Tales of the Dragon's Bard, Volume 1: Eventide

by Hickman, Tracy

  Now it was Jarod’s turn to blush. “You mean . . .”

  “Well, that were what the Gossip Fairy said,” Xander sputtered. “It were a good thing, too, or I might not have gotten these two free of them women without them doing some harm to ’em. Widow Merryweather were ready to do ’em in with her hatpin right there in the street, and Missus Taylor swore if someone would point her to a cutlass she’d run ’em through on the spot. But then the ladies fell to arguing about which among them were most likely to be ravished, and that gave me time to get these gents here to the lockup whilst they were still debating among themselves.”

  Jarod closed the arrest ledger. He thought briefly of the strangely dressed man in front of him carrying off Caprice Morgan and how he, Jarod, might rescue her. In that moment, he knew he could not possibly write any of this in the ledger. Better to leave it to his father, who, he considered wisely, might be able to keep a steadier hand about such things than he could. “This is a matter for my father to consider,” Jarod said, sounding as official as he could. “You’ll just have to wait until he returns.”

  Xander groaned.

  “Is that a problem?” Jarod asked.

  “Well, look here, Jarod,” the constable whined. “I’ve got to see ol’ Dudgeon about that new banded-iron door for the lockup in the basement, see. That’s where I were going when all this started, and you know how he gets about folks what’s late. Look here, these two are considered prisoners now, ain’t they?”

  “Aye,” Jarod nodded. “You arrested them, so I don’t see why they wouldn’t be.”

  “Well, it be coming up on noon as it is,” Xander said. “These prisoners are under the care of the village, so they need to be fed.”

  “I don’t see what . . .”

  “Well, you could take ’em over to the Inn while I see the blacksmith . . . get ’em both some lunch and a bit for yourself as well,” Xander’s voice seemed to gather speed as the idea took form in his head. “You can tell the Squire I said to put it on the village accounts.”

  Jarod grinned. He would do about anything to get out of the countinghouse, stretch his legs, and let some time pass with a more pleasant speed. “Why, that would be our duty, wouldn’t it, Xander? I’d be glad to help.”

  The assistant to the Dragon’s Bard had said nothing, but he rolled his eyes as the conversation came to its mutually beneficial conclusion.

  “Yes, I think that should just about solve everyone’s problems.” Xander smiled back as he reached for the door. A cold blast of wind, snow, and bright light burst into the room, and Xander was gone, the door closing firmly behind him.

  Jarod hopped off the stool and walked across the fitted floorboards to a row of pegs arranged with careful and equal spacing on the wall. He plucked a heavy, hooded cloak from a peg. Jarod was all arms and legs, tall and muscular but not yet grown into his grace. He had a handsome face that was still a little soft, with no real beard to speak of. A few stray hairs along the ridges of his jawline made a valiant if lonely effort at a beard, but their population was not yet sufficient for a reasonable quorum to convene. He was a man striving to break out of being a youth. He was not quite free of his chrysalis—a butterfly who did not know that his wings were still wet.

  Jarod pulled the cloak about his body, turned to his two charges, and said, “Well, come on. Let’s get . . . oh, bosh! I almost forgot!”

  Jarod rushed past his prisoners to the desk next to his own. There, hanging from a hook at the side of the desk, was a set of keys on a looped steel ring. Jarod snatched the ring from the hook a little too quickly, pulling the desk slightly across the floor with a grating sound. The young man gave a quick look of exasperation, stepped back to the desk, and carefully pushed it back into its accustomed alignment.

  “My dad is very particular,” Jarod said with a quick, nervous smile. “Come on.”

  “Indeed we shall,” Edvard chimed in with his usual overwarm grace and exaggerated charm. “Show us the way, my good friend Jarod, and we shall follow in your steps as boon companions!”

  “What?” Jarod was not sure what the man was talking about, but he ushered both the Bard and his companion, who obviously suffered in silence, through the door.

