And I've gotten my reward.
Garin shrugged. "He struck the first and final blows. Besides, we talked it over and decided it was best to just say it was him. It was your father's idea, actually."
"My father's? And when did you three sneak off to talk this over?"
"When you were out in the woods at night taking care of your, you know… necessities."
She snorted a laugh, and he glanced up to find her smiling, even if her eyes were still narrowed. "Alright, then. Why was it best?"
A different sort of discomfort came over him now. A lie is best mixed with nine parts truth, Tal had said sometimes on the road. The time had come to put it to the test.
"Tal already has a legend, written and sung. A little more fame won't hurt him. Me, though… it would start questions." He feigned a smile. "And I'm not looking for any attention."
He left it there, hoping she wouldn't wonder what kind of questions he feared. But, in her usual Wren fashion, she bulled on ahead. "Does this have to do with the Soulstealer… possessing you?"
Garin shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant. "A bit." But it has more to do with the devil still plaguing me.
After a moment, Wren raised an eyebrow and looked away. "I don't care about that, you know. No matter what happened in those damned ruins, you're still Garin to me. Besides, whatever it is the matter, they'll heal you in Elendol."
If I last that long. Though her words stirred him to nervous warmth, the heavy weight remained on his chest. Garin breathed a sigh and stared out to the distant hills.
Come, the Singer whispered once more, shattering the moment's peace as surely as a trumpet's blaring call.
He slumped forward. Only one thing he hadn't tried yet, one thing dangerous and foolish. But he couldn't wait until they reached the elven queendom. He couldn't take it any longer.
"I'll come," he muttered.
There was an exultant swell of the sounds, rising through him like rushing tide so that he had to sit upright and try to draw in a full breath, but he couldn't, he was gasping, drowning —
All fell silent.
"Garin?" he heard Wren ask, hands shaking him, but he could barely register it as he marveled at the sudden quiet within him. It's gone. It's truly gone. The Nightsong had fallen silent.
He turned to her with his first unfettered smile in a week and took her hand. "I'm alright. Everything's fine."
Wren looked startled, but she smiled back, gold weaving through the green of her eyes. She squeezed his hand.
Garin looked out over the city again, and the view seemed to have changed somehow, once again marvelous and breathtaking. His grin pulled wider. This, he thought. This is what I left Hunt's Hollow for.
But he couldn't banish the last shred of doubt, buried like a sliver under his skin.
Tal reached the east tower's door and stopped before it.
For a long moment, he traced the grain of the wood with his eyes. Hoping he would change his mind, fearing he would. The Ring of Thalkuun was clutched tightly in his uninjured hand.
You don't have to say the words, he lied to himself, hoping it would give him courage. But he'd always told the weakest lies to himself.
After several minutes, the pressure to act pressing down hard, he raised a trembling hand and knocked.
"Enter," a voice called from within, almost too weak to hear.
Tal turned the handle and pressed inside. The tower was much the same as before: the same books crowding the shelves, the same werelights dimly illuminating the space. But the man who sat at the desk was changed. Kaleras the Impervious had looked advanced in years before, but he hadn't truly seemed old. Now, though, his every movement was slow and calculated, as if afraid any sudden motion might break him.
The warlock turned slowly around to peer at him with hooded eyes. "I'd heard you had arrived. And your mission?"
"Accomplished. I came to return you something." He approached and held out his hand.
Kaleras didn't move to take it but peered up at him, the light catching in his deep brown eyes. "Did it help?"
"Yes."
Still, the warlock didn't take it. Just as Tal began to wonder, Kaleras slowly raised his hand to his. He didn't meet Tal's eyes as he held open his hand, and Tal dropped the band of dull metal in it, not sure if he was disappointed or relieved.
They both withdrew. Kaleras didn't put on the ring but kept it clutched in his hand, eyes set on the wall. Tal's pulse fluttered in his throat, and he clenched his jaw. If a job needs doing, do it quick, he told himself.
"I didn't come here just to give you the ring back. After all, it belongs more to me than you."
