The Untold Tale (The Accidental Turn Series Book 1)

by J. M. Frey

  Having nothing to say to that, I simply salute Pointe once more.

  “Yes, fine, I get it, you don’t want to talk about it. So, what now?” Pointe asks as we resume trading ripostes and lunges. “You going to try to get her home?”

  I am so unhappy with the decision I’ve had to make regarding what should come after Lucy Piper is well that Pointe actually manages to score a hit off me. He pauses, just as startled as I am that his wooden point has landed in my gut, and then raises his gaze to my face.

  “Oh, Forsyth, no.”

  “It was inevitable,” I reply.

  “It is not,” he says. “He’d never know if you didn’t tell him. There’s no reason at all for him to come back here!”

  “He’s probably heard all about it by now, anyway. It only makes sense to ask him to accompany her on her return journey. She’ll need a hero.”

  “My arse! You stupid heel,” Pointe bellows. “He hasn’t even arrived yet, and you’re already acting like you’ve lost her to him.”

  “I never had her to begin with,” I protest. “It’s been two days.”

  “Because you won’t try.” He snarls and throws his sword to the ground, running his hands through his hair. “When it comes to anything with Kintyre, you never bloody try, and it drives me nuts, Forsyth.”

  “It is the way of the world,” I say, walking back to the sparring rack to drop my sword into its bin. Clearly, our match is over. “Kintyre Turn was built for adventures and winning; Forsyth Turn was built for skulking and spying, and hiding—”

  The smack to the back of my head is both unexpected and painful.

  “Ow!” I yelp, a hand flying to my scalp to check for blood. I turn to glare at Pointe. He has never struck me unprovoked before, and I am shocked.

  He is standing just behind me, the wooden sword he just whapped me with clutched in a white-knuckled fist, his rage making him blow like a bull.

  “Shut it!” he snarls.

  “I am not cut out for the sort of adventuring this will require, Pointe,” I say softly.

  “And how can you be so certain of that?”

  I gesture for him to follow me, pulling on my embroidered waistcoat and house robe and buttoning both while Pointe dithers. I knot a length of Turn-russet silk in the hollow of my throat, basic and comfortingly restrictive, as I make my way down the hall and toward my study. Muttering under his breath, Point slams his practice sword onto the rack and re-dons his gray jerkin of office before stomping after me.

  Spread out on my desk are a sheaf of letters; two hastily drawn maps; a scroll that, until recently, had been buried in an ancient ruin; and no less than five pages torn from five separate, and no doubt eminently priceless, tomes. Behind me are all the books that my Men liberated from the Viceroy when they raided his most recent hideaway and inadvertently rescued Lucy Piper. I will return the books to their rightful owners soon, but I wanted to pull the collection together first, in order to observe what I can of the Viceroy’s intent.

  My Men have also been collecting what intelligence they can about how, and why, Lucy Piper ended up in the Viceroy’s grip. The picture their combined effort paints is one that I am not pleased to have to explain. The carvings in her back were horrific enough. Yet, the sight of the sigil that one of my Men copied from the wall of a summoning chamber in one of the Viceroy’s other hidey-holes has made me pity Pip even more than the agony she endured has.

  Pointe is not a scholar of magics as I have been, and so it takes longer for the disparate clues to come together for him. I let him scan the papers, his gray eyes flashing. I know the moment he understands because he steps back away from the desk and slaps his hands over his eyes, rubbing with disbelief.

  “Are you telling me it worked?”

  “Apparently.”

  “But that’s supposed to be a myth.” He drops his hands and stares at me, jaw slack. “That’s just a story.”

  “And yet, here is Lucy Piper.”

  “So, what, you think she was spirited here from a world beyond our own by a few squiggles on the ground, some fairy blood, a troll’s toenail, a sparkly stone, and some chants? That’s . . . that’s insane!”

  “That’s dark magic,” I correct. “There are creatures of the night who love a good bribe, Pointe. You know that as well as I. Speaking Words is one thing, but to offer exchanges with a Deal-Maker spirit . . .” I sigh, rubbing my forehead. “This is the worst sort of thing, and I wish I could say that I am more surprised than I am that the Viceroy has turned to this. He grows ever more desperate in his efforts to dethrone our king, and this does seem in keeping with his manic obsession over destroying Kintyre.”

