Tresten stood up. “Well, come on - Quiet Time is over,” he said. “They’re waiting for us at The Bell And Candle.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
Tresten shrugged. “Your dad and some other guys. They want to treat us, now that we’re men, or whatever.”
Rylek sighed. “Okay,” he said as he stood up and grabbed Faldrahil. “Let’s go.”
As they were walking down, Tresten kept casting side glances at Rylek. Finally he asked, “Are you sure you’re alright? You’re not usually like this. I’m supposed to be the quiet moody one.”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” Rylek said. “It’s like I said: I guess I’m just a little sad over the idea of all of us leaving here soon. This is all we’ve ever known. It’s just a little overwhelming.”
“It’s not like we have to individually go out on our own,” Tresten said. “We will be going together, so each of us will be taking the most important parts of the village along.”
Rylek looked in surprise at Tresten. He was watching the stars as they walked along and looked very thoughtful. “And what’s with you lately?” Rylek asked. “You’ve been very sentimental. I wouldn’t have guessed you could be like that.”
Tresten shrugged. “I guess you could say I’ve been thinking a lot lately, examining myself and wondering what exactly it is that makes me the person I am.”
“They say that’s what usually happens during a big change in a person’s life,” Rylek said. “I wonder if the girls feel the same way.”
Tresten shrugged again.
“Do you really mean what you said?” Rylek asked. “That we’re the most important parts of Calm to you?”
“Absolutely,” Tresten said. “I don’t know what I would do without the three of you. I know that no matter how annoying or frustrating I am – yes, I admit that on the rare occasion even I can be a bit of a frass – no matter how often those times are, the three of you will always stand beside me, loyally supporting me and correcting me. I need all three of you because each of you helps me be a better person.” He paused for a moment. Their footsteps on the grass were the only sound for several moments. “I’ve been thinking a lot these last couple of days,” Tresten continued slowly, “about this place, and Celek, and mom, and Retessa, and Maeon, and – well, just everything. What I am trying to say is, no matter what happens to us in the future, we are still the same people. Nothing changes our upbringing, or our families, or the things that make us up. We will always be us. And after the incredibly odd exchange with Celek - it really doesn’t matter if he is our real father or not. It doesn’t change who I am – I am still me. I guess it’s something I needed to figure out before we head off away from practically everything we have ever known.”
They were silent for a few more moments. The air was still chilly, the sky was still overcast. Both moons were obscured from view as they approached the cemetery.
“You know,” Rylek finally said, “I think I needed to hear that. Thanks for sharing it with me.”
Tresten shrugged. “Friends pass along needed information,” he said with the village lights reflecting in his eyes.
***
The Bell And Candle sat right next to the dock on the lakefront in one of the oldest buildings in the village. It had a longstanding tradition that its proprietors claimed went back more than five hundred years. Many long cold winter nights were spent there by the men of the village, smoking pipes and drinking various grain waters. Old tales were passed down from generation to generation, often becoming taller with every retelling. In the years before The Great Purging, when Calm was a booming tourist center, it was the village’s primary scene of great revelry: laughter, song, and often fights would echo down the streets long into the night. But after The Great Purging, it was just the men of the village who frequented it. The revelry died down, and by needs The Bell And Candle became more of a subdued environment - at least the fights died out, if not the music and laughter. There were three rules that were adhered to for anyone seeking to enter its doors. Firstly, all persons must share at least one tale. Secondly, all persons must be at or above the age of fifteen. Lastly, all persons must be male.
The owner was a short round man named Harokaed Dauphler. He was the latest in a long family line that proudly traced its history back to the founding of The Bell And Candle. His appearance was gruff – he had a scraggly white beard, bushy white eyebrows, and large round watery eyes. Due to an accident he suffered many years before, he walked with a thick knobby cane. As was required for any proprietor of The Bell And Candle, he was the most knowledgeable man in the village concerning beverages of all types, and therefore supplied the villagers with the things they needed to make their teas and strong drink. Of course, given his occupation, he was also the main source of gossip among the men.
