“And then you just took them over to the Squire’s for lunch?”
“Well, Xander said that I should . . .”
Ward Klum shook his head. “Until their names are entered into the arrest ledger, they aren’t officially under the protection of the town, Jarod. There’s a proper order to things here in Eventide that must be followed, especially in our office.”
A dark chuckle rumbled from the centaur, cutting under the squawk of a gaggle of geese being herded into Trader’s Square.
“Don’t be so hard on the boy, Ward,” Bennis said with a deep, warm laugh. “Jarod, if Xander arrested them, then where is he? They’re supposed to be under his charge.”
The Dragon’s Bard had closed one eye and was peering at the farmer with the other.
Jarod was relieved to have the questions asked about anyone other than himself. He had never thought much about Farmer Bennis. He knew that the centaur worked his own farm north of town on the Mordale road past Wishing Lane, but the apprentice had never been out so far as to see it. Aren Bennis occasionally had dealings with his father, but they always made a point of speaking out of his hearing or taking their business elsewhere. Otherwise “the old half-horse”—as some in the town called him—kept mostly to his farm and himself.
“The Constable Pro Tempore said that he had an appointment with Beulandreus about a new door for the lockup,” Jarod said. “I was trying to get the charges from him to write them in the arrest ledger—just like you told me to, Father—but the charges were complicated, and I thought it best if you—”
“YOU!” the Dragon’s Bard exclaimed. “I should have known!”
Bennis’s eyes narrowed, his face falling into a frown.
“Can it possibly be?” Edvard’s face was filled with wonder as he stared at the centaur. “After all these years . . .”
“No, you must be mistaken,” Bennis said after drawing in a deep breath.
Edvard’s smile beamed. “In all my travels, I’ve never dreamed that one day I would be standing here and—”
Xander Lamplighter was rushing toward them from the stone bridge, calling out as he came, his voice all out of breath. “Master Klum! Beggin’ your pardon, but I need to be having a word with you, sir . . .”
The Dragon’s Bard took no notice of the rapidly approaching Constable Pro Tempore, reaching out with both his hands. “May I say . . . it is such an honor . . .”
“Just a minute, Xander,” Ward Klum said, holding up a narrow hand in a useless attempt to deflect the sound of the Constable Pro Tempore’s voice. He squinted with the effort of trying to pluck meaning through the noise. “I can’t hear what the jester is saying . . .”
“He’s not a jester, Dad,” Jarod offered over the conversation. “He’s a bard.”
“A what?”
“A dragon’s bard, Dad.”
“A dragon ward? But my name’s Ward . . .”
“HAR! HAR! HAR!”
The laugh of Farmer Bennis rolled like thunder across Trader’s Square, causing everyone to stop speaking at once. All the merchants setting up their stalls in the square looked up in amazement. Even the gaggle of geese seemed to hold still.
Bennis had reached forward in the confusion, grabbing both of Edvard’s hands in his right grip and dragging the Dragon’s Bard forcefully toward him. Now the centaur held the flailing minstrel in what appeared to be an affectionate hug with his massive left arm, except that Edvard’s face was pressed so firmly into the centaur’s padded coat that only muffled sounds were coming out.
“Well, now,” Bennis said, looking down at the distressed minstrel, “if it isn’t my old friend Edmund.”
“Edvard,” Jarod corrected.
“My old friend Edvard,” Bennis repeated with a broad, gap-toothed smile, “come to pay me a visit after all this time.”
The centaur gripped Edvard’s doublet at the back of the neck. Edvard hung suspended about hand’s breadth above the frost-coated cobblestones as Farmer Bennis held him out for his friends to see.
Edvard gasped for air.
“We’ve got a lot of catching up to do, Edvard,” Farmer Bennis said cheerfully to the still sputtering bard. “But we won’t be boring our friends with old stories about the past, will we?”
Edvard dragged in a painful breath. “But, surely, I—”
The centaur’s friendly shaking of the bard was playfully rough. “No, I think it’s best we keep those embarrassing tales just between us, don’t you?”
“But I—”
“Well, don’t you?”
