The Keeper Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy

by JA Andrews

  Gustav huffed and glared at the dwarf.

  Brandson shrugged. “I’ve lived there most of my life, and that’s essentially the tale I’ve always heard. Although until I met Gustav, I hadn’t known the part about Meisterfoltergast.” He gave Gustav a small smile.

  Alaric looked back at his paper and kept writing. The tale of Kordan these people knew was warped, but he was definitely the same Keeper that Alaric was interested in.

  “Is there anything left of Kordan? A monument? Signs of destruction? His home?” Alaric kept his eyes on his work. “Any of his valuables the town kept?”

  When no one answered, Alaric glanced up. Brandson, Douglon, and Gustav were focusing intently on their food. Ayda was smirking at them.

  “It was a very long time ago,” Gustav pointed out.

  “Of course,” Alaric said, letting the question drop. “It would be strange to keep mementos of an evil wizard.”

  Alaric didn’t glance up at the group, but the tension in the men was palpable. Alaric blotted the page he had written and turned to Gustav.

  “You seem quite knowledgeable. I’d be honored if you shared some of your stories with me.”

  “I suppose I could do that.” Gustav sniffed. “I’ll have to select the best. We don’t have time tonight for all of them.”

  “You could come along with us tomorrow if you are going to Kordan’s Blight,” Brandson said, causing Douglon and Gustav to scowl.

  Alaric gave the blacksmith a warm smile. “I would love to.”

  Ayda cocked her head and looked at Alaric. “What are you looking for there?” She sparkled captivatingly.

  Alaric pulled his eyes away, focusing on the concrete things around him, the feel of his quill, the sounds of the tavern. “Just looking for old stories, wives tales, histories.”

  She narrowed her eyes.

  “Any local knowledge I can find, really. Recipes for local dishes, remedies for sicknesses, anything people can tell me.” The remedies part was true, and it seemed best to throw in a little truth when talking to an elf.

  She nodded slowly. “And the queen cares about all of this?”

  “The queen cares about all of her subjects.” That, at least, was completely true. “I’d love to hear some stories from you as well. The world has been asking a lot of questions about the elves since Mallon disappeared.”

  Ayda’s smile froze, and her eyes flashed with an anger so deep that Alaric drew back. “The elves are fine.” She bit off each word.

  Her gaze pinned him to his seat. He forced himself not to shift in discomfort.

  Brandson, Douglon, and Gustav looked anywhere but at Ayda.

  “Good,” Alaric answered, forcing a smile. “The queen will be glad to hear it.”

  Ayda nodded curtly.

  “So, Alaric,” Brandson broke in, “have you come across many interesting stories?”

  Alaric turned toward the smith and grabbed for the change of subject. With more enthusiasm than was probably necessary, he launched into a legend from a southern town about their haunted chicken coop.

  The next time he glanced at Ayda, she had relaxed back into her chair, smiling and laughing with the others. He braced his mind against her again, but he couldn’t quite shake the fuzziness that had been on him since she walked through the door. It was going to be a long trip with her if the elf made him feel like this the whole way.

  Alaric set aside the question of the elves. Maybe once he got to know her better she would give him at least some hints. Whatever had happened with the elves, they obviously weren’t fine.

  Chapter Seven

  Alaric led Beast alongside the interesting group the next morning as they headed north along the King’s Highway. Brandson drove a slow horse cart loaded down with assorted blades, horseshoes, and wagon parts from his smithy. Gustav and Douglon walked while Ayda traveled through the edge of the woods along the road, placing her hand on trunks as she passed in the elfish way of listening to the trees.

  It had been a year since Alaric had traveled with anyone, a year since he’d wanted to. But there was such an easy camaraderie about this group that he found himself enjoying it.

  “Oh, look at that oak tree!” Ayda cried out.

  Alaric glanced at the oak. It was one of a dozen he could see around them. Hopefully, there weren’t this many oaks in Kordan’s Blight, or it was going to be hard to figure out which one Kordan had used as a marker for his buried treasure.

  “Which tree?” Douglon asked. “The boring one right there?”

