of this world and these people, and her child-like glee every time I put a new book in the series into her inbox.
Christian Stiehl, who helped figure out what kind of D&D character Ichiro would play.
Jay Hunter for helping me figure out which cards to deploy.
Elize Morgan and her, “GO! GO! GO!”
Mad Lori, who is always great for a chat when I just need to get my head elsewhere for a bit.
Mom and Dad, for supporting me while I pursued this small bit of happiness. And a second batch of thank-yous to Mom, in particular, who has been a tireless and generous proofreader for me for years. I am so grateful to her for that. If you find a typo in this book, it’s only because it managed to hide while she was circling all its cowering brethren. (No, seriously, I mistype a lot.)
Aunt Brenda, who calls me and gives me a lovely book report each time she finishes one.
And lastly, to my Readers. Thank you for sticking with me, and Forsyth, and this world, for as long as you have. We are both so humbled, so flattered, and so pleased.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
J.M. is a voice actor, SF/F author, professionally trained music theatre performer, not-so-trained but nonetheless enthusiastic screenwriter and webseries-ist, and a fanthropologist and pop culture scholar. She’s appeared in podcasts, documentaries, radio programs, and on television to discuss all things geeky through the lens of academia. J.M. lives near Toronto, loves tea, scarves, and Doctor Who (all of which may or may not be related), and her epic dream is to one day sing a duet with John Barrowman.
Her debut novel Triptych was nominated for two Lambda Literary Awards, nominated for the CBC Bookie Award, was named one of Publishers Weekly’s Best Books of 2011, was on The Advocate’s Best Overlooked Books of 2011 list, received an honorable mention at the London Book Festival in Science Fiction, and won the San Francisco Book Festival for Science Fiction.
Connect with J.M.
jmfrey.net/
Table of Contents
Title Page
Contents
Convention Map
Title Page
Copyright
Book by J.M. Frey
Praise for the Series
Dedication
Hashtag
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author