Edvard nodded and managed a thin smile. “Indeed. We’ve . . . got a great deal of catching up to do . . . old friend . . . just between you and me.”
“Indeed,” Bennis’s mouth opened into a wide though cheerless grin. “Just between you and me.”
“I were just coming to tell you ’bout—oh!” Xander, his breath puffing out in great chuffs from his exertions, saw the centaur holding the Dragon’s Bard for the first time. The Constable Pro Tempore bent forward and placed his hands on his knees. “I see you’ve done already met the prisoners, then.”
“Just now, it seems,” Ward Klum replied, his eyebrows rising. “Although there also appears to be some disagreement among the assemblage here as to whether they are suspected rogues or guests.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, sire?” Xander tended to blink when he was confused or uncertain. In the view of the scribe, Xander seemed to blink quite often.
“Farmer Bennis has avowed that they are friends of his who have come—why have they come, Farmer Bennis?”
“Catching up on old times,” the centaur replied, though the prospect sounded more threatening than inviting.
“Well, be they friends of Farmer Bennis or no,” Xander said, his face reddening in the chill, “I’ve a complaint lodged against that one by the Widow Merryweather and Missus Taylor, and you know how they can be! They’d like to have my head if I was to let him go. I thought they might have given Jarod the slip whiles they was off to lunch, but seeing as he’s still here . . .”
“Yes, yes,” Ward responded with an impatient nod. “Well, I’m sorry to inconvenience you, Xander, but as they did not escape from my son, as you had evidently hoped, we had better arrest them properly. Bring them inside. I take it that Beulandreus hasn’t finished the door for the lockup yet, so there’s every chance that they may escape later on and save either of us the trouble of having to answer on the matter to either Marchant Merryweather or Winifred Taylor . . .”
“I’ll take them,” Farmer Bennis said.
Everyone, including Edvard, looked at the centaur in complete surprise.
“You’ll what?” Xander gaped.
“I’ll take them. Release them into my charge, Xander, and I’ll keep an eye on this Dragon’s Beard for you.”
“Bard,” Edvard managed to correct before once again being silenced by a vigorous shake from the centaur.
“I don’t know,” Ward frowned. “It’s highly irregular . . .”
“Now, Ward, you know I’ve been a member of the village militia longer than our Constable Pro Tempore has been constable,” Bennis said, his enormous hand still gripping the Bard’s shoulder so tightly that the Bard was forced to grimace, much to the enjoyment of his scribe. “If that’s not enough, you can make it official if you like: swear me in as . . . oh, Adjutant Pro Tempore if that will help. They would still be under arrest, and all you have to worry about is keeping the ledgers straight.”
Xander smiled. Ward bit at his lower lip.
“And that would get those hens on Cobblestone Street satisfied, wouldn’t it?” Bennis added with a wink.
Ward chuckled once. “Very well, Aren, these two are now in your charge. Should they escape your watchful eye while they’re on your farm—”
“I’ll be sure to report it to you at once,” Bennis said, curling his right fetlock back beneath him as he bowed slightly. “But this Bard and I have a great deal to discuss—and I don’t think he’ll be leaving a
nytime soon.”
“Wherever did it go?” Edvard spoke his thoughts aloud for the benefit of those who might be paying attention to him. He stood upright, taking off his flamboyant hat so that his magnificent brain might cool as he scratched his head.
“What is it now?” Aren Bennis grumbled as he knelt down on his forelegs, quickly rolling up the painted canvas tent. They were not more than a quarter of a mile beyond the town just off the western road to Meade. The Dragon’s Bard had set up camp just north of the road up a gentle rise. The crest of Mount Dervin could just be seen above the dense line of trees farther to the north.
“My book, I’ve lost my book,” Edvard answered with a distracted air.
“What book?” Aren was losing patience with the Bard.
“The book! My book!” Edvard answered hotly. “The one Abel gave me so that I could learn how to re . . . the one I was reviewing for a second publication! It was here when we left this morning.”
“Well, find it or leave it,” Bennis said with a dismissive sigh. “We’re going to lose daylight soon, and I’ve got cows that need caring for yet.”
“Now, see here, my good man . . .”
