Sim was a bundle of nerves. He’d barely slept. Where were they? Endless thoughts about possible things that might have happened to his two female companions nagged him. This wasn’t like Enaya at all. Something must have happened, and they were just sitting around waiting instead of searching the city. What if Prianhe had arrived in Nal’Dahara and captured them?
His foot twitched fretfully, and he rubbed his hands over and over again for no particular reason. Every now and again, Ron or Fanna Foust would emerge from the kitchen door and spare them a glance, shaking their head sadly before moving on with their work. They were well aware of the situation.
Why can’t I have a vision, Sim asked himself? Just one vision to point him in the right direction; something that could give him a clue as to the whereabouts of his friends. He kept closing his eyes and holding his gem, trying desperately to force a vision to happen. Nothing ever did.
Farrus yawned loudly. Sim regarded his old friend angrily. The grizzled former guardsman never showed any emotion. Sim wondered if he cared about the girls at all.
“When are we going to do something?” Sim asked for about the tenth time that morning.
Farrus scratched the fresh stubble on his chin and peeked at the door. “I suppose it’s time now,” he said rising slowly from his chair. He stretched his arms and yawned again loudly.
“Now it’s time?” Sim asked perplexed. “Why now? What about all the other times I said we need to get out there and search for them?”
“You need to calm down, Sim,” Farrus told him gruffly. “All your fretting and worrying isn’t going to bring them back. It’s good and possible that they just ran late yesterday and picked another inn to sleep at rather than risking walking through the city at night.”
“Alright, alright. I guess that’s possible, but I doubt that’s what happened. They would have come back by now. Something’s wrong. You know it as well as I do.”
Farrus nodded grimly. He felt around, checking his hidden knives and sword belt. “I’ll head out and ask around. Maybe someone will have heard something.”
“About time,” Sim said. He started for the door, but Farrus grabbed his arm.
“You’re not coming,” Farrus told him flatly. “You’re staying right here.”
“Not a chance,” Sim argued. If Farrus thought he was just going to sit around and wait, he was sorely mistaken.
“Someone has to stay here in case they show up,” Farrus reasoned with him.
“We’ll tell Ron to look out for them.”
Farrus shook his head. “You’ll slow me down Sim. You’re too emotionally invested. I need to be discreet. We don’t want any extra attention. Have you considered that Prianhe may be in the city? I know how to move about quietly.”
“I can be quiet and discreet,” Sim fretted. “What if something happens to you too? How will I know?”
“I’ll be fine, Sim. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be back in a few hours. Hopefully with some good news,” Farrus said, turning away.
With a hundred different protests caught in his throat, Sim watched him slip out the door. He looked around at the empty common room. He was all alone. The sudden realization frightened him.
He sat back down in his chair and laid his head down on his arms. He was trying again to force a vision to happen, but he couldn’t get his mind to focus. Ever since his parent's murder he had secretly wanted to be left alone. It seemed that from that moment the world just kept piling more and more weight on his shoulders. Dealing with the constant emptiness, the unbearable void left in the wake of his loss, had been the first true turmoil he had ever been forced to manage. Then he learned secrets about Enaya and Givara and found out that Farrus wasn’t who he had pretended to be. Navan Prianhe, the most dangerous man in the world not named Desirmor, had targeted him as the quarry of his hunt. He had been forced to kill innocent men in the defense of his life, and to battle a tiny little trival under mysterious circumstances. Now his companions had disappeared and the sweet taste of loneliness was his at last. He should have been grateful for the deafening silence of the empty common room, but all he wanted in the world at that moment was to hear Enaya scolding him for whatever impropriety he had managed to overlook that had caused her offense. Oh what he would give to have either of the women, Enaya with her judging blue eyes or Givara with her unnerving stare, sitting across from him, ready to upbraid him for being such a simple country buffoon.
“Are you alright, lad?” Ron asked.
Sim looked up and saw Ron and Fanna standing next to his table, regarding him with equally concerned faces. He ran a hand through his thick black hair, much shorter now that he had visited the barber the day before, and let out a deep aching sigh.
Fanna took a seat in the chair across from him. She placed her hands over his supportively. “Has your friend gone looking for them?” she asked with genuine concern.
Sim looked into her small brown eyes and thought momentarily of his mother. Bella had always been able to make him feel better with a heartfelt look.
“Yes,” he answered.
“Don’t you be worrying then. I’m sure they be fine. That bodyguard of hers looks like she can handle a few street thugs.” Fanna rubbed the back of his hands.
“That’s what worries me,” Sim told her. “She can handle a few street thugs. More than a few street thugs. It doesn’t make any sense. Something must have happened.”
“We have a few connections around the city,” Ron said, trying to be helpful. “I’ll send one of my men out to ask around. Maybe they’ll turn up something.”
“Thanks,” Sim said, forcing a crooked smile.
“How about something to eat? I know you haven’t had any breakfast yet,” Fanna asked, standing up.
