The Forgotten Tale

by J. M. Frey

“I fear so, yes.”

  “We’re the last ones,” she whispers, terror crawling into her voice. “What if—”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “The sun still shines, though. As does the moon. Perhaps there is time, yet, to save this realm.”

  “How?” Pip asks.

  “The weather witch, the Deal-Maker, she is destroying treasures and precious items. And the stars are going out. Which is making the books vanish. I feel sure that they are connected.”

  “But why?” Pip asks, and her voice crackles on the question. “That I do not know, bao bei.”

  “I should,” she says, tears splashing against my bare shoulder. “I should. That’s my role, and I don’t know, Forsyth. I’m so scared. What if we all snuff out of existence, and it’s all my fault? Because I wasn’t clever enough?”

  “Shhh, shush, darling,” I say softly, rocking her gently, petting her hair. “We’ll figure it out. We will.”

  “I hate it here,” she whispers, voice hitching with the sobs she is trying to suppress. “I tried, Forsyth, I did. For you. You were so happy to be home, but I can’t . . . I can’t. I hate it here. I want to go home. Where it’s safe.”

  Disappointment comes swift, my stomach dropping and my spine heavy, but it is not surprising, not really. As much as Pip had promised to give my world a fair chance, I knew she could never find peace and joy here. Not after so much evil had been done to her within my home realm. Not with the prospect of even more pain.

  Not knowing that this world was always and forever one infinite cycle of the Hero’s Journey, over, and over, and over again. Unending. Not knowing that there is never any peace.

  ✍

  Despite my offer to watch Alis for the day, Pip tells me that if her only role in this adventure is to care for our daughter, then she will play it to the hilt. There is no little bitterness in this proclamation, but she is also resolved. She takes Alis along with her when she joins some of the women from town in a morning of sowing summer wheat. We have agreed to remain in Gwillfifeshire to rest and attend Lanaea’s internment this evening, and the relocation of her ghost to join Mandikin’s in the town well.

  Kintyre has left to aid Lord Gallvig in planning the rousting of the remaining Red Caps from the north field. Wyndam had been delighted to be invited along, his worship of his father having been restored back to full strength. Capplederry follows after him, licking its chops and flexing its claws, so it is obvious that the creature knows they intend to hunt, which leaves only Bevel and I to linger over our breakfast.

  Several messenger hawks catch up with Bevel while we dawdle. It is good that we have stayed, as I wouldn’t have wanted to contend with all these letters on the road, were I he.

  The hawks all bear the seal of the Shadow’s Men. Feeling the strain, Bevel welcomes my help in reading through the missives, his head still throbbing from the concussion whenever he tries to read.

  The notes paint a picture of a world harassed and terrorized by this Deal-Maker, and we compile a list of all that she has destroyed, but it brings us no closer to understanding who she is or what she hopes to achieve from it.

  Lunch returns Pip and Alis to us. Pip slides into the booth, eager, and Alis is very pleased to be able to sit between “Da Da” and “Bev,” crumpling scrap parchment in her fists and saying “‘Ook, ‘ook!” as she destroys it.

  “Forsyth, I’ve been thinking,” Pip says, the glitter of academic interest back in her eyes, and the flush of high emotion and glee at her own cleverness back on her cheeks, which makes me incalculably pleased to see.

  “Should I be afraid?” I tease, enjoying her high mood.

  She swats my shoulder from across the table, grinning. “Shaddup. I’ve been thinking.”

  “About?” Bevel asks, tidying our work into piles and gesturing for the barmaid who has replaced the Goodwoman today to bring us ales and lunches.

  “Deal-Maker blood,” Pip says, leaning in, her voice low and confidential. “Neris said that the Viceroy had another Deal-Maker’s blood, and that was how he was able to compel her into calling down a Reader. Otherwise, the spell wouldn’t have been powerful enough.”

  “Yes. And?”

  “And so, how did someone have enough power to call down the three of us? What was bargained away? What could possibly be enough? And how could they have boosted the power?”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “Forsyth, you know how Elgar writes!” Pip said excitedly. “He’s lazy. He connects everything! We have a Deal-Maker Spirit who is ravishing the countryside destroying things, we have vanishing stars and vanishing books, and what else?” she asks, excitedly professorial. “Who else has had contact with that Deal-Maker?”

