The Smiling Stallion Inn

by Courtney Bowen

  Eventually, Arria regained some of her former glory as Doomba seemed to subside, almost becoming invisible. Some even doubted he or his minions still existed. But never was Arria as fantastical as she’d been before Doomba had arrived. The Golden Age was gone, and the Dark Age would never end, not as long as Doomba was still around. Or so her father had told her. Nisa sighed. She’d had enough of such stories. She wasn’t sure what to believe anymore, but she had to get ready. It was time to take her place and bump into Basha just before the dance.

  * * * *

  After the Courtship Ritual

  Dreading what was to come and thinking of everything that had happened tonight, Basha thrashed as he fell asleep. He dreamed of explaining to his mother, Kala, all about the Courtship Ritual, how he’d fared, and what it had entailed. Suddenly an animal prowled in the darkness behind him. It was so close he couldn’t breathe.

  “Wake up, Basha!” He opened his eyes. It was morning, or so it appeared. Light shone into his eyes from the small bedroom window, but he felt like he hadn’t slept a wink. He groaned as he sat up, rubbing his eyes and blinking as he tried to adjust to the daylight. He felt a headache coming on. He must have drunk too much tealatte and ale last night.

  “Was it all just a dream?” Basha asked hopefully.

  “No, it wasn’t. Welcome to reality, your daily nightmare,” Oaka said, shaking his head. “How much tealatte did you have last night?”

  “I don’t know, just as much as everybody else had. Why are you so angry at me?” Basha asked, trying to joke. “Was it something I said?”

  Last night, Oaka had been fuming, yet so quiet, Basha thought he might burst when they got home. Then Oaka had abandoned him, running ahead to their bedroom, while Basha was left behind to explain to their parents what had happened.

  “Why did you say such a thing?” Oaka finally cried out. “You can’t just give her Tau’s Cup! It’s all the way—”

  “I wasn’t thinking!” Basha groaned. “The tealatte, and the ale, I just had to give her something, but nothing belongs to me. Everything I have comes from Father, who isn’t even my real father, and I just can’t claim what doesn’t belong to me. The Cup just came out of my mouth.”

  “And so we’re back to Tau’s Cup! How is that even better? The Cup doesn’t belong to you, not yet, and probably not ever. If you’re even thinking about going—”

  “I can’t take back what I said. I swore an oath on Lovers’ Rock, by the great god Tau, that I’d offer Jawen the Cup!”

  “You know, Basha, it’s always been a little odd to me that Jawen had to act like she didn’t like you,” Oaka said. “And if you were so certain that she’d accept you last night, you shouldn’t have needed to promise her the Cup. If it was true love.”

  “It’s true love!” Basha said. “Jawen’s hostility to me over the years was just a shield she put up for her own sake.”

  “Oh, a shield? Then where’s the sword?” Oaka asked.

  “She didn’t want to get hurt,” Basha said, ignoring him. “There’s too much at stake here for both of us. But since I’ve proven myself to her, she trusts me, and we’ll get married.”

  “How have you proven yourself?” Oaka asked. “You don’t have the Cup, which isn’t yours—it’s all the way down south, hundreds, if not thousands, of miles away from here, on the far side of the Mila Forest, the Popo Hills, Tau Valley, and Doomba’s Wastelands! Let’s not forget that!” Oaka cried. “You can’t get it, you’re never going to marry Jawen, and you’re going to die! Have I left anything out?”

  “I know, but I swore, and the oath must be as true for me as it would be for a knight. I have to go to Coe Pidaria. What else am I supposed to do?”

  “Pardon my language, Basha, but that’s all just a bunch of balnor!” Oaka said. “Give it up, Basha! You can’t do it. Why even try? Be satisfied with your life here and let Jawen go. She’s not worth the fight.”

  “Oaka, I can’t,” Basha said, ready to cry. “I can’t give Jawen up, I love her, and I can’t forget all of the stories, the tales of the Knights of Arria, and chivalry, and defending our King Sonnagh from evil. I can’t forget her.”

