The Forgotten Tale

by J. M. Frey

  I take charge of Alis’s little feeding and subsequent wipe-down as Pip changes into her sleeping shift and goes about the business of pouring out the wine. Alis protests with lusty sobs when we put her in the crib, clutching Library and generally making it known that we are the most miserable, villainous human beings on the planet for making her go to bed, even if we are still in the same room as her. Her direct line of sight is compromised, however, when I draw the changing screen out of the corner of the room to block her view of the fire and its light, shrouding her half of the room in flickering, soothing shadow. The darkness usually works as a balm to her.

  It takes Alis no more than five more minutes of sobs, and then she is flat on her back and dead asleep. Pip and I aren’t even through our first glasses of wine by the time silence falls. But in that time, I’ve changed into my own sleeping shift—I am not used to so much fabric and air around my privates anymore, and I can’t be certain if I miss my sleeping pants or not—and Pip and I are curled around one another, sitting on the plush lambskin rug in front of the hearth.

  Pip fills me in on the goings on of the Pointe household—Dorthi is worried that her newest kitchen girl is going to run off with one of the mermaids she met while on a seaside holiday with her family, the Free School I funded for the children of Turnshire has an open day in a fortnight to allow parents to come see the children’s play and recitals, Lewko is falling behind in his literature studies, and Kintyre has funded the opening of second school. It will be located in Faversquare, a smaller market on the other side of Lysse, and will be for those children for whom Turnshire is too far a walk. The last bit of news pleases me greatly, and I share that pleasure with my wife in the form of more chasing kisses.

  I missed Pip terribly while we were at odds, and I am determined to show her just how much. Mindful of the baby on the other side of the privacy screen, we seal our noises behind each other’s lips and keep it quick. Hands are marvelous, and there is something illicitly thrilling about reaching under each other’s clothes like inexperienced youths. As Pip’s fingers are the stickier when we are done, it falls to me to fetch the wash basin and cloth, and then the wine bottle and tray of tasties.

  Then it is my turn to share the gossip I learned—Rupin’s concerns about a protégé, the difficulties that Kintyre and Bevel are having with Wyndam, and lastly, the constellations.

  Pip, languorous and soft in the afterglow and the influence of good wine, rouses herself at this last bit of news and fetches a piece of parchment, a quill, and an ink pot from the credenza. The staff also know me well enough that they left stationary for me. Pip struggles with the quill, and for a moment, I am consumed with a bizarre and fierce homesickness for ball-point pens. Once I realize what she is doing, I take the quill from her, lay the parchment flat on the wooden floor next to the rug, and complete the graph. Within an hour, we have an Excel Sheet composed of all the lost books whose names I can recall on one axis, and the names and stars of the vanished constellations on another. It takes me several trips to the window, and one down to my library for a tome on astronomy charts, to complete it, and it is closer to morning than either of us cares to admit when we sit back and take a look at the picture the Excel reveals.

  We can only conclude that the vanished books and missing stars are, indeed, related. Too many of the stories for both feature similar props.

  Fauns, shoes, rings, I write below the chart. And then, studying the list of constellations, I add, swords, caps or feathers, thimbles (sewing supplies), shadows, thrones.

  Quizzing Pip, I learn that the magic of the vanished books reaches her even here. Gone, for her, is Robin Hood; Peter Pan; Tom Thumb; American Gods; Earthsea; The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe; and the whole of the books and episodes of Game of Thrones. And many more, most likely, but those are the stories that I can recall best. I am thankful that I am a voracious reader, and that my time as a library assistant seems to be paying dividends.

  Unsettled, the amorous mood lost, we fold up this new Excel and hide it amid our Victoria clothing in the chest at the bottom of the wardrobe. Then we crawl into bed, stony-faced and silent, and hold each other tight. It is dawn before the whirring fear in my mind quiets enough to let me sleep.

  ✍

  A hushed discussion with Bevel over breakfast leads to Kintyre, Bevel, Pip, and I adjourning to my library with the Excel spread out before us on my desk. The doors have been repaired, and Wyndam seems extremely put out to be tasked with watching Alis while the adults confer. He says nothing, but makes a grunt of displeasure and stomps away to the kitchen with a still muzzy-eyed Alis on his hip.