  The bright sun shone down through a clear winter sky, its light reflecting off the snow that still covered areas of the square. A bitter wind cut through the town out of the north, blowing stinging snow—ice crystals formed from the previous partial thaw—that caused Edvard to grip the brim of his hat against the moaning gale and Jarod to hold the edge of his hood down so that he might protect his eyes. That was of little help, since any moisture had been frozen out of the air and Jarod was forced to blink anyway just to keep his eyes moist. The apprentice gently pushed the Bard and his servant out of his way as he turned to the door of the countinghouse and, using one of the keys on the enormous ring, locked it behind him.

  “So, my good man, tell me,” Edvard began, pitching his voice to carry over the wind. “Have you lived in this charming town all your life?”

  “Yeah, that’s about right.” Jarod glanced at the Bard and then started walking northward across the large square.

  Edvard quickly fell into step next to him, leaving Abel, with his weighty and overstuffed backpack, struggling to keep up. “Then perhaps you might acquaint me with your village. This square, for instance: what is its history and what deeds have been played out upon its surface?”

  Jarod shrugged as he walked, his head turning slightly toward the Bard as they walked. “Well, this is Trader’s Square. There’s a lot of selling that goes on here during the spring and through fall harvest. It’s not actually a market because the village elders don’t want to become a township, so they just call it Trader’s Square rather than an actual market, see?”

  Edvard nodded and smiled, but he clearly had no idea what the young man was saying to him. “What’s that large building over there?”

  “That?” Jarod glanced up at the long architectural hodgepodge that lined the northwest side of the square. “That’s the Guild Hall. That road beyond it goes to Meade, maybe five leagues to the west. South, back there,” Jarod pointed behind them, “that’s Cobblestone Street and Chestnut Court—but then you were arrested there, so I guess you know all about those. Up there,” he pointed ahead of them this time, “is Bolly’s Mill. It’s just above Bolly Falls there on the Wanderwine.”

  They came to the northeast edge of the square, which was defined by the steep banks of the Wanderwine River. A low wall of fitted stone ran from the mill all along the riverbank on both sides, with a stone bridge crossing just before the falls and connecting Trader’s Square to another square lined with buildings on the far side of the river.

  Edvard stopped on the bridge for a moment, gazing at the wide waterfall just to his north. “So that is the famed Bolly Falls!”

  Jarod looked back at him. “No.”

  “But you just said . . .”

  “We call it Bolly Falls, but that’s not its name,” Jarod replied.

  “Ah,” Edvard replied, but Jarod continued walking over the bridge, and the Bard and his companion were again forced to catch up.

  “This is Charter Square,” Jarod continued. “Cooper Walters is there on the right. Across the square are a lot of smaller shops—Charon’s Goods is nice and Mordechai will treat you right. King’s Road is there just left of the shops . . . that way takes you to the smithy if you need something repaired. There in the middle of the square is the Cursed Sundial, and over here on the left is the Griffon’s Tale Inn, where . . .”

  “A cursed sundial?” Edvard exclaimed as he quickly strode over to the pedestal, gazing at the charred and cracked surface peeking out from beneath the snow. “What deep mystery is there here, my good friends! How came this place to become cursed? What tragic story unfolded at this very spot where time itself was assaulted by . . .”

  “Come on,” Jarod urged as he crossed the square to the north where a building nearly three stories tall look
ed down over the street. A large ornamental sign swung noisily from the iron bracket: a crest with a griffon emblazoned on it with a long tail winding around its body. The lettering proclaimed it the Griffon’s Tale Inn. “Let’s get inside.”

  Jarod opened the door, and Edvard, seeing another chance to make an entrance, rushed into the opening and flourished his cape as he bowed deeply.

  “Good day and good morrow to one and all,” Edvard proclaimed, his voice carrying past the great room in which they stood and probably well past the kitchen beyond. “Let no fear enter your hearts, for I have come to ward off the evil that is nigh upon you. I am . . . the Dragon’s Bard!”

  There were two humans in the great room and a gnome in one far corner. Each looked up at the interruption in mild curiosity. A third human near the large fireplace in the far wall did not even move.

  Harv Oakman squinted for a moment. “What was that again?”

  “’Tis I,” Edvard crowed once more. “The Dragon’s Bard!”

  Harv shook his head. “Sorry, don’t know it.”

