The Immortals of Myrdwyer

by Brian Kittrell

  “You replaced Naettan with Brice? I should’ve known.”

  Marac grinned. “I shouldn’t have, but it seemed to come so natural. I didn’t even know I was doing it until the ride to Morcaine. When Meklan made me apologize, I thought about how my father had done the same thing when I went too hard on Naettan. Then, it clicked.” He snapped his fingers.

  “No worries. We made it back home. That’s all that matters.”

  “All except Mikal.”

  Laedron closed his eyes. “I wonder if they’ve told his family.”

  Marac shrugged. “If not, we’ll have to.”

  “We’ll go together tomorrow. Let them have one more day of peace.”

  Nodding, Marac started down the road.

  “On the morrow, then. You’d better be there,” Laedron said before Marac got out of earshot.

  Marac waved over his shoulder without stopping. Heading through the village, he caught sight of Calvert’s stall and figured that it couldn’t hurt to stop by for a quick drink. Why wait? A glass of honeysuckle cider would do wonders right now. He walked over and climbed onto a stool.

  Calvert served the man who sat on the other side of the counter, then turned. When he saw Marac, his eyes grew wide. “Marac Reven?”

  “The one and the same.”

  “It’s not every day that true, genuine heroes visit my little establishment,” Calvert said, grabbing a pint-sized mug. “What would you like?”

  “Honeysuckle cider. It seems like it’s been ages since I’ve had the stuff.”

  “Couldn’t find any on your travels? It doesn’t surprise me. A closely guarded secret, it is.” Calvert paused, his eyes shifty as if he’d remembered something, but he said nothing. Instead, he fetched Marac’s drink and served it.

  Finding Calvert’s demeanor strange, Marac asked, “Anything new going on?”

  “No, nothing. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  “Just the one drink.” He pulled out a silver coin. “Then I’ll be off.”

  “That one’s on the house.”

  “Surely?”

  “Least I can do to thank you for all that you’ve done. Enjoy.”

  He nodded. “Always do. Thanks.” He sipped from the stein, trying his best to ignore the sickening aroma of the nearby fish stall. Just like old times. When he finished, he stood and walked off toward the edge of town and his family’s home. His mind wandered as he went, all of the memories and good feelings of homecoming back to him with each passing step.

  First, a stop at the mill to see Da, then onto the house. I hope Ma has something fixed for supper. He followed the road, and when he finally spotted the mill’s sails turning in the breeze, he raced up the hill. Pushing the door open, he peered inside. “Da? I’m home. Da?” He entered, took a long look around, and decided that Bordric must not have been there because it was quiet and dark. Maybe he’s at the house. Yes, he must be; it’s too late for him to be still up here tending things.

  After securing the door, he jogged toward the house a hundred yards away. Inside, he saw his little brother, Naettan, sitting on a sofa. “Nate!” He rushed over and hugged Naettan.

  The boy sat in silence, barely looking up at Marac.

  “Nate?” He crouched next to his brother. “Where is Da? Have you seen Ma?”

  Receiving no answer, he walked down the hallway. “Da! Ma!”

  “Marac?” His mother opened the door of her bedroom. “Is that you?”

  “Ma, yes. Finally, someone answers me.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “What wrong with Nate? Where’s Da?”

  “Come with me, Marac.” She took his hand, trying to lead him into the room with her.

  “Where’s Da? Ma, is everything all right?” He hadn’t noticed before, but he saw tears running down her cheek. “What’s happened?”

  She closed the door after pulling him into the room. “Have a seat, Marac.”

  “Where’s Da?” he asked again, having a seat on the edge of the bed. Why won’t anyone tell me anything? Where in the hells… Nate’s silent. Ma’s crying. “Ma, where is he?”

  “Your father has passed, Marac, while you were away.”

  Passed. Passed? Passed… He tried to force a breath, his face and neck growing hot, his muscles tense, and his hands trembling. Dead? No, I won’t believe that. “He was fine before I left. He can’t be. Not Da, not now. Impossible.”

  “We buried him last week, Marac.” She sobbed and sat next to him. “It was an accident.”

