by Robert Evert
“All right then,” Edmund said, giving in. “So, so, so what is it then, if not my stutter?”
“Oh, so the learned scholar is interested in what a lowly stable hand has to say, is that it?”
“Come on, out with it, Norb. Say what you want to say. I’m listening.”
Norb leaned closer to Edmund. There was a more than a hint of cheap alcohol on his breath. “As I was saying, the reason why you’ll never, you know, with Molly there isn’t because of your particular manner of speaking. It’s because women don’t dream about being with guys like us.”
Edmund recoiled at being lumped into the same category as the skinny, foul-smelling stable hand.
“You see, women always want what they can’t have. And around here, they can’t have men of adventure, men of glory. Don’t believe me? Look at all the women drooling over this storyteller the past week. Now, he’s a good-looking enough chap, I’ll give him that. But put him in mended trousers and throw shit on his boots, and he’d look like any of the lads from the farms.”
Edmund recalled the overabundance of women attending the evening’s festivities. Most of them were gathered in the front rows, the mixture of their perfumes nearly overwhelming Edmund way in the back of the room. He remembered how they hung on the storyteller’s every word, giggling and crying out at all the appropriate moments. The girls approaching marrying age were dressed in their best clothing and had their hair done up. At least three were holding bouquets of red roses, presumably for the speaker when he was finished.
“Your point?”
“Let me put it to you this way, my dear scholar. In all of those books of yours, how many times has the beautiful damsel ever run off with the librarian? Or the stable hand? And how many times have they run off with the unknown stranger? Or the mysterious traveler? Or the lad coming back wounded from the big battle?”
He has you there.
“Go on.”
“The qualities women want in a husband are, one—” Norb held up a grubby finger, its ragged nail gnawed to the quick. “Faithfulness. They want somebody who’ll not run out on them when they get old or when somebody prettier comes along.”
Nodding, Edmund motioned for Norb to continue.
A second blackened finger appeared. “Two, they want security. They want somebody who can buy them the things they want. And they want to know they’ll never starve.”
Again, Edmund nodded in agreement.
A third finger rose. “Three. They want something different than what every other woman around them has.”
Raising his own well-manicured finger, Edmund tapped at the evening air. “I, I don’t see your point there. We’re, we’re all different. No two women can have two men who are identical. It’s an im-im-im . . . possibility.”
Norb smiled sympathetically. “Boy, for as smart as you are, you just don’t get it, do you? Here, let me educate you about the fairer sex.” He got even closer to Edmund as if letting him in on a well-guarded secret. Edmund leaned away, attempting to get a breath of unspoiled air. “Suppose that the Rogue here is the Royal Gathering Hall at Eryn Mas. Each of the men inside is a tried and true warrior, rich, famous, and oozing with all of the chivalry crap that you’re always spouting off about. Now, of all these suitable mates, which one would be the most desirable to women?”
“You’re talking nonsense. You haven’t provided enough information upon which to—”
“I’ll tell you who’d get all the ladies panting . . . the fella who’s different from all the rest, that’s who.”
Thinking about this, Edmund jumped when Molly appeared on the top step behind them. In one hand, she had a bottle of wine and a glass. In the other, she had his books.
“Here you go, Ed,” she said, handing him his stack of books. “I don’t want anybody to spill anything on your precious babies.” She handed him the glass and the bottle. “Do you want me to bring you out some steak? Bart killed a young heifer last night just for this group. I can give you the best cuts.”
Edmund stammered. With no coherent words issuing from his mouth, he shook his head.
“Suit yourself,” she said. “Now, don’t let Norb here get you into any trouble, you understand? He’s a rapscallion if ever there was one.”
Norb chuckled, not disagreeing. “Good evening, Mol,” he said, inclining his head in a slight bow. “Sure lookin’ pretty tonight, as always.”
She grinned at the stable hand, about to say something in response. But then somebody in the common room called for more ale.