  Pointe is visibly shaken. “And what the hell must he have offered a Deal-Maker to summon down a . . . what would you even call her?”

  “A Reader, I suppose.” The term makes me uncomfortable. It is just so otherworldly. And this is coming from one of the few humans who takes tea with a centaur on a regular basis. Humans are inherently non-magical, unlike many of the other sentient species that populate our world. But also unlike them, we can learn the skills, the Words and the gestures, to make reality bend ever so slightly in our favor. But to say that there is a creature that cannot, by all the rules of all the sciences and magics I am privy to (which is to say, all of them) exist, and yet does; that it is out there—well, no, not out there, but in my mother’s chamber—existing . . .

  A shiver runs through my blood.

  Is this why I find her attractive? Because she has such power over us mere mortals? Or is she simply human, as I am, as she appears to be? She seems so frail, so fragile, so hurt, and so determined to pretend not to be.

  If she really did have the power of the Readers of legend, then why would she have allowed herself to be carved upon by Bootknife? How had she even been restrained by the Viceroy?

  “She can’t be a Reader,” Pointe says, and it seems as if his thoughts have been following the same trail as mine. His eyes are trained on the ceiling, as if he fears that Pip will sink through the wood and plaster and float before us like a zephyr. “Nobody could have captured her if she really was one of them.”

  “And how can we be certain of that?” I ask, my own voice a low and reverential murmur. It seems wrong to discuss this pseudo-blasphemy at full volume. “There are no accounts of Readers, no scientific inquiries. There are only the vague ramblings of mad prophetesses, and the recorded poems that talk about seas of eyes far beyond our skies that watch all we do, that can imagine and conjure us and our world into their own minds, who can change reality by imposing an impression on us and our actions. What if she is as human as you or I?”

  “You mean, just some innocent girl from beyond the veil of reality, brought here against her will?” He scoffs, the sarcasm thick in his throat.

  “She certainly appears to be,” I concede. “Either she plays her part well or she truly is what she seems. And yet . . . she has such knowledge of my life . . .”

  Pointe’s expression is growing ever more horrified, and the nervous energy of the revelation manifests itself in quick, confused pacing. He flitters about my study like a hawk too flustered to fly to its master’s lure.

  While he works through whatever agitation it is that has him so unnerved, I drop my gaze back down to the papers. There is a sketch of a necklace, and I know I have seen the piece before. It is quite distinctive, the pendant wrought to resemble a great feather that, were it to be worn by a woman, would dip between her breasts like a quill into an ink pot. It is strewn all over with what the notes assure me are dark sapphires.

  Where in the world have I seen such a fantastical thing before? I try to recall, but all I can flash upon is one of those wretched court balls I had to attend as a young lordling while my father still lived. Supremely unhelpful.

  “Are you going to let her stay?” Pointe asks, suddenly coming to a stop and whipping about to face me.

  “Of course,” I say. “If she is a Reader, then my permission would make
no difference. If she is not a Reader, then she deserves the care of the best the Chipping can offer, and that is here. Besides, I would prefer she be where I could see her, in case things go amiss.”

  “Blast, Forsyth,” Pointe curses. “Then let me take the lead on security, please?”

  “And what is the need for that? You know Pip and I are well protected here.”

  “Pip?”

  I feel the blush painting the tips of my ears and look away. “Lucy Piper. ‘Pip’ to her friends, whom, apparently, I number among.”

  Pointe scoffs again and resumes fluttering around the room.

  Yes, right, of course. He is correct in his disdain. Of course I’m not really her friend.

  He stops a second time. “I want to meet her. Now.”

  “Give me a moment, then.” I cross to the bell-pull and ring for my butler, Velshi. When he appears—tall and silent, with the faint air of put-upon-ness that all butlers share—I order up a tea to be sent to Pip’s room and tell him to send Neris to ensure that Pip is in a fit state to entertain visitors.

