The Forgotten Tale

by J. M. Frey

  Wait.

  I stop, force my body to relax, pull Dauntless into a stillness, and listen.

  Another low rumble fills our small, gloomy, dense patch of forest. Not my brother’s deep voice, as I had first thought. No.

  It is thunder.

  “Quiet!” I shout abruptly. Kintyre and Bevel both swing their attention to me, and, assessing my posture, turn their own ears to the sky. “Listen!”

  Just as I command it, another grumble of thunder, muffled by the trees and unmistakably far to the south, whispers through the air.

  “I saw a thunderstorm amid the mountains of the Eyrie,” I say, my own voice a hush in the quiet of the forest. “On the night of the wake. It was possibly directly above the Rookery. And it . . .” I venture, slowly, hoping, hoping that I will be right in my guess, and feeling nine kinds of foolish for not making the connection sooner: “It was right before the final star went out.”

  “So, that was where she was, but will it be where she is?” Kintyre asks, his own voice low as we all keep our ears trained for the next clap of thunder.

  “She has no reason to leave the area. There are no more stars,” Bevel suggests.

  Wyndam makes a wide gesture then, waving his hands meaningfully. And yes, his pinky finger is jumping, pointing toward the south, toward the Cinch Mountains and the Rookery.

  A knowing look passes between Kintyre and Bevel, one that in any other situation I would have called boyishly gleeful about the chase we are about to give. Bevel swings back aboard Capplederry.

  “Lead the way,” I tell my nephew, and bend low over Dauntless’s neck as my mount turns and gallops with all haste after the bounding cat.

  ✍

  Dawn shades to daylight. We skirt Gwillfifeshire in favor of the Howling Pass through the Cinch. This brings us to the door of a dwarf queen who owes Kintyre a favor. Traveling the under-roads shaves hours off our journey, but it is still already sunset by the time we emerge. The road has deposited us on the far side of the Valley of the Tombs, and when I express my amazement at how far we have traveled in so short a time, Kintyre makes mention of an enchantment that the dwarves weave that makes the distances shorter.

  I wait for Pip to pipe up and call it shoddy world-building instead (albeit, in our urgency, a welcome bit of poor craftsmanship). But Pip is not here, and my throat closes up when nothing but an obvious, echoing silence replies. When I cover my mouth with my gloved hand, blocking the noise threatening to escape, Kintyre looks away to give my grief its privacy.

  I do not wish to make camp, but our mounts are exhausted, and I am so saddle-sore that I can barely remain upright. The moment I am off Dauntless, I wobble over to where Bevel has begun laying the fire. I lie down, and do not rise again. Wyndam, whom I had, just a few days prior, counseled through his own shattering grief, lays a blanket over me. He fusses at me when it’s time to eat, and forces hot broth and warmed wine into my gullet when I would otherwise prefer to sleep, in order to make the daylight come all the sooner. It is wise. I will want all of my strength and to avoid distraction from hunger pangs, but I cannot help but feel resentful and petty toward him for insisting that I remain awake long enough to eat.

  In the distance, the storm we’ve been chasing rages on, unnaturally prolonged, and all I can think of is that my wife is underneath it, electrocuted, drowning . . . and that my daughter must be screaming for a da who is not there. My chest feels hollow and chill. I cannot seem to swallow hard enough to push down the burning nothingness jammed in the notch under my larynx.

  My extremities seem to be twitching and tingling, and I cannot seem to stop fidgeting in my panicky anxiety. I am filled with infuriating, impotent frustration at being one step behind.

  We are back on the road just as dawn creeps over the foothills of the Cinch. The wine did its work, and I slept, though it barely feels like it. Thank the Writer my rest was dreamless. I do not think I could cope with nightmares in my sleeping hours as well as this waking one.

  We skirt the northernmost edge of the Stoat Forest and head instead straight up into the massive ring of the former volcano caldera that forms the Eyrie. As the name suggests, the skies are filled with thousands of birds whose nests our passing jostles, and they scream and swoop at us, angry for our disturbance. A riddling raven pulls at the forelock of my hair, screaming, “Rude! Rude! Rude man, rude!”

