The Forgotten Tale

by J. M. Frey

  The lad winces when Kintyre manhandles him to stand before him, his large hands on the lad’s narrow, slumped shoulders. Kintyre grins, but the lad’s eyes are red-rimmed, and his puff of black hair is askew. I wonder what he could have been doing before our noisy arrival that has him looking so furtive. Then I remember what it was like to be a lad of his age, with the hormones, the desperation for time alone, and the things one may do to one’s self while undressed, and decide not to wonder any further.

  And, because it is characteristic of my brother to always attempt to outdo my accomplishments, it is then that Pip and I meet our nephew: “This is Wyndam Turn,” Kintyre says proudly, chin jutting out, chest puffed. “My son.”

  The lad squirms, and Bevel says, out the side of his mouth: “Bow, Wyndam.” Wyndam shoots a glare filled with poison at Bevel. Bevel holds his hands up, as if begging a mercy, and says, “Right, yes, I know. I’m not your father, and I can’t tell you what to do. But it’s polite, Wyn.”

  Wyndam rolls his eyes and dips what has to be the single most sarcastic bow ever offered to another human being.

  Instead of bowing back, as would have been proper, I offer my free hand to shake. “Forsyth Turn,” I say.

  Wyndam goggles up at me, and I wonder if my brother has ever spoken of me to the lad. Or maybe his shock comes from the way I am according him the respect of a fellow adult. He wipes his sooty, bloodied hand on his trouser leg.

  From what Bevel said, and how he said it, I am already painting a picture in my mind of a young man, newly in the charge of my brother and his Paired, resentful of being treated like a child by two adults who cannot remember that at the lad’s age, we all thought ourselves mature, and worldly, and no longer children.

  Wyndam takes my hand and shakes it slowly, his grip calculatingly perfect—not too hard, not too limp. He is determined to be taken seriously. He opens his mouth to say something, but then clearly thinks better of it and closes it again. I wonder if his voice is breaking and if he is embarrassed.

  I take the length of the hand-shake to study him. The lad must be no older than fifteen, and sullen and silent in a way that reminds me terribly of Kintyre at that age. He has a much darker complexion than any simple tan could afford, which speaks of Gadot ancestry and many long days in the sun. His hair is so black that it shines blue in the sunlight streaming through my study windows—and dancing with dust motes, I notice—and is of a full, wiry, curly texture that no Turn before him has ever sported. His eyes are darker than Kintyre’s as well, a jet color that glitters with curiosity.

  But despite this coloring, my nephew is a spitting image of my brother in his youth— the jaw, the mouth, even the furrow between his eyebrows when he glowers, though his nose is a bit wider. I have seen people in Pip’s world of mixed African and white descent, but never have I seen a young man for whom the mix has been such a distinct advantage. Wyndam has an open, pleasant sort of look to his face, and the kind of abstract beauty that comes of two very classically attractive parents.

  In the end, though, it is the scale necklace that solidifies my deduction.

  The lad could only be the by-blow of Kintyre Turn and Isobin, pirate royalty and captain of The Salty Queen. I do a quick mental calculation and decide that, yes, he must have been the result of an assignation that took place during the adventure Bevel titled The Siren of the Sunsong Sea.

  As a Shadow Hand who liked to keep eyes on the known troublemakers, I had long learned that Isobin had been gifted with a child. I had, at the time, thought that knowing the identity of the lad’s sire was unimportant. His parentage only mattered on the maternal side, as he was aboard ship. Now, I regret not pursuing the matter, for it appears as if Isobin has left him here upon his maturity, as female pirates are wont to do with boy children.

  If I had still been Lordling Turn, would I have learned of my brother’s offspring—the heir to the Turn seat—sooner? Lineages are hard to tell in a round-faced babe, and the pirate queen makes a point of never stepping on land, except for the gravest of events. Had I not sought the information as Shadow Hand, it is possible I would have been ignorant of the lad’s existence until the moment Isobin banged on my door and thrust him at me.

  Wyndam turns to Pip and bows again, a little more gracious and honest this time, and Pip sticks out her hand to shake as well. “Lucy Turn,” Pip says, and it’s a thrill to hear her present herself as such. A delicious little shiver crawls up my spine, and I hide my predatory grin behind Alis as I shift her around to face outward.