  “How?” He shook his head and shot up from the bed. “He was strong as an ox. Two of them.”

  She followed him into the hall, then to the living room. “An inquest was held by the magistrate, and he determined that Bordric passed from a fall. He’d complained to me about the sails getting stuck, and he went up there to fix—”

  “Dead?”

  She sighed, bowed her head, and pointed toward the kitchen window. Marac walked over and peered out. He noticed a new stone at the top of the next hill in the family cemetery, a stone that hadn’t been there when he left. Then, he turned to look at the dining table, the evening meal prepared and the places set, but where his father usually sat, he didn’t see dishes or a napkin. He’s gone? Da’s gone…

  Like an arrow, the pain shot through his heart, and he fell to his knees, gasping for air. Why him? Creator, why has this come to pass? If I had stayed, this wouldn’t have happened. I would have helped him with that damned mill. His vision cloudy from tears, his throat sore, and his body shaking, he couldn’t do anything. We should’ve come home when we were done with Gustav. Why did we have to stay gone so long? A week might have made a difference. We’ve saved so many, but I couldn’t save my own father! He was paralyzed, powerless to do anything but cry. Emotions overtaking him, he fell to his side and rolled into a ball. All the opportunities you had to claim me, and you take him? Creator, why are you punishing me? Why did you take him instead of me?

  He lay there for some time, and the sun hung low on the horizon by the time he stopped crying. Ma came over—apparently waiting until he’d calmed down—and touched him on the shoulder, but he reeled away.

  “Your brother and I are still living, Marac. We need your love, too.”

  He rose to his knees, then to his feet, and stared at her. “It’s my fault. I should’ve stayed.”

  “No, Marac, no.” She pulled him to her shoulder. “Have you forgotten? He sent you to the knights to save you. You would’ve been conscripted if he hadn’t. There was nothing you could do.”

  Marac took a deep breath. “I need some time to think. I’ve got to go… somewhere.” His mother nodded, and he walked out the front door, bound for the village. Calvert’s should still be open.

  He paused when his feet hit the bottom step and imagined the night ahead. I’ll be drunk and out of control, washing away my worries a pint at a time. No. He turned around and stared at the door of his house. The drink didn’t stop Andolis or Gustav, and it didn’t help anything else. I’m strong enough without it.

  He climbed the stairs and opened the door. His mother and brother looked up from the sofa. Marac sat next to them and took his brother’s hand. “I’m back, Nate. Come, hug your brother.”

  Naettan smiled and held Marac tight. “I prayed all the time that you would come home. Every day.”

  “You decided not to go?” Ma asked.

  “My place is with you, not at a side-street counter. I don’t want Da to be disappointed in me.”

  “I don’t think you could disappoint him, Marac. Even when you were drunk and jailed in Westmarch, your father blamed everyone but you. ‘It had to be the guards picking on him for being a country boy,’ he said, or ‘They must be lying. My son wouldn’t do those things.’”

  Marac shook his head. “Today, that tradition ends. I have only myself to blame for the things I’ve done.”

  She smiled, then looked away.

  “What’s wrong, Ma?”

  “Oh, I’ve been trying to decide
what to do. We still have some money from the last shipment to Westmarch, but it won’t last. I don’t see you running the mill on your own, and Naettan’s too young to help.”

  Naettan waved his hands. “I’m not too young, Ma. I can do it.”

  “No, Nate. I can’t work in the place where Da…” Marac closed his eyes. “Too many memories. We’ll sell it.”

  She looked surprised. “Sell it? But this land’s been in our family for centuries. We can’t sell it.”

  “Things change, Ma. If my adventures have taught me anything, that lesson was painfully learned.”

  “It’s not even worth what we’ve put into it, though. If we sell the land, we won’t have enough—”

  “Money is no longer a concern, Ma.”

  “Not a concern? Of course it is.”

  He reached into his bag and produced a hunk of platinum.

  “Silver? That’ll help, but I still don’t think—”

  “Not silver.”

  “No?” She leaned forward and squinted. “What is it?”