  Pointe and I both take fortifying slugs of brandy from the heirloom decanter and the last two matching glasses on my sideboard. Kintyre and Bevel smashed the other two during a drunken rout the last time they passed through on an adventure, the wretches.

  Then, Pointe and I make our way upstairs.

  ✍

  Neris has left Pip propped carefully on a chaise by the hearth. She is wearing my mother’s house robe, a Sheil-purple affair that turns her muddy green eyes browner, deeper, and her olive-toned skin a bit more golden, like she’s been in the sun. Pip seems to be lacking the customary white shift that goes beneath it, though. She is wearing the robe backward as well, the lapels left open over the tender flesh of her back, the collar folded under her chin, the shoulders of the robe hooked awkwardly over her actual shoulders. It looks like it is just barely staying on, tied loosely around her waist as it is, and I assume that there is probably only a pair of bloomers covering her modesty below her waist. It seems precarious, but is far more dignified than being squashed face-first against a mattress, and the most logical solution for covering her front without irritating her back.

  Just as I imagined it might, her hair shines blue-black in the firelight, a soft sheet of fly-aways falling to just below her ears. It is oddly short, for a woman, and I wonder if this was part of the torture the Viceroy forced her to endure—cruelly chopping off all of her lovely hair. I indulge for just a moment and allow myself to imagine a plait the same color curling over one round, pretty shoulder. I imagine my skinny fingers on the tie holding the plait closed, the sensation of sinking my hands into the living silk of her braid, smoothing it into deep waves that spread upon my pillow as I—No.

  Damn Pointe and his imaginings. He’s almost got me convinced that courting her is an admirable idea. Damn him doubly for talking as if it were a possibility.

  When I knock on the door frame to catch her attention, Pip looks up and gives a brave, genuine smile, despite how wearied she must be. I step aside to allow her to glimpse our visitor.

  The moment she espies Pointe, her expression of haggard suffering clears like a brisk wind blowing away a storm. “Sheriff Pointe!” she says, and she seems genuinely pleased to see him. “It’s really true, you are silver all over like a sword.”

  “Ah, yes, Miss Piper,” he says, and folds himself into an awkward bow. His craggy face smoothes into an expression of interest, the crow’s feet beside his eyes crinkling into folds of amusement. He is out of practice addressing others with such manners, for I never let him bow to me, and he only receives such courtesies while in town.

  She holds out a hand to him, and he takes it, kissing her knuckles. His tongue flickers out, tasting her skin, as if that would help him determine whether she is fully human or not. Maybe it would—I’ve never licked someone who isn’t human before. Pip doesn’t seem to notice the abnormality in protocol, and I shove down a vicious spout of jealousy at his daring.

  Then, he sits in the chair opposite her and meets her eyes with the sort of practiced earnesty that makes all the victims of the crimes he investigates trust him implicitly. Pip is staring back at him with all the wonder of a child confronted by her first mermaid.

  “How are you feeling today, Miss Piper?” he asks, the natural charm of his voice laid on as thickly as lard in pastry.

  I sit, unnoticed by either, on the foot of her bed. Forgotten, as I always am, when worthier men are in the room.

  “Been better,” she says, eyes never leaving his. “Been worse, too. Antsy. Why are you here?”

  Pointe’s eyes flick up to mine, then back to hers. “Master Turn and I have been sparring.”

  “Sparring?” She turns her head slowly back over to me, so as to avoid aggravating her injuries, eyes narrowed and thoughtful. “You sword fight?”

  “I may not look it,” I protest, pulling myself upright, “but I am capable. Father taught both his sons the right way to hold a sword.”

  “Oh, I reckon he taught you much more than that,” Pointe says. “Forsyth’s brilliant. Kintyre just smashes about with that enchanted sword of his that does all the work for him, Foe-whatsis. But Forsyth’s got grace. And he’s worked hard for it, too, he has.” There, his expression seems to say over Pip’s head, now she’s got to like you.

  And she does look intrigued, studying my face with that same expression of surprised awe that she used on Mother Mouth and Pointe, but has never turned to me before; the look that says I am something special and unexpected. My stomach does a flip.