“Gotta run!” She wiggled her fingers at them and disappeared inside, the screen door banging shut behind her.
Edmund stared, blinking at the space that Molly had just vacated, finally able to breathe. Sighing, he said to Norb, “Go on.”
“Finally, women want to live through their men. They can’t go out and do what they want. They don’t have the legal rights or education or the money. So they live vic . . . vic . . . vicorously—”
“Vicariously,” Edmund said, pouring himself a drink.
Norb eyed the bottle. “Yeah, that’s the word you use, ‘vicariously.’ They have to do that through their men. They want excitement and passion and mystery and adventure. Let me ask you this. How exciting would it be to be married to a librarian? Or a stable hand for that matter? What new stories could we tell them each night as they served us our dinner?”
“Ah, but, but, but that’s where you are wrong.” Edmund sipped the red wine with satisfaction. It was from the Hillcrest vineyard. Molly knew all of his favorites. “You see, I have a world of st-st-stories. Stories from back when humans first came to this continent!” He stabbed his chin at the tavern and took another drink. “Stories that are far better than this imposter could ever tell.”
“Yes, but those aren’t your stories. They’re the ones that you’ve read about, which gets back to my third point. Any woman can have their man read them those stories.”
Only if they’re literate.
“Look, Ed. The reason why women like Mol don’t go for fellas like us is because we’re boring.”
Boring?
You can’t deny that one.
Scowling, he took another drink.
I’ve been bored my entire life.
“Here, let me ask you this. How long have you dreamt about going to Eryn Mas and becoming one of the King’s advisors? How many years have you dreamt about writing your own book or adventuring into the wild lands or all those things you keep talking about? If a man doesn’t follow through on his own hopes and dreams, how can a woman believe that he’ll help her achieve hers?”
Staring off into the darkness, Edmund took another drink.
I’ll do all of that and more. I just haven’t had time.
You always say that. Pretty soon, you won’t have any time left.
“You’re a good guy, Ed. But you ain’t exactly exciting, if you don’t mind me saying it.” Norb flicked a manure-encrusted thumb at the screen door. From inside, the storyteller was now regaling the crowd with a comic rendition of how the goblin chieftain surrendered to him. “He, on the other hand, has gone places and done things we could only dream about or read in your books.”
Edmund refilled his glass, trying not to show his growing anger.
You know what he’s saying is true. You need to do something with your life. You can’t just sit here until you die!
“Let me ask you this.” Licking his lips as he watched Edmund drink, Norb scratched the grey stubble on his grubby chin. “Could you honestly see yourself standing on a hill, leading a company of men against a single goblin, let alone a horde of them?”
Edmund snorted.
“Now, all right, this young fellow might not have done that either,” Norb conceded. “But it’s easy to picture him doing it. He has that air about him, you know what I’m saying? It’s the perception that’s important. That’s what makes the man. It’s not what men actually do, but what women believe he’s capable of doing in a pinch, if you
get me.”
Edmund emptied his glass in one long gulp.
“And, and wh-wh-what is it that I’m capable of doing, pray tell?”
Laughing, Norb slapped Edmund hard across the back. “Running and hiding.”
Bastard.
Edmund slammed the nearly empty bottle on the step between them.
Norb’s laughter died. “Now, don’t get me wrong. I mean no offense. Like I say, you’re a hell of a guy. You’re kingly compared to the likes of me.”
Then why do I always feel like a worthless peasant?
I used to think I would be somebody of consequence. Somebody who mattered. But—
“I guess what I’m trying to say is, you’re a bit of a loner. You’re a tough book to read, if that makes it plainer to you. Women don’t like that.” Norb threw up his filthy hands. “But hell, what do I know? I go to bed alone every night, stinking of horseshit.”
Thinking about the miseries of going to bed alone in an empty house, Edmund stared at the dry ground.
