Filled with pride in his own business sense, Jarod went back out the door and headed toward the Fae Grotto.
On the seventh day of the Fall Festival, the townspeople gathered in Charter Square around the Cursed Sundial in the brisk fall air. Long tables borrowed from the Guild Hall were supplemented with several from the Griffon’s Tale Inn. Each was covered with long linen, and the square was lit once more with the glow of the pixies—imprisoned again for some heinous if thus far unspecified offense.
Everyone in the town brought something for the Harvest Feast, a community sharing of the bounty from the growing season and, it would seem, the last great holiday for them all to gather together before the onset of winter and the long wait until the spring. Breads and stews, meat pies and vegetables, fruits and tubers—all were passed along joyfully down the rows and shared with each other.
The town had said farewell to the fairies earlier that afternoon. The tents and provisions were all secured aboard their seven ships and they sailed away somewhat earlier than expected. The fairy king—Lord Obsintia—seemed to be in a particular hurry to leave. The fairies sailed down the Wanderwine River toward distant Blackshore, waving and singing as they left.
Jarod, dressed in his best leggings and doublet, found Caprice in the crowd and sat down on the bench next to her. “Good evening, Caprice!”
“Why, good evening, Jarod,” Caprice said, raising her eyebrows as she looked at him. “And may I say you are looking particularly well this evening?”
“You may,” Jarod said with a smile. “I have been looking forward to this evening for quite some time and wanted to look my best!”
“You are a great supporter of the Fall Festival then, I take it?” Caprice’s wide green eyes were filled with mirth.
“In more ways than you may know,” Jarod answered, then leaned slightly toward her. “Caprice, would you meet me beneath the tree in Chestnut Court after the contest? I have something particular to say to you.”
“You are saying something to me,” Caprice said in a mockingly serious voice, matching Jarod’s own conspiratorial tone.
Jarod laughed. “So I am . . . but I have something particular to say to you and you’ll not know what it is unless you meet me there. Please say you will!”
“Of course I will!” Caprice smiled, and the world seemed brighter to Jarod. “After they award the chalice . . . I’ll meet you there.”
“Perfect!” Jarod exclaimed. He leaped up from the chair and ran down the row to find his mother, his feet seeming barely to touch the ground.
He found Orlynda fussing over her cranberry-apple pie. “Oh, Jarod, I just don’t think the crust is right—and I practically stood over that Muffe woman while she baked it!”
Jarod swallowed. He could have told his mother that she shouldn’t get her hopes up because he had personally seen to it that no matter what his mother baked, she was going to lose the competition. But he cared too much for her, told himself that it was all for the best, and said, “It will be fine, Mother. You wait and see.”
Jep Walters was standing up at the table that seemed to have been arranged for the more important folk of the town—at least more important in the estimation of those who had arranged the tables.
“Ladies and gentlemen, friends and neighbors of Eventide!” Jep pronounced, his hands firmly gripping the lapels of his long coat. “It has been a wondrous celebration this year—a bountiful harvest for which each of us gives thanks to those gods whose largess smiles upon us. It behooves us at times like these to reflect back on—”
“Never mind that, Jep,” yelled Joaquim Taylor from the back. “Let’s get on with the contest!”
Nervous laughter ran through the crowd, but Jep was beaming. It seemed he, too, would like to have this final duty concluded.
“As you wish! It’s time to judge the winner of the Fall Festival Pie Competition . . . the winner receiving this fine . . . this fine . . .” Jep was having a little difficulty lifting it up onto the table before him, “this fine chalice to keep for one year—until the next Fall Festival—in recognition of their achievement. Our competition is being judged, as usual, by Deniva Kolyan and Madeline Muffe—the fine bakers in our town—as well as our guest judge, Captain Hamish Pew, who has come all the way from Blackshore for the evening. Captain Pew!”