Sim thanked her and then Fanna and Ron walked off, leaving him to his silence. He just sat there watching the door until a serving girl returned with a plate of eggs and bacon and a glass of cool milk. Sim pushed the food around, picking at his breakfast slowly, not really hungry, but eating because it gave him something to pass the time until Farrus returned. Eventually he started feeling restless, squirming around uncomfortably in his seat and tapping his finger on the table as Farrus had done all morning.
He needed a way to release all of the pent up energy and aggression. He saw Ron step through the kitchen door and head behind the bar. Sim got up and approached him with an idea.
“Do you have a place where I could practice my sword forms?” Sim asked him.
Ron rubbed his bald, freckled dome and thought. “I suppose you could use the stable. Only got a few horses in there now. It might be a bit tight, but it’s probably the best I can do.”
Sim thought about all the times he’d practiced his sword forms back home at the Kelmor Inn. The stable would be perfect. “That will be fine, Ron. Thank you.” As he turned to head out the door Sim remembered something. “I’m expecting a delivery from a tailor. Can you take care of it for me if it comes?” Ron agreed. “And if my friend comes back, tell him where to find me.”
“Of course. Is there anything else?”
“No-one else in this city knows me, Ron,” Sim said seriously. “If any other anyone comes looking for me, turn them away, then come tell me.”
Ron agreed and Sim went outside. The air was crisp with an overcast sky. Sim was glad for his new black coat. It was going to take some time before he got used to cooler weather. Eventually they were going to have to find Madelyn in the Kal’Treddin Ice Lands. He didn’t know how he was going to manage the frigid weather and legendary ice storms when they got there.
Sim found the stable at the end of the alley attached to the back of the Blue Trellis. It was a small, stone addition to the main building. Inside he found only six stalls for horses, three on each side, with a straw lined path up the middle. There wasn’t much room for him to practice sweeping strokes, but it would at least be an opportunity to practice fighting in a confined space.
He pulled out one sword, leaving the
other in its scabbard to simulate a true fighting experience. If ever he were attacked in a similarly thin area, he wouldn’t have space to use the second sword.
Sim held his sword up and took a defensive posture. He needed to train as though every situation had life and death consequences, so he imagined infantry men coming one by one through the stables main door. His sword jabbed and struck, his movements focused to utilize the confinement of his environment. Each thrust and strike was meant to block and parry. Farrus had once told him that the true art of swordplay was the dance between counterstrike and strike. A poor swordsman either attacked too often or defended too much. Focusing on one or the other made you predictable and predictability was a sword fighter's greatest weakness. To be great, you had to balance your dance, react to your opponent by making split-second decisions based on what you were given. Sim always concentrated on mixing his technique. He imagined each would-be-foe approaching him with a different style. His sword would parry then sweep up and strike or deflect and jab, taking an imaginary foe through the chest. Soon he was working up a sweat, and he paused to remove his jacket. He switched swords and began practicing anew with his second weapon being sure to pay attention to the slight variation in weight between his two swords. You had to consider every consequence, every scenario, because the least skilled, least prepared man was invariably the man who ended up dead.
Sim felt an urgency, stronger than he could ever remember feeling, to be the best. He had to be the best. If he failed in a sword battle, he would fail everyone who had placed their faith in him. He would fail Retta, the trevloc rider, who had risked everything in helping them escape from Carleton. He would fail Mistress Hisha who had taken them into her inn even knowing that they would bring danger. Mostly he would fail his parents and Sarimus. How many sacrifices had they made in his name? How much had they given up? His sword danced around, carving victory through every conceivable scenario his mind could conjure. He would be better than the next man. And the man after that. He would be better than everyone. Then in the end, he would be better than Desirmor, and all those who had sacrificed for him would be validated.
His heart jumped when a man suddenly appeared in the door. He was old, frail and deformed. Sick burn marks scarred his head, and on his left side, he had no ear and a flab of scar tissue for an eye. The sight of him was jarring, and Sim immediately held his sword up threateningly.
“Stay your sword,” the man shouted, putting his hands up defensively. His left hand was scarred like his face and missing its pinky finger.
“State your purpose, old man,” Sim commanded.
“I’m a friend of Lady Relador,” he stuttered. “Fanna told me I would find you out here.”
“How do you know Enaya?” Sim asked. His sword stayed up, the tip pointed at the old man’s heart.
“She came to me yesterday. I’m taking her to see my father. She told me to meet her here when I got everything in order.”
“Where is she? What have you done with her?” Sim probed.
The old man shook his head in confusion. “I don’t know. She just told me I could find her here when I had everything in order. Hasn’t she come back?”
Sim studied the man. He didn’t feel as though he had any reason to fear him, but trust was a hard thing to give. “What time did she leave you yesterday?”
“It was late in the afternoon.”
“Did she say that she was returning to the inn?”
“I don’t believe she said anything. I merely assumed that she was going back. This city can be dangerous at night.”
“What’s your name? Why does she want to meet your father?” Sim lowered his sword, but remained cautious.
“Quinn Gracin. She came here looking for my father.” The old man relaxed a little when he saw the sword dip down.
“Is your father the Librarian?” Sim asked, feeling a sudden surge of hope. Quinn looked around for prying ears, then nodded. “I’m afraid Enaya didn’t return last night. We’re trying to figure out what’s happened.”