As Rylek and Tresten approached the door to The Bell And Candle, Harokaed walked outside and held the door open for them. He held a small, dingy looking bell in his left hand.
“Ah, my lads, my lads!” he cried out. “Welcome to The Bell And Candle! I’ve been anticipating this day for years, and I’m so giddy I can hardly even stand on my own two feet. And I assure you I have not been tipping the bottles back – not yet anyway. Just look at my hands – just look at them!” He held out his hands and Rylek saw them shaking. “Giddy I tell you, giddy as a schoolboy on his first day of holidays!” he continued, laughing. “Giddy as a bridegroom on his wedding night!” He laughed so hard he fell into a coughing fit. “Well, we know that’s beyond ridiculous,” he said softly once he had regained control of himself. He leaned in closely to them and added, “I’m sorry, my lads, but I appear to have gotten me a bad case of the dizzy tizzies!” Then in his normal voice he said, “We here at The Bell And Candle know what true and proper pubbing is: good drink, good folk, and good homey ambience; unlike the fancy, high-strutting glamorous folk at The Furgle M’Gurgle, who have to rely on glittery lights and showy women to sell wares. We are not a boy’s play-den; we are a man’s pub.”
Rylek and Tresten exchanged smiles. “Where is The Furgle M’Gurgle?” Rylek asked.
“Oh, it’s one of the main hotspots in old Maeon Plenneth,” Harokaed said, scowling a bit. “I warn you, my lads, for I know it is inevitable you will find yourselves there in the not too distant future: be wary! Don’t allow the temptations of its sensuality distract you from your duties at the University. But that is the future and here we are in the now.” His face relaxed and he held the bell out to Tresten. “Here, Tresten, my lad, take the bell and ring it out loud and clear for all to hear.”
Tresten took the bell and shook it a couple of times. Loud cheering voices came from inside the building. Tresten looked questioningly at Harokaed.
Harokaed smiled and took back the bell. “Go on in, my lad,” he said. “The boys are waiting for you.”
Tresten looked at Rylek, shrugged, and went in the door. Rylek heard the voices erupt in cheers again. Then Harokaed handed him the bell.
“Your turn, lad,” he said.
Rylek smiled, grabbed the old worn wooden handle and let the clapper strike several times. As though on cue, the chorus of voices cheered again. He felt Harokaed’s hand on his back.
“That’s the way to ring it out,” Harokaed said. “Come on in then. Let’s join the party.”
As Rylek walked in to the dimly lit building, he was greeted by a wall lined with shelves of assorted mugs.
“Go on then and pick one out for yourself,” Harokaed said to him.
He looked over the wide variety. Some were tall and thin, others wide and short. There were all sorts of colors: some solid, some multi-colored. A few had intricate designs, while others were rather plain. His eyes settled on a particular medium sized mug towards the end of one of the shelves. It was a light grey color, with a bright red rim, base, and handle. Opposite the handle was a sunburst painted in the same red. He found his hand curiously reaching out towards it.
“Yes, yes,” Harokaed said, “that is a
fine one; very fine indeed.”
Rylek held the mug in his hands, examining the sunburst. It was identical to the sunburst on Faldrahil and its scabbard. He was about to ask about it when Harokaed placed his hand on Rylek’s back again, and led him into the room. The cheers rang out yet again as he rounded the corner. Light from dozens of candles and several lanterns flickered on the faces of about ten other men sitting or standing by a wide counter. A few puffed on some pipes. The back wall was lined with various bottles, pots, and canisters. The men all raised their mugs to Rylek and drank.
Harokaed walked over to Tresten. “My poor lad!” he said. “I forgot to tell you to grab a mug. Follow me then.”
As they walked past him, Rylek caught Tresten’s eye. Tresten made a mildly amused face and shrugged at him. Rylek smiled and joined the group. Not long afterwards Tresten returned with a tall silver mug adorned by intricate carvings on the handle.