  I bat it away, and it rejoins the flock, hurling curses down on our heads.

  But the birds dare not follow after us as we ride toward the storm.

  The wall of rain is stationary, and disconcerting in how it neither shifts or moves. On one side of the gray curtain, all is dry, save for where the water is rushing down the stony side of the mountain, sweeping away dry soil, debris, and small rocks in a torrent of tiny rivers. On the other side of the curtain, the rain is a continuous stream, fast and fat. And we have no choice but to enter it.

  Shoulders hunched nonsensically to keep the water out of our shirts, we are drenched within seconds. The cold of the water cuts straight to the skin, and I must push my hair out of my eyes, slicking it back against my skull.

  Eventually, the terrain becomes too treacherous for the horses, and we search for a dry, well-protected outcropping or cave in which to shelter them. Which is how we come to the mouth of what is clearly someone’s home. Albeit abandoned.

  There is a cot against the back wall, stripped of all linen, and a small stool of rough design tucked against a shelf of rock that is just about the correct height for a table. To one side of the bed, I see the unmistakable pile of slivered and shattered gold fragments that make up the nest of a dragon. The hoard is small yet. And there is no adjacent hoard of a greater size, so I assume the dragon is young, possibly even orphaned. Maybe more of the Drebbinshire Dragon’s surviving progeny?

  The air does not smell of dragon, however. There is no whiff of sulfur or the musk of warm reptile. There is no clothing here, no perishables. Whoever lived here once, no longer does. And it was abandoned recently enough that nothing has begun to rot or mildew. As a shelter, it is perfect.

  Capplederry and Wyndam prowl around the entrance—just to make certain we are alone, and that the horses will remain unharmed if we leave them here—while the rest of us guide our mounts inside and drop to the floor with different levels of enthusiasm. I am agitated, incentivized by the peril, but wearied by the pull of the worry. It drags upon me like an excess of gravity, and all I wish to do is bury my face in Dauntless’s mane and weep.

  No. No.

  There is no time for that.

  Bevel slips the reins over our horses’ heads as soon as we dismount. He and Kintyre begin the process of tightening their sword belts, double-checking that all their weapons are in place. I copy them, anxious at the delay. Already, I feel the tug in my breast to stop dawdling, the intractable panic at the fearful thought that while we are fiddling, my wife and child are being tortured, or are dying . . . or are dead.

  I resist the urge to seek out a towel, for we are just going back out into the deluge as soon as the horses are secured, but I do try to squeeze as much out of my hair as possible. A cold drop gets under my collar, making me squirm and shiver as it slides down my spine. My fingertips are wrinkled, and I feel so saturated with water that my skin is clammy. I am so wet, I wonder if I will ever be dry again. I feel bloated with the storm, a corpse already absorbing water, even as I yet breathe.

  If my wife and child die, will I continue to breathe? Am I dying already, because they are already dead?

  “I hate being wet!” Kintyre moans, voicing my own displeasure, his voice just loud enough to be carried over the torrent and the howl of wind outside. He is shivering. We are all shivering.

  “Kintyre, shush!” I hiss back. “This is meant to be stealthy!”

  “Surely the Deal-Maker Spirit must know we are on our way to her by now, so shushing me is stupid,” Kintyre volleys back, and between us, Bevel chuckles.

  Oh, I see how it is. My brother is
going to beat on me, verbally, to relieve his own anxiety. Bevel must be tickled that he isn’t the only traveling companion for once, and that it isn’t all aimed at him.

  Fantastic. I am so thrilled.

  At the same time, I refuse to be my brother’s punching bag on this account. Petty of me, perhaps, but I am too angry to let it go. “And if she does hear us, and our ability to sneak up on her unnoticed is compromised, whose fault will that be, you oaf?”

  “Whose fault is any of this!” Kintyre lobs back, and it is a closer hit than I would care to admit.

  “Yours, I would think!” I snarl, my temper rising to meet his thrusts swifter than I thought it would. I am fretful. And I am exhausted. I am fueled only by a meager breakfast and adrenaline—along with a dark, gasping hope that we will not be too late. There is no reserve remaining for patience. “You’re the hero! Shouldn’t you have been watching for danger? I trusted you!”