  “Wake up, Basha! Those Knights of Arria are dead, if they ever existed. Old Man told us lies to please us when we were children! There’s nothing real about any of it. The real knights don’t have ‘gentlemanly’ behavior like chivalry anymore, if they ever did.”

  “What about the games we played when we were children? ‘My sword is raised,’” Basha said, his voice wavering as he recited. “‘My courage is unequaled, my honor is intact, my loyalty will never waver, my fairness is…’”

  “Unparalleled,” Oaka said. “Basha—”

  “Right, I always forget that part. ‘My fairness is unparalleled! And my chivalry is true!’” Basha cried.

  “Basha, those were just games we played, and I never did like them very much,” Oaka said, shaking his head. “They never meant anything to me.”

  “How can you say that? The two of us fighting dragons and rescuing damsels in distress, that was our dream,” Basha said. Long before he’d learned he was adopted, long before he’d sought personal wealth, status, and satisfaction of his own needs, long before he’d ever fallen in love with Jawen, he’d play-fight with Oaka using toy swords.

  He’d always wanted to be a knight. He’d watched the town militia march down the main street of Coe Baba, heralded by the band. Sir Nickleby had been at the head of the parade upon a noble steed, sword upraised. Nights had been filled with Old Man telling stories of gods, monsters, heroes, and damsels in distress. Basha had grown up learning that not everything was like this, and that he couldn’t be a knight like Sir Nickleby, but Basha still believed in his heart that he could live up to those ideals of chivalry, valor, and honor. He’d hoped this perfection might help him gain Jawen in marriage.

  “That was your dream, Basha, not mine. If you’re going to Coe Pidaria, you’re going on your own,” Oaka said. “And I hope a dragon eats you on the way, if you can find one!” he added, leaving the bedroom.

  Basha sighed, wishing he could have convinced Oaka otherwise, but his brother was right. It was his fault, swearing an oath to get Tau’s Cup. Whatever happened next, Basha was on his own. He flopped back down onto his bed, lying there and facing the ceiling. It was right he should deal with this by himself, take responsibility for his own actions, but why didn’t he feel right? Why didn’t he feel like meeting the challenge? And it was definitely going to be a challenge. He knew next to nothing about what he was going to attempt to do. Nobody in his hometown had ever traveled all that way, especially to the Wastelands. Nobody had ever survived going into the Wastelands, as far as he was aware. It was such a horrible place, full of fire and death, at least that’s what everybody assumed. And the monsters, not just Doomba, but his minions as well—Black Wolves, Trolls, and Ghoulmen—things that nightmares were made of. He’d heard such terrible stories he didn’t know how he’d ever survive them.

  * * * *

  Oaka fumed as he closed the bedroom door and went down the hallway into the common room. He hadn’t meant to be that tough on Basha, but he was upset by how casually Basha had treated all of this, like it was just a game. If it weren’t for Jawen…Malakel it, why did she have to get involved with Basha? Out of all the girls in Coe Baba, not that there were that many, why did she have to be the one Basha set his sights on? What idiocy was this that had driven Basha to promise the most impossible, illogical thing, all to get the attention and affection of Jawen? What madness was this but love, or the semblance of love to Basha? He was stupid enough to think or believe everything he felt for Jawen was true or strong enough for her to love him back. He almost bumped into his mother as she came out of the kitchen.

  “Ba…oh. Oaka,” Habala said. Geda looked up from behind the bar to see his oldest son. “How goes it?” Habala asked.

  “Eh, it’s fine,” Oaka said, shaking his head as he plopped down on a bar stool and leaned his
elbows on the bar.

  “‘Fine’ isn’t much of an answer,” Geda said. “The town council will be meeting soon.”

  “The town council? For Basha? Is that not a little much for one stupid oath and a mistake borne from love?” Oaka asked.

  “Mistake or not, he’s got to go. To the town council meeting, I mean,” Geda said, shielding himself from Habala’s furious look for a moment. “I don’t want him getting lost or killed on some idiotic trip through the Wastelands,” he told Habala until she turned away and started to cry.