  Bevel, who was always the keeper of my brother’s manners, looks thoroughly scandalized by Pip’s lack of a curtsy. But Wyndam grins, reaches out, takes her hand, and kisses the back of it.

  “Yup,” Pip says, looking up at Kintyre once Wyndam has given her hand back. “Definitely your son.”

  Kintyre guffaws, slapping Wyndam on the back, and the lad looks up at him, clearly pleased and basking in his father’s affection.

  “And this is our daughter Alis, your first cousin.” I finish the introductions, and Alis, sensing all eyes on her, demands, “‘Isses, ‘isses!”

  Wyndam looks at her as if she is about to projectile vomit on him at any moment— which, to be fair, would have been a probable and logical worry six months ago—so I do not force her on the lad.

  “Well, now,” Bevel says. “How about we let the staff into the study, Kin, and we take Forssy’s family into the nook?”

  “The nook?” Pip asks. Bevel offers her his arm; she pretends she doesn’t see it and walks herself out.

  “The nook” turns out to be my little breakfasting room, which I had carved out of a strange architectural pocket between the kitchen and the dining room that had once been used as a staging area for servers during big feasts. As I had held no feasts, and very few balls, it was unused during my tenure. I’d eaten here often, when I felt too lonely to eat in the large banquet room, or too humble to demand my servants fetch trays and drink up and down the many stairs of Turn Hall. When Pip came to me, a second chair had been added to the table, and it looks now as if a third has been fetched from the banquet hall. Two more appear when Bevel pokes his head into the kitchen proper—one carried by Cook, the other by my former butler, Velshi.

  Cook immediately drops her chair, then swoops in and pulls Alis out of my startled hands, bouncing and cooing. Her eyes sparkle as Alis’s startled gasp turns into giggles of delight, and Cook’s apple-cheeks flush with joy. “Oh, Master Turn!” she exclaims, turning Alis in circles. “Oh, how lovely! I always knew it would be you,” she says, pointing slyly at Pip.

  My wife isn’t certain how to take that, but seems to be enjoying Cook’s happiness all the same. She claims the abandoned chair and tucks up to the table.

  Velshi sets down his own chair and offers me a solemn bow and a steady handshake. Velshi has always been the epitome of the serious, professional butler, so I am put slightly off-kilter when his mouth—which, to the best of my knowledge, has never produced a smile in the entirety of his life—stretches and curves into a genuine representation of good cheer. I fancy I can hear the sound of ice cracking.

  “My very hearty congratulations, sir. And well come. You’ve been missed, sir.”

  “Th-thank you, V-velshi,” I stammer, stunned.

  Cook drops Alis into Pip’s arms, and bustles over to pinch my cheeks, poke at my stomach, and croon, “Too thin, too thin, Master! Don’t you worry, I’ll get a rabbit pie made up quick as a maenad with a satyr on her hem.” And then she is gone, back to the kitchen like she has been shot from a crossbow, doing, I assume, as she promised, and striving to be nurturing in a way I adored all through my sweets-laden childhood, and which I now understand is a very shallow bit of characterization on my Writer’s part indeed. As if all married women of a “certain age” want only to coddle babies, spoil children, and feed up men.

  Velshi follows after her, and I cannot help but smirk at the dumbfounded look of betrayal on Kintyre’s face.

  “They�
��ve never behaved like that with me,” he says, and it’s dangerously close to a whine. “And what does that mean, Forsyth has been missed? Bev!” he says, turning stricken, nail-blue eyes to his lover. “Am I a bad master?”

  Bevel only laughs and pats Kintyre on the forearm. “It’s only that you’re not Forssy,” he says. “They knew him his whole life.”

  “I grew up here, too!” Kintyre pouts.

  “You left at eighteen and didn’t come back to stay until two years ago,” Bevel says lightly, clearly too wise in the ways of my brother’s tempers to take the bait, neatly sidestepping the volley of barbed sniping that Kintyre is trying to initiate. Instead, Bevel just sits in what used to be my chair.

  There is a credenza in nearly every room used by the family in Turn Hall, which is always kept stocked with water, cups, and the other necessities of life—ink bottles, parchment, quills, small purses for paying messengers, bells to summon servants, extra candles, and the like. The nook’s credenza now also comes stocked with Bevel’s pipe and orange blossom hash, apparently, for he sets about packing a pipe.

