The Smiling Stallion Inn

by Courtney Bowen

  Old Man leaned back against a tall, wing-backed chair fit for a king and large enough for two people to sit close together in its seat. It was brought out only on special occasions for the baron, the priest, or Old Man. Floor space had been cleared for dancing later on, but right now, the children of the village had come to sit on the floor in a semicircle around Old Man and his chair in the middle of the room. Old Man’s skin was as leathery as bark, his long, stringy hair as gray and silvery as moss, and he usually seemed preoccupied or meditative, as if musing to himself upon some philosophical question.

  No one knew how old Old Man really was, what his real name was, or how many generations he’d lived through—Old Man remained the same, never aging or dying. He’d been known as Old Man when the oldest adults were children, and continued to be so as they had children and grandchildren of their own.

  Old Man never involved himself in village affairs. He kept himself apart from others, living in a hut in the woods, not far from the River Daneuve and the fields on the edge of town proper. Rarely did he even come into town.

  “The worlds of the dead,” Old Man continued, “where we go when we die, are the abode of those who once lived, but are now spirits that haunt us only in our memories of long ago.” Old Man sighed, as if remembering. “Half-forgotten times and places, when we were much happier perhaps. The spirits still linger on in spite of the dark times ahead of us.” He then shook his head with a grim finality and said, “For there will always be dead to surround us as we move forward.”

  Old Man peered about, almost as if he was being watchful for ghosts. Basha and the children peered about as well without thinking. Basha would’ve welcomed two ghosts in particular—his birth parents.

  Close to two hundred people had come to the inn to celebrate the Courtship Ritual with their family and friends. Eating and drinking as much as they could before the big event started, the townspeople made a cacophony of sound as they reminisced about the past, debated current events, and speculated about the future. Unfortunately, he had no one to talk to about his particular predicament tonight.

  “The worlds of the shadows, those who never lived but instead reside beyond life and death, feeling their way toward us, and the dead, to touch us with darkness and despair,” Old Man carried on. “They’d like to live, and consume those who are dead, or who are about to die, with their own hatred and fear, but never to die themselves, just to live forever and feast on the living,” Old Man said, looking straight ahead. Basha almost thought Old Man was looking at him at this point, but then Old Man turned his head to the south, as if his sight could penetrate all of those hundreds of miles to Coe Doomba. “Yet this can’t be,” he said with fervor.

  Basha shivered to himself and gulped, not knowing why he was so frightened. Perhaps he was thinking about what had happened yesterday with Oaka. It was perhaps odd that what had so frightened him as a child still frightened him to this day, but then again, traumatic happenings were always powerful.

  “Forgive me, I’m just distracted,” Old Man said, shaking his head. “And the worlds of the gods, those who rule over all of our lives, our existences, and our fates—they are the ones who control all of this and all other possible worlds. Yet they are so far above us in understanding and power that we can’t possibly comprehend what they have in store for us.” Old Man looked up toward the ceiling as if a giant foot might come down and crush them. “Only can we try to make sense of what little knowledge they have given us and to work out for ourselves our own problems.”

  Basha was no longer a child like those sitting on the floor, but he still believed, in some small part of himself, the promise of magic and nobility to those who listened. Now that he was older, he didn’t always trust in the promise of a glorious future, yet he still wanted it to be true.

  The undying legends of gods and monsters, heroes and mages, had been told dozens of times before. Legendary heroes had done grand things with the noblest of purposes, the splendor of their magic lighting the world. He still wanted to believe in them. He still wanted to believe in Old Man and the promise in his stories.

  Basha thought everyone living in town had to be aware of the legacy left behind by their ancestors. Everyone born in Coe Baba was raised in a certain manner, to be prepared for anything that might come their way whether it came out of the past or presented itself in the future. Basha shook his head. Silly ideas, really. He didn’t know where these thoughts came from sometimes; they just popped into his head. Perhaps he’d heard too many stories in his lifetime. Basha half-listened to what Old Man was saying, still thinking of what he’d told Nisa and what might happen tonight if he asked Jawen to marry him.