  Alaric tried not to laugh. It wasn’t exactly boring, but there was nothing unusual about it.

  Ignoring the dwarf, Ayda stepped over to the oak, slipping in under the heavy branches.

  “I think it’s a nice tree,” Brandson said.

  “It’s a tree,” Douglon said. “Like that one and that one and that one.”

  Ayda came back weaving a chain of leaves together. Alaric watched her hands closely. It almost looked like she was creating new leaves as she walked, but that was impossible.

  “Here you are, noble dwarf,” Ayda said, holding out the chain. “A gift from Harwood.”

  “Harwood?” asked Alaric.

  “Probably the stupid tree’s name,” explained Douglon, backing away as Ayda tried to put the chain around his neck.

  “It is his name,” Ayda said. “And stand still, dwarf, or I’ll enchant this so that you can never remove it.”

  Douglon paused, and Ayda took the opportunity to fling the necklace of leaves around his neck. They fell over his shoulders, the bright green leaves lying across the front of his red beard. Douglon stopped and glared at her.

  “Come now,” she said, patting his bearded cheek.

  Alaric was caught between admiration for her bravery and concern for her safety. He certainly wouldn’t have patted a dwarf wearing that expression.

  “Wear it a bit for old Harwood,” Ayda said. “At least until he’s out of sight. It makes you look ferocious.”

  The dwarf growled and leaned toward her menacingly. Ayda laughed. “See?”

  Douglon’s hand went to the chain of leaves, but he didn’t pull it off.

  “You can write this down, historian,” Gustav said in a nasal voice from beside the cart where he had been walking. “In ancient times, the leaves of the oak tree were used to form crowns for the victors of war. I myself have formed weapons out of oak leaves, using spells to harden them and hurl them at my enemies!”

  Alaric forced an interested look onto his face. “I’ll add that to my notes tonight.” The part about the crowns was true, but hardening leaves into projectiles seemed like a waste of energy. If you needed to hurl something hard, just pick up a rock.

  “Not the dreaded leaf attack,” Douglon muttered. He began to peel the green blade off each leaf, leaving only a wiry chain of stems around his neck.

  “That sounds impressive,” said Brandson to Gustav, giving the old man a smile. “I hope we’ll never be in a position to need that useful trick.”

  “Surely we will, my boy,” Gustav said. “Surely we will. Danger is always close at hand.” With those ominous words, the wizard moved ahead of them down the road, peering into the underbrush.

  Brandson glanced at Alaric and shrugged.

  Alaric still couldn’t completely shake the unfocused feeling that he’d had since the group walked in the door of the tavern last night. He couldn’t sense Ayda actually trying to influence his mind, but he also couldn’t quite shake the feeling that his mind wasn’t completely his own.

  But in spite of that fuzziness, part of his mind felt more alert. It required a vigilance that he hadn’t needed in a very long time to make sure Ayda wasn’t influencing him. Nothing about her was particularly threatening, but he wasn’t going to be able to relax until they reached Kordan’s Blight and he could put some distance between himself and the elf.

  Alaric let the wizard, the dwarf, and the elf pull ahead of Brandson and his slow cart. The young smith would be the e
asiest person to start a conversation with about Kordan’s Blight.

  Brandson hadn’t been any more forthcoming than the others last night when Alaric had asked them if anything of Kordan’s was left in Kordan’s Blight. Would the young man need encouragement to talk? The Keepers wouldn’t approve, because they didn’t use magic to manipulate people. But the spell wouldn’t really change Brandson, just make him a little more…whatever he already was. Brandson was already a trusting sort, so it would encourage that a little. Still, it was a morally hazy area.

  Last night, when Alaric had pulled the ruby out of its pouch, the inky line had seemed darker. It had still been the only dark line in a sea of red, but each time it had swirled across one of the faces of the Reservoir Stone, it had felt more ominous. The thought pushed away any remaining guilt about using his magic. A little information up front could save Alaric a lot of time searching for Kordan’s Wellstone. Alaric wrapped his hand around the reins to hide any tremor and made sure the rest of the group was far enough away to not be affected by the magic.

