by Kaleb Nation
“Unwelcome!” Escrow said, and he hissed and spread his wings. The bird scratched the shreds of the letter behind him and snapped at Bran’s hand when he tried to grab them.
“You’ve made a mess!” Bran said angrily, but as he had only one usable hand, there wasn’t much he could do to fight the bird. Escrow nipped at his fingers, and Bran jerked back.
“Stop that!” Bran ordered.
“Unwelcome!” Escrow retorted, snapping his beak to keep Bran back.
“I was just going to look at it,” Bran said, trying to keep his voice down.
“Lies!” the bird’s voice came. “Salty, salty lies!”
“Quiet!” Bran said, snapping his fingers around the bird’s beak and forcing him to be silent. “You’ve already destroyed it, so I can’t read it anyway.”
The bird wiggled his head free and waddled around on the desk, glaring at Bran until he finally left the room in disgust.
Chapter 24
A Lullaby for Lost Love
As there was no television, Bran sank down into the pillows of the bed and stared at the ceiling. He felt that he should be doing something, and yet he was trapped where he was, and twice he considered using magic to attempt to heal his injury. Bran finally drifted away into slumber, but he was given no rest. His mind was filled with a repeat of what he had seen under the bridge in Dunce, following Astara’s ghostly form through the woods to her grave. His dream was so vivid it was as if he was there again, the magic tearing at the ground and pulling her coffin back to the surface. But this time, her body was there beneath the wooden shell. Her eyes were already open, staring back up at him as she huddled in the corner, buried alive.
He reached to pull her out, but his hands went straight through her. Her ghostly body washed away into a green mist. She blew upward, swirling freely out of the coffin and into the air. He chased her body as it glowed, flying through the trees, but as it went, it slowly dissipated until there was no light left.
His subconscious told him to look down, and he saw that he was holding something tightly. The green gem in the key’s handle glowed into his face, the same color as Astara’s smoky form. It was blinding, and Bran moved his hand to cover it, but then the gem itself became a mist and drifted out of the key, leaving the woods around Bran black.
Bran awoke, rolling over, twisting his legs in the bedsheet. He winced as he leaned on his injured hand and swung over to the other side, finding that he was covered in sweat though the room was cold. He managed to sit up, unable to recall why he was out of breath until he remembered the dream. He reached up to wipe his forehead with his good hand and nearly knocked himself in the eye with the key, which had somehow made its way into his fist.
He stared at it, though the room was dark, and unlike in his dream, no light came from the gem. He set it on the table next to the bed and wiped his face with the edge of his sheets, which were soaked in his own sweat. The dream was hard to clear from his mind, and it had left his body so weak and sore that he had to lean against the chair when he stood. He dug some fresh clothes out of his bag and managed to get them on with his good hand.
He didn’t see Nim at first until he spotted her asleep across the room on a long string of fat cotton balls that had been placed on the dresser. It felt odd knowing that Gary must have come into his room, though Bran could not complain, for there was also a glass of water and a silver tray of food beside the bed.
There was a bowl under the lid of some type of soup with vegetables and garlic and tiny bits of fish. It tasted so fresh, though Bran couldn’t tell what was in it. He sipped it down with the spoon, and as he ate, he slowly began to feel a little bit better and more alert. He glanced over at Nim again, but he didn’t want to wake her, so he set his spoon quietly to the side and left the room.
He wandered down the hallways, and presently he heard clanking noises and a hammer coming from around a bend. He followed the sounds until he reached the balcony and saw Gary far below, working on the giant ship. He was suspended by a system of pulleys and ropes so that he was hanging against the side of the hull, hammering a board down over a rotted opening.
Bran almost called down to him but thought better of it and walked down the circular hall until he finally reached the bottom.
“That’s a big ship,” Bran said, trying to start conversation. Gary glanced at him.
“Good morning,” he said. He wasn’t as cheerful as he had been before.
“What’s it doing all the way down here?” Bran pressed. “I can’t even imagine how you got it inside this place.”
Gary didn’t seem very willing to stop his work, but he finally did, setting the hammer down onto the plank of wood.
“This ship,” he said, wiping his hands, “was once sailed by the great pirate Pythagorus Fearum.”
“A pirate?” Bran asked. “Then why have you got the ship down here?”
Gary grinned at that.
“Well, there’s a lot of history behind this ship,” he replied. “Keys aren’t my only obsession.” He lightly tapped the wood. “I’ve got many of Fearum’s personal items. I suppose you would say I collect them. I’m probably one of few who know his true legend.”
“And what’s his story?” Bran said, trying to keep Gary talking.
“Well, I shan’t tell you the whole legend of Fearum,” Gary said, “but suffice it to say that Pythagorus was perhaps one of the nastiest, and least spoken of, pirates in his day.”
Gary shook his head. “He committed a great many crimes, including the one against a monastery of the Ancients which sealed his doom. The Ancients cursed Pythagorus and all of his descendants to suffer their deaths by fire.”
“How many descendants does a pirate usually have?” Bran asked.
