The Secret's Keeper and the Heir

by Jackie McCarthy

  “Sometimes, if I think about it,” said Lanelle with a haunted look in her eye, “I can hear their souls trying to get out. Don’t you, husband? Especially on dark nights when the wind is high.”

  “Aye, Madam,” said the Rosenwaller solemnly, “that’s when the they’re remembering what it’s like to dance.”

  The Lord Delahaye could think of many stern responses, but his wife’s innocent gaze held him in check. He asked the boy, “And what does this have to do with Umum…thing?”

  “Umumphum. Everything,” the Gardener said. “It’s a whiff—a whiff only, you understand—of a memory. It’s the memory of the life that’s been stolen from them.”

  There was unsettled murmuring from the servants. Meliver had forgotten they were there. “You all may go,” he said, suddenly more annoyed than he could allow. It was one thing to tell fairy stories to his daydreaming wife, but it was quite another to keep his staff from their duties. “Have we not a party to prepare for?” As they dispersed, he turned to the Rosenwaller. “There’s a heavy penalty, boy, for those who trespass on—”

  “Are you not hearing me, good sir?” the youth interrupted, “If the trees aren’t brought to a calm they’ll surely—”

  “Continue being trees?” Meliver asked. “Were you as educated as you claim, I doubt you’d lend such credence to myths and fairy stories.”

  Lanelle’s gentle hand had fallen to her chest. “Melvie, how can you say such things?”

  “How indeed?” asked the Gardener, livid with indignation. “Myths? Fairy stories? Where do you think such tales come from? They exist because they’re rooted in fact, don’t you see? Just because it’s beyond what you have experienced…” the boy’s words became so passionate that he was forced to turn away. Taking a moment to gather himself, he returned and asked, “Have you been to the icy north of Bruinbak? Well, have you?”

  Meliver narrowed his eyes, his humor lost. “No, I have not.”

  “Or to the wild Tikaani Shores, have you been there? No?” The boy didn’t wait for an answer this time. “Then how do you know they exist?”

  “No, boy, I haven’t been to Tikaania,” the Lord answered anyway. “It’s not the job of every man to go every place. At some point, we must trust in the word of other men that there’s more to the world than what our small lives may hold.”

  “And that, precisely, is why I’ve come,” said the Rosenwaller with an air of victory. Lanelle seemed to think their visitor had won the argument as well, for she let out a yip of excitement and clapped her hands. “You may travel to the university at Umbury and study many years with Professor Kaille, as I have,” the boy continued, “but why divert the course of your life to do this when I’m here already to give you my warning of danger?”

  “Melvie, please, I beg you,” Lanelle implored, plying at his grave countenance. “We must listen to him. For the girls!”

  For the girls, she begged, for the girls. The request echoed in the Lord Delahaye’s head. His wife wouldn’t rest easily if she believed the girls to be in danger. She would neither sleep nor eat until the danger had passed, even if it meant cutting down every tree in Chaveneigh. With a sigh, the Lord Delahaye released the tension in his body. “What, exactly,” he asked the Rosenwaller, “is this danger you speak of?”

  “Have you heard of Murmurs?” the boy asked in prompt response. Meliver shook his head. “What of the Chatters? No? And what of Walking Disease?”

  “No, boy,” the Lord Delahaye said, mildly embarrassed to have found himself in such a conversation. “I haven’t heard of any of these things.”

  “That’s good,” the Rosenwaller said in earnest. “Then the disease hasn’t yet made it this far. That’s very good. It begins, you see, with the Murmurs—”

  “How do you know if you have the Murmurs?” Lanelle ask urgently.

  “Sweet Lady, you’d know,” said the boy soothingly. “The Murmurs aren’t a cause for concern, however. Mere murmuring never hurt anybody.”

  “But what are they?” asked Meliver, his patience waning again.

  “The Murmurs are the waking noises of the trees,” explained the Rosenwaller. “But yours are sleepy yet. It’s only when the situation has digressed to the Chatters that you must be wary of what they say.”

  “And the last?” Lanelle demanded. “The Walking Disease?”

  The boy merely stared at them knowingly, letting their collective silence and the name of a fictitious ailment do the work. The Lady shivered prettily and buried herself in her husband’s chest.