"And it belongs more to the Hoarseer Queen than either of us," Kaleras murmured, eyes flickering up to meet his.
Tal smiled briefly at that. "Whichever thief has first claim, I wanted to say that…"
But the words faltered in his mouth. He wanted to say them, tried to — but in a sudden torrent, his childhood swept over him again. His mother, bent over her fletching, working by moonlight because they couldn't afford even tallow candles, then rising before the sun to clean other folk's clothes. The town's children, their faces twisted and mocking, shouting "whore's bastard" at him over and over, shoving him down into the ditches at the side of the road, while his one friend stood by, watching, helpless.
He clenched his fists, his missing finger spreading pain up his left arm. The pangs of the past never really fade, he mused bitterly. And all the more when you cling to them.
He swallowed the soft, conciliatory words he'd meant to say, the words that might have brought an estranged father and son together after four decades of resentment, and forced out in their place a bitter, twisted smile.
"Well, Father, I must be off to Gladelyl."
Kaleras was looking at him with an intensity that bordered on anger as if he knew what Tal had denied him. His lips mouthed the word Tal had named him with like he rehearsed a particularly difficult incantation. But all he murmured was, "Leaving again?"
"Yes. Perhaps we will see each other again." Tal shrugged. "Perhaps not."
The warlock's face twisted — in pain or revulsion, Tal couldn't tell. "Listen, Tal. I know your mother meant much to you. That much is clear, for you to take your name from hers. But Talania wouldn't—"
"Don't pretend to know what my mother would or wouldn't." The words came out harsh and biting. "Don't pretend to know her. You gave her one night and a bastard, that's all — let's forget the rest."
Tal looked aside. The hush filling the room was thick, choking — he had to speak. "The boy needs guidance and training. You saw the shadow that falls over him; it has only tightened its clutches since our second visit to the ruins. Only the mages of the Chromatic Towers could hope to get him through this now."
Risking a glimpse at the warlock, he found his barb had gone unnoticed. Kaleras' gaze hadn't shifted, but he stared at him with an expression he'd never seen on the warlock's face, nor wished ever to see again.
He looked aside again. "Before I go, I'll need back the thing I entrusted to you before I left."
A pause. "The pages?" Kaleras asked softly. "Copied from a fell book? I saw the language they were written in, Tal. What are you reading in the Darktongue?"
"Never mind that. I trust you still have them?"
"I do. But, my condition being what it is, you'll have to gather them yourself."
Tal turned and ascended the stairs. It only took a moment of shuffling through his bedside drawers before he found the stack of poorly bound parchment and returned downstairs. The warlock looked as if he hadn't shifted, staring at the wall as if scrying into the future. Or, more likely, into the past, he thought.
Kaleras glanced over as he approached. "Good luck to you. The boy will need it, as will you if you stick by him."
"Perhaps. But that's the difference between you and me, isn't it? I will stick by him, no matter the danger, no matter the cost. No matter that we share no blood."
Not
waiting to see the aged warlock's reaction, Tal turned and, the copied pages of A Fable of Song and Blood clutched to his chest, exited the door.
As he stepped out, he saw Kaleras had two more visitors. Who knew the old warlock was so sought after.
Stranger still was who his visitors were. A young man with a shaved pate and wearing brown robes stood next to a middle-aged monk with even less hair. Of the Order of Ataraxis, Tal noted, seeing the eight-pointed star on the dark, iron medallions hanging from their necks, the only ornamentation allowed to the monks.
"Lord Tal!" the younger one said with a nervous smile. "If you could spare a moment…?"
Tal repressed a sigh and shifted his stack of parchment so that his body blocked it partially from sight, then plastered on a pleasant smile. "I'm no lord, but I can spare you two moments if you wish."
"My apologies, L — Mister Tal." The young man quickly gestured at the older monk. "I am Brother Nat, and this is Brother Causticus. If you have the time, my brother wishes to speak with you."
Tal nodded respectfully to the older monk as he looked him up and down. "Well met, Brother Causticus."
