The Forgotten Tale

by J. M. Frey

  “Oh!” Pointe says, jumping to his feet when he realizes where they are going. “I should . . . they shouldn’t go alone.”

  “Nonsense,” I say. “Lewko seems very responsible. What harm could a cat do?”

  Pointe only shakes his head and says, “You’d better come, Forsyth.”

  Curious, and happy for the excuse to speak to my friend alone, I follow him to the back. Before we reach the doorway, I can hear Alis’ shrilling, in overjoyed tones, “Toto, Toto, Toto!” I wonder if it is a black cat the Pointes have adopted.

  It is, in fact, not a black cat.

  Instead, Alis and Lewko are on the ground, pinned by soft paws the size of their bodies, and giggling. A pink tongue about the length of a man laves their faces and hair, flicking out from between fangs the size of my arm. The face is lionish, with bear-ears and a sand-stone colored ruff that is not quite long enough to be a full mane. The creature’s chin, should it be standing, would come just about even with my own shoulder, and its tail, complete with a shaggy, golden poof of fur, is wagging so quickly that small clouds of dust are rising from the courtyard stone.

  “Hey!” Pip says, for the rest of our party has followed behind us. “It’s the Library Lion!”

  The creature looks up from its delighted quarry and spots us. For a moment, I wonder if the Library Lion will remember its erstwhile rescuers, but I needn’t have been concerned. The Lion bounds to its feet, careful to avoid squashing the children, and lets out the deepest rumbling purr I have ever heard. It thrums into the marrow of my bones, and when the creature comes to butt its head against my body, nearly throwing me into the wall, I reach to scratch behind one of those soft round ears and murmur, “Yes, hello to you, too. Are you named yet, my friend? Perhaps we should call you Aslan.”

  “Toto!” Alis cries happily as Lewko helps her up. She tugs at its tail, and the Lion gamely ignores her in favor of lavishing the same attention on Pip.

  “Yes, sweeting,” I say softly, picking up my daughter to keep her from being accidentally kicked over and stepped on. “He does look just like the Cowardly Lion.”

  “Cowardly Lion?” Pip asks, her fingers buried in the Lion’s ruff. “Aslan? Are they characters from . . . you know?”

  And as quickly as that, all the joy of being back in Pointe’s presence evaporates.

  “Forsyth?” Pointe asks, hand on my elbow, clearly worried by the way my expression has fallen.

  “Do you have a spare practice sword?” I say, pulling my daughter off the Library Lion’s tail and handing her off to her mother. “I would like to discuss something with you, and I think I could do with a good spar.”

  Pointe grins. “Absolutely.”

  ✍

  Law Manor’s sparring room is situated in the estate’s old hound kennels. Pointe has no love for fox hunting, and no time for the pursuit, really, so he had the shed converted. It is a sensible use of the space.

  I take stock of the changes in my friend as he removes his house-robe and good jacket. Clearly, he has dressed up to host his lord. When I was in Turn Hall, he only ever wore his more serviceable gray leather doublet, but that was because I never required him to dress to his station as one of the Landed Gentry if it was just the two of us. Pointe looks good in a neckcloth and waistcoat of worsted cloth-of-silver, but he would never believe me if I told him. He thinks they make him look stuffy.

  His shoulders are still broad, his posture still the indolent slouch that hides his true strength and speed, his teeth still white and straight, his eyes still crinkling with merriment. His hair is a little longer, a little grayer, and his lantern jaw a little more jowly. But beyond that, he is still remarkably attractive and fit for a man in his late forties.

  The lines around his mouth are deeper, though, the bags under his eyes puffier, and his skin more sallow. His hair, once a striking mix of salt and pepper, is now entirely silver.

  “Is my brother such a handful?” I ask, stripping to my shirtsleeves as well and accepting the practice sword that Pointe offers me. It is lighter than Smoke, and buttoned, so I give it a few test swings to gauge it. “You’ve gone completely gray. And you look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

  “Actually,” Pointe says, stretching his shoulders, “having your brother back in Lysse has been useful. Petty theft and vandalism have all but vanished. Nobody wants to get caught by Kintyre Turn. Or Bevel Dom.”

