The Forgotten Tale

by J. M. Frey

  Follow them, she decides. Stay close. Decipher their plans. And then, when the defeat would be at its most mortifying, most embarrassing, and at the most inopportune moment for him, ensure it.Strip Kintyre Turn of his life, yes, but also of his legacy. Make him suffer. Make the people of this world, those who worship him, hate him instead. Do as he has done to Varnet and set all against him.

  Another sensation pulls at Solinde, and for a moment, she doesn’t recognize it. Then she remembers. Totems. Her quest.

  She toys with the golden thread, tugging just to feel the lad’s discomfort on the other end of the string. She considers as she amuses herself, catting with the lad’s attention. She has Kintyre Turn within her grasp. No more than a night’s worth of rest would be needed, and then she could follow the thread back to its source and trick the boy into murdering his father for her. Or maybe someone else in their party—there must be someone among his family or friends that resents him. It may take days. It may take dozens of visits. It will be a slow game. The kind he whom she seeks preferred.

  And until then, she will heed the call of the totems as she comes across them. She is clever. She can do both. Perhaps, if she is lucky, she will find the totem that will vaporize the prison-realm next, and he will be here, at her side, as he is meant to be, when she finally pulls enough puppet strings to make Kintyre Turn throttle amid the tangles.

  Decided, Solinde uses her indefatigable fount of Words to locate her next target. The totem is not in the town proper, but several leagues above it, in the side of a mountain. Solinde tarries by the well, drinking her fill and making inquiries. The locals tell of a creature that moved into the area two summers before, and while few have seen it, they hypothesize that it has the ability to become man-shaped and walks Cinchside in the clothing of a rogue.

  Solinde disregards the warnings—for no creature could be more powerful than her, even the ones who can shift form—and climbs the difficult path up the mountain. With Kintyre Turn so close to being hers, she will not spend herself and her power so unwisely. She will stay hydrated.

  Halfway up the mountainside, she finds a sword of great power amidst a dragon’s hoard. The dragon itself is not at home. It has probably gone to hunt amid the mountain goats, and riddling ravens, and goblins that plague the mountains, if the pile of bones just to the side of the cave’s entrance are any indication.

  The hoard is small yet, so Solinde guesses that the dragon is still quite close to a hatchling. Solinde cannot help but feel the pang of sympathy for the drakeling’s clear status as an orphan—there is no indication of a second or third dragon anywhere nearby, nor another pile of gold upon which to sleep. There is, strangely, a cot set up against one of the walls, and several changes of clothing hanging from the outcroppings as if from pegs. Here, too, is an oil lamp, a pile of half-used candles, a small tower of tattered books, and eating utensils.

  Perhaps the stories of the dragon taking man-form are true. But then, if they were, wouldn’t . . .

  Ah, Solinde has hesitated too long. The cave’s inhabitant has returned.

  The sword is sheathed and jammed point-first into a crevasse in the stone wall to keep it from falling over. Solinde has only enough time to yank it free of the stone and unsheathe it, baring the blade. She doubts she’ll need the sword to defend herself—her magic ought to be enough—but she finds herself strangely reluctant to harm the dragon.

  The creature that lands at the wide mouth of the cave cannot be more than several decades old, the size of a draft horse and red as a bruising kiss. And the lad who slides off the crude leather saddle harnessed about its chest looks to be the rogue the townspeople described. It is not a dragon who becomes a boy, but a dragon and a boy.

  “Dearest!” the dragon says, alarmed, when the lad advances. He wears the black leather of a highway thief, and the wary look of one who’s had his friendship with a dragon questioned too many times.

  “I have come only for this,” Solinde says, brandishing the sword. “Out of my way, and I will let you live.”

  The lad and the dragonet exchange a glance, and then simultaneously step to the side to allow her to pass. Once Solinde is in the open air again, she hears the dragonet snort in disgust.

  “Hush now, dearest,” the rogue says. “It’s only a sword. We can buy another. It doesn’t matter. We’ve learned better than to fight and seek revenge, haven’t we?”

  “Yes,” the dragonet says sulkily, and that is the last Solinde overhears.

  She calls up the wind as she descends the mountain, and dreams, for a moment, of keeping the sword as it is, so that she may have the satisfaction of plunging it into the heart of he who bears one of its nine sister-blades. But Kintyre Turn is out of her reach for now, and she will not risk this totem being the one that will open the gateways between her and him whom she loves.