  “Pure platinum.”

  Her eyes widened. “Where’d you get that? Are you in trouble?”

  “No, nothing like that,” Marac said, shaking his head. “I have more than enough. More than we’ll ever need.”

  “This is all happening so fast. Let me think about it, would you?”

  Marac nodded. “We’ll talk about it later, then. Whenever you’re ready.”

  She stood, walked into the kitchen, and pulled a pot from the stove. “I didn’t make much, but we’ll spread it around.”

  “We’ll make do.” Marac joined her in front of the stove and put his arm around her. “Revens get by however we can. Always have, always will.”

  « Table of Contents

  ← Chapter Twenty-Three | Backmatter →

  The Comforts of Home

  Laedron and Valyrie started down the road, then walked the perimeter of the village. Little more than a few steps lay between me and my family, he thought, seeing the old oak by which he’d spent so much of his childhood. He stopped, smiled at Valyrie, and ran over to the tree.

  He drew his scepter, pointed it at the bark, and chanted, and by the time she’d joined him, he had finished. “What do you think?”

  “A sweet gesture, Lae.” She smiled. “Is it a tradition of some kind?”

  Brushing his hand over the inscription, he made certain that he’d formed the heart shape and their initials, “L T” and “V P,” so that they were legible. “Somewhat, yes. Your people don’t do sentimental things like this?”

  “You would have a hard time finding a tree so big in the city, and even if you did, the law prohibits marring them.”

  “A shame.” He grinned. “It doesn’t surprise me, though. The theocrats seem to prefer their perfect shrubs, pristine lawns, and impeccable buildings.”

  “Your people just let things go without care or regard?”

  “Not exactly. We maintain things within reason, but we tend to avoid absolute perfection. It’s unachievable, and in Sorbia, we’ve learned that beauty can be found in letting things be as they are.”

  “I thought I knew most everything there was to know about you. It would seem that I have a lot more figuring to do.”

  He took her hand, then continued toward his home. “We have a lifetime ahead of us.”

  * * *

  Rounding the last bend of the road, he saw his house on the rise. Ma stood on the porch, her broom in hand, toiling away at the dirt. That woman will never learn. What am I saying? She’s a Telpist. Stubborn and willful as the day is long. A sudden wind came, and when it reached his mother, she clenched her fists. “Blasted breeze fouling up my hard work!”

  “I’ll never understand why you don’t use a spell and be done with it.” He stepped onto the porch.

  Ma dropped the broom. “Lae?” She rushed over to him and gave him a big hug, then picked at his hair. “I’ll have to cut this—”

  “Ma…”

  “What? You’ve gone this whole time without grooming? Your hair looks much better when it’s short—”

  “Ma…”

  “Let me grab the scissors—”

  “Ma!”

  She stopped, then turned to Valyrie. “Oh, I apologize. I didn’t see you had a guest.”

  “Ma, this is Valyrie Pembry.”

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Filadrena said, offering her hand. “I can’t say that Laedron has ever mentioned you. Are you from Reven’s Landing? No, I would’ve heard the name of your family, at least. Westmarch, perhaps?”

  Valyrie gently shook his mother’s hand, and Laedron could tell she was nervous. “No, madam.”

  “I see. Well?”

  “She’s from Azura, Ma, and I’ve asked her to come home with me.”

  “Azura?”

  “And I love her.”

  “Love…?” Filadrena paused, her eyebrows high. “The capital of the theocracy? You’ve brought a Heraldan girl home, Lae?”

  Overbearing and to the point, as always. Sometimes, Laedron wished he wasn’t related to his ma because she seemed to treat only her children in such a haughty way. Although he knew that she meant well, was sometimes uncomfortably blunt. “I did.”

  “Let me get a look at her, then.” Filadrena squinted and circled Valyrie as if examining a farm animal prior to purchasing. “Tall, slender build, and beautiful—”

  “Ma, enough.” He slapped his hands against his hips.

  “I’m kidding, Lae.” Filadrena took Valyrie in an embrace. “If you don’t recall, I married a Heraldan, your father, so I can’t hold too much prejudice. She seems like a fine, upstanding young woman.”

