The Innkeeper's Son

by Jeremy Brooks

  Enaya felt the urge to sick up but bravely maintained her composure. She had met the Governor once before, several years earlier, on her first visit to Nal’Dahara. He was the steward then. Steward was one step below the Governor. Their meeting had been brief, and she doubted that he would remember her, but she remembered his arrogance. He was a joyless man, motivated solely by political gains.

  “That’s very flattering, Mistress Florashelle,” Enaya replied uncomfortably.

  The apprentice appeared in the doorway, and Mistress Florashelle fixed her with an irritated look. She motioned her to stand off to the side. The attendants filtered into the room carrying new lengths of fabrics. Enaya approved of the new samples which were colorful and vibrant. She found the earth tones depressing and drab.

  She made several choices, sticking to blues and greens mainly.

  “I’d like a gown made from this shade of red,” she told Mistress Florashelle, pointing to a bright red length of silk. “As for the rest, I’ll need dresses for riding. I expect to do quite a bit of traveling while I’m in Perth.” Florashelle nodded at each request as the apprentice made notes on a piece of parchment. “I will also require a fur-lined overcoat and some fur-lined boots.”

  “I can meet all of your requests, my Lady,” Mistress Florashelle nodded proudly.

  “I will also require clothing for my attendant,” Enaya said, motioning to Givara who had sat quietly throughout. Florashelle frowned as she looked Givara over. “Will that be a problem?”

  “I’m not accustomed to making breeches, my Lady,” she said with disapproval.

  “I have no time to visit with multiple seamstresses, Mistress Florashelle. But if you can’t meet my requests, I will take my business elsewhere.”

  The dressmaker raised an eyebrow at that. She looked Givara over again with noticeable distaste. “I will see that your needs are met, Lady Relador. My apprentice will take your measurements.” She stood and bowed her head in slight deference, then turned to leave.

  “How soon before I can expect my order?” Enaya called after her. The dressmaker stopped in the doorway.

  “Three days, I should expect” she answered.

  “I need them sooner.”

  Mistress Florashelle grimaced. “Three days is the best I can do. I’m terribly sorry.”

  Enaya frowned. This was just part of the game. “I would be willing to pay extra for a more timely delivery.”

  The dressmaker smiled slyly. “Two days then. My apprentice will work out the details. Good day, Lady Relador.”

  “Good day, Mistress Florashelle,” Enaya called back through gritted teeth. She hated to lose at bargaining, but she had no choice. She needed the dresses quickly. Even two days might be too long.

  A short time later they left the dressmaker with a piece of parchment listing eleven clockmakers in the city. Eleven was a daunting number in a city so large. It would take time to find them all.

  Fortunately, two were in close proximity to the seamstress. They found the first quickly as it was only a block away. The shop they entered was elaborate. Gold-plated timepieces lined the walls of a large room with a long glass counter and mahogany shelves. A glass counter was rare and spoke of wealth. This clock maker was clearly very successful. Enaya immediately doubted they were in the right place, but she inquired none the less.

  A young woman stood behind the counter to greet them as they entered. There was also a young man dressed in fine clothing seated at a work bench next to her. He had his back to them as he tinkered with a small wall clock.

  “Welcome to Mashaira and Potts,” the woman said pleasantly. “Are you interested in a time piece?”

  “Perhaps,” Enaya answered, watching the man work. He seemed too young to be a wealthy entrepreneur. She had already decided that the Librarian would be more likely to keep a low profile. This shop seemed too rich. “I am interested in the history of clock making,” She announced loudly, hoping to catch the young man’s attention. He looked up from his work and listened. “I find it all fascinating. Do you have any books, by chance? Something detailing the craft of clockmaking?”

  The young woman shook her head. “I’m afraid we only sell time pieces here my Lady.”

  “You’ll have a difficult time finding a history book on clockmaking,” the young man added. “The art has not yet been recorded, to my knowledge. The skill is an apprenticed trait. All of the clockmakers in the city learned from apprenticeship.” With that he turned back to his work.

  “Who is the oldest clockmaker in the city?” Enaya asked, before leaving.

  “Quinn Gracin,” he answered without looking up.