  “Wyndam,” Bevel breathes. “Wyndam did.”

  “And what did he Deal for?”

  “Me. But we don’t know why,” I say. “But he traded his voice for it.”

  “Did he?” Pip asks shrewdly. “Are we sure that was what he offered up? Or was it a result of being tricked? You know that people get fooled by Deal-Makers all the time. Why would it work out perfectly this time?”

  “You think it didn’t?” I ask.

  And then, behind me, I hear a footstep. It is Wyndam and Kintyre, back from their meeting, and Wyndam is shaking his head frantically.

  “It did not go as planned?” I ask, and he nods. Then he grimaces and clutches his head, his pinky finger twitching.

  “Wyn?” Kintyre asks, grasping his shoulders.

  “He cannot communicate about the Deal,” I tell Kintyre, rising to lay a hand on his shoulder to soothe his worry. “The Deal-Maker is preventing it.”

  Wyndam scrubs his hands through his hair and nods again, wincing and flinching at the pain it is causing. He holds his affected hand tight against his chest.

  “Then stop!” Kintyre orders him, and Wyndam shakes his head again. He meets his father’s eyes, mulish and stubborn.

  “We’re on a roll,” Pip says, also standing in her excitement. “Aren’t we, Wyndam? We’re on the right track?”

  He nods, and his knees buckle. Only Kintyre’s grip on him keeps him upright. My brother hustles his son into a chair.

  “Are you sure you want to keep going?” Bevel asks, and Wyndam nods, his face draining of color.

  “Okay, okay,” Pip says, pacing in our private corner of the taproom. “Right, let’s think this through. Wyndam made a Deal. He called us down. On purpose?”

  Wyndam nods.

  “And did you offer your voice?”

  He shakes his head. Then he gulps on air, looking as if he might vomit. Bevel hastily hands his ale to Kintyre, who presses it to Wyndam’s mouth. The boy swallows, and I hope the alcohol will help ease his pain.

  “So she took it without you knowing she would.” Wyndam doesn’t bother to nod this time, saving himself the agony.

  “Does us being here have anything to do with the things she’s destroying to make the stars go out?”

  Wyndam looks up, stricken, mouth agape in horror. He shakes his head frantically.

  “Then the Deal was something you wanted for yourself, then?” I ask.

  He nods and sways in his seat. Kintyre pushes him back, snaps his fingers at the barmaid to get her attention, and demands a bowl of cool water and a cloth.

  “What for?” I muse as Kintyre bathes Wyndam’s forehead and face, wiping away his pain-induced sweat and staring at his son’s face with genuine parental love and fear.

  “My poor son,” Kintyre murmurs. “My poor beloved boy.”

  Wyndam cracks an eye and stares up at his father, reaches up with his good hand and wraps it into the placket of Kintyre’s shirt, right above his heart. His eyes are filled with regret and apology.

  “What good am I?” I ask Bevel. “What reason would Wyndam have for wanting me here?”

  “I wish we had the Cup that Never Empties and a mirror right about now,” Pip says with an ironic snort. “We could use a good scry. And to think I lambasted you for
using it to spy on me.”

  “We could go,” Bevel ventures. “I mean, the Salt Crystal Caverns aren’t that far away from here.”

  “I don’t think we’ll need it,” I murmur, watching the way Wyndam’s eyes never leave Kintyre’s face, the small curl to his lips when he is the center of my brother’s attention.

  I crouch at my nephew’s side, so we are eye to eye, and put my hands on his knees, forcing myself into his line of vision. “Wyndam,” I say gently, my Shadow Hand voice low but present all the same. Insistent. “Wyndam, my lad, you brought me back here on purpose, didn’t you? Because you were unhappy.”

  “Unhappy!” Bevel squawks behind me, even as Wyndam turns his eyes away from mine, ashamed that I have guessed correctly. “What could he possibly have to be unhappy about? He went from being a water rat to the respected Lordling of Lysse! He has books, clothes, a fine horse, hot meals! And a position with the Sword of Turnshire if he wanted to get off his lazy arse and take it! What’s to be unhappy over?”

  Wyndam’s gaze snaps back around, filled with fire, and he jerks his chin in Bevel’s direction.