  “I, er, P-Po-Pointe exaggerates, of co-course,” I stammer, and then clutch my tongue between my teeth to still it’s useless tripping.

  “I’d like to see it,” Pip says, and she sounds like she means it. “I’d love to see how you fight. I never thought that you would, but, of course, you’d have to, what with your ‘hobby’ and all.”

  “You may speak freely of it in front of Sheriff Pointe,” I say, turning the topic away from a discussion of her coming down to the gymnasium. I have no desire to make a fool of myself in front of her with a weapon in my hand. “He knows I am the Shadow Hand.”

  “Oh, he does?” Pip says, and her dangerous, piercing attention is back on him. “I didn’t know that.”

  “We’ll probably spar again soon, Miss Piper,” Pointe says, cutting me a cheeky look. “You could come watch us then.” The little bastard wants to force me to make a spectacle of myself for Pip’s amusement. What a wretched friend!

  “I’d love it,” Pip answers.

  “Then it’s set-set-settled!” I say, and rise, clapping my hands to ruin the chance of Pointe adding anything more. With extremely fortuitous timing, Neris pokes back into the room with the tea tray. “Oh, your tea is here, Miss Pip; I’m afraid that’s the Sheriff’s cue to hea-hea-head back to his wife for his own.”

  “It is?” Pointe asks, forehead wrinkling. “I thought—”

  “No, you didn’t thi-thi-think,” I correct, and shove him with as much politeness toward the door as I can muster.

  “Ah, lovely meeting you, Miss Piper!” he calls over my shoulder, letting himself be corralled. “I’m looking forward to calling again!”

  “Me too!” Pip calls back, and then I shut the door between them.

  “Watch it, good man,” Pointe teases as soon as we are in the hallway. “You’re acting jealous.”

  “Why would you invite her to wa-wa-watch us?” I moan.

  “Because I want the chance to study her more,” he counters. “And people are usually at their most natural when they are watching someone else.”

  I realize what he means immediately. I do my best observations when my subjects are at the theatre. “I didn’t realize,” I say. “It’s a g-g-good ta-ta-tactic. So, what is your initial im-impression?”

  “She seems human enough,” Pointe whispers, looking up and down the hall as if fearing some spirit is about to jump out of a dusty, stiff old portrait. “But
it’s sort of a hard thing to judge from just one conversation. A brief conversation,” he adds, pointedly.

  “You see? Nothing to f-f-fear from her.”

  “Just keep your eyes open, yes? For my sake?”

  “Yes, yes,” I mutter irritably.

  He nods once, as if confirming something to himself, and then shakes his head vehemently. “Just so you know where my footing is, Forsyth, I wanted to say it out loud. I don’t believe it. I don’t, Forsyth, and I don’t care what you say. They’re just fairy tales made up to scare bad kids into eating their vegetables. There is no such thing as The Last Chapter, there is no such thing as Authorial Intent, and there is no such bloody thing as the Great Writer!”

  Three

  I see the Sheriff safely out, jump into a cold tub to bathe away the sweat I accumulated during our spar, and change into the blue house robe that Mother Mouth favors because, she says, it makes my eyes brighter. When I return to Pip’s room, she is fussing with the tea tray and there is a basket of embroidery supplies tucked behind her knees.

  I hesitate on the threshold of her chambers in order to observe, unseen, for a moment. Pip looks exhausted, the lines around her eyes especially deep and tight, and I wonder how fresh the ointment on her back is. Have the numbing effects worn off? Is she ready for another draught of poppy milk? Did we interrupt her chance for pain relief?

  I tap one knuckle on the frame to catch her attention, and then I take a step inside the room and close the door behind me. “Are you well enough to stay in the chaise?”

  “I’ll live,” she says.

  “And the pain?”

  “This ointment is a miracle. I feel tingly and sort of numb, like Novocain all over my skin.”

  I know not what “Novocain” is, so I assume—probably rightly—that it is the name of the ointment they use in her own Chipping for the same purpose. “The numbness is most remarkable, yes. It will fade within the hour, unfortunately.”