The monk didn't answer him but narrowed his eyes, looking every bit as hostile as one of Falcon's former lovers when they caught up to the bard. A deep admirer of mine, indeed.
"A thousand apologies again, Mister Tal," the young monk rushed to say. "Brother Causticus has taken a vow of silence. Since he took it twenty-six years ago, he has not spoken a word but to the Whispering Gods."
"I see." A Mute, he thought. That will make conversation rather difficult. "How can I help you then?"
The young monk glanced nervously at Causticus, but the older monk just continued to stare unblinkingly at Tal. "Mister Tal, Brother Causticus has dedicated his life to uncovering the facts behind fables. His past work has delved into many of the oldest myths and folktales across the Westreach and beyond and exposed the truths, and the lies, of them all."
Tal nodded, suspecting where this was heading, but content to let the lad fumble his way there.
"Of late, he has turned to modern legends, those formed within our era and particularly within Brother Causticus' own life. So, Mister Tal, you must see how you would be of particular interest to him."
"How's that?"
The young monk was starting to grow flustered, his movements nervous and erratic. "You're the Devil Killer!" he blurted. "The Red Reaver! You're the man who escaped detection from the Circle for years, who has battled the Servants of Night and won!"
Tal's discomfort squirmed in his gut, but he hid it behind a shrug. "So they say."
Brother Causticus had not stopped staring at him. As the young monk began to respond, the older man gestured sharply, and he cut off, though he wore a worried frown.
"By your leave, Mister Tal, Brother Causticus wishes a private moment with you," Brother Nat said, rather stiffly to Tal's ear. "But before I go, I should tell you the King has requested of our abbot that Brother Causticus and I join you on your journey to Elendol, and Father Hush has complied." He gave an uncertain smile.
Tal returned it, though it wasn't for him. The wheels of the King's machinations never stop turning.
After another moment's hesitation, the younger monk nodded and turned back down the hall, his wooden clogs clicking on the stone.
When his footsteps had faded, Brother Causticus moved closer, close enough for his odor, stinking of onion and garlic, to fill Tal's nose. But he'd smelled far worse, and didn't flinch away as the monk leaned toward him, lips bare inches from his ear.
"Is it true?"
The monk's voice was dry as aged parchment but sharper than Tal would have expected.
"I'm sorry," Tal said politely. "But is what true?"
Brother Causticus' expression spasmed. His intention was clear, but Tal found himself smiling and pretending not to understand. After all, if the man broke a two-and-a-half decade oath once, he doubted he'd hesitate to do it again.
The monk leaned closer, his voice louder. "What they say of you. Is it true? All of it, to the last claim?"
Tal found his lips curling into his wolf's grin, and he leaned in to whisper in the Mute's ear. "If everyone believes it, does it matter?"
Without a backward glance, he turned and left, Brother Causticus' eyes sharp on his back, his smile pulling wide.
Tal kept a smile firmly on his lips as he was once again admitted to the King's throne room.
King Aldric impatiently gestured at the monks lining the room, and the Mutes began chanting. The magic of Solitude pressed in around him like a smothering blanket by the time he stood before the throne.
"Well?" the King demanded. "You've already robbed me of my troupers and coin. What more do you want?"
Tal stared at him. Smiling. Waiting.
For all his failings, Aldric Rexall the Fourth was no fool. And though he was not a man to pale in fear, he grew pale as he understood Tal's smile.
"What is it?" the King demanded. "Speak quickly, or I'll have my guards throw you out."
"You've made more than one king's bargain recently, haven't you, Aldric?"
A flush returned to the King's throat. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"And 'a king always keeps his promises' — isn't that what you told me?"
Aldric leaned forward and shook one thick finger at him. "I've always been tolerant of you, Harrenfel, as patient as if you were my kin. But keep pushing me, and I swear you'll never feel the sun's light on your face again."
Tal's heart pounded a warning in his chest. Aldric was more than capable of making good on his threats; examples of his steel-edged justice were littered throughout his reign. But though he longed to flee, tail tucked between his legs, he held his ground.