  “She’s your wife, not mine!”

  “And your niece!” I shout, and what was a stress relieving verbal spar has suddenly become all too painfully real. “You would think that you would care about that, but seeing how you treat your son, I may have to revise my opinion!”

  I instantly regret dragging my nephew into this fight, especially since he is not here to defend himself. Especially since he cannot defend himself, not verbally. But it is too late now, for Kintyre yells: “And what would you know about my son? You haven’t been here!”

  “And you’re the one who urged me to go!” I riposte. “Brother, I know that you want Wyndam to be your friend, but you will never be so to him. You are his parent! And you must parent him!”

  “I don’t—”

  “That’s right!” I snap, thrusting my finger at his face. “You don’t. You pal around with Wyndam and leave Bevel to be the bad parent, which has nearly irreparably damaged his own relationship with the lad!”

  “Hey, now, leave me out of this—” Bevel begins, but I am too incensed, and talk over him instead:

  “Wyndam is your son, brother, not your adventure companion. You must stop treating him like an extension of yourself and start treating him as a character in his own right! Wives, and siblings, and progeny are more than just props for your heroism!”

  Kintyre steps back, hands up, placating, startled and a little hurt-looking that what began as playful complaining has turned so serious and heated so quickly. “I’m just trying to—to not be—”

  “I know what you are trying to do!” I snarl. “And trust me, I am just as careful, just as concerned with Alis.”

  “How can you?” Kintyre roars, flinging his hands up and rocking forward again. He will not retreat, his pride will not allow it, and we are practically nose-to-nose now, for all that I must tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Foesmiter rattles against his hip. “You were so young! I was seven when you were born; I lived with him longer. I got it more.”

  “And I got it after you left,” I point out. “So we can cease this attempt to determine who was damaged most by our father and be honest about our motivations with our own children. Neither of us want to be Algar Turn, Kintyre, but we must still be fathers!”

  “I don’t want to!” Kintyre roars, and it is so loud that even the storm seems to pause for a moment, startled by the sound.

  And behind me, of course, in the temporary silence, I hear a hitching, breathless, hastily gagged sob. The three of us turn, like naughty children caught begging sweets from Cook, to find Wyndam and Capplederry standing at the mouth of the cave. Capplederry has its foreleg up, tongue out, as if we shocked it in the midst of grooming—which, from appearances, we probably did. Wyndam looks pale and yellowish, his normally full hair flattened against his scalp with the rain, his mouth a trembling line.

  He looks heartbroken.

  “Wyndam . . .” Kintyre says softly. “I didn’t mean—”

  “Enough excuses!” I say, already seeing the way my brother’s face is twisting in his attempt to find a way to avoid an apology. Angry, and quite ready to deliver the brotherly pounding I would never have dared to administer in the past, I have Kintyre halfway across the cave in a flash, my fingers pinching his ear as he twists and yelps.

  “Apologize!” I yell. “Right now!” And I thrust him toward his son.

  “Ouch!”

  “Now, Kin,” Bevel adds darkly, arms crossed over his chest, looking dangerously intractable.

  “I never wanted to be a father . . .” Kintyre says moodily as he straightens, rubbing his abused ear.

  “How dare you make your son feel worthless!” I shout, and draw my fist back. Before I can let fly, Bevel has my elbow, wrestling me back. “You pathetic, selfish bastard!” I say. “Do you have any idea? Any idea how it is to be the unwanted one? To be told by the father you adore that you are nothing? That you are not good enough? That you are an accident he regrets? Do you?”

  A rumble of thunder, and an arc of lightning between the clouds outside, punctuates my question, and a humbled, awed silence follows it. Wyndam’s expression is slack with amazement, Kintyre looks absolutely ashamed of himself, and Bevel has eyes only for his trothed, big and dark and sad.

  “Because I do,” I whisper, though I doubt any of them heard it.

  All the same, Kintyre sucks in a breath and swallows hard.

  He will not accept the chastisement though, I can see it already. Kintyre Turn can never do wrong, can never let anything be his fault. This is a posture I am familiar with, that I know all too well, from every fight we’ve ever had since the day he turned eighteen and slunk out of Turnshire dressed in a Sheil-purple jerkin.