  “Then why . . . ?” I prompt as I choose where to make my first stand on the stone floor.

  Pointe shrugs, nonchalant, but I can see the weariness behind it.

  “I left marriage too late.”

  I’m not certain what he means by this, so I salute him and wait for his reply instead. “But you married for love, rather than by necessity. That is admirable,” I say as his sword replies.

  “My son is too young,” Pointe says, stepping back into his stance. “It’s a young man’s racket, this, Forsyth. And I had hoped to have a protégé by now, someone to do the legwork.” He raises his own sword and salutes me.

  I concentrate on the first few lunges and parries, fumbling a riposte that I would have aced before. Pointe has only buttoned me once, though, and while I may be two years out of practice sparring, I will do my best to keep him from breaking that record. When both of us have broken apart, taking a few steps out of range to circle and assess one another, I ask:

  “And you do not?”

  “I had one for a bit, but it just wasn’t in him, really. The lad fell in love and went off with one of our kitchen maids. They have a croft down by the border with Chell. Nice pear orchard. She’s expecting.”

  “You have plenty of time to train another,” I reassure him, taking the opportunity to try to catch him while his feet are positioned incorrectly. Though, that is hardly a fair assessment, as Pointe’s footwork is always lazy.

  “I don’t know,” Pointe says, dancing back and raising his sword to block my wide swing. “I feel like I’ve forgotten half of what I learned from my own father. I had another option in mind, but—”

  “But?”

  “Wyndam turned me down,” he says, managing to back me into a corner tidily. I duck under his sword and whirl around behind him, buttoning his shoulder. He groans, grins at me, and we reset in the center of the shed.

  “Kintyre’s Wyndam?” I ask, wanting to be certain.

  “He seems a bright lad,” Pointe says. “Has a good sense of justice. Good fighter. He’s much different with a sword than you, says he learned from his mother. I know he can’t be sheriff and lord both, but I thought that he could take over from me while Kintyre was lord, while Wyndam is still the lordling, and then, when Lewko was old enough to take my place, Wyndam could take over for Kintyre.”

  “Hmmm,” I say, dropping my sword as I mull this over. “And do you suppose the lad would be pleased to be nothing but a stop-gap?”

  “Well, I . . . never thought of it like that,” Pointe admits. He scratches the back of his neck with the pommel of his sword, sheepish.

  “And yet, you are the second person in as many days to tell me of your plans for the lad. And the Pirate Queen abandoned him on land on his fifteenth birthday, so there is yet another choice taken from him. But I have yet to hear Wyndam’s opinion of his own future.”

  “One day, he’ll be Lord of Lysse and Turnshire,” Pointe says. “What could possibly be better than that?”

  “What indeed,” I wonder, and then must concentrate as Pointe tries to take cheeky advantage of my distraction.

  Caps

  In Sherwilde, to the south, it is a woodsman’s cap of Carvel-green. The Chipping is right at the doorstep of Kingskeep, the capital of Hain, and consists mainly of forest. Men earn their way here by maintaining the herds of deer living among the trees. Most of them are destined for the tables of the nobility, but there is no rule saying that the Shepherds of the Herd cannot take a deer for their own use as well. They maintain a careful balance, culling only as many as the herds can spare, and generall
y the sick and old. Besides that, they are also great traders in rabbit and fox fur. There are no wolves in these woods, for they long ago fled the greater predator that is human men.

  Amid the trees live also a colony of Sylvan Elves, and scores of fauns and dryads, who play chase under the canopy-green shadows during the day and make love to whomever will consent to lay with them at night. There are very few of the human population here who can claim to be of pure blood.

  The hat belongs to a hunter’s son, and he is easy enough to seduce away from his day’s work in the tannery. Solinde is frustrated that her search is taking as much time as it is, and she takes it out on him, behaving like a wild thing as she lets him flip up her skirts and take her rough against a tree. She leaves fingernail divots in the bark, which makes the dryad who calls the tree home shriek.

  Solinde runs from her wrath like a fleet-footed deer, amused by this lesser creature’s pain and anger, the green cap trailing from her hand like a banner. She laughs, and laughs, and laughs as she tosses it into another huntsman’s fire.

