Gleeman's Tales

by Matthew Travagline

  A creaky wooden bridge fell, stretching across the gap between the walkway and the keep. Gnochi looked down into the moat as he walked over it. “I don’t suppose there are alligators in there?” he asked.

  “Is that a joke? If that’s the best you’ve got, I’ll be coming to collect your corpse before the day is new.”

  “I will be able to perform in front of the king tonight?” Gnochi asked, masking his elated curiosity with a cough.

  “Yes. You’re lucky that his Highness was particularly excited to finally get his own entertainer. So much so, that he’s allowing you to perform before he retires at midnight.”

  At the end of the drawbridge stood two grand oak doors that stood thrice as tall as any man. The doors split slowly in half, opening to a large, well-lit foyer.

  Gnochi was thinking of a witty joke to make at the empty state of the foyer when he was caught by surprise and sucked in his breath. The hall walls were lined with intricate tapestries depicting histories both from the current and first ages. Light pooled around the entire room, illuminating the detailed scenes portrayed through the vibrant hangings.

  And yet, he saw not one fire burning in the room. The light emanated from a chandelier, but no candles flickered along its branches. His next breath was of surprise. Though he had to feign shock at the mere presence of electricity, the fact that it was displayed so prominently in the castle was startling.

  “Welcome back to the first age. There’s not one candle or oil-lamp in the entire castle,” the guard bragged.

  “This is more than a castle.”

  “Coal,” the guard said, as if his one-word answer solved the world’s riddles.

  “But you can’t see the light from outside the castle. Impossibly dark on the outside and impossibly light on the inside.”

  “Every window is boarded up each evening,” the guard explained. “The last thing we need is a horde of peasants on our doorstep.” He laughed, then continued walking toward a hallway that branched off the foyer. “Quickly, follow me to your room.” The two traveled the length of the castle, ascending stairs, and winding down open halls until they arrived at a windowless corridor with one sole room at its end. The room was decorated simply and lit by less elaborate lights than those in the foyer.

  “A servant will come to escort you to his Highness’s audience chambers, next to the foyer.”

  “Tell me,” Gnochi said, “if I am to live here, when will I be able to move about freely without having my hand held?”

  “The castle is a big place,” the guard said, smiling at his own patronizing manner, “It takes weeks for people to learn their way. Plus, we wouldn’t want you to disappear in a hidden niche.” He spoke with an honest tone, yet Gnochi understood the faint threat underlying his words.

  ◆◆◆

  Harvey had scoured the streets of Blue Haven, noting whether each inn had any attic crawl spaces with windows. Every other street corner was lit by an oil lamp, and from their scarce light, he saw that the streets remained as disheveled as he remembered. Life remained unchanged as far as he could see.

  People still tested the limits of Blue Haven’s curfew, though he had not seen a single guard chasing stragglers into their homes. In fact, he had not seen a single guard since he had left his barracks in the middle ring.

  Eventually, Harvey made his way onto a familiar street from his youth. The ramshackle cobbles, still uneven, tripped him in the same places that they had as a child.

  He sat down, his back propped against a wall. Looking up, he realized that he had unconsciously worked his way back to his old crew’s house. As he rested his palms on the rough cobbles, he could imagine the blood seeping up through the stones. He recalled the night when he was forced from his life of street crime.

  Harvey was so tuned into his memories that he did not hear the person exit from the building or see them approach him.

  “Harvey, is that you?” A woman’s soft voice roused him from his thoughts. “It is you!” She rushed over to him, ensnaring her arms around his neck after placing a hurried kiss on his lips.

  “Kiren.” Harvey’s voice was stale. He was unsure as to whether this was an elaborate ruse. Tears flooded his eyes and he buried his nose into her neck trying to remember if cinnamon and chalk were the same scents he remembered her smelling of, more than a year ago.

  “Oh Harv! We thought you were dead. You and Roy both.” Kiren sobbed into his neck. Warm tears trickled down to his shoulders.