  “And where would we find his shop?” she asked.

  “He’s out near the docks,” he answered. He looked over his shoulder and added with a shrug. “He won’t have any books either. And he‘s the worst clockmaker in the city.”

  Enaya nodded and followed Givara out of the store. That had been exactly what she wanted to hear. It was her expectation all along that the Librarian used clockmaking as a front. To narrow the search, she wanted to find the least capable craftsman.

  Just to be thorough, they stopped at two more clockmakers that were on the way to the docks. They learned nothing new. Each had reiterated the opinions of the first store. Quinn Gracin was the worst clockmaker in Nal’Dahara. In fact, one had wondered aloud how Gracin even managed to stay in business. To his knowledge, no-one bought clocks from Gracin. No-one ever went to his store.

  It was late in the afternoon when they finally reached the store belonging to Quinn Gracin. Enaya was tired and ready to return to the Blue Trellis. She couldn’t wait to soak her weary limbs in a nice warm bath. Hopefully, this was the man they were looking for.

  His store was shabby. It was a small one story stone building with a single window out front and a weathered, wooden, front door. A sign hung above. It was a single thin placard of driftwood that might have been plucked from the ocean. It read “CLOCKS” in burnt, blackened lettering. The air smelled of spoiled fish and urine, and the streets were filled with fisherman and sailors, deckhands and prostitutes. Some that passed looked strangely at the two women, unaccustomed, Enaya guessed, to seeing a lady and her attendant in this part of the city. Givara walked with her right hand on her sword and a small dagger concealed in her left. She was on edge. Seedy areas always made her skittish.

  They stepped into the shop, and Enaya was struck by the lack of clocks she saw. There were several clocks sitting on two shelves against one wall of the small, thin front room. They were inexpensive looking and covered in dust. There was a small table and chair next to a door against the back wall. No-one was in the store. It was quiet, save for the faint ticking of the few clocks on those two shelves.

  Enaya and Givara exchanged looks of confusion. It hardly seemed like a store at all. They waited a few moments to see if anyone would come up front. No-one came. It was too quiet.

  Enaya motioned to Givara to check the door in the back of the store. The tall, silver-haired guardian crept slowly to the door, then put her ear against it and listened. She looked at Enaya and shook her head. Slowly she turned the doorknob and pulled the door open. A man, with his back to them, sat at a desk in the next room. There was a giant map covering the desk that he was studying intently. His head was hairless and scarred with severe burns that covered his scalp. He had no left ear, just a flat shield of scar tissue where his ear used to be.

  Givara cleared her throat to get his attention. The man slowly turned around to see who had intruded and regarded them both with no expression. He was missing his left eye which like his ear was just a gruesome flap of scar tissue. His right eye was brown and encircled with the wrinkles of old age. Enaya felt her stomach turn as she found her eyes drawn to the extensive, frightening scarring on the left side of his face.

  Their presence either wasn’t a surprise to him, or he didn’t care that they stood there. He simply turned back to his map and said nothing.

  Givar
a looked at Enaya with a questioning raise of her thin black eyebrow. Enaya simply shrugged. She had no idea what to make of the man.

  “Quinn Gracin?” she asked, wondering if she was in the right place. When he said nothing, she asked again, but more firmly.

  The man sighed but did not turn around. “He said you would come.”

  “Who said I would come?” Enaya asked with a befuddled look at Givara.

  “Not you” he said, calmly. He turned and looked at Givara with his one good eye. “Her.”

  Givara looked as mystified as Enaya.

  “Are you Quinn Gracin?” she asked him again, not hiding her mounting frustration.

  “I am,” he sighed, turning back to his map.

  “Well…are you a clockmaker?”

  “I suppose.”

  “You suppose?” she said, taking a few steps into the room. “You are or you aren’t.”

  “Then I am,” he said nonchalantly.

  She came up to the table and stood beside him. He was studying a map of the Dragon’s Teeth. It was an odd anomaly of jagged mountains rising from the sea, near the southwestern coast of Altrega. To the best of her knowledge they were uninhabited by men. Vallrykan’s were the only thing that lived in the Dragon’s Teeth, and they were evil, hateful beasts. Ships altered their routes to avoid the Dragon’s Teeth, rather than risk a swarm of Vallrykans descending and attacking the crew.

