The minstrel sighed. "She's restless, that one. And damned stubborn. Sometimes, I wonder if she missed the influence of a mother, and that's why she's as hard as a soldier."
"Then you told Wren of her mother?"
"You know I've always believed in telling the truth. When it matters," Falcon added at Tal's raised eyebrows.
"How did she take the news?"
"With a biting retort, like she takes most things. Sometimes, you'd think she was Aelyn's daughter more than mine."
"Oh, I wouldn't go that far. The only thing Aelyn could father is a thornbush."
They both laughed and drank.
"But she's young," Falcon mused. "She's at that age, you know. When you think you need to prove something to the World — or to yourself, at least."
Tal leaned his head back, idly finding the constellations of the three Whispering Gods among the stars. "I know the feeling well."
"Ah, but you would. The old feelings of inadequacy from being a warlock's bastard, I imagine?"
He looked around sharply at his old friend, wondering what had provoked that barb, but Falcon's smile was guileless. A callous remark, nothing more, he told himself, and let it pass.
"Your Garin seems to be faring fine," Falcon continued, not noticing Tal's reaction. "What exactly is he to you, anyway? I heard a rumor — that you wrested him a duchy from the King. But that's fanciful even for my stories."
"That might be true. If it's what the boy wishes."
Privately, he held his doubts. Duchies never brought much happiness to any of the dukes he'd met, but they did bring their share of misery. And Garin had been adapting well to the traveler's life before they arrived at the castle. Perhaps you've been more influential of a mentor than you realized, he mused. Or perhaps it's who he's meant to be.
A breeze, cold at their altitude, stirred through the silence, and Tal's wandering gaze found Yoldur's constellation and the four serpents coiling from his back, one for each of the Extinguished, symbolizing their eternal servitude to the Prince of Devils.
Glancing back at his friend, he found Falcon had been touching the dark bracelet he kept under his sleeve but pulled his hand away at Tal's gaze. "That only makes my question as to who Garin is to you all the more intriguing," he noted.
Tal closed his eyes. I cannot tell you all of my stories, my old friend. Especially not this one.
Aloud, he said, "Garin came around my little farm in Hunt's Hollow before anyone else. He accepted me into their community for all that I seemed an outsider. He'd listen to the stories I told — believing them all to be lies, to be sure, but he listened. And he has a sharp, curious mind and an unsettled spirit."
"Sounds like a certain man I knew in his youth."
"But maybe he doesn't have to end the same way," Tal said softly. "Maybe he can be different. Better."
"Happier?" the bard suggested.
Tal raised his glass in answer, and they drank together again.
When they lowered their goblets, he glanced inside. "We're going to need more wine."
Falcon leaned over his chair, then righted himself with a grin, a bottle in his hands. "A good trouper always comes prepared."
"Another Jakadi? The King has been generous with his royal actors."
The bard shrugged as he uncorked the bottle and topped off their glasses. "He and the other nobility."
After he set the bottle down, he looked back at Tal, good humor fading. "Why did you come out of retirement, Tal? I thought you were done with all this."
Tal forced a smile. "I thought you might need more material. What have you been up to since you finished my songs anyway?"
Falcon raised an eyebrow, letting him know the deflection hadn't been lost on him. But he answered, "For a time, I didn't write anything. After your legend, tales of lovers twining together in lonely gardens or knights and their glorious deeds in battle had lost their appeal. But then I began to dig deeper." He leaned closer, the gold in his eyes turning quicker. "I began to look into myths of the Worldheart."
"The Worldheart?" His gut clenched. Perhaps, he mused, my old gut has had too much fine wine. But when he'd only read hints of that word in one other place, far removed from the Coral Castle and the Dancing Feathers, he had a feeling the wine couldn't be blamed.
"You know it, surely? All the power of the World, coalesced into a single stone? And the bearer of it becoming the Sovereign of All, the Master of Time and Material, able to weave the fabric of reality to their designs?"
