Dark Jenny elm-3

by Alex Bledsoe

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The group clustered around me in the tavern stared in disbelief. The air was thick with the smell of burning wood from the restoked fire, spilled ale, and sweaty bodies. Outside the wind futilely sought entrance, and no doubt blew snow over the coffin.

  Finally Angelina said, speaking for them all, “That’s it?”

  “That’s it,” I said.

  “But… King Marcus died that day,” Emmett, the fur trader, said. “There was a civil war. The island is a wasteland now.”

  “That’s true.”

  “You mean Drake and Medraft didn’t die at each other’s hand, and Drake wasn’t carried off to a magical castle by his sister and all the other secret moon priestesses?” Callie blurted.

  “Nope.”

  She put her hands on her hips in outrage. “Then all Tony’s ballads about him are wrong?”

  “They’re songs, sweetie, not news,” Liz gently pointed out.

  “Then how did Drake die?” Minnow Shavers asked.

  “You know the old saying ‘If it was a snake, it would’ve bit me’?” I said. “It was a snake. It did bite him.”

  “He died of a snakebite?” Gary Bunson practically shouted in disbelief.

  I nodded. “Walking through the grass to mount his horse and lead the Knights of the Double Tarn into battle. It happened right after I left. There was no antidote to the poison. So you can see why the minstrels might need to spice it up a little.”

  I met Liz’s steady gaze and saw her slight smile. This was exactly the reaction I told her I’d get if I told the truth. People don’t want their heroes brought low by random, capricious fate. They want bold deaths, courageous sacrifices, bravery in the face of certain doom. They want the ballads and broadsheets.

  I imagine the heroes wanted that as well.

  Liz, of course, knew the true end of the story. Not that I’d lied about anything: what I told them is what really happened. But I left out a part that was too personal to narrate to a roomful of people. Only Liz had heard it, and she agreed that I could keep it to myself.

  Gillian and Medraft were carried away for burial, and Megan Drake was dragged off to the dungeon. She met my gaze for a long moment as they took her out. I expected to see hatred, but there was only anguish. I guess “mother” came before “priestess” and “avenger.”

  When Drake’s staff showed up to plan their attack, I slipped from the tent, exhausted and barely upright. Everywhere men in armor clattered to their tasks, and their sudden activity caused Medraft’s mercenaries to prepare for battle as well, even without their commander. I leaned on my wagon and put my head down on my arms, grateful for a chance to close my eyes. I seemed to be the only still thing within miles.

  Until I felt a light hand on my shoulder and a familiar voice said, “Eddie? Is that you?”

  I raised my head. Iris Gladstone, in her white coat and carrying her bag, smiled at me. “I can’t tell you,” she said, “how happy I am to see you in one piece.” She stepped toward me, lips already pursed for a welcoming kiss.

  I put a hand out to stop her. “I’m too tired to slap you. But for the sake of this conversation, let’s pretend I did.”

  She tossed her black bangs from her eyes and said, “What for, exactly?”

  “Let’s see. There’s helping Megan Drake try to overthrow the kingdom to avenge her family honor, just because you and she share a religion. There’s keeping me occupied so Megan could get to Astolat first and warn her son about how things had changed.”

  Iris looked down at the grass and chewed her lip thoughtfully. I could see she was deciding whether to confirm my accusations or try to deny them. She chose the honorable path, at least.

  “It was more than just ‘keeping you occupied,’” she said. “A lot more. You know that.”

  “Not enough more. But whatever. The real thing I’d like to slap you for is that you helped hide the murder of a young girl who did nothing but hold the wrong plate of apples at the wrong time.”

  She looked at me unapologetically. “Then go ahead and slap me. In fact, use the hand I fixed for you.”

  “Yes, you fixed my hand. By using moon-priestess magic at the same time you were calling it ‘superstitious hocus-pocus.’ A nice touch.”

  “You call it magic. What if it’s just a science that you men just can’t comprehend?”

  “Same difference to me. So how many of you are on this island?”

  She smiled with no warmth. “You think I’d tell you?”

  I shook my head. “I really don’t care, Iris. I’ve known a few moon priestesses, and none of them were as nutty as your bunch seems to be. Maybe it’s just because you were taking orders from a lunatic like Megan Drake. But it’s not my country, and not my problem. All I want to do is go somewhere else. Anywhere else.”

  She stepped closer and spoke with the urgency of the converted. “There’s more at stake here than just Marcus Drake’s pride, Eddie. The moon goddess doesn’t insist on blind obedience. Megan Drake has her reasons, and I have mine. And if that girl had to be sacrificed so women all over this island can worship the moon goddess freely, then even though I regret it, I believe her death served a good cause.”

  “Did anybody ask her?”

  She lowered her head and said nothing.

