The Innkeeper's Son

by Jeremy Brooks

  "Now we are witness to a new turning point. The Harven of prophecy has been discovered by the heir of the very princess who gave the prophecy. The first Collora in a thousand years just happens to be the same woman who set into motion our escape. It is difficult to grasp the grandness of the Creator’s plan as a whole, but I would compare it to a game of Kings. Each piece on the board moved deliberately to set a trap planned dozens of moves in advance, which would capture the king of your opponent.”

  “So we are pieces in a game played by Gods then, Givara?” Enaya asked skeptically.

  “Is it so hard to believe?” Givara replied.

  “I like to think I make my own destiny. We were given free will by our Creator,” Enaya answered.

  “If you are so certain of your ability to create your own destiny, then why do we seek the Librarian?” Givara challenged her.

  Enaya opened her mouth to offer a sharp retort, but found herself stumped. It seemed silly, suddenly, to proffer her beliefs in free will while she rode to read a prophecy that supposedly laid out the path she needed to follow. If the words of the prophecy rang true, then they truly were following some predestined path toward their end. Did she have any control at all?

  She looked ahead at Sim and Nehrea, and wondered if she had overlooked something. What if they were meant to be together? What if fate had set in motion, ages ago, for Sim and Nehrea to meet in the dungeon of the Governor’s palace? She was angry about their relationship, but perhaps she was fighting against something preordained before she had ever taken her first steps as an infant.

  As Enaya mulled her thoughts, they crossed a low rising hill and saw a sea of mist presented before them on the horizon. Above the mist, tree tops stretched as far as the eye could see, like a field of floating green hedges.

  Though she had spent a great deal of time in Perth during her travels, she had never seen the Water Woods. They were an unspoiled parcel of nature, free of man’s touch. Few lived around the region, and the town of Jarine was at least ten leagues beyond the southern edge of the forest.

  The woods were comprised of Camorrel trees, which took root in the bottom of a lake, and grew right out of the water. The trunks towered up into the sky, thick and tall, with a heavy canopy of vibrant green leaves. You could ride a small boat between the trunks and navigate through the lake, but few dared to try. The lake was home to several different species of large amphibious predators, nasty beasts that stalked their prey hidden beneath the surface of the water.

  For a man who coveted privacy, it was a clever place to live. No-one bothered with the Water Woods. The Librarian had chosen well.

  The Dahara slowed to a stop, and Sim looked to Quinn for direction. The old man pointed them west, advising Firetail to follow the tree line until they came across a home, built right on the edge of the water.

  They continued at a slower pace than before, something more akin to a regular horse's gallop. There was no road to follow, so the Dahara ran across the choppy terrain that surrounded the woods. It proved to be a rougher ride than the journey from the Showtokan encampment, and Enaya could feel it taking a toll on her back. She was aching. While riding on Fallastar was an experience she would always cherish, the sooner they found their destination the better.

  Time seemed to pass slowly, due to her longing to be through with the journey. Enaya watched the Water Woods passing quietly to her left. Riding so close to the water’s edge, the appearance of a mist that had looked so thick and impenetrable from the distance was virtually unnoticeable. She could clearly see the surface of the water shimmering in the late day sun, as still and placid as a pane of glass. Several different varieties of birds flew about between the thick brown tree trunks, watching the surface for a meal. She tracked one particularly beautiful bird, with pristine white feathers and a long pointed red beak, as it glided low over the water. For a moment, it let one of it’s red, clawed feet dip into the water, tearing the surface as cleanly as a sliced page of parchment. Then something beneath the surface violently surged up and snatched the bird in a fearsome jaw, pulling it under the water in a hail of beaten feathers. Enaya felt a pang of regret for having witnessed the lovely bird’s last few moments of life. Death can call at any moment, she thought portentously.

  Finally the Dahara slowed to a trot, and Enaya saw Sim pointing out something in the distance to Nehrea. She searched ahead and spotted a plume of smoke rising from the chimney of a house built right on the edge of the woods. It was an unassuming log cabin, small and simple. There was a porch built onto the front of the house. A man sat in a rocking chair watching their approach.