I can’t keep living like this. I want to—
The back door swung open. Standing above them, Molly was holding a plate with a thick pink steak, steaming baby potatoes, and pickled cabbage. She gave it to the startled Edmund.
“Just in case you change your mind,” she said, returning the way she came before Edmund could coerce ‘thank you’ out of his mouth.
The screen door banged closed.
When she had gone, Norb went on. “Look, we’ve both known Mol since she was a squirt in pigtails. Do you honestly see her with a fella like us? Or do you see her more with a guy like this storyteller? That’s all that I’m really saying.”
You know he’s right.
I don’t want to hear this anymore.
Edmund shoved the plate of food into Norb’s hands, the steak sloshing to the edge. Several potatoes rolled off and bounced on the dusty ground. He heaved himself to his feet.
“Where are you going?” Norb asked. “Oh, come on, Ed. Don’t go away mad. I didn’t mean any harm . . . ”
Chapter Two
Strolling along the rutted cobblestone lane bisecting Rood, Edmund sucked in the cool night air, hoping that it would revive his flagging spirit. But it didn’t help. He still felt bored and old and empty.
Passing colorfully painted shops and buildings, Edmund roamed Rood’s deserted streets—most of the town’s inhabitants were at the Rogue, listening to the traveling storyteller. For a moment, he considered going up into the hills overlooking the cemetery where his parents were buried, or maybe sitting in the ruins of the great watchtower along the East Road. But he had been to both places more times than he could count, and neither held whatever it was that his heart wanted. Hands in his pockets, he wandered along the dark streets of the village, looking at the too-familiar sites bathed in the bluish glow of shimmering stars.
As he approached the town square, he tried to recall all the good times he had with the other kids his age, playing on the lawn or climbing in the red maple trees lining the way. But the memories of his childhood weren’t all that happy, and he never really had many friends, not close ones at any rate. Further, those days seemed long ago and, although the trees were now twice as high as they were back then, somehow there just wasn’t any fun left in their branches.
He stared back at the Wandering Rogue; light and laughter streamed out of its large, inviting windows, making Edmund feel even more lonely and depressed. Turning away, he began plodding across the village lawn, wondering where he should go and what he should do. He couldn’t take another night of sitting home alone.
Soon, he came to the news pole at the center of the town square. He often went there, reading the various announcements tacked to it, sometimes helping the less literate make out what the postings said. It was also where many of the old-timers congregated to swap stories of the ‘good ol’ days,’ and standing among them made Edmund felt as if he belonged somewhere, even though he was half their age.
When he glanced at the pole, his stride faltered.
There was something new nailed to it, something with King Lionel’s golden crest.
Situated in the Far North, Rood was a month’s ride from the capital city of Eryn Mas and at least two week’s ride to any other settlement bigger than a logging camp. Although technically in King Lionel’s proclaimed kingdom of Arinóre, the residents of Rood hadn’t felt the yoke of nobility for nearly three centuries and most generally believed that they were a land unto themselves. Consequently, royal proclamations from Eryn Mas rarely came this far north and when they did, they never boded well for the town’s inhabitants.
Edmund read the announcement and then read it again.
What? This can’t be right.
It’s a joke. It has to be. It’s probably the doing of Lennart’s son. He’s always pulling pranks like this.
Tearing the proclamation from the pole, he examined the paper it was written on.
It was parchment, expensive parchment at that. Further, the King’s stamp was clear and unmistakable. Anybody making this good of a forgery would undoubtedly be strung up.
It’s definitely not a joke.
Edmund read the proclamation again.
In big block letters it said:
Notice!
Be it known that whoever locates, acquires, or otherwise obtains the Star of Iliandor and brings said item to the magnificent and benevolent hand of His Majesty, King Lionel in Eryn Mas, shall be granted Lordship over Lord Iliandor’s former lands with all powers and responsibilities assumed by that high station.