  “You thought we were dead? We thought you were dead!” Harvey’s surprised voice bordered on frustration. “The whole group. We saw so much blood. And the bodies. Headless bodies. Headless bodies,” he realized. “I looked for yours.”

  “It was another gang. Those swine, the guard, killed them on our steps. We were afraid they’d killed you, too, since you both didn’t return.”

  “We did come. We saw the bodies. And when we were here, the guards came.” Harvey swallowed a hard lump. “They captured us and offered us two options.” He paused, knowing well that his words would tarnish the reunion. “Conscription or death.” Kiren pulled away fast, tears yet to fall from her eyes glistened in the faint starlight.

  “You’re one of them?”

  He did not even see her hand rear back, but he felt the warm sting indicative of a slap. The pain jolted through his entire body.

  “After everything we’ve experienced together, you joined them?”

  “It was either that or die. They threatened Roy. What was I to do?”

  Kiren had lowered her eyes to the ground. Tears continued to decorate her cheeks, though he suspected they were born of a different emotion. “Die! That’s what,” she hissed, spitting onto the same cobbles that had once flooded in blood. She slammed her hands into his chest. “I wept for you Harv. I loved you and you left.”

  “Ki—”

  “No. You need to leave. You and Roy both. Leave now and never come back. In fact, you should probably leave Blue Haven. If any of the others see you, or, Providence forbid, they learn of your treachery.”

  “Kiren, please,” he said, though already the emotion of his voice had fled. Tears streaked down his cheeks. She slapped him again. This time, her hand only glanced off his face. The momentary contact brought warmth and the feel of her fingers against his skin was worth the sting.

  “Leave now, Harvey!” Kiren said, pulling a knife—his knife—from a belt sheath.

  In another life, a sloppy hand had etched a sprinting wolf into the blade. It was a knife that he had forged and had given as a promise of his love. It was now pointed at his chest. A small ribbon, some new addition, was tied through a hole in the hilt. He felt it poke through his light shirt, relishing the smart of its tip.

  “Let me explain.”

  “Harvey, I swear on all that is holy in this world that if you do not leave right now, I will gut you like the rat that you are!”

  Another apology was bubbling on his breath but he swallowed it back when the hourly bells began their midnight toll. He swore he heard the laughter of Freki’s prophecy rippling through his skull. Without another word or glance spared for his love, he took off running. As he tore between buildings and down alleys, tears blurred his vision.

  Chapter 47

  Ten minutes before the stroke of midnight, Gnochi strolled into the keep’s grand foyer, strumming on The Royal Lyre and humming to himself. Wrapped tight around him was the cloak of the royal entertainer, its black fur warm against the chill of the night seeping up through the cracks in the stone floor and walls.

  One of the guards who had escorted him through the city approached and asked, “You come alone? Where is the servant assigned to you?” Gnochi heard the accusation in the guard’s tone.

  “I could ask you the same question,” Gnochi said with a voice just as accusing. “I sent the man for softer linens over an hour ago and he disappeared.”

  “That’ll need to be investigated later. The king will see you now.”

  ◆◆�
��

  Roy’s patrol of the keep ended in the grand foyer before midnight. He noticed that the king’s audience chamber door had been closed. Suddenly, the commander of the keep’s guard was upon him.

  “You, boy,” the commander said. “Investigate the guests’ quarters for a missing servant.”

  “Yes, Sire,” Roy answered. He made his way up to the guests’ section of the castle. Every room he entered was dark and empty, as no visitors were staying in the keep that evening. Finally, he rounded a corner and spied a room with a slit of light peeking out from under the door. After testing the handle and finding it locked, he kicked it open. The room’s lights were on, and, the window was open.

  A train of bedsheets, anchored around the bed’s grand post was tied together and stretched taut out of the window. As Roy hauled the heavy burden into the room, he discovered that inside the tied bundle was a man: bound, gagged, and stripped of his clothing. His face was wet with fear as Roy undid the gag.

  “Oh, thank Providence you came. I thought I’d freeze to death dangling there, or fall. He’s a brute,” the man said, hyperventilating. Roy stripped the bed of its comforter and wrapped it around him. He shut the window trapping the light as it escaped to the cold night.