  “Please, Melvie,” she begged him, “please, what can we do?”

  “Have it your way, boy,” said the Lord Delahaye with a sigh. This, he supposed, was the moment they’d all been waiting for. “What tonic are you selling that will make my wife feel safe again? And at what ungodsly price are you selling it?”

  “No tonic, sir, and no price,” said the boy to their mutual surprise. “Your trees need to be talked to. Please, allow me to come inside and set you up with a Speaking Schedule and set of Soothing Words.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Lanelle excitedly. “My sitting room has a lovely view of the grounds. We can speak there.”

  Meliver didn’t think this was a good idea. “Why not sit out amongst the trees, if you’re teaching us to commune with them?”

  The Rosenwaller paused for a moment, but recovered with a quick, “I…aye, of course.” The boy tried again, “But perhaps a bit of tea—”

  “I’ll have it brought out,” said the Lord Delahaye, determined to keep the grubby gardener out of his manor house. “Now begin. Apparently, we have no time to lose.”

  “Right,” the Rosenwaller said with a comprehending nod. Lanelle took the boy’s arm and they walked together on the neat dirt path of the grounds. Meliver fell behind, an ear trained on them. “Right, well…they love the word nimbus. Also chartreuse. Green, of course, is a favorite, as is fair-weather.”

  “What a strange collection of words,” murmured Lanelle, memorizing them intently.

  “It is indeed, Lady, but I couldn’t hope to understand,” said the boy sensibly. “I’m not a tree.”

  Following the pair closely, as though their own judgmental shadow, Meliver chuckled to himself.

  * * * * *

  A shadow slipped over the reposing figure of the Old Master Lorey. His frame, bent by a mysterious illness, appeared so diminished in his bed that, for a moment, the shadow pitied him.

  “How did you get past Fetcher?” asked the Master from his resting place, not the least bit surprised to be intruded upon. “Ah, never mind. I forget who I’m talking to.”

  The shadow spoke with delight, “You give me too much credit.”

  “As a wraith?” scoffed the Master. “You can’t help it. It’s what you are.”

  Stepping into the dim circle of candlelight, a gray-haired man looked kindly down upon his old friend. “And what would that make you? The wraith’s keeper?”

  “You flatter me with importance, Fenric!” said Master Lorey. He laughed heartily before being seized by a fit of coughing.

  “I’ve come for my treasure,” the man named Fenric said when the invalid had recovered himself.

  “All of it?” demanded Lorey with a mixture of fear and excitement. His dark eyes focused intently on the now-seated gray man.

  “No, old man, not yet,” Fenric answered. “Merely enough to cover expenses.”

  “Naturally, naturally,” the Master nodded, his features wobbly. “Although…I will admit, I felt some relief for a moment when I thought you might finally retrieve it all and leave me destitute.”

  “Why is that?” Fenric asked, appalled.

  “I don’t know,” Master Lorey said, endeavoring to shrug. “Perhaps it would make things easier…to give my son a reason that he can’t return to university.”

  “Not return to—? Why ever not?” Fenric asked, upset at the very idea. “It was always my intention that your son receive the finest education.”

/>   “And so he has,” Lorey said, holding out a mollifying hand. “But…I need him with me now. It’s selfish, perhaps, but…”

  “You’re dying,” Fenric observed without ceremony.

  “We’re all dying,” Master Lorey informed him tritely.

  Fenric’s brows descended until they were deeply knit. “You’re dying more ambitiously,” Fenric amended. “What’s happened?”

  “A chest cold? A condition?” Lorey attempted to offer. “No doctor can seem to tell me. I remain all day abed, though I feel silly laying here with you towering so imperiously above. Please, give me your hand so I may stand—”

  “That’s unnecessarily dangerous—” Fenric began.

  “Ha!” the Master scoffed. “You? To lecture me on unnecessary danger? Well, now that I’ve laughed, perhaps I’ll truly need to rest.”

  The man named Fenric nodded. “I’m glad to see you’ve settled in. I know it’s inconvenient for you to move about at my every whim.”

  “I’m well used to it by now,” Master Lorey said sardonically. “It’s a fine country estate, if I may say so. And the spices of the Scadias were becoming too rich for my frail lungs anyhow.”