  “Did you get your hands dirty and actually kill her, or just look the other way?”

  Still nothing.

  “I have one last question for you, then. You knew I’d been asked to get Elliot Spears. Why didn’t you just kill me instead of stalling me so Megan could get out of Nodlon first?”

  Iris peered up from beneath her bangs, and for an instant there was that jolt again, the one that said she and I were bound to connect. The memories of our night together rushed back with an urgency I didn’t anticipate and hope I hid. I wouldn’t count on it, though.

  “Because I like you, Eddie. I couldn’t stand Agravaine, even though he had his uses, and I appreciated you for what you did, and why. I decided on my own that you were worth saving.” She bit her lip slightly. “You still have time to show me I made the right decision.”

  I laughed. Not the funny kind of laughing.

  “Laugh if you want,” she said. “In six months, this island could be a paradise where women are free to do as they please.”

  “Baby, in six months this island will be ankle deep in blood.”

  “Don’t call me ‘baby,’” she snapped. “I am a grown woman and a doctor.”

  “Yeah, you’re also something else.” But before I could tell her what, Bob Kay came out of the tent and joined us.

  To Iris he said, “I hate to bother you, but could you take a look at my neck? I don’t think it’s too serious, but I’m not a doctor.”

  “Apparently neither am I,” Iris said to him, but looking at me.

  He looked from one of us to the other. “Am I missing something?”

  I couldn’t turn her in. She could’ve killed me and didn’t. I owed her. But just this once.

  “No, you’re not missing anything, Bob,” I said. “She’ll fix you up.” The last glimpse I had of her was following Bob Kay into the tent. She did not look back.

  I climbed onto the wagon’s seat, turned the horses toward the hill, and departed through the mercenary camp. The bustling swords-for-hire were too distracted by the Knights of the Double Tarn’s visible battle preparations below to pay me any mind. I rode straight to Lady Astamore and gave her my report on her husband. Then I took the first ship leaving port and never set foot on that damned island again.

  I don’t know if including that bit would’ve made my listeners any happier, but they sure seemed cross with the ending they got. “That’s the worst story I’ve ever heard,” Sharky Shavers said. “And I work on the river, so I hear nothing but fish stories.”

  “Hey, I didn’t want to tell it,” I said. “You guys insisted.”

  “And he did buy a round of drinks,” Liz pointed out. “So be nice.”

 
“ I liked it, Mr. LaCrosse,” Callie said. “Except for the ending.”

  “Thank you.” When I turned to put down my mug, I looked up at Angelina. “What did you think, Angie?”

  She said nothing for a moment. Then, in a voice trembling with emotion, she said, “Ever since I heard about it, I always wanted to go to a place like Grand Bruan. I wanted to live under that kind of ruler, in that kind of kingdom. I wanted to believe there was a place where power was used for good to keep the weak safe.” Her eyes shone with tears she fought mightily to restrain. “Thanks for setting the record straight for me, Eddie. We’ll call it even on your tab. Callie, get your ass up here and pour some drinks.” Angelina turned and rushed into the kitchen.

  We all fell silent, and no one looked at anyone else. Liz silently took my hand. Callie went behind the bar and began refilling mugs.

  At last Gary Bunson said, “Not to be a critic, but you still haven’t told us who’s in the coffin.”

  “Dark Jenny,” Emmet said.

  “Marcus Drake?” Callie asked almost hopefully.

  “Elliot Spears,” Minnow suggested.

  “The real Queen Jennifer,” Mrs. Talbot said.

  “Nope,” I said.

  “Then who?” Gary demanded.

  “Not who, ” I said. “What.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  It was spring before we made the trip.

  “Are you sure it’s around here?” Liz asked.

  “You read the directions, too,” I said.

  “I’m not sure the directions can be trusted. Consider the source.”

  “The source brought me a sword in a coffin in the middle of winter and asked me to return it to its home. Seems counterproductive to give me the wrong map.”

  It was a lovely day on Grand Bruan, and the trees-the ones that hadn’t been burned down-were in the last stages of budding out. Birds sang in the branches, and wildflowers bloomed. Bees and insects frolicked. If you ignored the abandoned towns, destroyed farms, empty roads, and occasional skeletons, it was a beautiful place.

  It had not been easy getting here. No boats other than raiders and treasure hunters made the trip. No reliable information about the political situation reached the mainland. The consensus was that the island had devolved back into warring clans and factions, and you crossed borders at your own considerable risk. The heroes of Marcus Drake’s reign were either dead or missing.

  Yet here I was. Or rather, here we were, because Liz adamantly refused to let me go by myself. She claimed it was a combination of curiosity and loyalty, although I think a little jealousy might’ve been involved. Liz wanted to make sure Iris Gladstone didn’t get another shot at me. In any sense.

  Then again, perhaps that was just my male pride. Liz wasn’t the jealous type.