  “Who?” Roy asked.

  “Why, the bard, of course. The very man who bound, disrobed, and gagged me, then hefted me over that balcony and left me to freeze like a piece of meat. I honestly don’t know what he’d want with my uniform though. Royal entertainer outranks servant many times over.”

  Roy felt a pit forming in his stomach. “Describe him.”

  “He was maybe your height or a tad shorter with black hair, brown eyes; his beard was trimmed in the manner of Blue aristocracy; walked, ironically enough, with a limp; but he knew how to fight. I managed to land a punch on him, but he didn’t even break stride.”

  “Bard? You said a bard with a limp? Did he have a guitar, too?” Roy asked, feeling the pit in his stomach turn over.

  “Yes, why? You saw him?” Roy did not even bother answering the servant. He turned and sprinted out the room, racing through the halls that led back to the castle foyer.

  ◆◆◆

  The king’s formal audience-reception chamber, with the capacity to seat several hundred, looked barren. The king, sitting prim on his throne, seemed not to mind the silence. Next to him stood his wife; her face, devoid of any visible traits save fatigue.

  Gnochi stood on a cushioned rug between two columns of three guards. Stone, mirroring a sky with heavy overcast clouds, sat heavy under the rug and stretched all through the course of the hall, giving the room a dank, musty smell.

  Despite the late hour, the king appeared as the picture of royalty. His clothes seemed to flow from elegant silks and the finest dyed wools, each edge accented by a thick gilded rope. Powdered lace cuffed his hands and supported his neck. His thickly kept, salty beard was tied below his chin. An elegant silver circlet compressed the king’s peppery hair. It gleamed blue from sapphires inlaid within.

  He leant over and whispered something to his queen, then dismissed her with a wave of the hand. Clad in a constricting corset and billowing gown, she gave her king a kiss, then retired from the reception hall. A moment afterword, a servant entered bearing a bowl. The king submerged his hand into the bowl, grabbing a red and white pence-sized candy. He popped it into his mouth and proceeded to make a show of sucking the peppermint of its flavor. The outline of the round mint pressed against his jaw. His pale green eyes bore down on Gnochi, who humbled himself with a longstanding low bow.

  “Your Highness,” the commander of the house guard said, bowing again when the king’s steel gaze fell on him. “This is the vassal from Nimbus. Gnochi Gleeman.”

  “Hmm? Like the food?” The king’s eyes fell again on the performer.

  Gnochi arched an eyebrow, then turned his head to look at the commander who shook his head. He remained in his bow and smiled. “I’m impressed that you made that connection, your Highness.”

  “Well, Gleeman, or should I call you, Gnochi? Now that I’ve impressed you, I suppose I don’t even need to test you.” A snort from the king’s mouth morphed into laughter.

  Gnochi imagined he could hear the mint as it scratched against the king’s teeth. “I meant no disrespect. But if I may, could I quit my bow? I’ve recently suffered an injury to my leg and it has not been too kind to me in its recuperation.”

  “I’ll permit it,” the king ruled.

  Gnochi righted his back and relaxed. “Very gracious.”

  “Well, Gleeman, I’d like to extend my invitation to you. I want to welcome you to my court. Here, have a mint,” he said, tossing a scattering of mints before him. One of the projectiles clipped Gnochi on his cheek, though following the stoic restrain of the other guards who received a heavier brunt of the sugary missiles, Gnochi made no move to brush the residue from his face. He allowed himself a moment to eye where the potential hazards lay in relation to his feet.

  “I must admit,” the king continued, “I know more about you, than you likely do of me. My brother, Dorothea, had written of you and the arrangement you two came to, as he returned from the coast.”

  Gnochi felt the air leave his lungs as though forced by the blow of a hammer. Despite his utter shock at the discovering the relations between Dorothea and the king, he reined in his surprise, his eyes only widening a fraction of a hair.

  “In fact, I was just talking with Dorry this evening about having you come and perform for me. Dorothea seemed insistent in getting you here. Just wait until I tell him that you were the choice from Nimbus all along.” He smiled.