  The Ritual would start in a short while, although the buildup to this event had started a long time before. It began, in some sense, about a week ago when his father had set out the sign-in sheet. “Anybody who is going to participate in the Courtship Ritual, get your name down, and we’ll serve you and two other people,” Geda had announced to his customers inside the inn. Uncle Smidge, Morton, and Hermer had been present. Besides being members of Geda’s band and occasionally employed by him, they were also frequent patrons.

  “Why just two?” Uncle Smidge had asked. “Once upon a time, Father allowed participants in the Courtship Ritual to add up to four other people to the list.”

  “Not now, not anymore,” Geda said. “Now there’s not enough space for all of those other people to come inside my common room. People may think this room can expand, like magic, but it won’t.”

  “Certainly seems big enough for everyone,” Uncle Smidge muttered. “And it’s not just your common room.”

  Basha had glanced back and forth between them as Geda stared at Uncle Smidge and then shook his head. “One must consider the tables, the chairs, and the space necessary to eat and get up and walk about. Plus more tables and chairs will have to be cleared out of here at the end of the evening, for storytime and dancing.” Geda shrugged. “Not everybody will get a chair. We must consider how many people are applying to enter the Courtship Ritual, and it could be a high number this year. Two other people are the absolute limit I can allow per participant inside the inn. Baron’s orders, fire hazard.” He added, “Plus, there is no limit to how many people can attend the actual ceremony. There is expected to be a high turnout this year.”

  “I’ll drink to that!” Hermer cried.

  “You’d know this if…” Geda hesitated and then turned away from his brother. If you had the inn, Basha knew his father was going to say. Smidge was the youngest, and Geda was the oldest, just like Basha was the youngest, and Oaka was the oldest. Oaka would inherit the inn someday, just like their father had, while Basha would work under him, just like Uncle Smidge did his father.

  Thus, more people were outside the inn, in the restaurant, bistro, and pub, than were inside the inn this evening, but the most important people of the evening were here. About forty couples, give or take a few single boys and girls, had signed up for the Courtship Ritual and were now gathered around, readying themselves to take one of the first steps into their adult lives: marriage, from proposal—which would be made tonight, the second day of the month Markee, the second day of the season Reda, and the second day of the year 2681 DA—to the marriage nuptial itself.

  This year marked the two thousandth, six hundredth, and eighty-first year since the time of Doomba’s arrival in what was once the most beautiful and bountiful region in all of the country, the capital region that surrounded Coe Pidaria. Now the former capital region was a Wasteland controlled by Doomba. Coe Pidaria was now out of reach. Of course, the Wastelands were miles away from here. What had so changed them was but a distant memory, yet it still reverberated in the hearts and minds of the people who called this country home.

  Basha knew the story well. He’d heard simplistic versions of the story, intended for children, from his schoolteacher and Old Man, and he’d read more advanced adult versions available in the two volumes of The Legends of Arria. Thoug
h the frame of the story in every version remained the same as he remembered almost word for word from his childhood…

  “Almost three thousand years ago, Corrica was the mightiest island nation in all of the Black Ocean. Its inhabitants used triremes, long boats with oars mounted on top of each other on separate decks, to travel to different islands and conquer them with vast legions of warriors.” The teacher read from his textbook to the children, who tried not to fall asleep. “The ancient Chronicles testify that the island nation of Corrica was destroyed in fire and ash. Only a few of its long ships, filled with men and women, managed to escape the devastation. They endured a long, arduous voyage.