How well I know it. He thought of the old tome he'd lugged from Hunt's Hollow, A Fable of Song and Blood, and the secrets entombed in its yellowed pages. "It was used by the Whispering Gods to create the Bloodlines," Tal murmured. "Each with their measure of time and capacity for magic."
Falcon nodded. "I knew you, of all people, must know its tales."
"But why the Worldheart? It's one of the oldest tales, true, but surely there is little enough about it these days. If it existed at all, it must have been thousands of years ago."
"Ah, but you have not heard all that I have. Drink up, old friend. You'll want a hearty spin in your head for this story."
Tal obliged, the spicy sweetness tickling his throat.
Falcon sat up, his poise adjusting minutely, an actor preparing to give a monologue. "The Worldheart is a stone misplaced. Once, during the Age of Clamor, it rested inside the World, a font of magic that spread to all the creatures living on its surface. Yet it was not to last. During the Ancients' War, the deities we know as the Whispering Gods needed a way to overcome their antagonist, the one known now as the Night. And so they stole from the World its Heart, the source of all magic, and used it to cage their foe into the sky.
"But though their adversary was defeated, the Whispering Gods found their desperate act had reaped dire consequences. All across the World's surface, those who had depended on the World's magic began to suffer and die. The Whispering Gods searched for a way to return the Worldheart to its proper place, but it was a task beyond even divinity.
"Consumed by guilt, they sought to right their mistakes and performed one last feat with the Worldheart. The stone in hand, they enacted the Severing and thereby formed the Bloodlines we know today. Elves, with long lives and sorcery born within them, but slow to change and few seeds in their wombs. Humans, possessing shorter lives, but with ambition bred in their bones, and magic attainable by those with the drive to pursue it. Dwarves, no magic accessible to them but resistant to its allures, and long of lives and stout of heart and body. And goblins, with short lives and twisted bodies, but with clever minds, endless initiative, and the ability to forge mystical artifacts."
Tal snorted. "Why they thought creating the Bloodlines was a good idea, I'll never know."
Falcon raised an eyebrow. "They believed it the only way to secure the future of the World. And who's to question the workings of gods?"
"Everyone forced to live with their acts, I'd say."
The bard grinned. "But our story doesn't end there. After the Severing, the Whispering Gods deemed their work done and the World's future secure, and so they retreated to the sky to continue their eternal war and bring light to match the Night. They left behind the Worldheart, for though they couldn't replace it, they thought it wrong to rob Mother World of such a font of power. But long after the gods went silent, another seized the Worldheart for himself." Falcon glanced sidelong at him. "I believe you can guess who."
Tal found himself leaning toward his friend. "I can guess. But is this tale true, Falcon? These aren't the fanciful imaginings of a bored bard?"
His friend smiled back, but it lacked the wild enthusiasm it usually held. "I wish it were. But I heard this among the Gladelysh elves, from an elder who was as stiff as an old root and could claim over three centuries to his life. If anyone knows the truth of the past, it would be him."
"But it can't be true. Yuldor cannot have the Worldheart."
Falcon shrugged helplessly. "It is what he said."
"If the Prince of Devils has the Worldheart, then how are we still fighting a war against him? Why has he not used its full power to make all bow to him and his cult?"
"Ah, my friend, but you don't know Yuldor as I do." Falcon's eyes seemed almost to glow for a moment. "We've always believed Yuldor a god, like the Whispering Gods, or Jalduaen, patron spirit of the Warlocks' Circle. But I am beginning to understand that might not be true. What if instead Yuldor were a mortal, just like us, before he seized the Worldheart?"
Tal leaned back and closed his eyes. "Then he would not have almighty power even with it."
"Exactly. The Gladelysh elder told me of Yuldor before the Eternal Animus began, of Yuldor the mortal. Seven hundred years ago, Yuldor was a powerful elven sorcerer and well-renowned throughout all of Gladelyl for his power and wit. But when he delved too far into the workings of the Night, the queen of that time had no choice but to exile him from the land. Robbed of his home and society except for the four apprentices who followed him into the wilds, Yuldor vowed revenge and pursued the only artifact powerful enough to vie against the Chromatic Towers of Gladelyl: the Worldheart.