  Gnochi lost all faith in his element of surprise. At any moment, he expected to feel the sting of a sword pierce through his gut. Sweat coursed down his body. Fortunately, the dreadful black fur that covered Gnochi’s neck to his ankles masked his nerves in folds of fur. “I would be honored to be your court’s bard, your Highness,” he said, his eyes searching for any movement that might suggest his intentions had been founded.

  “In private, as such this is, you may call me Providence,” he responded.

  Gnochi turned around, using the feint to spy if any further guards had entered. He returned his eyes to the king. “This is a boastful claim in naming yourself such,” Gnochi said, “if I may speak so openly.” He spied the commander to his right flinch. One of the guards moved and gripped the back of Gnochi’s neck, pushing him to his knees.

  “Easy,” cautioned Gnochi, teeth gritted in pain. “Providence will tell you that my job is more than mere barding. I am now on track to become one of his closest advisors. Such is the game.”

  “Gleeman is correct. Unhand my advisor before I mount your still-dripping head to my foyer wall,” Providence boomed. “And if any of you so much as look cross at him again, I will banish you and your entire family to the swamps for the entirety of the winteryear.”

  “Of course,” the guard said, humbling out a bow. He helped Gnochi stand. “My mistake, your Highness.”

  “But what kind of bard would I be without a few bells and whistles?” Gnochi asked, opening the guitar case and removing The Royal Lyre. He bowed his head, then strummed out the first three chords of a song his father had taught him. As the echo of his music faded, he noticed the king’s eyes squinting, his lips pursed. Had he heard the metallic twang? Gnochi decided to act as if it was now known. “Ah, finally!” A large smile split his face. “Someone with an appropriate ear for music. I thought I’d never meet anyone to pick up on that odd sound.”

  “I shall have my own personal craftsman make you the finest guitar, come morning, but for now, you have the floor, Master Gleeman,” the king said, rolling his arm.

  “Thank you. Now, Providence, I’m quite curious. Are you familiar with the world before? With the first age?”

  “More than you, I would guess,” Providence replied.

  “That is doubtful, but I will give you the benefit, considering what I’ve seen from your keep. Re
gardless, I am to sing a song for you from the end of the first age. It is a song of mourning from a mother to her child.” Gnochi’s fingers picked the guitar. “It’s a little rough around the edges, but it is a song I hold dearly, as my father taught it to me shortly before he was killed.”

  “Rise my son, from the terror riddled lore,

  And lend me your ears.

  The world is naught that we know-

  But despair not and control your fears.

  Father has left, to fight the war;

  Suchly, you must still work, so wield your shears.

  My son, I ask you not to go,

  For I cannot live through the years-

  Without you.

  Rise my son, from your nightmares of death,

  And lend me your hands.

  The world is changing under our feet,

  Steady your self over the shifting land.

  Father is gone, I fear, for his last breath-

  Occurred not as planned.

  Prepare for the day we all shall meet

  For our stay in paradise will all be but bland-

  Without you.”

  Gnochi finished singing the song and immediately moved into the second act of his performance. He stood the guitar up and pulled the tuning rods from its elongated head, revealing six small blades. The six strings curled down from where they rested on the neck to coils on the posh carpeting. “Tell me, Providence. Have you ever heard the story of The Wolf in Sheep’s Garb?” Without waiting for a response, he tucked his head under the cloak and threw it off, revealing servants’ white robes. He was faintly aware of the guards eyeing each other, though none made move to interrupt him, likely fearing their own safety.

  The black cloak fell to the ground, discarded as a reptile sheds its scales. He tossed the six blades high into the air and proceeded to juggle them as they fell down. The sharp edge of each blade reflected shattered light across the grand hall.

  “See, the tale of the Wolf in Sheep’s Garb,” Gnochi continued, “goes like this. One day, the bastard farmer kidnapped the wolf’s young pack. This man wanted his farm to be the only farm in all the land and so, he convinced the wolf that by killing the grazing sheep of the only other farm, the bastard would release the wolf’s pack. What did the wolf do?”