“More than you want to know about,” Gary replied, and he slowly began to lower himself down with the pulley until his feet touched the ground.
“Pythagorus was thankfully more reckless on the open seas than he was on land,” Gary said. “He had only one son, who in turn had only one son, who also had only one son.”
“And did he really die by fire?” Bran asked.
“Tragically, yes,” Gary said. “As every descendant has after him. His son was said to have been burned at the stake; his grandson died when his burning house fell on him. It is difficult to find the true history of the other generations, as few public records are kept on it.”
Gary nodded at the ship.
“I fancy myself the world’s only true expert on Pythagorus Fearum,” he said with a grin. “Legend has it that after Pythagorus’s death, his loyal first mate Skully Crossbones wrote the only existing record of his life, and that Skully still wanders the world, awaiting his final leave from Pythagorus so that he can die.”
Gary gestured upward. “And the triangular sails were his sign, colored green and black, so that all ships that came within sight would know to turn about rather than risk the wrath of the pirate named Fearum.”
“You seem to know quite a bit about him,” Bran said. Gary looked up at the giant ship with an affectionate gaze.
“Perhaps I have a weakness for obsessions,” he said. And at that, Gary began to wheel himself back up with the pulley. Gary started to hammer again, but Bran gathered up his courage and started again.
“I went looking for you last night,” Bran said. “But I couldn’t find you in your office.”
The hammer did not stop.
“I wanted to ask you about my mother,” Bran pressed.
“What of her?” Gary said, his voice cool.
“Well, last night you told me you’d met her before,” Bran said.
“I did,” the man nodded.
“But I don’t remember anything about her,” Bran said. “You’re one of the few people I’ve found who does.”
“There were many of us who knew Emry before she died,” Gary said, an
d he stared straight ahead at his work, as if ignoring Bran would make him disappear.
“You can’t tell me anything about what she was like?” Bran said. Gary stopped the hammer suddenly, its head hovering an inch from the nail.
“Did Adi send you here for this?” Gary snapped. It took Bran by surprise.
“N-no,” he said, confused. “Adi didn’t even tell me you’d known my mother.”
“She didn’t, did she?” Gary responded. “She didn’t tell you anything about the Project?”
“You mean the Farfield Curse?” Bran asked. The speed of his reply caught Gary unawares. He looked down at Bran quickly with anger in his eyes.
“Adi failed to mention you knew of it,” Gary said. “I only knew it as the Project until it was twisted into that deplorable thing you know as the Curse.”
“You worked on the Farfield Curse?” Bran said with alarm. Gary seemed to take offense at those words, because he started to wheel himself down until he was just above Bran’s head.
“How about I tell you a little story,” Gary said, his eyes narrowing. “Many years before you were born, someone stumbled upon a cave, and in this cave was the corpse of a man whose arms were clutching a box of ancient scrolls. The Mages Council, wishing to decipher these scrolls, commissioned a secret group of mages to decode them. At its head was a man by the name of Baslyn.”
Bran blinked at this, and Gary caught his reaction to the name.
“You have heard of him as well,” Gary said. “No matter, this story is not Baslyn’s. It is actually the story of a young man—one who knew entirely too much about a pirate by the name of Pythagorus Fearum. When Baslyn discovers that the corpse that had held these scrolls was none other than that of the legendary pirate himself, he brings this expert onto his research team—along with others, including a man named Thomas and a woman named Emry.
“Along the way,” Gary went on, “this man, Baslyn, discovers that these scrolls spoke of a magical power beyond anything in his wildest imagination: of another place, of creatures, of dark magics no one had seen even in their nightmares. And feeling that he might find a way to use these for his own advantage, he proposes to his group of researchers the outline for a plot.
“Being young and under this man’s influence, his group sides with him—all save one, the young man who knew so much of the pirate Fearum. He alone decides to stand against them but unwisely chooses to ignore them rather than alert the Council of their true plans. So he is forced to leave.”
“And so Baslyn,” Gary said, “and his followers, with the man named Thomas and the woman named Emry, continued their horrific work, and I think both you and I know the end.”
Gary shook his head sadly.
“So yes, Bran,” he finished, “I do know much about the Farfield Curse and how your mother was brought to her end.”
Bran opened his mouth to reply, but Gary only wheeled himself up the side of the ship again.
“She changed before she died, you know,” Bran called up, in what little defense of her name he could muster.
“But her end was hardly when it was meant to be,” he heard Gary say.
“Well, you were just a friend of hers,” Bran called back. “She was my mother. So you can hardly act like it affected you more than it did me.”
Disgusted, Bran spun around to leave the room before he became angrier.
“Where are you going?” came Gary’s voice.
“I don’t know,” Bran said sharply. His voice carried the bitterness that had washed over his heart. Time was being wasted with every moment he was stuck there.
“It might do you well to rest, Bran,” Gary said, with unexpected concern.
“I can’t sleep anymore,” Bran replied over his shoulder. “I’ve been having the worst of nightmares.”
He heard Gary’s pulley begin to creak once more until he reached the ground.
“Come now,” Gary said, cleaning his hands in a towel. “Let me help you.”