  “It looks like we’ve got shared purposes, Forssy,” Bevel says, handing me a sheaf of letters from the Shadow’s Men, some even from King Carvel, detailing the concerns and research the Shadow Hand has undergone in regards to the matter of the dying stars.

  “Shared purposes,” I muse. “Yes, perhaps that is why we’re here?”

  “But what has that kind of power?” Pip asked. “Last time, it took a Deal-Maker Spirit, and a vial of Deal-Maker’s blood, to send us through the portal. I’m under the impression it takes a pretty big bargain to get a Deal like that without the blood. You’d have to be willing to give up a lot. Like, giving-up-all-of-your-own-magic a lot.”

  “And if you did, why use it to bring back Forssy?” Kintyre asks, and claps a hand on my shoulder when I shoot him a disgusted look. “Not meaning to be offensive, brother, but there are greater things to spend a Deal on than bringing back the former Shadow Hand. If someone wanted what you knew, they could have used the Deal to take Bevel, or the Mask.”

  “Unless they knew that I still carried the information with me,” I say, tapping my own forehead. “But how could they? Everyone who knew the former Shadow Hand must presume he died when his—please forgive me, Bevel—shorter successor took over.”

  “Yeah, that gave Carvel a shock, I’ll tell you,” Bevel says. “Went to let him know, used your tapestry trick, and I thought he would swallow his teeth, I did. He was happy to hear you weren’t dead, though. I told him that you’d just gone back to Pip’s kingdom to live happily ever after, yeah? He sends his congratulations.”

  “And is that what you told everyone else about Forsyth Turn’s disappearance?” I ask.

  Kintyre nods. “And everyone was pleased for you, as well. They missed you, of course. Especially at first, when, ah, I proved to be better at adventuring than counting grain tithes from your tenants. Took a few tries to get that right. And, uh, helping to plant the next harvest to make up for it.” He looks vaguely ashamed, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. I am filled with the warmth of filial affection. The poor oaf.

  I stand back from the desk and rub my hands over my face. I am desperate for a coffee, but all Lysse offers is tea, and it just tastes wrong to me now. I sip the cup I brought into my study with me all the same. Caffeine is caffeine. “Then I don’t see any reason why anyone could have desired my return strongly enough to make the kind of Deal that would be required.”

  “So, we’re clueless?” Kintyre snarls, and I can see his hand flexing in the empty space where Foesmiter would have hung were he armed for a quest. My brother always did prefer to bash his way through problems, rather than think them through instead.

  “I miss the Internet,” Pip says softly.

  “Why?” I ask, ignoring the confused looks from the others.

  “If this has happened before, then there’s got to be a record of it, right? It’d be convenient to be able to Google this. Maybe even figure out why it’s happening.”

  I shake my head. “The books were gone from the Internet as well. If this has happened before, I doubt there are any public records of it digitally available. Oh, hm,” I add, as an idea flutters into existence.

  “Hm?” Pip echoes me, optimistically.

  “There could be records,” I say. “If it has happened before. However, they must be old ones, for I have read nothing of this in the King’s
Library, nor were there any memories of it occurring in the days of the Shadow Hands previously stored within the Mask.”

  “But maybe there’s some in the Lost Library?” Bevel jumps in, proving him more capable of thinking forward than I had thought. Ah, but Bevel always was a savvy little hedgehog, even before the information of a hundred Shadow Hands was dumped into his mind.

  “Is it accessible?” Pip asks.

  Kintyre huffs. “Nearly. There are scholars there now. But it’s not open to the common people, not yet.”

  “Who has taken stewardship?” I ask, curious. The Library was located in Miliway Chipping in our Kingdom of Hain, but contained the combined knowledge of all of the peoples of the world. Technically, it would be up to Lord Micha to run the Library, but the contents thereof would be too valuable to mishandle, especially since the Library had been lost for so many centuries.

  “There is an accord, but the scholars of Gadot are being unreasonably tardy about the whole affair, of course,” Kintyre complains. “But that’s no surprise. It always seems that we are waiting on Gadot.”