Harokaed stepped behind the counter. “Now, my lads,” he said to Rylek and Tresten, “what can I be pouring for you? And if you dare mention ‘peppernut tea,’ I’ll be tossing you by the seat of your pants right out the door!”
Rylek laughed and Tresten stared wide-eyed at the back wall. “I have no idea,” Tresten said. “What do you recommend?”
Ronas was standing behind Tresten and placed his hand on his shoulder. “Pour the newly christened men some dark-malted suds, Harokaed,” he said.
“The Marsop Bounty it is!” Harokaed obliged, and Rylek started at the creamy bitterness that met his tongue. The others laughed as they joined in the partaking.
***
The first hour or so was spent with Rylek and Tresten trying various brews and varieties of grain waters. The conversation was light and consisted mostly of Harokaed describing each drink and how it was made. But then he made everyone sit down at a circular table in the middle of the room. He brought a few pitchers to the table, sat down himself, lit his pipe, and said, “Now comes the time when all here must pay for their drink by telling a tale. True or not, it matters not; just entertain us with a good story. I’ll go first.
“Lads, allow me to tell you the tale of how this place came to be known as The Bell And Candle. It all started long, long ago when Calm was first settled. No one had ever lived in this wondrous valley before, so everything was fresh and new. The air was crisp and light, the water cold and clear. My forefather, he was strangely drawn to Lake Calm itself, and built himself a house right off its shore: the very place we now sit. At evening time, he and my foremother would take long slow walks around the lake, listening to the relaxing flow of the water as it leisurely lapped the shore. Every night they’d take their stroll, hand in hand, heart in heart.
“There came an evening when a thick heavy fog settled right here in the valley. My forefather and foremother had just set out on their walk when they heard far across the water a piercing blood-curdling cry. It echoed all throughout the valley. Alarmed, they rushed back into the house here, lit a couple of lanterns, and headed back out. My forefather, he had intended for them both to travel together quickly around the lake to find whoever it was that had made that terrifying noise. My foremother now, she argued they should split up and each make their search along the opposite shores, thereby hoping to find whoever had cried out faster. Foolishly, my forefather agreed to this; so he took the eastern shore, while my foremother took the western shore.
“As he went along, he would check to see my foremother’s lantern. But not long into his search, he could no longer see its light, given the thickness of the fog. After a few minutes, he heard the shrieking cry again, and this time a bell sounded from the same general direction of the cry. He took off at a run, holding his lantern aloft as the cold heavy fog blanketed all around him.
“By the time he arrived at the spot he had guessed the cry had come from, all was completely dark. He couldn’t see anything a yard beyond his lantern. Desperately he called out, but no answer came. The fog blanketed the air so that all sounds seemed to be swallowed up and dead. All he could hear was the soft lapping of the water and his own heavy footsteps. Frantically he searched, all the while wondering where my foremother was. Suddenly he came across a tiny wooden shrine from which hung an ancient-looking bell. He had never seen it before. As he held his lantern up to the bell he could see odd lines and squiggles he took for runes engraved all over its body. A wooden mallet hung from the side of the shrine. Taking it up in his hand, he called out the name of my foremother. But though he strained his ears, he heard no reply. Knowing well how the bell’s ringing would travel over the water, he struck it hard with the mallet. I tell you, lads, he immediately heard a large splash of water far in front of him. Heart pounding, he dropped the mallet and sprinted as fast as his leaden legs could carry him to where he thought he had heard the splash, all the while shouting out my foremother’s name. On he ran, calling out for her, until he found himself back in front of his house – this very same building, my lads. All night long he searched around the lake, looking for her, but I tell you it was to no avail. She had mysteriously vanished; she was never seen or heard from again.
