by Greg Curtis
“That the Walkertons are an embarrassment to society?” Baen suggested and earned himself a further annoyed look as he finally gave into his laughter.
But she didn't try to deny his claim. She couldn't. Not when they both knew that Aunt Martha wasn't the only bat in their family belfry. Not when Great Uncle Mortimer spent his days talking to someone who wasn't there, Grandfather Oliver was convinced that there were assassins lurking around every corner and Grandpapa Nicholas talked to ghosts. Baen knew that madness afflicted a lot of people, but sometimes he imagined that the Walkertons had been especially cursed with it. Magic and madness. It was their nature.
“Stop braying like a donkey!” She snapped at him. “Show some respect! You're supposed to be loyal to your family!”
“I am loyal! I'm not going to tell anyone anything,” he protested, between fits of laughter, even as tears started rolling down his cheeks.
“If you were at all loyal you'd let us show your roof garden to the city.” Aribeth told him firmly. “It'd be the first roof garden ever displayed for the festival and no one would ask about Aunt Martha's garden.”
More importantly they wouldn't ask about Aunt Martha and possibly work out that it was she who had ridden naked through the city. But he kept that thought to himself. His sister wouldn't appreciate it. And he tried to control his unfortunate laughter as he found a better excuse for her.
“My garden’s in a bit of a state at the moment. And as to my quarters, they’re – well they’re more than a little messy. I wouldn’t want people to see that and so upset the family name!” he added. I'm saving the family from the embarrassment of the city seeing my messy living quarters!” Aribeth he noticed, didn't laugh at his suggestion. In fact she looked distinctly unimpressed.
“I should have known,” she complained. “Any chance you have to support your family, you immediately knock back with a pitiful jest you think is witty! Here's your chance to finally do something to help. So, are you going to help or not?”
“Not.” He answered her.
Her answer was an unintelligible noise that Baen didn't really want to understand, followed by her spinning on her heels and heading for the door. Marching for it in truth. And he felt bad about it, especially when she slammed the door shut behind her. But there was nothing he could have done, he told himself. He didn't need his secrets exposed and neither did the family. And they were everywhere.
For a start if anyone had paid close attention to the crystal sconces on the wall they might have noticed that they had no light switches. Maybe that could have been because there was a master switch elsewhere – but it wasn't. There were no wires in the walls either. It was because the light they gave out didn't come from electricity. He'd simply enchanted the crystals so that they glowed.
There were many other examples of his having cast his magic about the house. Aribeth must surely have realised that. After all, she knew he had a gift, even if she liked to pretend otherwise. Then again perhaps she truly thought he had ignored his gift because – well because the nobility just didn’t dabble in magic. And as she wanted to belong to the nobility she assumed he did too and would conduct himself appropriately. She refused to entertain the notion that Baen might not have the same dreams.
But there was another reason he didn't want strangers in his roof garden. His garden was special. A reminder of the time he'd spent in the Hallows, the land of the Fae. Though to everyone else the Hallows were terrifying, with the great southern forest full of monsters and witches, to him it was home to magic. And while he hadn't been able to stay there – he had family to consider – he had tried to bring a little bit of it back with him. A tiny echo of the Glade of Grace where he'd camped out under the stars. There was magic in his garden, and more than a little. And he needed magic in his life.
That was why he'd moved out of the family home years before. He simply didn't fit there. And to be fair, he didn't want to fit. He wanted to live his own life. Besides, he had other brothers and sisters who could do his parents bidding and become the fine, upstanding Walkertons his parents wanted. Brothers and sisters who were only too willing to do so. There was no need for him to be called upon.
Still, upsetting Aribeth had left a bitter taste in his mouth, and after she'd left Baen felt unable to remain in the shop waiting for customers. Surely it wouldn’t affect business if he were to close up early just this once? And so, with a flick of his fingers he locked the front door and turned off the lights. Baen's Books was closed for the day.
Then he left his barely polished slab of oak and headed upstairs. It was time to have a drink.
Chapter Two
Baen was enjoying his evening. The night was warm, the fragrance of the flowers was sweet in his nose and he was comfortable ensconced in his favourite garden chair. He'd bought the outdoor furniture years ago, straight after he'd bought the building, and had never regretted it. His roof garden was one of the best things about the store. With a blanket, a clear night full of stars and an ale, he was as close to heaven as a man could get.
Possibly he was too comfortable, he thought drowsily as he kept slipping in and out of sleep, lulled by the music of the night. If he didn’t make a move soon, Baen thought he might end up spending the night under the stars. He’d certainly done it many nights in the past. It had inevitably turned out to be a mistake as the morning often brought dew and a lot of shivering. But It was hard to think about that when he was warm and comfortable.