  For the first time in my life, I find myself choking on a laugh because my brother has inadvertently said something that he cannot understand is reflected in Pip’s—in my—world. A flood of memories of Pip making the very same noise, most likely for the very same reason, washes across my mind. Pip and I share an amused glance, but I wave the question away when Bevel inquires as to the source of our amusement.

  “Can we gain access to the Library?” I ask, instead of explaining a play from the Writer’s realm that nearly defies explanation in and of itself. “If we go?”

  Bevel shrugs. “Sure.”

  Pip and I exchange a glance. She nods. “Very well, then,” I say. “Pip and I will travel there tomorrow. I think it best if Alis remains—”

  “No,” Bevel says. “As Shadow Hand, I should go with you.”

  Another glance and another nod, and it seems Pip and I are of an accord on that point, at least. “Yes, agreed,” I begin, but then it is my brother cutting me off.

  “Not without me, Bev!” he says.

  “Kin, we’ve talked about this,” Bevel says, low and urgent, turning to face Kintyre. “I’m Shadow Hand now. That means there’s adventures that I have to go on without you. You’re Lord Turn.”

  “Pointe is perfectly capable of—”

  “But you shouldn’t ask it of him! He has his own duties to see to. You can’t assume he’ll be able to do both—”

  “Well, if Wyndam would just step up, as he’s been asked to—”

  “This isn’t the place for this argument, Kin!”

  “Well, if not here, when?” my brother snarls. “I won’t have you go without me!”

  “There’s no danger,” I say, trying to placate.

  “How do you know that?” Kintyre says. There is a desperation in his expression that I have never seen before, a deep, affectionate worry. He takes his trothed’s hands in his, and the gesture is startlingly romantic and honest. “This sounds an awful lot like the beginning of a quest, and I won’t leave you out there alone, Bevel!”

  “If you haven’t noticed, I survived all our other quests just fine, Kin! You don’t have to make me sound like some maiden that needs—”

  “Of course not, Bev! I just . . .”

  “Have been treating me like you can’t trust me to keep myself alive ever since I accepted the Mask.”

  Kintyre turns away, crossing his arms and lowering his chin. His hair is not in its usual club, and falls across his face, obscuring what I assume must be an epic pout.

  “Do you resent that I can come and go, while you are tied to Turnshire?” Bevel asks softly, and Pip and I withdraw to the far side of the study when Bevel lays a hand on Kintyre’s arm, using the other to cup my brother’s chin and force their eyes to meet.

  Kintyre nods.

  “Wow, drama,” Pip whispers. Our own recent fights are still fresh on her mind, apparently, for she curls herself against me and wraps her arms around my waist. I return the embrace and lay my scarred cheek against the crown of her head.

  “Change has never come easy to Kintyre,” I whisper to my wife, then lean down to press a kiss against the little leaf at her nape. “And I can well imagine that he feels left out of Bevel’s excursions.”

  Pip shakes her head and steps free of me.

  “Boys!” she shouts, clapping her hands to get their attention. Both men turn to her with bewildered expressions. “It’s just a trip to the Library, right? Knowing this world as I do, it’s probably the first step in a Seven Station Quest, but step one is always safely gathering information. I don’t see why we all can’t go.”

  “Pointe—” Bevel starts again, exasperated.

  “It does us no good to assume he’ll say no when we haven’t even asked him,” Kintyre says. “And it will give him an opportunity to, perhaps, interview other young men”—Pip elbows him—“and women for his apprentice, if he is out in the Chipping on his lord’s business.”

  Bevel grunts, but nods. Kintyre beams, triumphant.

  “I was thinking,” Pip adds. “It’s not fair to leave Wyndam behind, not when he hasn’t seen much of Hain, so why don’t we make it a road trip?”

  “Road trip?” Bevel echoes.

  I can’t help but chuckle at my wife. “What, you mean load all the kids into the camper-van and go?”

  Pip’s grin in the face of Bevel and Kintyre’s incomprehension is like a sunrise. “Exactly!”