“For the rest of his life, my forefather, he walked round the lakeshore alone every night, desperate to find my foremother. He neither found the bell and its little shrine, nor any evidence that it had existed. No one else had ever seen it, and its tolling was never heard again. The source of the cry that started it all was never discovered. But whenever the fog would settle over the valley, there could sometimes be seen a small flickering light moving either along the lakeshore or over the water itself. Some said it was my foremother still trying to find her way home. Since then, to commemorate her, whenever an evening fog falls over the valley, my forefathers have lit candles in the windows here and rang out the little handbell in the hopes of leading her back home. And that, my lads, is why we call this place The Bell And Candle.”
With that, Harokaed fell silent, and drank from his mug.
***
So it went on around the table – each man paying his dues by telling some form of tale. Some of the stories seemed rather fantastic and whimsical, while others felt as though they were at least rooted in some form of truth. Rylek and Tresten listened as they were told of the Great Horned White Stallion; of an evil wizard cursing the people of a tiny village by turning them into the Tauffles; of a great tower made of green and ebony jade that reached towards the heavens, housing powerful god-like creatures that watched over Calabranda; of a flying city with massive armies trained to wipe out those that lived on the ground; of a giant winged demon that inhabited the northern mountains; of the great lovers Nevarra and Pelanna, and how they came to dance together across the night sky; of a terrible war fought over a misunderstanding between two stubborn lords. Rylek’s mind swam with imagery from all the stories.
Finally it came to Faltir, and he looked grim as he spoke. “My tale may not necessarily be the oldest told here tonight, but it is certainly the truest.” There were some light mocking laughs from the other men. He went on unfazed. “I have no need to decorate it with shiny bloated baubles of ridiculous fictional details that only serve to distract the listener from the fact that the tale is in of itself an utter bore. My tale is history, purely and simply.”
The men around the table groaned. “Blast it all with your uppity arrogance and awfully sharp words,” Ronas said. “Just like Caenar, you always were one for high falootin’, grandiose speeches. But he’s not here, so there’s no one to impress. Why don’t you just use plain talk for us simple-minded folks?”
Faltir smiled. “Forgive me, friends; I forgot with whom I am dealing.” This solicited another outburst of groans. “As for my tale, it may not be the most exciting one told here tonight, but I will stand behind its validity. Judge for yourselves:
“Long ago, a great craftsman by the name of Panshafool presented a gift he had made to His Majesty Myropel, the first king of Calabranda. It was a jewel, seemingly opaque and black as midnight, with hints of varicol
ored threads swirling through it. He named it Shar’lasil.
“By his craft, Panshafool had devised for the jewel to have the ability to give great powers to the one who wielded it. Interestingly enough, as the generations passed on, it was kept unused and hidden in the palace, its location a secret to all but the royal family. The crown feared using it would cause the citizens to distrust the king, and with there being no true threat of danger in those days, it became quite simply a priceless heirloom.
“Now it came about during the reign of His Majesty Avirasmus King, a few worthless men and women united and rebelled against the crown by claiming autonomy over their own personal properties. The leader of this factious movement was a man named Carintael, former trusted adviser to His Majesty. He claimed the crown had no authority over himself or anyone else, seeing as the people had not chosen His Majesty to have dominion.
“‘No power should be granted by birth alone,’ he said. ‘What prevents me from claiming my own sovereign rule over Calabranda? I hereby declare that I alone can exercise authority over myself and my property.’
“According to the law this sort of treasonous talk would have normally led to execution, but His Majesty Avirasmus King was a humble man with a merciful heart. He forsook exacting the law’s punishment, and removed Carintael with his followers from Maeon. Under the direction of the military, they were placed on a small parcel of land in the southwest of Calabranda, a territory then known as the Southern Outliers, a place where they could live on their own while receiving none of the benefits of the kingdom. Being under the watchful eye of the military did not please Carintael, and he told his followers of the Shar’lasil. Perhaps he alone in all of Calabranda knew of the severity of its powers, and dreamed of stealing it for himself. But he knew that his little band of followers would be no match for the military, so the group bided its time.
The Children of Calm Page 10