  Eight

  By the time we have finished our spar, have had a quick splash to whisk away the sweat, and I have borrowed a clean shirt, it is nigh on dinner time. Pointe’s butler informs us that Dorthi’s invitation to stay for dinner has been accepted by the rest of my party, but I want to confer with their cook about Alis’s meal all the same. Pointe steps away to inquire after a carriage for us later tonight, and I make my own way toward the kitchen. When I am nearly there, the sound of Bevel’s voice floating out of one of the smaller salons catches my ears and my attention.

  “I don’t understand why you won’t accept!” he is saying, clearly irate. With all the stealth of a former Shadow Hand, I creep toward the door and eavesdrop. Silence meets Bevel’s demand. “What, and now you won’t speak to me either, is that it? Wyndam Turn, you will put down that book, look me in the eye, and answer me.”

  “Bevel,” I hear Kintyre say. “Leave the lad alone.”

  “Well, you make him answer then,” Bevel snarls. “As he is so fond of saying, I am not his father, and I cannot order him to do anything. So you do it.”

  “Awww, Bev,” Kintyre wheedles. “You know that he—”

  “I know nothing of the sort. He’s been nothing but resentful and churlish to me since the moment he was dumped on our doorstep!”

  “Well, maybe if you didn’t yell at him all the time, he wouldn’t be!”

  “Well, maybe if he just did as he was asked, I wouldn’t have to yell!” Bevel lobs back. “And I think Wyndam is perfectly capable of answering for himself! So tell me, lad, a posting with the Sword of Turnshire isn’t impressive enough for you? Is it not grand enough for a Prince of Pirates? Or is it switching sides to enforce the law that is beneath you?”

  Still no answer, though Bevel waits for it.

  “Lay off the lad,” Kintyre rumbles. “Besides, Pointe is boring.”

  “Just because you aren’t entertained for every moment you’re with him doesn’t mean you can excuse bad behavior, Kin. The Pointes are Forssy’s friends. Besides that, they’re our nearest neighbors, and when Wyndam inherits the seat of Lysse Chipping, either Rupin Pointe, or his son, will be the Chipping Sheriff, yeah? Standing in until Lewko is old enough is the smart thing to do—Wyndam will be well versed in the laws that will be his duty to help the Sheriff enforce. Wyndam can’t afford to have a bad relationship with them, and neither can you, Kin!”

  “Oh, Bevel, you need to calm down—”

  “I do not! You, Kintyre Turn, must at least try to learn the graces of local politics! I cannot always be here to smooth the way for the both of you, and we both know that there will be a time when I won’t be.”

  “Bevel, don’t say things like that,” Kintyre pleads, softly, gently, a little bit broken. I can hear Bevel’s frustrated, resigned sigh, hear the shift of cloth and the soft tamp of skin on skin, the gentle wet suck of a kiss. Eugh. “It breaks my heart.”

  “And it breaks my heart to see that neither of you will lift a finger toward your own betterment, for your own sake. Kin, I worry.”

  “Don’t.” Another kiss, this one longer. I hear a second door on the far side of the room open and close.

  “I wouldn’t if you made an effort. Please.”

  A kiss. “Very well,” Kintyre says, resigned. “Did you hear that, Wyndam? We’ll have to promise to . . . Wyndam? Drat and blast, where has that boy got to now?”

  “I can’t imagine that standing there watching his father make love was comfortable,” Bevel chortles. He always was more mellow after an argument with Kintyre has been won in his favor.

  “We were not ‘making love,’” Kintyre wheedles. “We were just kissing.”

  “Just?” Bevel asks, his tone arch. “With what you were doing with your tongue?”

  “Oh, liked that, did you? Shall I do it again?”

  “Mmmm,” Bevel agrees, and it is at this point that I decide it best to withdraw. Like my nephew, I have no desire to listen to my brother “make love.” I make for the kitchens instead.

  The sun has set by the time I have been to see the cook about Alis’ dinner. I use the kitchen servants’ door to go fetch Pointe from the stables for dinner. Requesting a carriage should not have taken so long. I wonder if he also heard Bevel and Kintyre fighting through the salon window and decided to dawdle. But when I find Pointe, he is discussing tack with a groom, and apologizes for having lost track of time. Pointe sends the boy to his own supper when I come to escort him to his.