  The caldera of the volcano that long ago erupted and formed the Eyrie still bubbles and burns, and Solinde rides the wind to its lip. She takes great pleasure in watching the sword twist and melt, fancies she can hear the enchantment upon it screaming.

  As night falls, the constellation of the Boy King fails to rise.

  And still he does not return to her.

  Ten

  Gwillfifeshire is small, just a way station for the surrounding agricultural land’s bounty, really. There is only one town square, at the center of which is a crumbling old well inhabited by a ghost. I know this because Bevel tells me as much as we approach. Pip is alarmed, but Kintyre launches into the story of the night they stayed in Gwillfifeshire, their last small adventure before the one that sent Pip and I into the Writer’s realm, and how the ghost is actually quite sweet and loves minding the local children when their parents are kept late in the fields.

  The buildings are close, and cramped, made of a gray stone that looks slightly dreary, even in the bright afternoon sunshine. The roads between them are just wide enough for our cart-and-cat to pass, and we are forced to skirt the edge of the square to reach our destination. A market is in full and fine fluster, with women selling pickling supplies and men bartering livestock before the breeding season begins. There are butcher’s stalls, and baked goods, fabric and spell-workings, and baubles. Spring begins a month earlier in Miliway than it does in Lysse, so there are already strawberries and leeks on display, alongside wagons of the first-crop hay.

  Suffice it to say, we make quite a display of our own for the market-goers: two men on horseback, one of which is splashed up to the animal’s fetlocks with blood, two women and a babe in a cart pulled by a massive cat-creature, a grim-faced cart driver clutching a bow, and a lad splattered with yet more blood atop the cat. Murmuring follows us where the crowds part, and just before we reach the edge of the square, a large man with an even larger moustache pushes his way forward and exclaims, “Why, Master Turn! Master Dom!”

  “Lord Gallvig,” Bevel says cordially, with a bow from his place on the driver’s bench. I cannot recall if Bevel had an excellent memory before becoming Shadow Hand, or if it is the Mask who remembers the man’s name. I had the Mask so long that I honestly could not tell you if my head for faces came from it or from me. Or just from the way Reed wrote me.

  “Well now, what’s all this?” He gestures at the blood.

  “Red Caps,” Kintyre grunts. “Or there used to be. In the wheat field just north of town?”

  Gallvig nods. “They’ve been getting bolder,” he says. “The Prepars lost three cattle to the little monsters. Thank the Writer that no human has been hurt yet.”

  Bevel sighs. “They have, actually. This is Lanaea,” he says, gesturing to the maiden in the cart, and raises his voice a little to add: “Lanaea of Sherwilde? She says she has family here.”

  “Ain’t you Jakko’s daughter?” someone calls from near the well, and Lanaea raises herself up as best she can on shaking legs, Pip helping her stay upright.

  “I am!” she says. “Do you know where his sister may be found?”

  “She’s Anne Fa
rthing, now,” the man calls. “Down at the Pern.”

  “I know it,” Bevel says, after Lanaea calls her thanks.

  Bevel bows to the lord again, then urges Capplederry back into motion.

  Capplederry’s movement makes Wyndam grimace, grit his teeth, and hunch lower on the creature’s back. I seem to be the only one who’s noticed. Bevel has his eyes on the path, and Pip and Lanaea are occupied with keeping the wounded maiden comfortable. Wyndam puts a hand to his side, curling his arm across his ribs. The lad wears black, but for a moment, sunlight glints off a patch of slick red on the back of his fingers.

  Foolish, proud boy. I wonder if, in attempting to look macho for Lanaea, he has done himself harm. How much blood has he lost? How long has infection been given to take root?

  Why hasn’t he said anything? I think back to all the times Wyndam has been the center of my brother’s attention, and another piece of the puzzle that is my nephew slots into place. He idolizes Kintyre. He would be shamed if Kintyre knew he had been harmed in his first battle alongside his father.

  Little does Wyndam realize that Kintyre will be all the more proud of him if he knew that Wyndam was harmed and yet fought on. And he would care greatly that Wyndam was being foolish enough to hide it. The one thing Kintyre Turn has never done is hide his injuries from Bevel. As foolish as Kintyre could be about some things, playing with his own life was not one of them. Perhaps because he loves himself so well, but his narcissism has saved his life more than once.