  So we found a small ship willing to drop us off and return in a week to pick us up. The captain came recommended by Sharky Shavers, so I was reasonably sure we wouldn’t be marooned.

  We landed with our horses, our bags, and our treasure from the coffin, which I’d carefully disguised as just another sword. I had no desire to visit Nodlon or Blithe Ward, but Cameron Kern’s cottage was abandoned when we found it and had been for some time. There was a grave beside it, but the marker had been destroyed so I wasn’t sure if it was Kern, Amelia, or someone else entirely. The entrance to the Crystal Cave was blocked by a rockfall. Even that dream had been destroyed.

  The note Megan Drake gave me that snowy day in Neceda told me where to find the tree where young Marcus first drew Belacrux and claimed the Grand Bruan throne. The trail through the forest was overgrown now but still visible; I was more worried about a possible ambush by bandits than losing our way. And, of course, I kept an eye out for any snakes. But bandits only operated where there were likely victims, and this part of the forest held none. Only ghosts wandered here, and they carried no gold.

  A square monument stone said UPON THIS SPOT KING MARCUS DRAKE STOOD TO WITHDRAW BELACRUX FROM THE ANCIENT OAK. Scrawled over this was graffiti that suggested Marcus Drake go have sex with himself.

  The tree it marked was much larger than any of the others we’d seen in the forest: its trunk was a good twenty feet in diameter, and its branches rose higher than those of any other trees around it. They were gnarled with age, but their leaves were fresh and vibrant.

  Carvings of distorted faces marked the four cardinal directions on the trunk. One large root bore a worn spot where generations of pretenders to the throne had stepped when they tried to claim Belacrux for themselves. I wondered just how many warlords, minor nobles, criminals, and commoners had placed a foot on that root, wrapped their hands around the sword’s hilt, and pulled with all their might. Then I wondered how Kern had arranged it so only Marcus could actually do it.

  Liz stood with her arms folded, taking it all in. “So it all started here.”

  “No, it started when Drake’s father and Megan’s mother got together. It just went public here.”

  “Why did she take the same name, I wonder?”

  “Who?”

  “Megan Drake. If she and King Marcus had different fathers, why did they have the same surname?”

  “I’ll tell you a bigger irony. She also had sex with the island’s king, under circumstances that could be considered rape, except she was the rapist. I wonder if she ever thought she might be retracing her mother’s footsteps in reverse?”

  “That’s a very male perspective.”

  “And it always will be.”

  I withdrew Belacrux from my saddle scabbard. I felt its weight in my shoulder and lower back. It was its own best disguise: the world imagined it as bejeweled and spotless, so no one thought twice about a large, clearly battered weapon.

  It shone in a shaft of sunlight filtering through the branches, the nicks on the blade flashing like sparks. I remembered the winter day when I’d retrieved it from the coffin and brought it into Angelina’s. When I raised it so the firelight blazed along the blade, my audience collectively gasped, and Callie put their thoughts into a single heartfelt word: “Wow.”

  I’d resisted the urge to polish and sharpen it, as well as to keep it for myself. Someone might recognize it: Grand Bruan refugees had now spread throughout the world. Really, though, deep down I knew that Megan’s request was its only possible fate, even if complying with it meant considerable risk.

  From what you told Marcus that day in the tent, I know you understood the dream, her note said, and why it failed. Maybe the next dreamer who draws this thing can make the dream come true. For everyone.

  Liz stood on tiptoe and examined the tree. “I think it goes here,” she said, and slid her fingers into a vertical slit roughly the width of the blade.

  Then with a shriek she jumped back, waving at the cloud that surged forth. “Bees! Bees! ”

  I helped her swat them away and we fell laughing to the grass on the other side of the clearing. We waited until the angry insects calmed down, then I snuck up and put the tip of the sword into the opening. I pushed it in and ran back in case more bees appeared. But none did.

  “Well, that’s it,” Liz said.

  “Not quite. I still have to check it.”

  “Check it?”

  “Yeah, you know.”

  She shook her head. “Boys.”

  I put my foot on the root where so many others had stood, wrapped my hand around the hilt, and pulled. Hard.

  The sword that had moments before slid in like butter now refused to budge.

  I shifted my grip and braced one foot on the tree’s trunk for leverage.

  “That’s cheating,” Liz observed.

  I tried again. The sword remained immobile.

  I rejoined Liz and put my arm around her shoulders. The wind ruffling the branches made the sun dance around the sword like little fairies of light. It must’ve looked like this when Marcus Drake first approached it as a boy, guided by Cameron Kern toward a destiny that had consumed him. Now it awaited the next Marcus Drake, who would hopeful
ly be older, smarter, and better able to resist his own darkness.

  The future king, once again.

  Or something like that.

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