“I don’t want any help sleeping,” Bran hissed. “I want to find my friend!”
“You won’t have any luck there until you’re well again,” Gary said, though his voice carried no anger. He tossed the towel back onto the table, passing Bran for the hall.
Though Bran did not feel like doing anything that Gary said, he reluctantly followed until they had come to the office. Gary gestured Bran to the couch, the fireplace crackling warmly as Gary sat in a large leather chair across from him. There was a square wooden table beside him with two drawers, and he reached for the brass pull of the top.
“I think that a bit of music might help you,” he said. He drew a long, slender box from the drawer and opened it gently. Within it was a perfectly polished silver flute with black etchings around its surface.
“Just rest,” Gary insisted. “I’m a Netora, if you haven’t figured it out by now. Music is one of my many passions.”
“My friend is a Netora as well,” Bran said. Gary looked up at him.
“As was your mother,” he said softly, “before she fell for that which was her end.”
Bran did not know how to take Gary’s words, because they only built new monuments upon the mysteries he had already constructed.
“But don’t think of her for now,” Gary whispered, as if he could feel Bran’s uncertainty. “How many nights has her memory haunted both you and me?”
Bran did as Gary had told him and lay back, as much as he wished to do otherwise. The couch was comfortable, and he realized that though he had rested the night before, the nightmares had left him even more tired. His heart was weary as well, and each thought of Astara pained him all the more.
“Close your eyes,” Gary said. “You’ll feel better after a while, Bran.”
Gary began to play. The song started slow at first, a few notes repeated like the droning sound of the flute awakening from its slumber. It surrounded Bran, opening like a new morning in another world. The notes flowed out effortlessly from the instrument, as if it was playing itself in the softest tones it knew. Bran’s eyes had opened without him fully realizing it, and he saw that Gary’s fingers were working the flute, his mouth pressed to the other end as he did. He nodded for Bran to close his eyes again, and so Bran obeyed and let the music wash over the room.
The song went on, repeating the first short verse once and then transforming into a lullaby, one that was so familiar that Bran had to force himself to keep his eyes closed. He knew he had heard it somewhere, but he could not place the sound. It seemed to be buried deep in the recesses of his mind.
The melody was unhurried and mournful, like the lament of a lost love, its notes seeming to fade into one another like the soft weeping of a man. It was odd how the music seemed to drift across Bran’s mind like soothing incense, sweetly lulling him deeper against the couch, though he tried to fight it. His mind softened to its notes, the worry and the pain over losing Astara slowly wearing away, until its burden lightened from his shoulders.
He opened his eyes wearily to ask Gary the name of the song. But when he looked toward the chair, he saw that Gary’s eyes were closed, and there were tears rolling down the man’s cheeks, as he slowly continued to play the notes by memory.
The room became hazy, and notes washed over Bran like ghostly hands pushing his eyelids closed until he had fallen asleep.
Chapter 25
The Key and Its Map
Bran slept better that night than he had in weeks. He awoke in the crooked bedroom, and there was another tray of warm food beside his bed. He didn’t feel like eating, but he made himself down everything that was there. He had no sense of the time, and though he didn’t think he could sleep any more, he couldn’t drag himself out of the bed. So he lay there and did nothing until he fell asleep again.
When Bran awoke again, he had gotten so much sleep that it hurt him to remain in bed, so he pulled himse
lf up and struggled uneasily to his feet. Nim, who had restlessly moved from the dresser to the chair beside his bed, immediately leapt in front of him.
“There you are,” Bran said to her. Nim seemed relieved that he was finally up and ready to move about. Bran saw the key was still sitting on the table beside his bed, where he had left it, so he absently picked it up.
He ran his fingers along the markings on the shaft, not really concentrating on what he was doing. His fingers kept going over the same shapes.
He held the key closer to his eyes, for the grooves were very small and hard to see. They didn’t follow any real pattern, it seemed, because there was no start or end to the shapes, and they didn’t make any form but seemed to spread in circles and straight, maze-like lines, until they met up at one thin, flat bit that ran all along the bottom.
He thought it would be interesting to show to Gary, as he was the obvious expert on keys, and perhaps there was a way of matching the design to where the door might be.
Bran and Nim left and wandered down the halls, looking for any sign of where Gary might be. Bran was still very curious after all that Gary had told him about working with his mother. There were so many questions in his head that he wanted to ask—questions that had plagued him for years. But even as important as they were to Bran, he could hardly think of them for more than a few minutes before his mind returned to Astara and his driving urge to find her.
He had made his way down the hall and found an open door, beyond which was a room with a low ceiling and a long desk in the center holding two lamps and some open books. It was a library, with three rows of shelves in the center of the floor, like miniature walls about an inch taller than Bran. “Hello?” Bran said, stepping in with Nim keeping close to him. There came no response. So he crossed the room to the desk, glancing from side to side as he passed the shelves.
There was something on the table that caught his attention. It was no longer than the length of his thumb, bright red and cone shaped; attached to its side was a small length of chain connecting to a ring on the other end. Bran picked it up and realized that it was a key ring.