  “Not around the baby, please,” Pip says, stopping him before Bevel can strike his match.

  He looks up at her, startled.

  “Seriously,” she says.

  With a sigh, he taps the hash back into its pouch, but does not put his smoking box away. Instead, he turns his pipe over and over in his hands, as if debating whether to stay or go into the kitchen for his smoke.

  In the time that takes, I find my own chair. I am happy to sink down, my head not entirely clear just yet. Though, I wonder if perhaps my blinking vertigo is less from being sucked back into the realm of my birth and more because I have suddenly been presented with a nephew.

  I had always assumed that Alis would be the only child of her generation, the true heir of the Turn seat, the Lady of Turnshire. Of course, she would have had to marry to gain power in this realm (in this way, the nobility of Pip’s realm is enviably more fair), but knowing my daughter and the two people who will be raising her, she would have found a husband with whom it was worth sharing the power and responsibility of caring for the people of Lysse.

  Lewko Pointe the younger, I had secretly thought, would make an excellent match for my daughter. The boy had been four when last I saw him, and possessed of a sweet and patient temperament which had led into a habit of bringing hurt animals to his nanny to doctor. The familiar melancholic wave of missing my only friend flares fierce, followed by the sudden and literally breathtaking realization that I am here. I am back. I can see Sheriff Pointe. I can shake his hand and embrace him. I can kiss his wife’s cheek, and dandle his son on my knee. I can share my own joys with him.

  A surge of longing so fierce rises up within me that I actually catch myself angling my body toward Law Manor. The estate borders Turn Hall—I could call for a horse and be there within the half hour. Pip catches my sudden change of posture, the direction in which I am facing, and runs her palm across my arm, soothing.

  “Later,” she whispers. “Eat first. He’ll still be there.”

  “Who?” Kintyre asks, as he finishes fussing with the chairs and sits as well.

  “Sheriff Pointe,” I say. “He is still at Law Manor, I hope?” I hope; I pray. “He has not been promoted away, or . . . ?” I can’t even contemplate a tragic alternative. I cannot even blink as I seek out my brother’s gaze, desperate to know.

  “He’s there,” Kintyre says, careless in his reassurance, but my relief is so profound it is nearly palpable. “He’s fine. That boy of his is a mad hellion, though.”

  “Lewko?” I ask, sinking back in my seat and chuckling. “I cannot fathom it.”

  “Fathom it,” Kintyre says darkly.

  “He is not,” Bevel tuts at Kintyre. “You just don’t like that his riding seat is so fine at six, when Wyndam can barely keep on his at seventeen.” He turns to us apologetically, with a shrug. “Wyn never got the chance to ride at sea. His mother is—”

  “Queen Isobin. Yes, I figured that,” I say, suddenly impatient. I turn to face the lad, but find only an empty chair.

  “Where . . . ?”

  Bevel groans and pinches the bridge of his nose, a gesture I have often seen him perform when my brother exasperates him. It seems now that he has two Turns to make this gesture over. “I swear, Kin, your kid has worse manners than you.”

  “Where do you think—”

  “How am I supposed to know?” Bevel snipes back. “As he’s very fond of pointing out, Kin, I’m not actually his father. Go find him.”

  “Wyndam!” Kintyre bellows instead. “Wyndam! Get back down here!”

  He sounds so very much like our own father for a moment that I am actually struck speechless. Without my say-so, I feel my shoulders curling down, my head dipping submissively, my tongue fluttering in my mouth, my heart leaping up to flap against my larynx.

  Pip stares at me, wide-eyed at the transformation, and I fight against the instinct to hide from that voice. I straighten myself out and put on my Shadow Hand persona like a shield, slow and deliberate. Armed.

  “Da da dahhh?” Alis whines, and puts her hands over her ears.

  “Q-qu-quite right, sweeting,” I say to her. “Kintyre, please. Don’t roar like a wounded bull. Use your feet to find him.”

  “Well, that didn’t take long!” Kintyre snarls at me, and it’s clear his annoyance at his son’s disappearance has been transferred squarely onto me. “Been back an hour, and you’re already telling me what to do! I assume by the end of the second hour, you’ll be telling me that you’ll be having back the Chipping, as well?”

  “Kintyre!” Bevel yelps.