  Squire Tomas Melthalion broke the awkward moment as he hurried into the room from the kitchen, slamming the door shut behind Jarod and his charges with his shoulder even as he wiped his wide hands on an already filthy apron. “Friends of yours, eh, Master Klum? Well, welcome to the Griffon’s Tale Inn, which—as the proprietor of this-here establishment I can tell you—has been in this location since even before the founding of the village itself.”

  “Thank you, good Squire Tomas,” Edvard replied in sudden earnest. “But I come on a matter of great urgency, which . . .” Edvard stopped and pointed at a dark, hunched figure seated by the great fireplace.

  “Oh . . . him! Do not concern yourself with Lord Gallivant over there—no one knows his real name—he just sits in the corner talking to his own memories. But as you’ll no doubt be needing a place to lodge, have you heard the story of the great service that I, myself, did for the King when he passed by the village not far from this very spot?”

  “Ah, and you touch on my very point at last,” the Dragon’s Bard began. “This beautiful village of Ever-tide . . .”

  “Eventide,” Jarod corrected.

  “Of course . . . Eventide . . . this very selfsame beautiful village is in the gravest of danger. The great and terrible Khrag—King of Dragons—has sent me here to collect stories for his amusement, and unless . . .”

  “Stories! Oh, I’ve a story for you!” Tomas exclaimed.

  Jarod groaned. Tomas pressed the stranger down into a chair.

  “Here, sit you down next to our resident Lord Gallivant and let this Squire tell you about it! Of course, he was not the King then, and some might have said that the service done was nothing of any real importance, but when you hear how . . .”

  “Squire,” Jarod spoke up, “these men are hungry—please bring them dinner.”

  “Now?” Tomas sputtered. “But I was just about to tell these travelers . . .”

  “Yes, but they have both been arrested by the Constable Pro Tempore, and I must get these dangerous men back under lock and key soon,” Jarod explained. “Of course, if you don’t want the village’s coins for their dinners, then I can take them right back and . . .”

  “No bother! No bother,” Tomas replied as he hurried off.

  “Are you getting all of this?” Edvard said sotto voce to Abel.

  Abel only nodded, not quite keeping up.

  As Abel scribbled furiously on a large parchment scroll, Edvard inquired why Jarod had stopped the innkeeper from telling him the story.

  “Look, Mister Dragon’s Beard . . .”

  “Bard,” Edvard said through a tight smile. “Dragon’s Bard.”

  “Well, if you’re really interested in hearing the Squire’s story,” Jarod continued, “then I’m sure that the Squire would be more than happy to tell it while dinner is served . . . then refresh your memory of the telling by telling it again while you’re leaving the Inn . . . and again anytime, for that matter, that you come within earshot of the Squire. Believe me, there’s practically no avoiding it, as anyone in the town can pretty well attest, including me.”

  “And this fellow here—this Lord Gallivant?” Edvard asked, gesturing toward the gaunt and grizzled man who sat muttering to himself near the fire. His clothing was faded and nearly threadbare; he wore a military cape that looked older than the Epic War itself.

  Jarod shrugged. “Don’t know . . . nobody knows. He’s been here as long as I can remember.”

  “So what about your story, eh?” the Dragon’s Bard asked.

  “Don’t have one,” Jarod answered with a deep-felt sigh.

  Abel stopped scribbling at once, glancing up questioningly.

  “Then we shall write you one,” the Dragon’s Bard offered cheerfully. “No! Better still, we shall help you to live one! Tell me, are there any women in your life?”

  Jarod eyed him with suspicion. “Why do you ask?”

  The Dragon’s Bard smiled. “Because every young man’s great story begins with a woman!”

  • Chapter 2 •

  Wishers of the Well

  Caprice Morgan leaned her seventeen-year-old face over the edge of the wishing well, her elbows resting on the cool stone edge and her elegant hands, embarrassingly calloused, cupping her small chin and smooth—if smudged—cheeks. Her carefully combed auburn hair fell around her face. Her wide green eyes gazed down the circular shaft of the well, trying to see something of her own future, though she knew that even if the well were working properly, it was not a scrying pool and could not possibly know her future. Still, she leaned against the edge and peered into it.