"Though there's no certainty that he ever found it, and Yuldor was never seen again, it was mere decades afterward that the monsters began to come down from the Eastern mountains, and the Nightborn warlocks we call the Extinguished began to twist the politics of the Westreach. Thus the Gladelysh guessed the truth, and decried Yuldor's name as the Enemy behind the war." Falcon shrugged. "Rumor spread like wildfire until it became all but fact, and all living within the Westreach believed Yuldor was a demon, a god risen from the Night's Pyres to plague the World, and only stopped from destroying it by the continued efforts of the Whispering Gods."
Tal breathed long and deep for a moment, sitting with the story, then took a long drink from his wine. "An intriguing tale. But it changes nothing."
Falcon cocked his head. "Why not?"
"Whatever he is, god or demon or sorcerous elf, whether he possesses the Worldheart or not, he's immortal now, and with the Soulstealers and hordes of monsters at his service. The story of his origins doesn't change that the Eternal Animus continues, and we're losing."
"But you don't see it, my friend!" The bard seized his arm in a tight grip. "If he was mortal once, why could he not be mortal again? If we could separate the Worldheart from him, would we not be able to end this ceaseless war?"
Tal wrested his arm from his grip and stood, draining his glass. "No," he said shortly. "It's a dream, Falcon. We struggle to kill the beasts he sends down from his mountains. We can't even kill the Extinguished, for they rise again after every attempt. How could we possibly hope to steal an all-powerful stone from beneath Yuldor's nose?"
Falcon stood as well, gold spinning in his eyes. "Perhaps your songs are over," he said, lips twisting into a mocking smile. "Perhaps the days of glory for Tal Harrenfel are all in the past."
"I hope they are." Tal gripped the bard's shoulder and squeezed. "It was good to talk, old friend. But I've fought too many battles with the East to harbor false hope."
Falcon captured his wrist in his hand. "We must always have hope. And why struggle on?"
"Why indeed?" he muttered.
He tried freeing himself from the bard's grasp but found Falcon's grip too tight. Tal met his gaze. "What?"
"You're hunting one of the Extinguished here, aren't you?" Though he posed it as a question, there was certainty in the minstrel's gaze, and hunger as well.
But Tal wasn't about to feed it. Though his friend might wish to hunt down old tales, he wouldn't land him in trouble for it. Not when Falcon had a daughter.
"No, my friend. Aldric wants something far more ordinary — just to bolster his reign with my good name." Making for the window by which they'd come out onto the roof, Tal added over his shoulder, "Don't hope for more songs from me."
He caught the bard smiling. "I wouldn't dream of it."
Tal tried to ignore the uneasy feeling that spread through his gut as he folded back inside the castle.
Sparring Partner
"So," Wren huffed between thrusts of her wooden sword, "what's he doing here, anyway?"
Garin, gasping for breath, narrowly parried her blows, then caught a swing on his shield. He could barely think, much less come up with the right thing to tell her. "Don't know," he hedged.
The girl feinted to his right, then spun and whacked his left leg. Garin yelped and fell to a knee, but managed to catch her next blow on his shield.
"That's good," she said, mimicking the Master-at-Arms' gruff voice.
Garin wheezed a laugh. "It would be funnier if you hadn't just broken my leg."
"Oh, cry about it. But honestly — what's the great Tal Harrenfel, Defender of the whole bloody Westreach, doing here? Father said he'd retired. And he looks like he retired, hair streaked with white, face wrinkled and tired."
"The white is from scars, I think. Scars from sorcery. And he's not too old to fight. We sparred on the way down here, and he moved like a farm cat. Not to mention he and Aelyn took on a tangle of quetzals."
At the memory, he winced. He couldn't quite remember why the monsters had left him alone — all he could remember was how they'd surrounded him, then he'd been falling, and Tal had caught him and dragged him back to safety. More than enough to remember, as far as he was concerned.