  “Because those are things you want for him, Bevel Dom,” I say. “Not what he wants. Am I right, my lad?”

  Wyndam nods again, jaw and fists clenched.

  “I don’t understand,” Kintyre says slowly. I manfully refrain from making my usual jab about him understanding anything, for now is not the time for petty jibes or filial teasing. “You were unhappy in Turnshire? But what could bringing Forsyth back do about that?”

  Wyndam, obviously, cannot answer, so I propose this to my brother instead: “What would you do, brother, if you did not need to be Lord of Lysse? If I was there to step into your place once more? What benefit does my return bring to you? To the Chipping?”

  “We could . . . return to the road?” Kintyre says, but he sounds unsure.

  “No,” Bevel cuts him off almost immediately. “I will not be giving up feather mattresses and fresh-baked bread ever again.”

  “But this is not about you, nor your desires, Bevel,” I point out. “This is about Kintyre’s. Would you go, brother?”

  “Well,” Kintyre says, shifting. “Not without Bevel, obviously.”

  “But you would need someone to mind Turnshire in your stead?”

  Another nod.

  “Then this is what you asked for,” I say to Wyndam, and the lad nods, miserable. “You wanted to go on adventures with your father. But to do that, I had to be here. You knew Kintyre wouldn’t leave without the Chipping being cared for.”

  Kintyre splutters. “But I wouldn’t—I’m retired. I like sleeping late!”

  I sigh, shaking my head. “And this isn’t about you, Kintyre. It’s about what Wyndam wants.”

  Kintyre blinks at me, then swings his gaze down to his son. “Well, why didn’t you just ask? Wyndam? Why didn’t you just tell me you want to . . . I don’t know, go sow some wild oats?”

  Wyndam just shrugs, the non-answer of teenagers of every realm who desperately do not want to discuss their transgressions.

  As Kintyre struggles to understand, I muse: “This has nothing to do with the vanishing books, the missing stars. All this time, I was searching for a connection, but there isn’t one. There is a Deal-Maker Spirit who, in the form of a weather witch, is roaming the world and destroying trinkets and treasures. And at the same time, stars are going out. And at the same time, stories are vanishing from the Realm of the Writer. Those are connected, yes, but not me, not my presence here in Hain,” I say, rising slowly, confident that I have guessed correctly when Wyndam jerks his startled gaze back to me.

  It is a relief, a greater one than I thought, for I feel a weight I had not realized I was carrying lift from my chest. I feel like I can breathe for the first time in weeks. This, all of this, is not my fault. It is not because I escaped The Tales of Kintyre Turn. It is not because I know my creator and turned him away on Solsticetide. It is not because I am a character where I should not be, nor that the book of my life is shelved in the wrong realm.

  It is because a Deal-Maker Spirit is tearing apart the world searching for someone, and because a selfish lad desperately sought his father’s attention and approval.

  But it is not because of me.

  “You and Wyndam would have been free to live the kind of adventure his mother no doubt told him Kintyre Turn lives, correct?” I hazard, and Wyndam nods. “Bevel, Wyndam had your scrolls in his chambers. He was teaching himself to read with your adventures. He was envious of them. And so, he decided to do something about it. Am I right, my lad?”

  Wyndam, slumped miserably, nods again.

  “We are mistaken. The Deal-Maker you called down was no weather witch. She is a sea spirit—her magic is in water. She is the preferred call of the pirates, am I right? You’ve had her tableau memorized for years.”

  Wyndam nods again, the minutest of movements.

  “And so, I am here, but it is not as you thought it would be, this adventuring.” Wyndam does not move, but it is clear he agrees all the same. “You offered her something in return for us, and it must have been great to make the Deal equal. But it was not equal enough, and so she took your voice along with it.”

  Wyndam looks up and shakes his head. He opens his mouth, tries to mime the words, but is overtaken again by the pain and must sit back, wincing.

  “So, whatever it is that the Deal-Maker wanted, she didn’t get it?” Pip asks, pushing forward, intrigued. Wyndam rocks his head back and forth on the back of the chair, panting and pale.

  “But taking your voice was ancillary . . .” I muse, and Pip snaps her fingers.