  The sunset is always early in spring, and I soak in the final watercolor smudges of rose, and gold, and violet hovering over the green wheat on the horizon as we walk. I realize that the blooming starlight isn’t as intense as I remember it being. Wondering if it was just the haze of nostalgia that had painted them so, I look up.

  And then I stop.

  Pointe stops beside me, staring up as well, trying to follow my line of sight. “Forsyth? What is it?”

  “It’s wrong,” I gasp, startled by what I am seeing. Or rather, what I am not seeing. I point upward to the great dark swatches of sky. “What has happened to the stars?”

  “The stars?” He follows my finger and blinks, realization dawning as he answers: “I . . . huh. I don’t know.”

  “The constellation of the Thoughtful Faun is gone. Look, so too has the Maiden’s Slipper. And the Wizard’s Ring.”

  Fauns. Shoes. Rings.

  A thrill of discovery and understanding, of sudden and orgasmic knowledge, rushes up my spine and out into my limbs, making my toes and fingers and lips tingle with the excitement of it. I do not have the whole pattern, not yet. But I have finally gotten my grip around a piece of it.

  Now to decipher the size and scope of the rest of the puzzle.

  ✍

  The desire to discuss my revelation with my wife settles in my extremities like a buzzing vibration. I must hold my tongue throughout the meal, however. I need to discuss my discovery with her, first, in private, before I alarm those around me with the news. Moreover, Pip’s origins are still meant to be a secret from Lewko and Dorthi. Pip keeps shooting me concerned looks. The double joy of understanding and being amid the crush of friends and family again has probably left me with a manic smile. After dinner, we return to Turn Hall, filled with the warm cheer of good company, good food, and good wine. Velshi is waiting for Kintyre, and pulls him aside to attend to some Chipping business before we have even made it through the foyer.

  We are also informed, by Keriens, who is there to take our coats, that one of my—one of Bevel’s—Shadow’s Men is waiting for him in his private study. Bevel bids us goodnight, sending a look of regret toward Alis. He spent much of the dinner seated beside Lewko, and I am seeing, I think, for the first time, just how much my brother’s trothed desires children. That may, I reason, be the explanation for the rift between Wyndam and himself. Does Bevel feel cheated of the boy’s childhood?

  The remaining group moves upstairs
. Wyndam loses no time in shutting himself up in his own chambers, a look of relief clear upon his face. He does not even bid us goodnight. I might almost be offended, if I didn’t remember how much I’d looked forward to the end of the day when I was his age. It was a time to escape my brother and my father and read, alone, unbothered. And by seventeen, it was also a way to work on the secret tutelage that Lewko Pointe the Elder had begun with me the years previous, so as to hone my skills as a spy before I inherited the Mask.

  Thus, Pip, Alis, and I are left in the hall outside our rooms, a look of bemusement on our faces and the few hours in which I had hoped to speak to Bevel about the missing constellations suddenly empty of distractions.

  “Well, bao bei,” I say, opening the door. “What do you say to putting the young Ladyling of Lysse to bed, opening a bottle of wine, and sharing all the gossip we have accumulated today?”

  “Gossip?” Pip asks, but her tone is dryly arch and there is a smile playing around the corners of her lips. I chase it with my own mouth, tasting the cream gravy from tonight’s supper. “I never gossip,” she protests when I pull back to bestow a peck on Alis’s forehead.

  “But you listen to it,” I point out, and Pip’s grin blossoms into full growth.

  “That’s true,” she agrees.

  Cook has left milk on the credenza, and it is still cool in its earthenware cup. She must have come up as soon as she heard us return. There is a small bowl of pottage, with a little child-sized spoon, and a tray of pastry sweets, cheese, and stone fruits. There is also a bottle of my favorite wine—a rich, jammy vintage from Brystal, where the warm sea and the high mountains make for difficult cultivation, but gorgeous grapes. (I had crates and crates of this wine in the cellar, which I understand that Bevel has now claimed for himself, as, in this, we share tastes.) It seems that although my staff are not technically mine any longer, they still recall their former lordling’s preferences and are happy to accommodate them.