It was actually the music of the Fae he was listening to – they gathered around their various glades and sacred hollows every evening and chose to sing right through the night. And when they sang he could close his eyes and be transported back to the silvery glade deep in the forest where he had once been fortunate enough to spend some glorious days and nights. Illoria – the Glade of Grace.
A long time ago, when his magic had just been starting to come into its own, and he'd begun to realise that he was out of step with the world, he'd gone exploring. He'd gone chasing down the rumours of the Fae, thinking that if anyone could teach him about his magic, it was them. They were after all, a magical people. It had been a long journey. They didn’t live in Grenland. Their homeland was much further away – and not just in terms of distance. They were a very different people in so many ways. And G'lorenvale was a very different land.
But he'd gone to them. Been welcomed by them. In time, he'd been brought to a place where they could show him their magic and teach him a little of his own. They'd brought him to the Glade of Grace.
Illoria. When he shut his eyes his memories of that place often overcame him. The Fae had brought him deep into the Hallows, to a beautiful forest glade, where the Fae came each night to sing of their ancient past. Because song for the Fae wasn't just about the melody. It was also the way they shared their history and their magic. It revealed their faith in the spirits of the forest and the sky. The melodies represented everything they were as a people. Everything they believed in. That they loved. And they were was beautiful. As was the glade itself.
Though he supposed, to call it a glade wasn't really the right way to describe it. He wasn't sure what the right way was. It began with a shimmering lake that glowed with a silvery light after the sun had set. A light that wasn't just the reflection of the moon and the stars. The lake in turn was surrounded by fields of lush green grass that extended all the way back to the trees. Fields in which mystical creatures might be seen grazing. It truly was a magical place. A spiritual place too.
Every night the high priestess of the glade would begin the song, singing from an island at the very centre of the silvery lake, and one by one other voices on the shore would join her. Slowly, the music would grow and swell until it became something more. Something that was part music, part memory, part magic and part prayer. Perhaps it was something else entirely? He had never truly been sure.
As he'd hoped, they had let him join them in their song even though he didn't know the words and had no voice. But then the
stories he had heard of the Fae before he met them and all suggested that they would. The Fae did not accept most people to their land, but those with the gift were welcome. They were honoured guests, favoured souls, or in their tongue ‘thanes’. So they had let him camp there at Illoria and sung for him for nearly a month. They had taught him a little of their tongue and their ways. He had been welcomed into their realm. One of them – Caris – had welcomed him into her family. In the end they had offered him a different life to the one he had been born to. A life of magic and song.
But it would have been a life apart from his family.
It had been painful to tell them he could not stay. But by then he had already been over two months away from home. His own family would have been beside themselves with worry. They hadn't known where he was. He couldn't tell them he was going into the Hallows. They would never have let him go. And if he had tried to explain that he was travelling there to explore his magic, they would never have been able to hear him. Magic was a disgrace. He could not let their worry continue no matter how greatly he wanted to stay.
And so he had declined their offer and returned to his own life. But he hadn't left them completely. Instead he had enchanted a pair of listening stones so that he could bring a tiny piece of their realm back with him. Now, listening to that music, a little piece of him was back in theirs.
They had beautiful songs filled with emotion, and the voices and instruments to match. Lovely voices full of passion, and just enough horns and drums to make what they sang sound perfect. The Fae danced too. They moved with the grace of the finest dancers. Baen had watched in awe as they had bent and swayed in time with the rhythms of their song. He only wished that he could have stayed there for the rest of his life with them. But the callings of family and responsibility had forced him back and he had not returned since. Still, a part of his soul would forever remain in Illoria – truly the Glade of Grace – with the Fae. With Caris and her family. Or as he thought of them, his other family.
Sometimes instead, to ease a little of the pain of being apart from them, he chose to spend an evening in the alehouses – something else his family would no doubt disapprove of – and listen to the performers they hired. None of them though could match the songs of the Fae and the ale wasn't enough to make up for the difference. It was why he mostly stayed home.
Really he shouldn't be listening to them. He knew that. Though it wasn’t because the neighbours might hear. He had no neighbours. Not anymore. Once the coin had started rolling in from his gold mine he'd not only paid off his debts to his father for the store, he'd bought the building next door. Now there was an expensive furniture store on the ground floor, but everything above it was empty. Nor was it because the Fae would mind him listening. They would be happy for him to listen. Instead it was because of the way he was listening. He was spying on them. What was said into one stone was echoed from the other. It was a simple enchantment – he could create far better ones now – but it worked perfectly. Whenever he wanted to hear their music all he had to do was speak the command and listen. But they had no idea that he was listening. To say the least they would be upset.
As Protector of the Glade Nyri in particular would be upset. In fact he dreaded the day she found out. Any infraction of the rules set out for visitors to the Glade would be viewed by her as a crime. And in doing this he had most definitely committed a crime. No one should spy on them.