  “He’s got to go, Habala, and hear what they have to say,” Geda said, patting his wife’s shoulder. “Maybe then he’ll decide…”

  Habala whirled around to face Oaka. “Has Basha said anything to you, about going or not going?” she asked desperately.

  “He’s dead set on going,” Oaka said quietly, looking down, not wanting to see his mother cry. Malakel Basha. “Nothing will stop him. Stubborn mule. I’m not going, if you’re thinking I might,” he added, hoping that might cheer her up.

  “Thank goodness, Oaka,” Habala said, kissing her son twice on both cheeks. “I love you, Oaka. I better go talk to Basha,” she said, wiping her tears and sniffling as she headed off toward the bedroom the two boys shared.

  “Well, I’m glad of that,” Geda said, nodding slowly. “No sense losing the both of you, if it comes down to that.” He gulped and sighed, pouring himself a glass of ale. “Do you think he can be convinced to let this nonsense go?”

  “I doubt it,” Oaka said, sighing. “Can you get me one, too?”

  Geda hesitated. “Go easy on it, son.” He reached for another glass.

  Oaka sat there a moment and then said, “Father…if I was to tell you…”

  “What is it, son?” Geda asked when Oaka fell silent.

  “Never mind,” Oaka said, lowering his head. He couldn’t talk to his father now about the fire. Everyone else was panicking over Basha, and they seemed to have forgotten about him. Perhaps he could convince himself it had never even happened, much like he could convince himself that the gruelmoff attacking them and Old Man saving them had never happened. Oaka frowned. Was this a good way of going through life? Overlooking or denying the obvious? The thought struck him that it wasn’t much of a way to live—being afraid of everything that reminded you of reality and the past. Perhaps he’d forgotten because it was easier at the time, but it was also difficult to ignore. He wondered if Basha or anyone else had ever felt this way before.

  * * * *

  His mind was so far away, Basha nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard the knock on his bedroom door. “Basha? May I come in?” It was his mother.

  “Sure…the more the merrier,” he mumbled to himself as he sat up on the bed.

  “Are you all right?” Habala said, entering the bedroom.

  “Never better, Mother.”

  She sat down on the bed beside him and laid her palm atop his hand where it rested on his thigh. “The town council is planning on meeting later to discuss… Basha, what is wrong between you and Oaka?”

  “I think we had a fight, Mother. But it’ll be okay, I hope. What is the town council planning on discussing? My oath?”

  “Basha, I think you should go to the meeting. They’ll probably summon you anyway, maybe ask you what you were thinking, or if you’d reconsider.”

  “Mother, I made the oath. I don’t think I can break it, not without…” He finally turned his head to look at Habala. “Why would they want to talk to me about my oath?” he asked. “They should just let me go.”

  “Basha, please, honey, go and listen to them speak. I think you should hear their advice before you decide. You’re not fully grown yet. You should let your elders decide this thing.”

  “Mother, I made the choice myself. I should think if I’m fully capable of proposing marriage to a girl, then I should make the choice myself of what I promise her and where I go to get the item in question.” Habala just stared at him, her face drawn in disproval. “All right, all right, I’ll go to the stupid town council meeting. For your sake. I’ll live with whatever they have to say. I just hope they don’t talk too much.”

  “Thank you, Basha. I suppose that’s all I can ask.” She sighed and then reached into her pocket. “Here, before I forget. I wanted to give this to you earlier, when I had the chance, but with preparing for the Courtship Ritual, and everything else…I found this just yesterday morning, or the day before that, I forget, sweeping up the storeroom.”

  She took out a white piece of cloth. Basha caught sight of blue, or maybe indigo, thread. “All of the supplies that we were going to need for the Courtship Ritual had just arrived,” Habala said, “and we needed to clean up the place just a bit, and I found this in a corner…It must have been buried under some boxes. There was a book of recipes, and inside that book, pressed between the pages, there was this.”

  She handed the handkerchief over to Basha. “Be gentle with it, it’s old, and starting to unravel a bit. A bit faded as well, but I recognized it at once. Keep it close to you,” she said. “I hope you won’t ever lose it again.”