"I am no king," Tal said softly. "I don't have the concerns of a realm weighing on my shoulders. But I do know something of deals with devils."
The King laughed harshly. "I suppose I'm the devil in this scenario."
"Not the only one. I didn't come here to threaten you, Aldric. I came with a warning. Remember: you're nothing more than a puppet. And puppets are easily replaced should they stop dancing to their strings."
"Careful, Harrenfel, careful. Or I may have to snip your threads."
"Do as you must. But remember this: no matter what it may seem, no matter how my actions may appear, I will always resist."
The King stared at him for a long moment. "Why?" he asked finally. "Why resist? The Night comes after each day. Its shadow falls across the Westreach, longer and deeper each year."
His hands clenched into fists, his gaze wandering to them. "Damn it, Harrenfel, I'm a king. No one has more duties than a king! No one has greater decisions and worse options. I've done all I can, the best anyone could — and the Whispering Gods be damned if I need to defend myself to you!"
Tal waited as the King burned his fury into silence, then sated the thirst it left in its wake. When the goblet was empty of wine, Aldric slammed the silver chalice back down, bending the stem so that the bowl leaned to one side. The dregs of wine trickled down the bowl, thin streaks of red against the silver.
Only as the King turned his glare back to him did Tal speak. "You ask why I resist, but you already know. It's the same reason why you don't."
"Careful." Aldric's voice went low. "I give you much slack, Harrenfel, but you might still hang yourself from it."
Tal smiled. "We do it for love."
Aldric's eyes bulged from his head, looking at Tal like one of the marsh toads common to Hunt's Hollow. "Love?" he croaked.
"Love for different things, but love all the same. You love being the Ruler of Avendor. You love the power, the wealth, the renown. To you, the sound of your name announced when you enter a room is like the sweetest eunuch's tenor. To you, the fear in your people's eyes as they accidentally catch your gaze is more euphoric than standing atop Heaven's Knoll. You love being King."
Aldric leaned back in his throne, a sneer twisting his broad features
as he looked down on him. "And you — you, the Red Reaver, the Magebutcher — what could you love?"
Their faces appeared in his mind's eye, some of them surprising him. Falcon. Garin. Wren. Even Aelyn and Kaleras. And her, always her, hovering ever in the shadows of his thoughts.
But he shrugged. "What could an unscrupulous rogue like me love beyond fame?"
The King narrowed his gaze, sharp enough to know when he was being mocked. But though you know how to manipulate love, Tal thought, you never could understand it.
The King of Avendor gathered a cold smile. "My time for games has ended, Harrenfel. Take my bard and his troupe; take my wagons and gold; go to Gladelyl and train the boy you claim isn't your bastard. Only don't return. If you do, I swear by all the gods both good and ill, I'll take your head."
For the first time since they'd met, Tal deeply bowed to his King. "You drive a hard bargain, my Liege."
He turned, and Aldric's high-pitched laughter escorted him from the hall.
The Wayward Return
Garin stared up the unkempt dirt road as the cart bumped beneath him. Trees crowded close beside the path and leaned over them, making it hard to see far ahead. But a smile tugged at his lips.
He recognized the way they traveled now.
Soon, the Winegulch Bridge would appear; beyond that, the trees would thin; and soon after, the familiar archway would emerge from the trees, declaring them to be in Hunt's Hollow once more.
Home.
For three weeks, the Dancing Feathers — and their two monk companions — had traveled up the storm-beaten roads to the far reaches of Avendor, braving increasingly wintery conditions. Snow had wafted down on two occasions, but it never stuck, and the cold firmed up the mud to make passage easier. Men and women grown used to the comforts of the Coral Castle pulled their cloaks tightly around them, shivering and complaining to each other of lithe limbs growing stiff and clever hands so frozen they threatened to fall off — though this last complaint was spoken quietly, and only when the one-handed Court Bard wasn't near.
A King's Bargain Page 28