  “I’m sorry to hear of your ill health,” Fenric said with a frown, looking at his own hands. “I regret the thought of your death raises more concerns for me than missing your company, however. I wasn’t planning for the inconvenience of—”

  “You worry for your gold?” Lorey asked without tact. “I’ll train Dunstan. He’s a good boy—” He barked in sudden laughter, “Boy! There I go again. He hates when I call him that! I suppose he is nearing manhood, but all the same, he’ll always be my boy.”

  “I fear a moment of change is imminent,” Fenric sighed after a thoughtful silence. “I’ve made first contact with the girl, though I regret what I have to do.”

  “It is of course too much to ask what your plan is?” Lorey asked hopefully. At a nod from the Scribe, he shrugged. “If you’re so sorry to do it, then perhaps you shouldn’t.”

  “And throw away all these years of work?” Fenric asked. “Throw away all the lives that were sacrificed in order to get this far? No, the time for action is upon us. It can’t be helped.”

  “How long does she have?” Lorey asked sadly.

  “I’ll wait until the ball is nearly over,” Fenric answered. “I’m not so heartless as all that.”

  “I didn’t know shadows had hearts,” said the Master Lorey.

  “They don’t, you’re right,” the man named Fenric answered with a chuckle. “Even with all the gold in the world, they can’t afford it.”

  *

  Chapter 7:

  The Mask and the Man

  * * * * *

  Coldness and Cold: The Ice Province of Bruinbak

  A Survey of Illiamnic Geography, Volume I

  Chapter 5

  By Cyd Cynide

  *

  The Bruinbak Barrens of the Icy Deeps make up the northernmost province of Illiamna, called Bruinbak. It is united under the Ice Bear and Ice Rabbit sigil. The people of this province—the hearty, warm-blooded Bruins—tend to be a robust sort, muscular and bearded. Their primary profession is hunting.

  Though the Bruinbak Barrens provide a harsh environment for living things, there are a handful of creatures that have adapted to the cold and ice, or that migrate there in the warm seasons. It is an oft-told joke that Bruinbak has no special animals at all, but merely adds “ice” to the name of familiar creatures. As examples, they claim the Ice Bear, Ice Wolf, Ice Rabbit, Ice Deer, Ice Birds, Ice Beetle, Ice Whale, and even Ice Fish as their own. They may be right to recognize these as different species, however, since the animals all have the distinct characteristic of snow-white fir, feathers, shells, skin, or scales (in contrast to their southern counterparts).

  The Bruins of the Barrens live in Fjords off the shores, relying on their access to the sea for sustenance and travel, and venturing into the dangerous inlands for the hunting of larger game. The primary means of transportation is by canoe, a simple wooden hull carved from a single piece of sea-bleached driftwood, usually having traveled north from the forest-province of Mallory on the south-to-north ocean current. Larger boats are mostly unable to handle the cold water of the northern reaches for long, as the wood in their hulls will become frigid, shrink, and cause leaks. Only ships built in the north with special techniques can weather the cold summers and sub-zero winters of this icy land.

  While Bruins protect their privacy with a violent kind of rigidity, it’s easier for them to live as part of a society in the cold environs than attempt to live on his or her own in the Barrens. For those who try anyway, such establishments are rarely permanent, since the landscape of growing and receding ice makes permanence more of a danger than a security. The towns line the banks of salty shore where snow-covered mountains give way to pebbled beaches and where wind-facing cliffs are kept clean of ice.

  Hunters of Bruinbak provide important materials to the rest of the kingdom, including the reserves of fat acquired from their “ice” creatures for survival. A pound of Ice Bear fat is worth its weight in gold, and its pelt worth considerably more. As a result, the Ice Bear and other animals with similar trophies to trade were hunted to the edge of extinction before hunting was put under regulation in more recent years.

  The Bruins are a superstitious bunch, with their own complex set of gods and spirits of snow, ice, sun, and sea. They also boast a god of darkness, who holds dominion over the chasms caused by the splitting of ice sheets in the Barrens, where the snow is hundreds of feet deep upon the land. Looking down into a chasm, it is said, is the truest glimpse of darkness a man will ever see. In the crystal clear waters of the calm sea this darkness is seen also, seeming to plummet downward into infinity.