  “Augmenta,” he whispered. He fisted his hand against the pain as the energy was released.

  “You have a unique family,” Alaric said to Brandson.

  “Yes,” Brandson agreed. He continued in a confiding whisper, “You may be surprised to learn that we are not blood relatives.”

  Alaric laughed. “Astonishing.”

  “We are all orphans of one sort or another and have thrown our lots in together. I am an orphan of the sort that is actually an orphan. My parents died from one of the outbreaks of the yellow plague during the Riving of the north.”

  Alaric made a sympathetic noise. The people of the north were spread out into such small villages and towns that Mallon, when he had come here, hadn’t bothered bringing an army. Instead, he had sent a sickness. The yellow plague had been especially deadly to healthy men. In many parts of the north, not a single man between fifteen and fifty survived. Most of Brandson’s generation were fatherless.

  “When I was fifteen, the blacksmith in Kordan’s Blight took me in and taught me his trade. He died five years ago and I have been the town blacksmith ever since.”

  Ahead of them, Gustav stalked along the road by himself, muttering.

  Brandson smiled after the wizard. “Wizendorenfurderfur appeared half dead on my doorstep during a blizzard late last winter. I dragged him in and thawed him out. The story of his life before that is so... complex... that I can’t follow it. But I don’t think he has any family. He’s hung around ever since. We haven’t seen much of his dazzling magical powers, but he’s a good cook, and my stomach is glad of his company.”

  “Is he really a wizard?” Alaric asked, his voice pitched low so Gustav couldn’t hear.

  “I think so.” Brandson wrinkled his brow. “At least he tells an awful lot of stories about his magical skills. I have seen him start a fire with just a word.”

  Manipulating energy to light a fire wasn’t difficult. The old man might have some minimal talent. Maybe a touch more than the average street magician who could often sense energy without being able to manipulate it.

  “And those two?” Alaric asked, looking at the dwarf and the elf who were haggling over the color of a blackberry.

  “Black,” Douglon said, “it’s a blackberry.”

  “The berry is purple. And there is a hint of gold,” Ayda said.

  “Gold? Let me see.”

  Smiling triumphantly, she handed it to him.

  Douglon popped the berry in his mouth. “Tastes black.”

  Ayda glared at his mouth for a moment as though she might reach in and get the berry back. Then she shrugged. “I’ll find more. I wonder if they will all have gold in them?”

  Brandson let out a laugh. “I found Ayda when I was hunting not long after the snow melted. She was wandering through the forest chatting with trees. I had never seen an elf before, so I invited her to my home for a meal. She agreed, which surprised me. I didn’t think elves bothered with humans.”

  Alaric watched Ayda scampering along the bushes next to the road. “They usually don’t. I’m not only surprised she came to your home, I’m surprised that she would travel with you on a trip as long as this. She isn’t anxious to get home?”

  Brandson shook his head. “No. And it’s not just this trip. Ayda’s been staying at my smithy for almost three months. She does leave every once in a while, but then she shows back up again.”

  Three months? Elves that had come to the capital to meet with Saren were unhappy if they were out of the Greenwood for three days.

  Brandson watched Ayda for a moment. “I think she left her family, but I don’t know why. As far as I know, that is unusual for an elf.”

  It wasn’t unusual. It was unheard of. The elves shared a communal life force. If something were urgent enough, an elf would leave the Greenwood, but they always hurried back. Some Keepers went as far as to believe that isolating an elf would lead to its death.

  “She’s been with you that long? Elves never form attachments to anyone but other elves.”

  Brandson shrugged. “She’s become friends with us.”

  Alaric looked closely at the elf, wondering if Brandson was bestowing her feelings with a name they didn’t deserve.

  “I met Douglon that same day. Ayda and I discovered him in the woods on our way back home. He was standing in a clearing, poring over a map. He hid it as soon as he noticed me. I approached him first, in case he was hostile, but he was nice enough. Especially when he saw my hunting knife.”