His mouth open, Edmund read it a fourth time, checking each word carefully just in case Molly’s wine was playing tricks with his eyes.
This has to be a joke. It has to be . . .
But who would do such a thing? Who would risk their life pretending to be the King? People have been beheaded for less.
It’s a long way to Eryn Mas. How would the King ever hear of this? It can’t be real.
He examined the golden seal again. It was clearly authentic. He had seen it enough in his library to know it anywhere.
Lordship over the Highlands?
The Star of Iliandor?
“The Star of Iliandor?” he said aloud to the night.
Nearly five hundred years earlier, Iliandor was the beloved ruler of the territory known as the Highlands, in which the village of Rood was located. He was responsible for many of the region’s advancements—the roads, the walls around the settlements, a system of watch towers, and errand riders who could quickly send information throughout the fiefdom. He even repeatedly saved his people by defeating the Undead King and his goblin armies in three hard-fought wars. To most people of the Far North, he was the greatest hero of the Elder Days and his “star,” the blue jewel he wore on his forehead, symbolized his benevolence and the prosperity of the region’s past. It was also reputed to have strange magical powers, though the tales never really explained what those powers were.
Unfortunately, after Iliandor’s mysterious death at the end of the third and final Northern Goblin War, the star disappeared from history when bandits converged upon the caravan carrying Iliandor’s belongings to Eryn Minor. Surrounded and outnumbered, only one person from the caravan escaped the massacre, a young squire named Isa.
Months after the slaughter, half-starved and delirious, Isa collapsed on the doorstep of a farmhouse outside of Rood. In his hands, he clutched a tattered and worn book—Iliandor’s personal diary. A message was scrawled across its last three and a half pages. But it was written in the ancient tongue of Dunael, which nobody in Rood could read. Over time, the diary came to be owned by Edmund’s grandfather, and then his father, and eventually by him. Further, from an early age, Edmund showed a peculiar gift for acquiring languages. He could read almost anything, including Dunael, and could instantly recall anything he saw. As a result, he knew what the message at the end of the diary said by heart.
It was an account of the bandits’ initial ambush an
d how they surrounded the caravan in the ruins of a tower once called Tol Helen. In fragmented sentences and hastily written words, it told of how the knights guarding the caravan bravely delayed the inevitable while the caravan’s precious cargo was hidden before the bandits could close in. However, where the cargo was concealed, the diary didn’t say.
“The Star of Iliandor,” Edmund said again, pondering the possibilities.
Nobody knows where it is.
Neither do you.
Yes, but at least I have a clue! Considering the circumstances and the amount of time they had to complete their task, the knights could have only hidden it somewhere in the tower or its courtyard. A little poking around. A little prying up loose stones. How hard could it be to find it?
You’ve never been more than ten miles from the East Gate. You aren’t actually considering adventuring all the way to Tol Helen, are you?
Suddenly finding what his heart craved, Edmund exclaimed, “Adventuring!”
No! Don’t even think about it. Nothing good will come of you running off into the blue. You know that! You’ll screw it up. You’ll wind up dead in some ditch somewhere.
Nothing good has come from me sitting here all of these years.
If you go you’ll—
But Edmund had stopped listening. With the royal proclamation still clasped in his hand, his feet began walking in the direction of his house. Then they began to run.
Chapter Three
Turning onto Healing Street, Edmund was immediately confronted by the formidable silhouette of his home, the old apothecary shop that his father built for his mother shortly after they were married. His heart and feet faltered, the more rational part of his mind seizing control. But then the rest of it, fortified by Molly’s fine wine, reasserted itself. Edmund surged onward even more determined than before. He drove his key into the lock, turned it, and threw open the door in triumph.
Familiar silence greeted him.
Fumbling, Edmund felt for the crystal oil lamp that he kept on the table in the foyer. He put his fingers to the wick and, not caring if somebody might overhear him, said the secret phrase his father taught him when he was a child. “Fyre av nå.”