The centaur scowled at the Bard.
“I mean, my good fellow,” Edvard corrected at once. “Can we not come to an understanding between us? This road to Meade runs well beyond that town and, might I add, far from any concerns of yours. I could be persuaded to start such a journey even now . . .”
“And be telling your tales along every measure of its length,” Bennis added.
“That is my greatest calling!”
Bennis turned toward the Dragon’s Bard, folding his enormous arms across his chest. “But there are some tales best left untold. Tales, I believe, that are best forgotten on behalf of all concerned. So until I feel that those tales are safely forgotten—I’ll keep you right here within reach to see that they don’t get told.”
Edvard’s face rose to meet the centaur’s gaze. “And just how long might that be?”
“As long as it takes me to trust you.”
“That long, eh?” Edvard said without much hope.
Jarod’s father had allowed him to come with Farmer Bennis to help strike the camp of the prisoners. He smiled as he gathered Edvard’s odd belongings from where the Bard had evidently tossed them haphazardly about. Vials—some still filled but the majority mostly empty—lay around the firepit. Odd brass spheres and copper tubing wound in coils lay in strange and wondrous array, as did a variety of pouches filled with strange-smelling herbs. Jarod was beginning to feel almost content to be out under the cold winter sun and away from the ledgers for an afternoon.
“One thing I don’t understand,” Jarod said. “Are you the Dragon’s Bard or a dragon’s bard?”
“Well, both, actually,” Edvard answered absently as he searched around the logs surrounding the firepit. “I am a dragon’s bard—it is a description of what I do. At the same time, as I am the one who serves stories to the Dragonking Khrag, I have a title—like king or queen or village farmer idiot—and that is why I am called the Dragon’s Bard.”
Jarod thought for a moment. “I don’t see it.”
“Well, if I had that book,” Edvard exclaimed in exasperation, “I could show you pictures that would clarify the point so that you could see it!”
“What you don’t see could fill a dozen of your books,” Bennis said, clomping carefully over to where the Dragon’s Bard was searching. The centaur pointed toward the snow. “Look. Those tracks through the snow come down from those woods and lead back into them again. They’re too big for pixies—who would be my first thought for your thief—and too small for a human male. Female of your kind, I should think.”
“And this woman stole my book?” Edvard huffed.
The centaur chuckled. “Considering where you placed your camp, it wouldn’t take Dirk Gallowglass to find and pillage it. With the painting on that canvas tent of yours, it’s a marvel thieves don’t rob you daily and take more than a book.” Jarod had gaped at the tent when they had first arrived: It was covered with intricate illustrations of noble kings, sword-wielding knights wearing impossibly complex armor, damsels in assorted forms of distress, and an epic battle panorama filled with creatures—some of which Jarod could not even name. The largest illustration featured two figures towering over the rest: a bard—who bore some passing resemblance to Edvard—defending himself against an enormous, fire-breathing dragon armed only with a quill. It was vibrant, garish, poorly rendered, and calculated to call attention to itself.
“What’s in this book that’s so important anyway?” Jarod asked as he pushed the Bard’s provisions haphazardly down into a pack.
“Important?” The Bard’s eyes flashed. Edvard evidently sensed the opportunity for performance and had never been known to let such opportunities pass. “Why, the book contains the essence of life itself! It holds a quest!”
“A quest?” Jarod asked with a hint of his father’s skepticism.
“Oh, yes, my boy.” Edvard warmed to his performance despite the chill in the air. “A quest is everything! It is the embodiment of our dreams and the vision of our better selves. The quest brings us to a place where we are tested not just for who we are but for who we are to become! It takes us beyond our safe home, past the portals of our horizon, and into the realms of power and magic, desire and nobility, passion and humility. It tries us to our core as we travel strange roads and overcome the forces of evil that oppose our rightful desire. It tempts us down paths that would steal not just the breath from our breast but the soul from our heart. And always in the end it brings us to a prize of inestimable wealth!”
“That would be Caprice, right?” Jarod offered, trying to follow the chain of thought.
“Well, no,” Edvard blinked, his rhythm momentarily stumbling over the question. “The actual prize may be many things, depending upon the quest. It may be knowledge from the gods or spiritual understanding or power or wealth untold . . .”