  But Wyndam’s reluctance also offers me an opportunity. Here is my chance for that heart-to-heart I’ve been wanting with my nephew.

  Kintyre pulls Karl back when the horse attempts to follow us, and dallies a moment longer with the lord.

  “There’s precious few of the Red Caps left, I’d wager,” Kintyre says. “They’ll scavenge their own dead for a few days, so you shouldn’t be hassled. After that, they sleep, so tomorrow afternoon would be the ideal time for you to mount a party to drive out the remainder of the infestation.”

  “They burrow,” Gallvig points out.

  “Black powder,” Kintyre suggests back. “Just don’t be standing on the tunnels when they collapse. You’ll lose part of the field’s yield, but that’s better than letting them carry off a child.”

  Gallvig nods, shakes Kintyre’s hand, and thanks him. Then he turns and heads straight to what appears to be the black smith’s shop. By the time I’ve turned my attention back to Wyndam, he is sitting up straight, but with the forced stillness of those who are trying their best not to be jolted. His dark face has gone yellow-gray.

  We arrive at the Pern tavern shortly afterward, and Wyndam is all awkwardness as he slides down from Capplederry. He puts his hand out to help Lanaea descend from the cart, but then switches it at the last moment when he realizes the one he’d originally offered is covered with blood. This fumble makes Lanaea lurch against his shoulder, and she frowns at him, obviously not impressed.

  She leans instead on Bevel, and I dismount and hand Dauntless off to a boy whom Bevel greets warmly as Thoma.

  Wyndam clenches his fists, annoyed at himself, and turns on his heel, scuffing away to slouch against the wall. Pip sighs and runs a hand through her hair, clearly debating whether or not to say something to him about it. As I begin the process of unbuckling Capplederry’s rig, Pip approaches Wyndam and thrusts Alis into his arms.

  “Watch her,” she says, “and I’ll help them unpack.”

  Wyndam moves to protest, but Pip holds up her hand, firm.

  “Also,” she says softly, leaning forward to put her body between Wyndam and Lanaea, laying a motherly hand on Wyndam’s arm. “Stop staring at her like she’s a piece of meat or a hydra. No girl likes to be gawked at and objectified. Go over and just be kind; don’t try any cheesy lines or anything. There’s no need for any weird chivalric gestures. Just be . . . normal. Just go be you. She’s just a girl. You know lots of girls. You grew up surrounded by them. Nothing scary about that.”

  Wyndam shoots her a look over Alis’s head that would be comical in its disbelief if it weren’t for the genuine surprise and fear it conveyed.

  “Look, I know,” Pip says. “Liking someone, and wanting them to like you back, that’s some scary shit right there. I get it. My advice? Stop thinking about her as a girl, and think of her as a person. I know you want to get your dick wet, but be her friend first.” Pip makes a face at her own advice. “But also let her know that you’re interested? None of that friend-zone crap.”

  Wyndam gapes at her helplessly, and Pip shrugs. “Actually, I don’t know why I’m giving you advice. I’ve always been utter shit at this flirting thing. Maybe talk to Bevel? I don’t even know.”

  With one last arm-pat, she turns to unlatch the tailgate of the cart. Wyndam, Alis held limply in his arms, looks even more poleaxed than before. My daughter, annoyed with being passed around and held like unwelcome furniture, wriggles to be let down. I am pleased to see that Wyndam has enough sense to keep a grip on her, even as her movement jostles his injury. There are too many wheels and legs for me to be comfortable with her trying out her newfound skills in walking in this forecourt.

  The front door of the tavern is opened by someone who can only be the Goodwoman. She is fertile looking in a way that I am certain Reed would dismiss, but beautiful in her bounty. Her cheeks are roses, her hair autumn wheat, her figure round with a well-fed and well-loved life. In short, she reminds me very strongly of my own mother, the lost Alis Sheil Turn.