  Kintyre will not let me have the last word, because it means he’ll have lost. And I am right. And there is nothing that vexes him more than my being right.

  “Well,” he chokes. He swallows, eyes darting around, fists clenching and unclenching, looking for a reply everywhere but in my own face, brushing the golden-blond hair that has gone sandy with rain off of his forehead. “If you weren’t such a—”

  “I will not stand here and play a game of ‘whose fault this is’ with you, Kintyre!” I snarl. “We are adults, now. Our father is dead, and there is no longer any use in putting me down to win the affection of a man who had none to give us anyway!” I stomp my foot on the ground to gain his attention, to bring those guiltily wandering eyes back to mine, despite the childishness of the gesture. “We are grown men! It is our responsibility to behave as such!”

  And like a strike of lightning, so sharp and so abrupt that I wonder for a moment if I actually have been struck, an epiphany occurs. I am shot with the sudden realization that I do have a father figure in my life who does adore me, who does see my value, and who wants to spend time with me.

  Everything I ever wanted in Algar Turn, I have in Elgar Reed.

  Perhaps he is crass, and crude, and shallow, but he is still a smart man who can learn things. He still holds great affection for me. And for my wife and daughter by proxy.

  And I have done nothing but push him away.

  Why?

  Because he reminds me, physically, of the father who hated me. I am punishing one because of the other, and that . . . that is not fair. I have not been fair to my creator.

  He has made mistakes. Yes. But I have had no patience.

  My revelation has no time to settle, however, because Kintyre is not finished: “Responsibility! What do you know about responsibility!”

  “Ha!” I laugh. I am so stunned by the ridiculousness of this accusation, that I actually laugh. “I am the one who knows nothing of responsibility? I, who shouldered all of yours as well as my own for two decades?”

  “While I was saving Hain! While I was out there, doing good!” Kintyre gestures broadly, as if the people he has rescued are all congregated at our feet, applauding him.

  “You could have done good in Lysse!”

  “Not as much good as you did as its lordling!”

  “You could have!” I say, floored by the backhanded compl
iment. “You could have. If you had just worked with me! If you had just listened. If you had just come back and stepped into your responsibilities!” I accuse.

  Kintyre drops his arms, an arc of rain following in their wake. “But I have become lord, haven’t I? I returned all your quest items on your promise, and I took up the mantel!”

  “And Bevel does half the work!” I throw my own gesture at my brother’s trothed and Bevel raises his hands, palm up, warding me off, determined not to participate in our fight.

  “As a good spouse ought!”

  “Mother never did half of Father’s work!”

  “How would you know? She was dead before you were old enough to know what it is that a lord’s spouse is responsible for!”

  The blow lands heavier than Kintyre swung it, and I feel myself stagger under it. “That didn’t stop me from learning it all the same!”

  “Bevel—”

  “Bevel has his own occupation,” I sneer. “Or is this another one of those things you have forgotten in your arrogance? Bevel is not always and forever your squire, Kintyre. He is not solely your chronicler, nor your walking apology! He is a knight in his own right now, and Shadow Hand on top of that. Need I remind you that it is a great deal of work to be Shadow Hand, and that I was Shadow Hand and lordling both, and you never knew!”

  Kintyre gapes at me. “You sound proud of that!”

  “I am!” I roar. “I got one over on you! I had a whole life that you knew nothing about, and therefore could not ruin!”

  “I never!”

  “Melinda!” I snarl back. We are somehow back in each other’s faces, our anger bringing us nose-to-nose. I have to crane my neck painfully to meet his eye, and the discomfort just fuels my fury.

  “You have Pip—”

  “And you tried for her first, too, even being able to observe what I felt! Everything you have ever done, Kintyre Turn, you have done for your own glory, or your own greed, or your own comfort.” I scrub my hands through my sopping hair, infuriated and frustrated and unable to find the right way to express it, wanting so much to just hit him. “And now this! You treat your son as you wish to, not as you ought to, and now my wife and daughter are taken from me! So I demand, for the last time, that you put aside your childish self-importance and apologize to Wyndam! This world may have been written to be your playground, but this is not all about you!”