  ✍

  The caravan that leaves Turnshire three days later must be quite a sight, for the farmers whose homesteads we pass all whistle and laugh as we go by, waving their hats and tools, calling “halloos” to their lords and lordlings. I do not blame them, nor the children who follow after our party laughing and begging for sweets as we skirt their farms. Pip has brought a good deal of butter toffee with us, as Alis has discovered a liking for them, and the supply dwindles rapidly.

  The Library Lion, whom Lewko primly informed me has been named Capplederry, is hitched to a covered cart. The farms around Turnshire couldn’t afford to lend us an ox for our journey, not at this stage of the planting season, and none of the horses housed at Turn Hall have ever been broken to the yoke. Kintyre does not keep a carriage—he says it makes him feel infirm and old—so Father’s old trap is moldering in the hay barn under a canvas tarp.

  It was Wyndam, in his usual wordless way, who suggested the Library Lion on our second visit to Law Manor to discuss the issue of governing Lysse while we were away. As he often does, Kintyre won that argument, and I was convinced to ask Pointe to stand in while we are on the road. Pointe, the traitor, was happy to do it.

  Capplederry is larger than an ox and stronger, it seems, as well. The harness and cart do not seem to be any sort of noticeable burden to the creature. It pulls us along contentedly, pausing only every now and again to groom itself. When we make our relief breaks, we unhitch the creature from the yoke, leaving on the harness, and it chases butterflies through the verge, or naps in a convenient puddle of sunshine. We have no fear of nighttime predators with Capplederry prowling the outskirts of our camps.

  Wyndam and Capplederry seem to have formed a fast friendship. Whenever Capplederry is unhitched, Wyndam teases and taunts the cat with switches of grass or a willow branch, eyes alight with pleasure when Capplederry rolls and meows and pounces, an emotion that I have rarely seen in my nephew’s gaze otherwise. After a few days of roadside inns and bedding down in the cart when there is no inn to be had, Wyndam takes to sleeping with Capplederry. No matter where the rest of us sleep, the lad is instead curled on the cat’s forepaws and gamely suffering its massive tongue grooming him. I cannot hear what he says to the great cat, but whatever it is, it keeps his face buried in the creature’s ruff, and Capplederry purring loud as a motorcycle.

  Wyndam has equipped himself with a short, curved sword the likes of which I have never seen outside the sketches in the reports of the Shadow’s Men.
It is the preferred weapon of pirates, for it has great power in the swing and cut of it without having too great a reach for the close confines of a ship. Pip calls it a scimitar, and grumbles a bit about the fetishization of the exotic and orientalism on the part of Elgar Reed. Wyndam practices with it every evening, and when Kintyre joins him for a few practice bouts, the lad’s face glows with affection and pride.

  Kintyre’s is a powerful, bashing, solid technique. He runs and ducks, but otherwise remains planted, hacking and cutting like a castle wall come to life, letting the power of his swing and the weight of his sword take off limbs and sever heads when in battle. This is very different from the courtly form of dueling in which I have been trained. Smoke is a basket-handled rapier, as is the blade I have borrowed from Pointe to carry now. They are thin and swift and deadly sharp, made for slipping silently between ribs and bones, incapacitating quickly and efficiently. My footwork is quick, tripping, rather more like ballet than fighting, designed to flee or chase swiftly. Wyndam’s style is different again, a tumbling, curling, rounded dance that is part acrobatics, part whirling dervish. His fights are those of a thousand cuts, scoring his opponent—or, rather, whatever tree he is attacking for practice—with small nicks and slices that would have a human bleeding and sliding about in the gore pooling on a ship’s decking.

  I would very much like to test my blade against Wyndam’s, but the lad is only interested in sparring with his father. Wyndam is only interested in his father, full stop, it seems. The rest of us he treats like little annoyances.

  Lucky, then, that the rest of my family is here to occupy my attention.

  Our cart is covered, and supplied with two Wisp-lanterns. Pip and Alis ride amid pillows and our supplies, mostly. Though, every now and again, Pip and Kintyre swap out, and she takes her turn riding in the vanguard on Karlurban. He was Pip’s horse during her first tour of Hain, and now serves the Lord Turn. Dauntless, my horse, remains in the service of the Shadow Hand, but was very pleased to see me. He remembers who I am, which is heartwarming.