  She takes stock of our party, wipes her hands on her apron, and says, “Thoma, when you’re done stabling these . . . interesting beasts . . . and taking a care with the cart, run to the Prentice and fetch him back; the horse has need of his healer’s skills, if not this knucklehead.” She swats Kintyre affectionately on the shoulder, and then plucks at the Turn-russet jerkin he is wearing. She reaches out to repeat the gesture with Bevel’s. “Good to see you two great ninnies have got yourselves sorted at last. Now, inside, inside, and we’ll set you up the tub.”

  “And those meat pies, Goodwoman Farthing?” Kintyre asks hopefully.

  “Aye,” she says, and shoos him along. She then turns to Pip. “Three rooms, Madam?”

  “Four,” Pip says, taking Alis back from Wyndam and cutting a look between Lanaea and the lad. “Thanks.”

  “Aye, well come, then,” the Goodwoman says, and reaches out to help take some of Lanaea’s hobbling weight onto her own shoulders. “And you are, lass?”

  “I . . . I do believe I am your niece, Madam,” Lanaea says quietly. The Goodwoman startles, and leans back a little to stare at her face. “Well, I’ll be. You look just like Jakko.”

  The lass beams at her.

  “Come, inside with you, my dear. And you too, boys,” she says to Wyndam and I, standing , slightly useless, on the cobbled forecourt.

  I am startled into motion, and reach into the cart to retrieve our sacks. Wyndam moves to do the same, and then jerks when he lifts his arm, grimacing and hissing and curling back around his injured side.

  “I’ll get the bags,” I tell him in a whisper as the others disappear into the tavern’s taproom. “You just get upstairs. I’ll follow and tend to your wound when everyone else is settled.”

  Wyndam shoots me a startled glance, eyes cutting between me and where Kintyre is visible through the taproom window.

  “Oh, Wyndam, tut tut,” I say with a sly, teasing grin. “You did not honestly think that your brains came from Kintyre, did you?”

  A tentative smile curls against the side of his mouth, almost reluctantly. He shakes his head once.

  “Smart lad. Inside you go,” I say softly. “And we shall keep this between us.”

  Thank you, he mouths at me.

  I remove all the bags we need and pile them at the door for a servant to take up to our rooms, taking care to tuck the traveling healer’s kit into my belt. Wyndam grabs his own bag and slings it over his shoulder with deliberate care before he goes inside.
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  Thoma is enraptured with Capplederry, and the cat is very pleased to have the boy scratching its muzzle. I suppose all that dried blood must be dreadfully itchy.

  “Help me with the yoke, please, my young fellow,” I bid him. “When your healer is fetched, you may play with the kitty as long as you like. Capplederry likes to be brushed.”

  The boy’s brown eyes widen with glee, and he is quick about his business, though he rushes nothing. He is well versed in the duties of a groom. When he is off, I bypass the taproom, where I can see that our party is tucked into a large booth in a sunny corner. The rest of the tavern patrons are pretending to ignore them while peering around their own noses. Though it has been years since Kintyre was last in Gwillfifeshire, it is clear he has not been forgotten.

  Mounting the stairs to the tavern’s rooms, I slide on my Shadow Hand persona. I will need my wits about me, for, as I insinuated to Wyndam, I suspect that my nephew is very, very clever.

  When I reach the top of the stairs, I see that the inn portion of this tavern is comprised of six rooms. It does not appear as if the Goodwoman and her son live in one of them, so I guess that there must be a separate set of apartments off the back of the taproom. Perhaps they even share the kitchen.

  Wyndam has obviously chosen one of the rooms at the very end of the hall. It is the only closed door.

  I enter without knocking, and my nephew doesn’t look startled when he turns to face me. He was rummaging in his bag, which he’d propped up on the foot of the rope cot, one hand leaning hard on the foot-bar as he tries to stay upright, so he must have heard my approach. I wonder if his time aboard ships attuned him to the creak and groan of floorboards, or if my skills at walking stealthily have simply atrophied.

  “How bad is the bleeding?” I ask softly, closing the door behind me. It is better to start with sympathy, I decide, and see if a gentle conversation with his caring uncle will shift the boy toward truth. If it doesn’t, then perhaps I will have to resort of Words of Persuasion. They are Words known only among those of us who dig out secrets for a living, and I do not like to use them against sentient creatures, but I am beginning to feel a sort of slow dread creep upon me, and I need to know if my fear that Wyndam’s lack of voice and trust has ought to do with the rest of our troubles.