  The ships had to cut across the water, farther and farther away from where they had come from and the horrible disaster they had left behind them. They had witnessed the destruction from the water, the plume of smoke and ash rising up into the sky, covering the whole island they had once called home. And from the mountain—which had once been just a mountain, but was now a volcano—fire flowed down in a turgid mass of lava. But the burst of air and heat that had bloomed from the volcano, obliterating half of its crown and sweeping across the island so that even those in the ships felt it, too, had razed the City of Elders, the capital of their empire. Corrica was dead, and they were its only survivors.

  They wept and mourned for days and nights, unable to contain their sorrow and fear as almost everything they had ever known and loved had been destroyed. They didn’t know where they were going. Many were sick during this time.

  Their whole culture had been built upon conquering the other islands surrounding them. All they knew of the world beyond them was these islands and their slaves and vassals. Once the other islands learned of Corrica’s destruction, it was likely they’d turn upon the Corricans in their midst, repaying them in kind, so they couldn’t dock at these islands. They had to keep going, into waters they had never before traversed.

  Their oars were stilled and their unfurled sails went limp as they stopped at the edge of the world where a wall of mist stretched out before them. They contemplated the gooey fog reducing everything to mist and light. Where was the sky, the sea, the land? There wasn’t anything, but the loss of everything. They tried to go around it, to find a break in the mist, but without wind in the sails it was nearly impossible. They debated the possible pitfalls of sailing through the fog, though there seemed to be no alternative than to proceed by oar. Was the risk worthwhile to see what lay beyond? What if they did go back and allowed themselves to be captured and subjugated to torture and slavery for what they and their people had done? Would that be worse or better than what they’d find beyond the mist? At least, beyond the mist there was a chance for survival. They had to keep moving forward in hope.

  Oars lapping at the water, the wisps of fog touched them with moisture as fine as spider silk. There wasn’t anything to see in the grayness until finally, after a long time, they emerged on the other side, into a world they had never seen before. They eventually spotted a shoreline that seemed to stretch for miles beyond the beach and into forest. They anchored in the shallows a short distance from the beach and disembarked.

  The Corricans, the last survivors of a dead empire, treaded onto a new coast and tramped into the forest not far from shore. Fearful of what surrounded them and wondering if they’d perish here so far from home, until they remembered that home didn’t exist for them anymore. They could remember everything about their country—what their lives had been like there before this and all the people who had been alive then—but now it was gone forever, and they knew they’d have to make the most of this new land.

  They went deep into the dark forest of tall trees. Strange animals they had never seen before scattered about in front of them. Suddenly, they came upon a village, and there were people much like them—different, of course, but still people. Slowly, they came to know them, and the other people came to know the Corricans. Gradually they developed a friendship of sorts; not always perfect, but it was an alliance where the Corricans were sheltered by the villagers, and the villagers received assistance from the Corricans.

  The Corricans learned about this land, which wasn’t a country like their own had been, united to form an empire of wealth and civility, but a conglomeration of fiefdoms, kingdoms, chiefdoms, and tribes, all dislocated from one another and fighting constantly for survival, a state of endless warfare where the weakest suffered most and nothing could be maintained. In the middle of all this, the Corricans arrived, thinking they might change things, make life better and more stable for the inhabitants of this new land.

  They rode out across the territory, fighting bandits, forging new alliances with other settlements, and bonding with the inhabitants. A nation rose out of the wilderness that had once separated them all, and over time, the Corricans built cities and provided security to the peoples of what became known as Arria—a nation taking up a quarter of the continent of Salarria.

  In turn, the peoples of Arria taught the Corricans the ways of magic and provided them with new culture. Those that scorned the alliance, believing the Corricans to be oppressors, deserted Arria for other lands. Some of these dissidents were nomadic and traveled into the Za Desert where they still wander, unable to settle, but the majority spread out to the east and settled new nations with unresolved resentment against Arria.

  Yet it was the start of the Golden Age, which would last for more than sixty years, with the defenders of the land renowned as Knights of Arria. They obtained and created such relics as the Swords of Arria, powerful weapons in battle, and the goblet known as Tau’s Cup.