  “Got it! It wasn’t your voice, it was your Words!” she crows. “Deal-Makers can’t use human magic, so she must have needed it to . . . to, I don’t know, use Words of Finding for the items that snuff out the stars, or something! It’s just the kind of smarter-than-you double-speak bullshit that Reed likes to write! He would totally do that!”

  Wyndam groans, curling in on his hand, forehead beading with sweat.

  “We shouldn’t ask him any more questions,” Kintyre says, concerned. He flutters around Wyndam with the damp cloth like an agitated hen. “He may pass out soon.”

  Wyndam glowers at him stubbornly and struggles back upright.

  Pip reaches into her bra and retrieves our phial of Deal-Maker blood. She shakes the phial slightly, watching the viscous blue liquid slosh and ooze against the side of the glass. It is the color of cornflowers, and it swirls with sapphire and silver glitter, a galaxy in glass. It looks like it should be a tonic for making hair shinier, or helping a child sleep. It does not look like the most powerful potion ingredient in existence.

  I know literally dozens of wizards, witches, and warlocks who would gleefully commit homicide to possess Deal-Maker blood. And it is rare, terribly rare, for Deal-Makers do not live in this plane and are rarely injured.

  In fact . . .

  A thought occurs to me, and I turn to face Pip. “How did the Viceroy obtain a phial of Deal-Maker’s blood?” I ask.

  “Huh?” Pip asks, sidetracked from her own contemplation.

  “It was the one thing we never questioned: Neris said that she was compelled to grant the Viceroy the Deal that brought you to Hain because he had in his possession a phial of Deal-Maker’s blood. But it is rare, and more than that, it is difficult to collect. So where and how did he obtain it?”

  “He was the villain,” Pip ventures after pondering for a moment. “It’s possible that he just . . . had it.”

  “No,” I say. “No. Elgar Reed thinks himself cleverer than that. If the Viceroy had such a powerful magical item, then there must have been a reason for it. There must have been a plan. But what?”

  Pip’s eyes widen, and then swing around and narrow with laser precision on Wyndam. “She wanted to trade you a person for a person, didn’t she?”

  Wyndam gulps and nods.

  “Who?” Bevel asks.

  “Who do you
think?” Pip asks, straightening. “This is the sequel. It’s got to be the first story’s villain. If only for a cameo.”

  “But he’s dead,” Bevel protests.

  “Is he?” Pip asks, challenging, professor-ish. “Did we see a body?”

  “Why?” Kintyre growls. “Why should a Deal-Maker want to free the Viceroy? Especially when it is simply another Deal-Maker who has him?”

  “And is preferably torturing his ghost for the rest of eternity?” Bevel snarls.

  Pip turns to look at Alis, who is still sitting happily at our table, crumpling paper and babbling to herself, then back to Wyndam.

  “Don’t you think it’s a big coincidence that all this happened right after both Forsyth and Kintyre Turn had children?” she asks slowly, teasing the thesis out in her head, pulling at the idea like taffy with her words. “This is a narrative featuring kids, heirs, which means it’s about heirs. Legacies. Inheritance . . .” She is looking off into the middle distance, fingers curling and uncurling around the phial. Her fingernails tap against the glass, and the rest of us wait, breathless, silent, as she chews on the problem.

  Then she gasps.

  Her eyes and mouth drop wide, round with understanding and horror.

  “Oh my god,” she whispers, and sits down hard, the phial gripped tight in her white-knuckled fist. “Oh my god.”

  “What?” Bevel asks, gaze jumping between my wife and I.

  And I understand it myself the moment Pip breathes it.

  “Her son,” she hisses, pulling her attention back to us, looking up into my face with such horrified desperation that I must jam my hands into my pockets to keep from scrambling across the table to fold her in my arms like an undignified day laborer. “That’s what she’s after. She’s trying to figure out where he is, what realm he was pulled into. The stars, bao bei, the books! The Viceroy had a phial of Deal-Maker blood because the son of a bitch was her goddamn son!”

  Elgar Reed wrote me to be uncomfortable when I am ignorant or wrong. And when I am right, when something clicks into place, when I understand, it is a relief and revelation so intense, so sweeping that it feels very much like a full-body, rolling orgasm. I gasp, feeling my face flushing, as soon as I understand what Pip means.