  If he felt threatened by the sight of unannounced visitors, he did nothing to show it. He simply rocked back and forth slowly, until the Dahara came to a stop.

  Fallastar, Shearwind, and Firetail all knelt down to let their riders dismount. When everyone gathered together, Quinn stepped up to the porch.

  “Hello, son,” the man said, standing from his chair.

  “Hello, Father,” Quinn replied, softly.

  Chapter Twenty Seven: The Librarian

  Enaya looked the man over. She hadn’t really known what to expect, but still, his youth was surprising. He was short and thin, and looked no older than his late thirties. His black hair was thick and well groomed. To see Quinn Gracin, a deformed old man, standing beside his youthful father was a jarring visual. But the man had lived for a thousand years. It would have been narrow minded for her to assume that the fabled Librarian would look like an aged relic of a time long past.

  “I didn’t expect to see you again, Quinn,” he said, putting a hand on his son’s shoulder. He looked out at the group. His brown eyes lit up as he gazed upon the three Dahara. “You’ve brought some interesting friends.”

  Quinn led his father off of the porch and brought him out to make introductions. He started with Farrus and Givara, standing side by side in front of Fallastar.

  “Father, this is Farrus, a former guardsman from the island of Caramour.”

  “Hello Farrus," he said cheerfully, reaching to shake Farrus’ hand. “My name is Roswell Gracin.”

  Farrus grunted and bowed his head slightly. He took Gracin’s hand with an odd look of reluctance, shaking it gently then looking away. Enaya wondered if he was loathe to admit that he had been wrong about the Librarian. In her experience, men acted like admonished toddlers whenever they were proven wrong.

  “This vision of majestic beauty is Givara,” Quinn told his father, ushering him along.

  Roswell looked upon Givara with a speechless smile. He took her hand and knelt, bowing his head in deference. An impatient look of scorn broke across Givara’s face as she looked down at the top of his head.

  “You are her, of course,” Roswell said. “As a lover of literature, both factual and fictional, you can imagine my excitement, meeting a figure of legend.”

  “Stand up, fool,” Givara grunted. “You are sorely mistaken. I am no-one of any consequence.”

  Roswell stood and looked at his son in confusion. “I am truly sorry, my Lady,” he said, abashed. “Quinn, I merely assumed that you would be with the Queen by now.”

  “What do you mean?” Enaya asked.

  He looked at his son and contemplated her question.

  “And who are you, my Lady.” he asked, choosing not to answer.

  “Lady Enaya Relador, of Merrame,” Enaya announced, forcing dignity and her inborn refinement into every spoken syllable. “Givara is my guardian. Nothing more. Now tell me, Roswell, what did you mean?”

  “Relador?” he studied her face. “Yennit Relador. Is he a relative?”

  “He’s my grandfather.” The air of dignity slid from her face at the mention of her grandfather’s name.

  “Your grandfather is a very powerful man in Fandrall, Lady Relador. What brings you all the way out to the south of Perth?”

  “You,” Enaya replied. “We’ve come to see the prophecy.”

  Roswell regarded her silently, rubbing
a thumb methodically along the underside of his jaw line. He looked around at the Dahara, then at Givara again, before turning his attention to Sim. After a brief moment of contemplation, his eyes suddenly widened and a knowing smile split his face.

  “You’re the Harven, aren’t you?” he asked with delight.

  Everyone shuffled uncomfortably. Even the Dahara seemed guarded about answering the accusation. Sim looked to Quinn for support, unsure of whether to trust Roswell with his secret. Quinn merely shrugged.

  “If you want his help, you’re going to have to give him your trust,” Quinn said.

  Sim nodded and answered. “My name is Siminus Kelmor Harvencott. I am the last Harven.”

  Roswell rubbed his hands together with excitement. “Of course you are. It took me a moment to recognize you. It has been about a thousand years since I’ve seen a Harven after all, but the resemblance is unmistakable.”