Jarod shook his head. Deniva Kolyan and Madeline Muffe had been made the judges of the contest partly because they could not be allowed to compete for the prize and partly because neither of them could ever agree on anything. All of this was supposed to be balanced out by the selection of a third judge from outside of the village, but this year’s selection of a sea captain whose palate was probably used to salted fish and hardtack was probably not the best choice.
“Ladies,” Jep said with a nod, “bring forward your pies.”
Orlynda Klum took in a deep breath and stepped forward. Livinia was already at the table setting down her pie—a cherry and pear cream confection that caused those watching to draw in a breath. Next, Daphne Melthalion presented her rum-apple and cheddar pie, which also drew delighted sounds from the crowd. The Widow Merryweather and Winifred Taylor both arrived at the same time, setting down their walnut peach-berry and pink lemonade pies, respectively. Orlynda set her cranberry-apple pie down at the far end, feeling a bit sheepish about her humble-looking entry this year.
All five of the pies were lined up right next to each other—and that was when the trouble started.
Magic, as anyone with any practical familiarity with the subject will tell you, is a jealous and dangerous thing. Intention counts for little in its application of effect, and the simplest of instructions can go awry when placed in proximity with other instructions of supposedly equal simplicity.
One might be tempted to blame the fairies for providing the magical potions in the first place, but that would be unkind and unfair, for the potions performed precisely as specified. Perhaps Jarod was to blame for deciding that if one could make so many gold coins with the sale of a single potion, it would be four times better to sell four such potions. But that, too, would be less than generous, as his motives were good and his reasoning sound in terms of business. Perhaps the ladies themselves were to blame in their zeal to obtain the prize.
As to the results, no one was in doubt. Four of the pies had been magically enhanced with cooking potions, each of which caused that pie to assert itself as the best pie of all. Each pie would do anything—anything—to assert its supremacy over every other pie around it.
Deniva Kolyan and Madeline Muffe stood on either side of the Captain and approached the pies.
The Captain leaned forward over Livinia’s cherry and pear pie with a knife.
A spark flew up from the center of the crust and burst into the form of a tiny, sparkling dandelion.
The thick brows of the Captain rose in surprise.
“Toot!”
The judges turned to look down the row of pies.
The walnut peach-berry pie had sounded a note.
Crackle! Snap! Livinia’s pie was producing a spectacular display in light and sound above its cream crust.
Not to be outdone, Daphne’s rum-apple and cheddar pie suddenly burst into flames across its surface, causing the Captain to push back his two fellow judges in alarm.
Winifred Taylor screeched.
Her pink lemonade pie lifted off of the table and flew about the heads of the judges.
The fiery rum-apple was forming images of pirates fighting each other in the flames.
The walnut peach-berry pie was whistling a jig.
The sparkling bursts over the cherry-pear pie were getting larger above the heads of the judges, exploding around the flying pink lemonade pie, which took exception to the barrage and dove down on the cherry, flipping it skyward with the rim of its pie tin.
The cherry recovered in midair, sectioning itself into eight wedges, each of which gave chase to the lemonade pie.
The townspeople scattered in a panic, kno
cking over tables and chairs in their desperate attempt to escape.
The rum-apple pie tipped on its side and rolled along the tabletop, shooting flames behind it at the cherry. The cherry, thus diverted, separated three wedges from its pursuit of the lemonade pie and began spitting cherries at the rum from above, the thudding impact of its fruit slamming into the table and spattering red syrup on the innocent bystanders seeking shelter nearby.
The peach-berry pie unrolled its crust and began flinging walnuts. One of them connected with a wedge of cherry, which broke in two and careened in a spiral downward, slamming into the face of Percival Taylor—counted afterward as the first man wounded in the action.
The rum-apple pie had taken a number of hits from the cherry and was wobbling in its course. It veered to the right, leaped a gulf between the tables, and drove straight on its edge toward the peach-berry pie, which immediately began screaming for help while diverting its walnuts toward the onrushing rum-apple pie.