  Her future, if the well were to be believed, was dark.

  The village had been founded largely around the Inn, but the Inn had come into existence to serve the travelers who for ages untold had come to the wishing well. The well, in use since the time of legends, sat in the woods northwest of the town, snugly surrounded by the Norest Forest near the foot of Mount Dervin, the highest point in three counties. For centuries the well had been tended by the wish-women—heiresses to enchantment, blessed with knowledge of wishcraft—who kept the well supplied from the magic of the surrounding woods. Dwarves, elves, humans, and others of all ranks and classes would make their way to the well from their distant homes to make wishes come true. The Griffon’s Tale Inn was built to serve those pilgrims, and the town grew up around the Inn.

  This great, long, and profitable tradition kept the town safe and secure—until a wizard came one day with a wish that was too big for the well to grant. Brenna Morgan, the High Wish-Woman at the time, failed to please the wizard or fulfill his terrible wish. In dreadful anger, the wizard broke the wishes of the well with a curse that would last until the sundial in Charter Square heralded both sunrise and sunset at the same time.

  It was a blow to the economy of the village but a disastrous tragedy for Meryl Morgan and his three daughters. The breaking of the well also broke Brenna’s magical ability and her health. She faded away, this wish-woman who had tended the well since long before her wedding to Meryl, and he was left with his three daughters to struggle on without her. Their girls—Sobrina, Caprice, and Melodi—were natural talents at gathering wishes, as their mother had been, but none of them had the opportunity or the wealth to be properly trained in wishcraft at the Enchanting Academy in Mordale. So each gathered what meager wishes she could to keep the well going.

  But the wishes that were now granted from the well always had something peculiarly wrong with them. That they would grant the desires of the wisher was true, but the boon from the well always came in unpredictable and occasionally disastrous ways. One man wished for untold wealth—only to have a sum appear that was too small to mention. A woman asked for renowned beauty—only to find herself the talk of all the Ogre lands. One very unfortunate young lady presumptuously wished that her boyfriend would “grow up.” He thereafter could only find employment as the “tall boy” in Captain Kobold�
��s Carnival of Freaks.

  Although the pilgrims quit coming for the broken wishes of the well, the sisters were able—if barely—to make a living by supplying smaller wishes to the villagers nearby. But such wishes came hard for the wisher-women of the well, and it seemed as though they never had any wishes of their own left over.

  “Caprice!”

  The sound of her name echoing through the surrounding woods drew the wisher-woman back from her dark reflections at the well.

  “Capriiiiice!” came the distant sound.

  “Coming, Sobrina,” she called back.

  Caprice turned from the well and stepped out of the gazebo that enclosed it. It once had been a beautifully maintained lattice structure that rose gracefully to a point exactly above the well. Now the paint that had protected it from the elements was badly weathered, and pieces of the ornamental carvings had fallen into such decay that some of them were no longer recognizable. Short pieces of the latticework had also fallen down and lay kicked to one side or the other. The ground about the well was covered in glittering white where ice crystals had formed on the crest of the snowfall. There were paths trodden down through the snow that led from the wintry glade down the slope from the well to Wishing Lane and more narrow paths that led into the surrounding forest of trees in their winter sleep. Caprice knew them all because she and her sisters had made them in their continuous work at keeping wishes in their well.

  She paused by the rusting iron box next to the gazebo. The lock had long since broken and there had never been enough coin to have it fixed. She raised the lid on the box quickly, half out of habit and half out of hope. The hinges squealed terribly into the silence of the woods around her.

  The box was empty.

  Caprice slammed the lid shut with a clang and pulled her thick shawl closer around her shoulders. It had been an impulse to look in the box, and now she felt both angry and foolish for having done so. She knew that there had been times in the past—her father’s past—when that box had had to be emptied morning and afternoon because of the grateful donations that had been left in it by wishers at the well. There had been more wealth than even the wish-women could have wished for, which, Caprice reminded herself, would never have worked anyway because wish-women wishing their own wishes from the wishes they collected formed a complete circle, which was forbidden by the basic rules of wishcraft—or so her mother had told them when they were young.