  Normally, this is where I would back down, but I have grown a spine since I met Pip, and instead, I volley back: “I may have to if this is how you treat those in your care. For goodness’ sake, Kintyre Turn, no person should be called to heel like a dog! Have some sense, you blistering great ogre!”

  Kintyre stares at me in stunned shock, surprised that I have growled back, and he blinks like a dazed cat. Then he lets out a great guffaw of laughter. “Aye, well then,” he says jovially, slapping me on the shoulder in what I am sure is meant to be brotherly camaraderie, but instead just feels like forming bruises. “There’s the Shadow Hand, back again.”

  He stares at me for a moment, and I wonder if I have gotten something on my face. Then he leans forward and wraps his arms around my shoulders, drawing me against his broad chest in a firm hug. I turn my head to the side just quickly enough to avoid suffocating against his ridiculous musculature.

  “I’ve missed you, little brother,” he says.

  “Blast it, Kintyre,” I say softly. “And I you.”

  I cling back for a long moment. Kintyre is too warm, the air stifling, and the back of my eyes are burning, but I am happy. I feel safe, and welcome.

  I am home.

  Kintyre clears his throat and pulls away, dashes at his eyes before anyone can tell if he’s actually been crying, and cranes his head around.

  “By the Writer’s left nutsack, that boy is never where he should be,” he swears, and both Pip and I can’t help the tandem giggle that escapes from us both when we lock eyes. As Pip would say, today has been an emotional rollercoaster, and I think we are both feeling a little punchy.

  “What’s so funny about the Writer’s nutsack?” Bevel asks, all seriousness, and Pip doubles over, howling with laughter.

  I had once made a vow to myself that I would wed Pip and make her smile every day, and that together, we would laugh away every shadow with which my father had stained Turn Hall. I had given up that dream when I crossed into her world, fully expecting never to return to this one.

  Now that we are here, though, I decide that right now, in this nook, is the perfect place to renew it. Alis, however, looks genuinely concerned for her mother, and I transfer our daughter back over to my lap.

  “Adadadahhh,” she says, with a very serious frown.

  “I know, sweetin
g. Your mother has gone mad; it’s a very deep tragedy.”

  “Oh, fuck off.” Pip chuckles with affection, lifting her head from the table.

  Kintyre and Bevel exchange a confused glance. Bevel mouths the word “fuck” at my brother, and Pip is sent off into another fit of giggles.

  Cook interrupts then with the full, everyday tea service—remarkably intact after two years of being used to serve the Great Hero of Hain, which I will count in my brother’s favor— and the promised rabbit pie. Bevel serves, and Wyndam appears like a wraith as soon as the last slice is set down at his empty seat.

  “Ah,” Bevel says. “You’ll ignore when your father calls, but set out a meal, and it’s like Words of Summoning have been Spoken.” His tone is a little more snide than I am used to hearing from Bevel. Wyndam scowls mulishly in response, and digs in without so much as a “by your leave,milord.” At first, I am disappointed in Bevel, especially knowing how fond he is of his twin nephews, but then he pushes the remaining pie toward Wyndam as unobtrusively as possible in apology. If Wyndam notices, he doesn’t look up. He just scoops up the pie-plate and eats straight from the dish, his first piece still hoarded before him on his plate.

  Bevel catches me watching, and he raises his eyebrow. It’s not a challenge so much as an acknowledgment that yes, he is exasperated, but how can one not love a child, no matter how infuriating they may be? I am reminded in this moment that I left the Shadow’s Mask to him, and he now possesses all the knowledge I had ever accumulated. In short, he knows what I know about him. There is a kinship between us now, stronger than friendship, stronger even than brothers, I think. His look reminds me that he knows what I think of him, and that he doesn’t mind.

  Not certain if I should be disconcerted or not, I dig into my own pie, groaning at the first savory, flaky, buttery bite. Oh. Oh, how I have missed Cook’s pies. There are a hundred thousand foods and flavors in Pip’s realm, wonders that I had never tasted before, but this . . . this tastes of home. Heat surges against the back of my eyes again, my vision starting to swim with the tears of relief that threaten to spill over my lashes. I blink rapidly to keep from having an emotional breakdown over pie, and fish a bit of carrot out of the rich gravy. I blow on it to cool it, and present it to Alis.