  He examined the handkerchief, which was embroidered with expensive indigo thread. No one in town could have afforded such a thread, not even Lapo could have scored a find of this length. But woven into the cloth, with delicate and intricate detail, were the words Blessings, your Sisters at the top, blue flowers along the sides, and the initials K & M on the bottom edge. K…His mother, his real birth mother, had been Kala, and so his father must be M, whoever that was.

  Basha looked up in shock at Habala as she lowered her head. She said, “I meant to give it to you when I told you about your real birth mother, but by then I had lost it. I took it out of her pack, the day after she died. I couldn’t find much else of value for you to keep.” She looked up at him, teary-eyed, as she said, “That has been one of my biggest regrets. The idea that I had lost this handkerchief, the one thing that you had from your mother. But to find it again has been a very small blessing indeed.” She wiped her eyes.

  Basha gasped. He could have used this yesterday! If Habala had given it to him earlier, he could have given it to Jawen last night, but…no. He couldn’t part with this, could he? It was the one thing he had from his mother. This wasn’t something he could entrust to another person, not even Jawen. This was even more precious and valuable than his love for Jawen.

  “Mother, you don’t have to fret.” Basha hugged her. “Thank you for giving me this small part of Kala.” He smiled weakly. “I’ll take good care of her handkerchief; you can count on that.” He pushed himself away from her embrace after a few moments.

  “All right, Basha, all right. I love you, my boy,” Habala said, sniffling and smiling before she left.

  She wants me to forgive her for losing the handkerchief, he thought. He didn’t exactly blame her, although if he’d had this, then he could have had something of Kala over all these years since her death. She was a woman who’d lived, even though he didn’t know what kind of life she’d had. His birth mother might have been a lady of wealth and nobility from an ancient family, as Habala had once remarked that Kala had held herself as such, but he’d no way of proving that when he couldn’t trace the lineage of his family. Instead, he was a blank space on a page; he could only live with what he’d been given, where he was raised, and that wasn’t his own. Or enough to satisfy him.

  He’d tried to fit in in Coe Baba, but it was impossible when he knew he belonged elsewhere and with an unknown family.

  Basha sighed and shook his head. He couldn’t find the answers to his lifelong questions in a scrap of expensive cloth and fine stitching. He folded the handkerchief to put it safely away, but then he unfolded it again to scrutinize the stitching. One question in particular gnawed at him. Why was Sisters capitalized like that?

  Basha pondered it a little while longer before putting the handkerchief into the box he kept in the bottom of his armoire and then he left his bedroom.

&nb
sp; Chapter 12

  Remembering the Past

  “Resolved: In the time of King Vivolon the Second, 1022 DA,

  That all personages of Coe Baba who so wish to be elected

  To the town council shall be citizens born in Coe Baba,

  Owners of property here, or have relatives who live here.”

  Signed, Old Man”—Laws of Coe Baba, Law #214

  Late in the morning on the third day of Markee, Jawen woke up, feeling sick and sore as she remembered last night. She dressed and washed her face before she went downstairs to eat breakfast. Her father had already left to arrange the town council meeting. Her siblings snickered and whispered among themselves as they watched Jawen down her cider and eat her meal as fast as she could before leaving. She headed toward the town hall, wanting to see what was happening, but then she stopped and stared at the town well near the far side of the town square.

  Even though the River Daneuve, and some of the channels dug from it, provided clean water for drinking, irrigation, and other needs, the well water seemed to taste fresher and cleaner somehow, as if the earth purified it. A group of girls were usually gathered at the town well, located on the “rich” side of town next to the southern edge of the town square, and today was no exception. They were supposedly collecting water, but they took plenty of time doing it while they gossiped about local boys and other girls who were missing from the throng.

  Jawen felt terribly thirsty again as she spotted Iibala laughing among them. “Jawen!” she heard a voice cry.

  “Sisila!” Jawen exclaimed, turning around to see her friend coming from the direction of the town hall. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to find you. I didn’t see you at all last night after Basha…Oh, Jawen, I’m so sorry, and congratulations,” Sisila said, hugging her best friend.

  “Yes, I feel the same way,” Jawen said.