  “The resemblance?” Sim asked.

  “Oh yes,” Roswell answered eagerly. “Harvens all looked strikingly similar. The black hair. The green eyes. Tall and strong. You look the same as just about every Harven I can remember from my days in the palace.”

  Sim smiled and stood up a bit straighter. Hearing a reference to his ancestors must have given him a feeling of pride. Enaya thought he looked almost regal.

  “Who is this young beauty, Quinn?” Roswell asked, directing his attention to Nehrea.

  Nehrea squirmed uncomfortably, edging closer to Sim’s side.

  Quinn went over and stood beside her, resting his good hand on her shoulder with affection. “This is Nehrea Alla’Dushura. Formerly a consort at the Governor’s palace in Nal’Dahara. Just a few days ago, she was initiated by the Dahara. Nehrea is the new Collora.”

  Roswell’s jaw dropped, and he shook his head in disbelief. His eyes went to the three majestic horses who watched him with unreadable expressions. He took a knee and bowed his head in deference before Nehrea, making her blush and look around awkwardly.

  “We truly stand on the precipice of a new age,” Roswell breathed. “A new Collora, a Harven, three Dahara, and though you insist on secrecy," he said, inclining his head toward Givara, "I can only assume that you are indeed one of the three queens of legend.” He stood and went to Enaya. The careful way he studied her face, made her bristle. “I suppose I should have noticed it right off. Time has a way of eroding even the most vivid memories. It's your eyes, Lady Relador. You have her eyes. Harmony Alexidus was a beauty unrivaled in her time. You must be her scion.”

  “We have come to see the prophecy, Master Gracin,” Enaya told him. She did her best to hide the elation that sent chills to every end of her body. Did she really resemble the Princess? The revelation made her want to weep with joy.

  “I will concede to let you read the prophecy, Lady Relador, but I will require a small concession in return.”

  Enaya exchanged a glance with Sim. His green eyes offered reassurance.

  “I’m not sure what we have to offer you, Master Gracin,” Enaya replied, cautiously.

  Roswell grinned. “I have dedicated my life to the pursuit of knowledge, Lady Relador, first as a scholar, and later as the court Librarian and Historian to the Alexidus monarchy. Throughout these last thousand years, I have traveled to every corner of the globe, acquiring every piece of literature I could find. What I desire from you, from each of you, is your story. To see the prophecy, you will need to tell me the story of your lives. You must understand, to a scholar such as myself, each of you is a living, breathing chapter in the great history of our world. Your names will be remembered for ages to come. I want to write your story. It will be my own lasting legacy to a world that has given me so much.”

  “I am only speaking for myself, Master Gracin. The others may choose as they wish. I will tell you all that you wish to know,” Enaya said.

  “I’ve nothing to hide,” Sim announced with a grin.

  “Very well, Siminus. And you, Nehrea? Will you share with me the story of how you came to become the Collora?” Roswell asked.

  Nehrea seemed doubtful, but one look at Sim for support settled her uncertainty. She answered with a shy nod, then looked back at Firetail, as if they were sharing a private conversation. Enaya watched her nod her head twice at the great horse, which seemed to shake his head in agreement. She desperately wished she could take part in one of their conversations. She hated feeling left out.

  “And what of you two?” Roswell asked Givara and Farrus. The grisled guardsman scratched the long scar that split the left side of his face and waited for Givara to answer.

  The former queen answered Roswell with contempt. “My story is too long and complicated too tell. And Master Farrus here…’ she elbowed him in the ribs for emphasis, ‘is nothing but a boring, dried up, old fool, who would only put you to sleep recounting the sad drudgery of his life.”

  Farrus rubbed his sore ribs, but nodded in agreement. Givara watched him wince with a satisfied smirk.

  “Well then, Master Gracin?” Enaya asked.

  “Very well,” Roswell agreed. He rubbed his hands together and looked the party over. “You must be famished from your journey. I was fortunate enough to have caught several large pike’s this morning. I hope you all like fish?”