Personally Baen viewed it as harmless. There was no nefarious intent. He could imagine that in the wrong hands however, that the stones could be used for ill. And whether he intended that or not he could never let Nyri find out She'd lock him up! In fact, she'd threatened to lock him up before when he'd been there. Perversely it had been because he had intended to leave. She had considered it an insult to her people. And she had only been a warden then. Now that she had risen to the rank of Protector she was likely far stricter.
There was another reason he loved to listen to their song. It taught him so much. Every time he listened, he learned a little more about the Fae. About them and their tongue. Their history. Their magic and their morality. Because their songs were in reality stories of their people. They sang about their leaders and their singers. The wars they'd fought. The victories and the failures. The tragedies they'd suffered and the wonders they'd wrought. Their music was an education. He knew more about the Fae than probably any other living man – at least in Grenland. He understood them in ways that others here couldn't. He had even written a little of that down in his journals.
But just then he was beyond that point. No longer able to understand a lot so much as just listen and let the music wash over him. Once more he'd drunk too much, something that the empty pitcher of ale could attest to, and now his head was full of vapours and his eyes heavy with sleep. If he didn't get up he knew he would end up sleeping here as he had done many times before. But he couldn't really find the will to stand up. He just wanted stay in his chair and let the music transport him back to the glade with its shimmering waters and soft grass while the beautiful people sang him to sleep. Not here in this cold hard city of stone and steel. He wanted to be sixteen again.
Because of that it was a moment or two before he realised the singing had stopped.
At first it meant nothing. He was almost asleep and it was simply quiet. But it wasn't a good quiet. It wasn't peaceful. And something about that woke him up more fully. Then, listening carefully, he suddenly became aware of other sounds. Rifles firing in the distance. Men yelling in anger. Others screaming with fear. And people running through the forest.
“Sweet Lady!” What was happening?! Baen panicked. It wasn't that he could hear his friends dying. He couldn't. But he suddenly knew they were there, fighting for their lives. And he didn't understand it. How could that be? They lived deep in the Hallows. There were no people with guns there. There were no people at all. Not his people. Only the Fae.
“What's happening?!” He yelled at the stone beside him, forgetting for the moment that he didn't want the Fae to know he was listening to them. But it didn't matter when the sound only went one way. They couldn't hear him. But even if he had been able to make himself heard, it wouldn't have mattered. He couldn’t actually do anything. Only hear the sounds of Fae being hurt. They were in danger! So far away! That was what mattered.
Naturally no one answered him. Men kept yelling, rifles kept firing, people kept screaming and the forest kept echoing with the sounds of people crashing through it. No one heard him. He was simply calling out to the empty air on his rooftop.
“Caris, Mya, Ell …” He started calling out the names of his other family and friends, those who had welcomed him to their family home, desperately hoping that somehow the one-way sound would become two way and that someone would hear him and answer. But of course, no one did. No one could.
Eventually the sounds of people fighting grew quieter. More distant. That was actually worse, somehow.
But then new sounds intruded. A voice. A man yelling angrily at other men. Ordering them into the fray. Baen knew he must be the leader. And he was yelling at them in Darish. The Fae didn't speak Darish. They weren't from Grenland. They spoke Swalini and generally had little to do with humans. No one ever went into the Hallows. No one save those like him.
For the most part the man told him nothing as he shouted. He just kept yelling orders. Simple commands like “get him” and “shoot”. And Baen was left sitting there by the stone, frustrated and frightened. He wanted to know who these people were. He wanted to do something. He wanted to be able to strike at them. To stop them. But he couldn't do anything. Not from here. And not if he didn't know who had attacked his friends. But then the angry man with the coarse voice finally yelled something useful.
“The Duke will eat you for breakfast if you don't get a move on!”
“Shite! Lady have mercy!”
Mention of the Duke sent shivers down Baen’s spine as he recognised the name, and likely what the man was after. He
now knew why these men had been sent into the Hallows after the Fae. He even knew why men would obey him. He still didn't know how they'd found the glade, but that was a matter for another time. What was important was that the Duke’s name was a death sentence. His friends were going to be killed!
Duke Barnly wanted power. That was as simple as it got. But then he was a simple man according to all that was spoken of him. He wanted power at all costs and in all forms – as long as he didn't have to pay them. He didn't just want to usurp his nephew King Richmond and rule Grenland – though he had tried before and failed. He wanted to have magic. As the bards had proclaimed many times, the Duke dreamed of splitting the sky with the might of his fists and walk the world as a titan. He wanted to live forever and hurl lightning from his fingertips. He wanted to be a god. He was the very definition of a madman. Or a monster. In this instance Baen couldn’t be sure the two weren’t the same.
But then the Duke was of the Featherstone line. And all the Featherstones were considered mad. Touched by the gods – or by the Reaver. King Richmond wasn't much better.