  “She is, Ma.” He put his arm around Valyrie’s waist. “We’ve been through a lot together.”

  “That’s good. If you can stay together through the tough bits, you stand a better chance of lasting.” She gestured for them to enter. “Come, I need to check on my tea. Would you care for some?”

  He nodded, then led Valyrie inside. The same, yet so different. The living room hadn’t changed, but he felt awkward at seeing it. The place didn’t feel quite like his home anymore, probably because he had been on the road for so long. Almost a solid month of camping, renting rooms, and—for a brief while—staying with Ismerelda had lessened the draw of hearth and home that he was certain he would have felt upon returning.

  Filadrena poured three cups of tea and dropped pinches of sugar and cuts of lemon into each. Laedron and Valyrie sat opposite her at the counter.

  Handing out the cups, Ma smiled. “I’ll wager that you’ve never had a cup of tea so fine west of the Great Winding.”

  “I’ve never had one at all,” Valyrie said, then sipped it. “It’s amazing, ma’am.”

  “You can call me ‘Ma,’ Valyrie. Everybody else around here seems comfortable with it.”

  “In that case, call me ‘Val.’”

  “All right, Val.” Ma set her tea on the counter. “Did you two have a good journey home?”

  They bobbed their heads at the same time.

  “Good. Show her around the house, Lae. Make her feel at home.”

  His eye twitched because he had expected Ma to say something else entirely. “You don’t want to hear about our mission?”

  “What’s to know? I know the beginning and the end, the two most important parts for me. The middle—the journey—is for you to know.” Taking the empty cups to the basin, she glanced at them. “You’re surprised?”

  “I only thought you might be interested in hearing about it.” He sighed. “Ismerelda is dead, Ma.”

  She nodded, turning back to the sink. “I know.”

  “You do? How?”

  “We heard about the attack on the academy, and a few days later, Laren and I set out to Westmarch to find you. When we got to Ismerelda’s house, you weren’t there. Fearing the worst, we went to Morcaine to learn the details—the names of those killed, where the survivors had gone. They took us to the
rows of unidentified dead, and there, we found Ismerelda. Since we knew her—I told them I was her aunt—they allowed us to take her body, and we laid her to rest here in Reven’s Landing.”

  “But you didn’t find me there.” He smiled.

  She lowered her chin and grinned. “But not you, my son. It gave me hope, and that hope grew stronger as time went along. ‘If we’ve had no news,’ I would tell myself, ‘that’s good news indeed.’”

  “Where’d you go after that? Marac said you vanished without a trace.”

  “We went to Cael’Bril, one of the few neutral countries left when the war started. Throughout the conflict, we heard rumors of a sorcerer and a handful of knights deep in Heraldan territory, and when I found out it was you, I prayed for your safe return. And now, my prayers have been answered.”

  “Where is Laren, anyway?”

  “She’s been spending more time by the creek of late, for she’s had mixed emotions over the last week on account of Bordric Reven’s passing.”

  He blinked. “Passed? Marac’s father?”

  “Indeed. An accident in the mill—a fall, if memory serves—claimed him. Did… his son survive?”

  “Yes, he’s probably been home for an hour or more by now.” He glanced at the window. “I need to see him.”

  “He needs his family right now, Lae. Give him some time to adjust, to grieve with his loved ones.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, Ma. I’ll go this evening when he’s had some time to take it in.”

  “Good.” She wiped her hands on a linen hanging from the stove. “If I’d known you were coming, I would’ve planned a feast. I’ll fetch something at the market; there’s still time yet.”

  “We’ll go, Ma. It’s no trouble.”

  “No, no, you rest and show Val the house. The walk and the fresh air will do me some good.” She took her traveling shawl from the rack, wrapped it about her shoulders, then walked out the front door.

  “A shawl? In this heat?” Valyrie asked.

  “A woman must always be proper and dress according to her status,” he said, laughing at the end. “Sorry. We posed the same question to her a number of times, and that’s what she always told us.”