  “The Dahara will require nourishment, as well, Master Gracin,” Nehrea said as she looked back at the three large horses and listened. “They will also need a trough of fresh water. They are unwilling to risk drinking directly from the lake.”

  “I will accommodate them of course,” Roswell replied. He pointed to a modest garden growing to the right side of his home. “I recently harvested a healthy crop of carrots, and I have a well to draw fresh water from the lake.”

  “The Dahara thank you for your hospitality, Master Gracin,” Nehrea said, with a courteous bow of her head.

  Roswell addressed the Dahara directly. “Standing in your presence is one of the greatest honors I have ever enjoyed. If there is anything you require, please ask.”

  “The Dahara count themselves honored to make your acquaintance as well, Roswell Gracin. They have fond memories of the Alexidus Monarchy and humbly ask that you spare a few moments this evening to recount some stories of your time in the royal court,” Nehrea interpreted their words.

  Roswell smiled with delight and made a quick, but formal, bow. “It would be my pleasure, Collora.”

  Then he led the group inside his home.

  ********************************************************************

  Navan Prianhe sat beside a boulder on a low rising hill, watching the small house that sat on the edge of the Water Wood. At his back, a fair distance behind, stood a group of twenty soldiers and a Lieutenant. They knew enough to keep back, letting him observe the domicile in peace. He could smell the fear in every last man at his command. He relished their fear.

  An aggressive campaign of questioning in the town of Jarine had yielded the information that led him to his current position. Several shop keepers had confirmed the location of the only person they knew of that lived so close to the Water Woods; a recluse named Roswell Gracin.

  No-one questioned had been able to divulge much more than a description of the man. He went into town once every few months to make purchases and avoided personal conversations. They thought he was pleasant, and polite, but no-one knew anything about him other than the items he most commonly procured. Most of his purchases were obvious things, sugar and flour, needles and thread, fishing line and hooks, but it was noted that Gracin was known to buy large quantities of ink, quills, and parchment. Prianhe suspected the man was a writer of some sort.

  He watched Roswell Gracin, gently rocking in his chair on the front porch. There was nothing exceptional about the man. His clothes were plain, his home seemed unassuming. Prianhe sensed that he was a scholar. He exuded the obvious weakness and fear of confrontation that all bookish types wore like a painting hanging on a wall. Prianhe detested men of that ilk. If this lead turned out to be a w
aste of time, Prianhe was going to eat his heart.

  Time passed, and nothing changed. Gracin remained in his chair all morning and into the afternoon. At one point, he stood and stretched, then walked to the end of his porch and urinated shamelessly, before returning to his chair. Later in the day, he stood again and disappeared around the back of his building. About a half an hour later, he came back carrying several large fish, which he’d caught in the lake. Prianhe was fleetingly impressed that the man had the courage to fish the Water Woods. The creatures that were said to inhabit the lake were known to be fearsome.

  The daylight was beginning to wane. The sun gently drifted toward the high terrain that marked the western horizon. Prianhe was just considering giving up on his surveillance, when a familiar smell, barely perceptible with the light westerly breeze coming off the ocean to the east, caught his attention. A smile broke the sullen crest of his thin, black lips. Farrushaw.

  Prianhe strained his eyes to the east, scanning the tree line for a glimpse of his quarries’ arrival. After several agonizing minutes, his far-seeing eyes caught sight of a party approaching on horseback. As they drew closer, and his excitement heightened, Prianhe was startled to see the contrast in size of the criminals he sought, against the horses they rode. It seemed impossible, a trick of his senses. Horses didn’t grow to such grand heights. But as they reached Gracin’s dwelling and dismounted, it became clear that the horses did indeed tower over their human riders.

  Gracin stood from his seat and stepped down to meet the group. Prianhe scratched at the whiskers that dotted his face like a human's unshaved stubble. Perhaps Roswell Gracin had some secrets to reveal after all. He would have to take his time putting the mysterious stranger to the question.