  * * * * *

  “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you round here again,” the orange cat said to the phantom boy, who was dreaming. It seemed a strange thing for the cat to think.

  “Why not?” asked the boy.

  “You’re cold,” the cat said, as though this was reason enough.

  The boy Teagan understood perfectly, recalling not only his collapse on a far-distant glacier, but the emptiness he’d felt over the length and depth of his young memory. All the same, he didn’t want to leave. “Did you catch the mouse?” he asked.

  “I catch all the mice,” said the cat proudly. He stopped to stretch a hind paw, then brought it up immediately after to scratch at his ear.

  This done, he set off again at a trot. The cat crested a hill and saw below him a small but bustling port town with a line of ships along the dock. The sea beyond was the same beautiful light blue of the cheerful sky, and Teagan felt a sense of awe at the sight of it.

  “It’s so beautiful,” the boy sighed, wondering where he’d learned to think such thoughts.

  “It’s only water,” thought the cat, licking his paw snootily. He stayed patiently still, nonetheless, while the boy enjoyed the view.

  Teagan couldn’t express how stark a contrast the lush green landscape cut compared to shelves of barren ice that made up the only home he could remember. He didn’t know how to describe the wickedly cold blue of the Northern Sea, so endlessly deep and full of dangers. The sight of so many green things stirred a memory in him—the recollection of a long-suppressed memory, struggling to resurface.

  The cat grew tired of these distant thoughts, however, and bounded down the hill. The sudden movement jarred the boy back into the cold embrace of wakefulness. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes upon the all-too-familiar desolation of Bruinbak. 

  Instead of being lost upon the barrens, however Teagan woke inside a stark, gray structure. Cold filled the room, the kind of cold that ate at his bones, and he pulled the threadbare blanket close over his thin dressing gown. As he moved, he found that his hand, which felt shot-through with needles, was wrapped in a similarly grimy gray cloth. Observing the bandage as he did so, he tried to move his fingers, but they didn’t respon
d.

  Looking around for the first time, Teagan found that his bed was one of many, each holding a small doll or other child’s trinket. It was an orphanage, he realized after a moment. Briggan was dead, and he was in an orphanage. Teagan supposed he should feel frightened, or at least a little sad, but he felt nothing. He wondered instead where all the children had gone, then strained his ears and heard a gentle buzzing that might have been their laughter coming from outside. Were they playing? Would they expect him to play?

  As Teagan’s eyes adjusted to the light of the open door, he saw that, contrary to his first impression, he was not alone. A jolt of panic shot through the boy, the strongest emotion he’d felt for as long as he could remember. Fear? Was that fear?

  For several moments the boy wondered if he’d found himself in some kind of nightterror. He had those sometimes—terrible dreams of stone buildings on fire. It couldn’t be, however, since he’d only just woken from sleeping. The frightening vision before him, therefore, must have been real.

  The shadowy figure in the doorway was a man. Or at least, it more closely resembled a man than anything else. The man’s face had been cleft in two, seeming to have been left several days to rot, only to be roughly sewn back together by a person who hadn’t liked the man at all. A ridge of skin nearly a finger’s girth stood above the sewed lines in a sharp ridge that cast his opposite eye into shadow. The organ of sight twinkled menacingly from the shaded depths all the same.

  Teagan didn’t cry out—didn’t feel anything after his first gut reaction. He stared at the specter, instead, his heart empty.

  The Cleft Man grinned, the sewn fissure of flesh stretching as his skin pulled tight against itself. Slowly, with a pronounced limp, he approached. His lips moved and his voice buzzed in the quiet room, but the words were as incomprehensible to Teagan as any he’d ever heard spoken.

  When the boy did nothing but stare, the man lowered himself upon the small cot to get closer. He let his twisted hand hover over the shell of Teagan, his blood-shot eyes, now visible, carefully examining the boy’s every feature. 

  The Cleft Man continued speaking as he took inventory of the orphan’s appearance—regal brow, gray eyes, delicate mouth, tapering chin—his voice a dull and incomprehensible buzzing all the while. What he saw apparently pleased him, however, for the ghoul’s skin pulled tighter as his leer turned into a triumphant grin.