Overhead, the lemonade was still being pursued by several slices of cherry but saw an opportunity. It dove down over the peach-berry and flipped over, spurting whipped cream down onto the peach-berry. The pie choked on the cream and was temporarily silenced.
Suddenly, Jep Walters appeared with his ancient wand in hand. This caused everyone to renew their efforts to flee, as no one could predict what the untested weapon might do.
The peach-berry leaped into the air, trying to avoid the juggernaut of rum-apple driving relentlessly toward it in its quest for pie supremacy. The rum was not fooled, however, and flew into the air as well, just as the remaining cherry wedges and the lemonade converged.
The resulting terrible explosion of pie was so cataclysmic that it covered the farthest corners of Charter Square—and everyone within it.
When the Captain drew himself up from behind the overturned table, his ceremonial saber in hand, he looked about at the carnage, and one thing caught his eye.
Orlynda Klum was holding her cranberry-apple pie—still intact.
He declared her the winner at once.
Jarod never met Caprice that night.
The initial and universal reaction was to arrest the Bard, but Jarod could not live with that. He confessed everything to his mother and his father. Both were upset with their son, but mostly Orlynda Klum, who now was in possession of the Fall Festival pie chalice and was certain that the rest of the women in the town would think she had put Jarod up to this escapade. She insisted that he give every one of the women their money back at once.
Treasure Box in hand, Jarod made the rounds of the four women and called at their back doors. Their reactions, however, surprised Jarod. Each one of them took the money back but begged him not to tell anyone what they had done. He promised that he would keep their secrets, and each one of them was relieved and grateful to him.
Perhaps too grateful, in one case.
“Jarod, you’re a good man,” Livinia Walters said to him at her back door—being careful that no one else could see them.
“Thank you . . . and I’m sorry about all this . . .”
“No, you’ve shown a head for business and are honorable besides,” Livinia said. “You keep our little secret, and I promise I’ll do everything I can to help you.”
“Well, thank you, but that isn’t necessary . . .”
“You just leave it to me, Son,” Livinia said, closing her door.
Livinia nodded resolutely to herself. Jarod Klum was a better man than she had thought.
She determined to do everything she could to square things between Jarod and her daughter, Vestia.
Tale of Frightful Manors
Tale of Frightful Manors
Wherein Jarod is inducted into the Black Guild Brotherhood—the secret men’s society known to everyone in Eventide—but only if he can pass a haunting initiation test.
• Chapter 18 •
The Black Guild Brotherhood
The chill, northwest wind moaned through the Norest Forest, shivering the bare branches of the trees and skittering the dried leaves across the frozen ground. It swept across the deserted Fae Grotto, brushing with it the low autumn clouds as they crossed the full moon overhead. It passed again into the sleeping trees, all cowering from its frigid blast, and came at last, as if bidden there, to shake the shingles and rattle the dark windows of Forgotten Manor.
No one now recalls its former name. In happier years a wealthy family had built the grandiose structure as a palatial summer retreat for members of the court in Mordale, but for reasons never explained—though wildly speculated upon—the imposing building was abandoned shortly after it had been furnished. Most of the stories told about it in Eventide involved secret murders, dark, mystical practices in hidden rooms beneath the foundations, and the haunting of its halls. Only the young and foolish ever dared approach the ruin, for it remained in shadow even in the full light of day, and those who did were so shaken by their experiences there that they vowed never to return again. Occasionally, nervous reports of seeing shadows moving across the windows and even occasional smoke from the long-cold chimneys would come to town. Everyone who had been born to Eventide knew to leave such dark forces well alone. Slowly, over the years, the grandeur that used to be succumbed to the forces of decay as nature slowly encroached upon it. Now, the brooding edifice stood as a dark stain among the leafless trees and beneath the cold light of the harvest moon.