  The Knights also befriended herds of legendary creatures. Unicorns, centaurs, griffins, even dragons respected them,” the schoolteacher said. “However, after many years, they disbanded. According to legend, most Knights disappeared up into the sky, soaring away upon golden chariots to join the Cloud Rulers. Yet one knight stayed behind, a young man named Corr. He was the first true king over all of Arria, given charge over their greatest gifts—Tau’s Cup and the Swords of Arria. He chose a valley in the southernmost reaches to build a capital, Coe Pidaria, and the king, along with his queen, Kiki, produced an heir. Marvola.

  Time passed, and Arria prospered. The king grew content with his family. He was old and had forgotten much of what had happened in the past, but he still had nightmares sometimes, of what had happened in Corrica. Here, he’d everything he’d ever wanted. He was mistaken however in thinking nothing could change that, as far to the north, a shadow grew. A man, perhaps not even a man, gained power. Doomba. No one knew his true origin—a wizard, a bitter courtier, a forgotten knight who wanted more power—whoever he was, he started to gain powerful allies in rebellious lords, desolate clans, and kings from other lands. They followed him and his Servants, a ghastly army of evil creatures on a march against Coe Pidaria.

  The great city of Coe Pidaria was so widespread and tall, encircled by its great wall, that Doomba could see it from all the way across the plains. He loathed the sight of it with all his heart, or what was left of it. He and his army marched across the plains toward that great city that held the might of humanity in its domain. He would destroy that might as his own humanity had been destroyed.

  Doomba was a force to be reckoned with. The shadows surrounding him whispered in his ear: he’s the greatest being who has ever lived. So consumed with power of his own, he was certain not even the Fay could match him, and certainly not humans, who didn’t even stand much of a chance against him. He knew their drives and ambitions, and he could create just like them. He’d created most of the monsters that made up his army, so many monsters. Who could create like he could? None matched his powers and prowess.

  After the battle, the king looked down upon the devastation in the fields and towns that surrounded Coe Pidaria. He’d sent his grown son away to find safety elsewhere, but he’d stayed behind to protect the Cup. He held some of the Swords, but the rest had been scattered elsewhere in secret. Most of the people had
fled the capital, but a few had stayed behind—his most loyal servants and most powerful warriors. If only he had his knights…

  Doomba was coming, and he was desperate. The king knew they couldn’t survive his onslaught. Coe Pidaria would fall. Unless they did something.

  Doomba arrived at the walls of Coe Pidaria, but his attack was foiled. It was whispered among the people still living outside the besieged city that the wizards within had used ancient, long-lost magic to create a shield that no one, even Doomba, could breach. Coe Pidaria was safe, but it was sealed off from the rest of the world. The once great city had been a symbol of Arria’s might, the power of humanity, and the residence of the Cup that had been given to humanity by the god Tau himself, but now it was lost to the outside world. And no one could touch or see its treasures again.”

  It was the end of the Golden Age and the beginning of the Dark Age. Doomba reigned over the Wastelands that surrounded Coe Pidaria and tried to overtake all of Arria. Yet he didn’t succeed…”

  * * * *

  Basha turned his head, and his eyes widened as he saw Jawen walking into the inn. He’d waited for her to come, wanted her to come, but there had been no guarantee that she would. The last time he’d seen her was yesterday morning at her house, and that had not ended well.

  “Tau looked down, and then he turned to the others,” Old Man said, telling the story of how the gods first came together and decided to make humans. “This, all that we see below us, will be our world to mold and shape. Yet there’s something missing, for it’s too serene, too peaceful.” Old Man said in his best imitation of Tau’s voice, but Basha could barely hear him anymore over the thump of his fluttering heart.

  His future had just walked inside the inn, and hopefully it would be glorious. Jawen was looking around as if she might be searching for…then she spotted him. Basha stopped breathing. He was seeing Jawen as if for the very first time.