Quinn looked suddenly distraught. “And her companion, Lady Givara? Is she missing as well?”
Sim shrugged sadly. “Givara never leaves Enaya’s side.”
“We must find them,” Quinn said, fervently.
“We’re trying. My friend is out searching for them right now.”
Quinn nodded glumly. “You handle that sword like an expert, for such a young man. Who trained you?”
“An old friend,” Sim answered, slipping the sword back in its scabbard. He had decided that Quinn wasn’t a threat.
“Your friend must be magnificent,” Quinn complimented. “If we’re waiting then, I could use a bite to eat. Would you mind joining me?”
Sim agreed and followed the scarred old man back to the common room. They found a table and took a seat. It wasn’t long before Fanna came out from the kitchen.
“You’ve met Quinn I see,” she said when she approached them.
“I very nearly ran him through with my sword,” Sim said, with a quick wink at the old man.
Fanna raised a thin gray eyebrow. “Well Quinn, I know you want something to eat. You always want something to eat. What would you like?”
“Surprise me,” Quinn replied with a wide smile.
The curved crook at the corner of Fanna’s mouth told Sim that she had a fondness for the scarred old man. She turned away and disappeared into the kitchen.
“Are you one of the Lady Edmira’s guardsmen?” Quinn asked.
Sim was taken off guard by the sudden use of Enaya’s alias. Then he realized that Quinn was just using discretion. There were a few people in the common room. Anyone of them could be listening. “I am,” he answered, with a quick glance around.
“You seem young to be escorting a lady of her status. Were you an infantryman?”
“You ask an awful lot of questions old man.”
“I just like to know what kind of ingredients I’m putting in my kettle before I start cooking,” Quinn said.
“I suppose that’s fair. If you want to know more about me, you’ll have to ask Lady Edmira. She’ll tell you what you want to know.” Quinn studied him with an unreadable expression, then nodded quietly. “What about you then? What’s with the scars?”
Quinn stared at him blankly. “These aren’t scars, young man. They’re reminders. They’re reminders of the price a man must pay in the pursuit of an obsession.”
“That’s a cryptic answer.”
Quinn leaned forward and peered seriously at Sim with his one good eye. “Just how well do you know our two ladies?”
Sim felt that Quinn was feeling him out and wondered how much the old man already knew about them. “I know enough. I know who they truly are if that’s what you’re implying.”
Quinn scratched at the thick layer of scar tissue on the left side of his face. “And the Lady Givara? You know her well?”
“What are you getting at old man?” Sim was getting frustrated with the circular questioning.
“Some legends are based on truths. Even some children’s tales have foundations based on historical events,” Quinn whispered. “Are you familiar with “The Battle of Three Queens”?” Sim leaned forward and acknowledged the old man with a very grave expression. “I needed to be certain,” Quinn said, relaxing.
“Alright. So we both know about Givara. What’s the point?”
Quinn pointed to his scars. “This is the point. The pursuit of the legendary Tree of Life has been my obsession for as long as I can remember. I earned these scars following that pursuit.”
“The Tree of Life? I don’t think I know that legend,” Sim said with confusion.
“Few do, young man. Few do. You know about the three queens. Well it’s said that when one of the queens dies and is released from her debt by the Creator, a tree grows from her grave. It is believed that eating the fruit from these trees can grant immortality.”
“Immortality? That sounds hard to believe,” Sim said skeptically.
Fanna emerged from the kitchen carrying a plate with sausages and gravy soaked biscuits. She dropped it roughly in front of Quinn. “Don’t suppose you’ve got money to pay for this?” she asked doubtfully.
Quinn shrugged his shoulders and smiled at her sweetly.
“You’ll never change, Quinn,” Fanna sighed and left them alone.
“Is there something going on between you two?” Sim had to ask.
“Fanna and I were together once,” Quinn answered with a faraway gaze. “In the end, she couldn’t bear being second in my heart. These days she tolerates my occasional intrusions.”
Quinn dug into his breakfast, murmuring softly in enjoyment as he ate.
“So did you ever find the tree?” Sim asked. Quinn shook his head sadly. “Well how do you know it exists, then?”
“My father,” Quinn said matter of factly.
“What about your father?” Sim didn’t understand.
Quinn took a bite of sausage, chewed it quickly, and then smiled. “My father is the Librarian,” he whispered. “He’s been alive for a thousand years.”
Sim nodded with wonder. A tree that grants never-ending life. Would the wonders of the world around him ever cease? To think that for the first twenty one years of his life he had known nothing of trivals, trevlocs, or trees of life. What new mysteries would the coming days uncover?
He watched Quinn eat, letting the man enjoy his meal in silence. The door to the common room opened, and Farrus walked in, searching until he found Sim. He came to the table eyeing Quinn with suspicion, his hand hovering close to his sword. Sim made a calming motion with his hand to let his friend know that everything was fine. Farrus nodded and took a seat at the table next to him.
Farrus kept a discerning eye on the scarred old man.
“This is Quinn,” Sim told him. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “His father is the Librarian.”
The Innkeeper's Son Page 44