Xander Lamplighter, the Constable Pro Tempore of Eventide, stood next to the long dried-up fountain before the wide steps leading up to the manor, lifting his lantern higher with his left hand. The light barely penetrated the gloom, showing the dirty stone columns flanking the main doors to the house. The finish on the enormous double doors was weathered and cracking. The shifting light from the lantern played tricks on Xander’s eyesight, suggesting something moving among the columns, but Xander steadied his hand and the illusion vanished.
Satisfied, the Constable Pro Tempore turned and moved along the gravel path that was laid parallel to the face of the ruin, his booted feet kicking the fallen leaves just enough for them to be caught by the wind. The dark windows of the three-story manor looked menacingly down upon the feeble circle of light that encompassed Xander and barely kept the smothering darkness at bay.
Xander made his way around the northeast corner of the mansion. There he came to a portico with steps leading up to a smaller entrance. There were double doors here as well, although not nearly as large or as grand as the main entrance. One of the doors slammed closed every few seconds, only to fly open again in the whirling eddies of the howling wind. Xander walked quickly up the granite steps and grabbed the door handle. He raised his lantern again into the opening.
“Who goes there?” Xander cried out loudly over the wailing of the gale behind him. “Answer in the name of the king!”
A faint light shone at the end of the rotting hall, just beyond the limit of Xander’s lantern.
Xander stepped inside, closing the door behind him and making sure the latch caught. Slowly he began walking down the dilapidated corridor, his footsteps forcing the floorboards to creak beneath him. Portraits hung down the length of the hall seemed to follow him with their eyes as he walked. The dim, red-hued light from the room at the end of the hall beckoned him on.
He stepped into the drawing room, its ceiling high overhead. Heavy curtains closed off the windows to his right.
Embers glowed warm in the fireplace.
He felt a rush of air behind him that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
A low moaning sounded in his ear uncomfortably close.
Xander spun around, his lantern casting wild shadows across the room.
“Boo!” said the pixie now hovering inches from his face.
Xander grimaced. “Glix! You little demon . . . you like to frighten this old man to death!”
Peals of laughter came from behind the faded settee, chairs, and tables about the room.
“Oh, and look who’s
taking himself too seriously now!” Glix chided.
“Well, it weren’t right, you leaving the door open like that,” Xander said, setting down his lantern on a polished claw-foot table. “I thought some fool might have stumbled in here and found you lot.”
“And what if they had at that?” Glix sneered. “The place is haunted, don’t you know? We’d have run them out so fast their head would have had to hurry to catch their own feet, wouldn’t we, lads?”
The pixies, nearly two hundred in all, had emerged from their hiding places. Now they were scattered all about the room, seated on the mantel, the backs of couches, and the edges of tables and lounging about on cushions. A dozen or so were struggling to toss a log on the fire to liven it up for the evening.
Xander removed his hat and coat, tossing them in the general direction of the couch, where several of the pixies intercepted them. The hat they laid carefully with its crown down on the table, while the coat they folded and draped across the back of the couch.
“That ain’t the point,” Xander said to Glix as he sat down with accustomed ease in the large chair near the fireplace. “The last thing we need is having anyone snooping about out here. So long as they be afraid of this manor house, then we’ve got the good life and that’s a fact. If ever they get the idea of what’s going on out here, then they’ll be out to pin the lot of you in a glass display case and me along with you.”
“What’s with the lamplighter?” Plix said with both his fists on his hips. “Who put a gnome in his hat?”
“Maybe you lot don’t remember,” Xander said, taking off his boots and rubbing his feet. The fire was starting to brighten again. “Where were we before we fell into this, eh? That’s right. Wandering about the country from town to town doing that ‘Pixie Circus’ act and then moving on when it all got stale. Starving half the time, we was. Then we lands here and sweet as you please we’re set up for life—if we play it right. We get food, regular pay, and you lot get to sit pretty as you like in them lanterns every night making fun of the people what’s passing underneath. They get their streets all lit up from your jollies and no one’s the wiser, see?”
Tales of the Dragon's Bard, Volume 1: Eventide Page 21