“And if I bring this prize back, then that’s what impresses Caprice?” Jarod asked again.
The centaur’s great laugh shook the frosted ground.
“I’ll have you know that there is no higher form of love’s expression than that of the great quest,” the Dragon’s Bard sniffed. “If Jarod is to win his fair Caprice, then a quest is the surest path by which he may secure her affections. All the best books tell us so.”
“Caprice.” Farmer Bennis stopped, looking up into the darkening sky for a moment. “You mean Caprice Morgan—Meryl’s daughter of the wishing well? Is that what all this is about?”
Jarod flushed, his voice daring the centaur to contradict him. “I’d do anything for her.”
Farmer Bennis glanced at the young man who was barely tall enough to meet his flanks. He tied off the rolled canvas tent and laid it across his own back. “I dare say you would, son . . . and don’t mistake me; she’s a worthy woman to pursue.”
“Then I guess I need to fulfill a quest,” Jarod said with more certainty than he felt. “What kinds of quests are there? I mean . . . can I choose a quest?”
The centaur spoke as much to himself as to anyone else. “You don’t choose quests, boy—they choose you.”
The Dragon’s Bard thought for a moment before he answered. “There are so many tales of legendary deeds, each so difficult to quantify in its respective genre . . . give me a moment’s leave to recall . . . ah! There was the quest for the Godly Prize—the greatest gift ever given to the king.”
Bennis chuckled. “Ah, give her an impressive present.”
The Dragon’s Bard continued, “There was the quest for the Shield of Glory given by the gods to a hero who distinguished himself by his—”
The farmer laughed. “He means you should impress her with your charm!”
“What about the Quest of the Heart?” the Dragon’s Bard countered. “The Quest of Riches . . . the Quest of Power . . . the Quest of Valiance . . .”
“All fi
ne enough,” Bennis chuckled, “so long as you peel back the fancy talk and get down to the roots. Buy her with money, impress her with the strength of your arm or fancy words: it’s all the same story for the lords and the peasants alike.”
“Well, they all sound like fine quests,” Jarod said, “and . . . well, it’s grand to be talking about slaying dragons and griffons and demons . . . but I’m an apprentice in my father’s countinghouse and I’ve got chores at home and . . . this whole quest business sounds pretty far away.”
Farmer Bennis stopped packing and turned to the young man. He leaned down closer to Jarod and laid both his massive hands as gently as he could on the youth’s shoulders. “Master Klum, you don’t have to go to the ends of the world to fulfill your quest. The best quests are those here, close to your heart. The quests in all those distant lands of story seem more important somehow because they are far away—but the quests that make a difference are the smaller ones in the places of power, glory, wealth, and magic that lie just around the corner from your own home.”
“Not from my home,” Jarod said with a glum expression.
“Yes,” Bennis insisted. “Your home . . . I’ll show you.”
Bennis turned Jarod so that he was looking back down the Meade road toward Eventide. The evening rays cast a pink color across the landscape and the buildings around the center of the town.
“There’s your quest, boy,” Farmer Bennis said in a rough whisper. “A place of treasure, adventure, honor, and glory.”
“It’s just the village,” Jarod said, puzzled.
“Look through better eyes, boy,” Bennis insisted. “It won’t be the same town we’ll be going back to, Master Jarod. It will be a different land altogether by the time we’re done. I’ll help you, boy, to win your woman and to do it proper, too.”
“You?” the Dragon’s Bard scoffed. “What know you of romance and the wooing of a gentle lady?”
“I’ll thank you not to ask that question again,” Bennis growled. “Take my help or not, boy . . . but you’ll need all the help offered, I’m thinking.”
“And I shall aid you as well, chronicling your every adventure,” Edvard said, trying to regain his audience. “I came in search of these very quests of which our friend Farmer Bennis speaks. Neighborhood heroes . . . princesses down the lane. Perhaps you don’t need to slay some distant dragon; all you need is to slay a more manageable one right here.”
Tales of the Dragon's Bard, Volume 1: Eventide Page 4