  “Who said she would come, Master Gracin?” Enaya asked, looking over his map. It was a very old rendering, marking each peak in great detail.

  “My father,” he said.

  “And who is your father?” Givara asked, patiently. She could tell Enaya was about to slap the man upside his scarred head.

  “You know who my father is. He’s the reason you’ve come here.”

  “The Librarian,” Enaya whispered with wonder. Gracin looked up at her and nodded. “Then he’s not a legend. He truly lives.”

  “He does,” Gracin said, almost casually. He looked again at Givara. “Are you truly her, then?”

  Givara looked at him strangely, then nodded. He smiled, although it seemed regretful. “I should be excited to meet you. I’ve studied you my whole life. How ironic, that only now, at the end should I have my moment.”

  “I’m sorry to be a disappointment,” she said, with an amused smirk.

  “Oh no, my Queen. You are no disappointment.” His voice was almost reverent now. “On the contrary, you are the very embodiment of magnificence. I’m just too old to feel the exhilaration that this moment would have brought me in my youth.” Givara smiled at that. He continued to stare at her with a mixture of wonder and melancholy. “Tell me, my Queen, do you know where I can find the Allaheara Spring?”

  Givara shifted uncomfortably and looked down at her feet. Enaya raised a questioning eyebrow. What was he talking about?

  “I can see by your reaction that you do,” he said, a glimmer of hope rising in his voice. “Please understand. I am far too old now to go chasing after that legend, but I’ve spent my life trying to find it. Please. I promise to help you in any way that I’m able. Just tell me this…is it somewhere in the Dragon’s Teeth?”

  Givara looked up and fixed him with a hard stare. She seemed to mull the question over, deciding whether to answer. At last she gave Enaya a very serious glare and spoke. “It lies in the Dragon’s Teeth.” She walked to the table and looked over his map. His eye watched her fervently. After a moment of studying the layout she pointed to a spot on the map. “Here,” she said softly, laying a hand on his shoulder and looking deeply into his one good eye. “Kiellanne fell for the last time on a plateau on this peak. Her blood ran down into the spring, and her tree grew there. I do not know if her tree still stands, but that is where you will find the Allaheara Spring.”

  A tear welled up in Gracin’s eye, and suddenly he was openly weeping. He grabbed Givara by the cloak, dropping to his knees on the floor. “Thank you, my Queen. Thank you,” he sobbed over and over again. Givara looked sadly at the man and gently caressed his scarred head.

  “You must make me a promise, Quinn Gracin, an oath that you must never break or risk your soul being condemned for all eternity.”

  “Anything, my Queen. Anything,” he moaned.

  “You will never speak of this. To anyone. Never.” Gracin nodded his head and looked at her. “Swear it,” Givara commanded.

  “I swear it, my Queen. I will never speak of this. I swear to you with my life and my wish to feel the Creator’s embrace when my time passes on. I will never speak of this.”

  Givara nodded, satisfied with his oath. “Tell us now, where can we find your father?”

  Gracin stood and wiped the streak of tears from the right side of his face.

  “My father is near Jarine, in the south of Perth. He keeps a small home near the coast, on the edge of the Water Woods. Once a year he travels here to visit.”

  “You said he told you I would come. When did he tell you that?” Givara asked.

  “Not long ago. Two months, perhaps. He said the time had come. A part of the prophecy had been fulfilled. My part was approaching.”

  “What part?” Enaya asked eagerly.

  Gracin sat down. His shoulders slumped, and he rubbed his scarred scalp with his left hand. Enaya noticed that his hand was also covered in scar tissue and missing his last finger.

  “In the city of stone, the burnt and broken passing of time, the son of pages turned, a life given in service to the walking queen long dead.”

  Enaya tapped a slender finger against her chin and thought about the line. The problem with prophecy was that it was too often open to interpretation. Why couldn’t the words ever be straightforward?

  “Is he sure this line is meant for you?” she asked.