  Alaric glanced down at the knife on Brandson’s belt. He looked closer. “Is that dwarf-made?”

  “No, I made it, but I modeled it after the dwarfish blades. Douglon was intrigued. I invited him to my forge to see my work, and he accepted. But when Ayda stepped out of the trees, he almost left. Said his beard would fall out if he had to listen to the prattling of an elf for an entire meal.

  “It was the most serious I’d seen Ayda all day. She told him he was in need of a bath. It turns out Douglon is proud of his hygiene. Her words almost sent him into a frenzy.

  “I managed to calm the two and remind them that as my guests they would do well to respect my friends. They agreed, but it was a tense walk back. Part way through dinner, though, we had a breakthrough. Douglon, who’d had several pints of ale, confided to us that he possessed a treasure map. But he’d gotten himself stuck since he was unable to interpret the runes on the map.”

  Alaric was part fascinated, part alarmed. His augmenta spell might have worked too well. He had only wanted the blacksmith to feel comfortable, but if Brandson started spilling secrets, he might grow suspicious as to why. Alaric cast about for a moment, but could think of no way to end the spell.

  “Gustav, as you will soon learn,” Brandson continued, “has enormous amounts of knowledge of all things, including runes, and offered to interpret them. After some haggling, we decided that between Gustav’s knowledge, my familiarity with the region, Ayda’s ability to talk to the trees, and Douglon’s map, we might be able to find this treasure. Gustav, when he had interpreted the map, claimed he had heard of it. His great-great-grand uncle or some such person had passed down information about it.”

  Brandson sighed. “But that was months ago, and we still have found nothing. Not for lack of trying. We’ve dug in dozens of places, but we haven’t found—”

  He stopped and looked at Alaric in dismay. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. We swore an oath of secrecy to each other.”

  Alaric worked hard to keep his face bland. “That’s the way of the road, isn’t it? Talking to strangers. I’ve had no one but Beast to talk to for a long time. By now, he knows all my history.” He patted Beast’s neck. “He’s probably thrilled to hear someone else’s for once.”

  Brandson paused and Alaric waited, trying to look unconcerned. Finally, he sighed. “It’s actually something you might be interested in writing about. The treasure supposedly belonged to the wizard Kordan. It’s some s
ort of enormous gem that might have magical powers. Kordan buried it before he was driven from town.”

  Alaric’s hand clenched on the reins, and he whipped his head around toward Brandson so quickly that the blacksmith drew back.

  Ayda stepped into view around the carthorse, her hands overflowing with blackberries.

  Alaric focused on her quickly, an inept cover up for showing the surprise he had to Brandson. But that was another mistake. As soon as he focused on Ayda, he realized the fuzziness had crept across his mind again. Pulling his eyes away from her, he fixed his eyes resolutely on the berries while she laid them out on the seat next to Brandson. Being with these people was like being caught in a mental whirlwind. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his mind and to school his features into a more reasonable level of surprise.

  Ayda beamed at Alaric and offered him a berry. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  He managed a weak smile. “Not since yesterday.”

  She cocked her head at him, her expression bemused. “Well, there’s nothing like a juicy berry to remind you you’re still among the living.” With a grin, she walked off ahead of them.

  Alaric stuck the berry into his mouth to give himself an extra moment to recover. It burst with juices, the tartness clearing his head. He grabbed another one before even trying to think straight.

  These people were searching for Kordan’s Wellstone? The same Wellstone that he had learned existed only yesterday? He shoved against that fuzzy feeling in his mind again. What was he missing here?

  “That’s quite a treasure,” Alaric said finally. “And it is exactly the sort of thing I would love to write about.”

  Brandson nodded slowly.

  “It does seem strange that Gustav happened to have information about a treasure Douglon was looking for,” Alaric said, attempting to move the focus of the conversation off himself.

  “That’s what Douglon thinks, too,” Brandson said. “He doesn’t believe Gustav knows anything. Thinks he’s just along to steal the treasure. It doesn’t help that Gustav’s clue is too cryptic to make sense of. ‘The stone lies beneath the oatry,’ whatever that means.”