Wren stared at him quizzically. "I wasn't attacking him — just noting facts. What's he to you, anyway? He's not your long-lost father or something?"
"No," Garin said quickly. "I'm not his bastard."
Before the words had left his mouth, the girl was attacking him, thrusting her shield forward then jabbing with the sword. He found himself backpedaling, off-balance, until he landed on his rump once more.
Wren grinned down at him and offered a hand. "No shame in being a bastard. I'm one myself."
Garin had already gripped her hand when he froze. "What?"
"Get up! Or do you want Krador to switch us both?" She hauled him to his feet, and they took their distance apart. "Let's practice Fort-Strike-Fort. You remember it?"
"It's in the name, isn't it? I start with a raised shield, wait to block one of your blows, then counterattack, and finally block your returning blow with my shield."
"You're not too daft to learn after all. But are you quick enough?"
She launched her assault, but instead of lashing out with her sword, she bashed forward with her shield again. Garin tried to keep with the Fort-Strike-Fort technique, but when he tried to strike, he found her sword already whipping in and cracking against his arm.
Yelping with pain and rage, he dropped his sword and shield and clutched at his throbbing arm. "What'd you do that for?" he demanded.
Wren stood over him with a small smile. "My mother was a noblewoman my father seduced in Felinan. It caused a great scandal, or so the other players have told me. After she birthed me, she wanted me thrown in the river, so my father stole me, and the troupe fled south that night."
"I'm sorry." The words sounded limp and inadequate even to his ears.
She shrugged. "Just the way it is. Pick up your sword and shield — Krador is headed this way."
Garin released his throbbing arm and snatched up the sword and shield just as the Master-at-Arms reached them.
"Are we chatting or learning how to not get killed?" he demanded, staring between them. His switch was clutched in a white-knuckled grip.
"Trying to not get killed, Master," Garin said quickly.
"That's good. But the way you're going, you'll end up there. Practice Fort-Strike-Fort! If you're not quick and smart enough to stick your opponent, you can at least not get stuck yourself."
Garin obliged by raising his shield, though he wondered if it was any good. Three weeks he'd been coming down here to the courtyard for three hours a day, and though he'd learned plenty in that time, it was rare that he landed a hit on Wren. Little comfort, too, that he seemed to be catching up to the other boys, as they were
all at least two years younger than him.
But, he mused as he blocked Wren's quick lash, at least he didn't have to fumble his way through a conversation with Wren. He far preferred to face her sword than the bite of her tongue.
Garin gave Wren the slip after training, as he always did, and found his way to Sister Pond's classroom. Set against only a book for an opponent, formidable as it was, progress was more apparent, and he was already sounding out words for himself and reading whole sentences. Sister Pond radiated approval.
"Never have I had such a quick student!" she marveled. "You have a scholar's mind, my boy! You must keep to your education!"
Garin muttered a reply, then scurried off. The nun's kindly enthusiasm and support always made him uncomfortable, though he couldn't say why.
But he found no solace in his acting practice at the Smallstage, as the rooms the Dancing Feathers occupied were called. With Wren as his tutor there as well, and with no Master-at-Arms keeping them to their tasks, but only her father yodeling loudly from a corner to the raucous laughter of the troupe, he was entirely at her mercy.
She dragged him to the opposite corner, between two different sets of great wooden frames, then turned to face him. "You didn't answer me earlier."
"Answer what?" he asked innocently.
"What the great Tal Harrenfel is doing here! And why he's brought you of all people with him."
He shrugged, mind turning quickly, but finding nothing to say. He didn't want to lie to Wren, but with her forcing the issue, he wasn't sure what else he could do. Tal had been adamant about keeping their mission secret.
That left only deflection. "What are we practicing today?"
Wren grabbed him and pulled him close. "Don't put me off, Garin Dunford. You're going to tell me what he's doing here, or you can count on my making your life miserable."
"Come on, Wren. I promised him I wouldn't say."
"But you can tell me. You think anyone could make me tell a secret if I didn't want to?" She arched an eyebrow at him.
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