  “My father has lived for a thousand years. He personally knew Harmony Alexidus. Protecting this prophecy and deciphering its meaning has been his driving passion throughout all of these years. I admit to having been shocked when he came to tell me that I would play a part in the end, but I believe him implicitly. I must die to protect you.” He reached out to touch Givara’s arm as though he needed a reminder that she was real.

  “You mentioned him saying a part has already been fulfilled?” Givara asked.

  “He did, my Queen,” Gracin nodded.

  “And…did he say what had been fulfilled?” Enaya added.

  “He did not. My father is very guarded about many things. I myself have only read the prophecy one time when I was a youth. He believes that if too many people know its words, it could alter the outcome. I don’t have to remind you what that would mean.”

  “Desirmor wins,” Enaya said under her breath.

  “Yes, my Lady. Desirmor would rule forever,” Gracin added with an air of solemnity.

  “What happened to you, Quinn?” Givara asked. Her hand reached out and gently caressed his scarred head. His eyes closed, and he seemed to savor the feel of her touch.

  “I have hunted the Allaheara Spring all of my adult life, my Queen. My father found it. That is how he gained his immortality. Sadly, he refuses to reveal its location. He believes immortality belongs to gods, not men. Immortality is a curse, or so he has always said. That never stopped me from trying to find it on my own. Many years ago I chased a rumor to the Killariad Mountains and encountered a Garresh. I escaped with my life, but its fire left me scarred and disfigured.”

  Givara nodded sadly at the slump shouldered man. Enaya was impressed. Besting a Garresh was no small feat. She had heard of whole squadrons of soldiers who had fallen to the massive strength and flaming breath of only a few Garresh. It made her wonder if Quinn Gracin was more than he seemed.

  “You are lucky to be alive, Master Gracin,” she commented. “How did you manage it?”

  Gracin looked up from the floor and met her questioning gaze. “I am a trival,” he said with pride. His back straightened and he sat up. “My talents are strongest with earth. I let the Garresh chase me into a thin ravin
e and collapsed the walls on top of it.”

  Givara smiled with approval. “I take it you haven’t registered?”

  “Never,” Gracin said, meeting her smile with a grin of his own. “I’d rather die than have my life decided for me by Desirmor.”

  “Can you take us to your father?” Enaya asked.

  Gracin nodded. “It’s a long journey. We’ll need supplies. I can get us a few horses.”

  “We’ll need five horses,” Enaya told him. Gracin opened his mouth to object but she cut him off. “We have two others with us. Can you manage five, Master Gracin, or will that be a problem?”

  Gracin rubbed his chin, playing with the loose wrinkled skin that hung under his jaw line. “Five will take a few days, I think.”

  “You have two. We need to leave as soon as possible.”

  “Are you in some kind of danger?” he asked, watching Givara protectively.

  “We are the harbingers of prophecy, Quinn Gracin. Danger is unavoidable,” Givara answered.

  “I intend to travel with you. What can I expect?” he asked doggedly.

  “Get the horses, Master Gracin. We’re staying at the Blue Trellis. Do you know the inn?” Enaya asked.

  “Fanna Foust’s place. I’ll have a message sent when I get everything together.” He seemed upset but willing to accept their secrecy.

  “Very well. We are staying under the name, Lady Edmira. We’ll be expecting to hear from you.”

  “Your real name, my Lady?” He asked, standing to walk them to the door.

  “Relador. Enaya Relador. And this is Givara.”

  “Givara,” he breathed reverently. They walked back through the small shop to the front door. “One last thing, my Queen. Has the last Harven been found?”

  Givara smiled mischievously but said nothing. She walked out the door and stood scanning the street for danger.

  “Just get the horses and supplies, Master Gracin,” Enaya told him.

  She followed Givara out onto the street, closing the door as she left. The afternoon was waning. Time to return to the inn and see what trouble the men had gotten themselves into.

  “Am I being foolish, putting my trust in that man, Givara?” she asked as they began to walk. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was acting desperately and not putting enough consideration into her decisions. She needed things to be organized. She needed things to be planned. Most of all she needed to feel like she was in control. Ever since they'd fled from Dell, she felt like a lamb being led to slaughter. Was Gracin just another cord pulling her to the slaughterhouse?