The Forgotten Tale

by J. M. Frey

  Neris cuts her eyes to her sister and frowns. “You parted willingly with your . . . you fool. Do you know what he has been using it for? What magic he stole, what actions he wrought? How carefully he rationed it out, drop by drop, and how many Deals he made where he compelled our sisters to trade unfairly, to suffer?”

  “Yes!” Solinde says, beaming and warm with pride. “Yes, my clever boy! He is your nephew. It is only right that you aided him!”

  Neris shakes her head. “I see now where his insanity comes from. You are mad, sister.”

  “I am driven mad, sister!” Solinde spits back. A surge of seawater slams so hard into the cliffside that the Ivory Tower shakes. The mortals below them cry out in fear. The babe loses her footing, falls onto her rump, and wails. “And not one of you came to me to help in all the years I was bound to that man. Not one!”

  “I’ll . . . help you!” the Reader blurts. Solinde can see it in her glowing eyes; behind her frozen desperation, her mind is spinning, weaving, trying to find an opening, an opportunity. “I will . . . Deal!”

  “For what?” Solinde asks, even as Neris howls: “No, unfair!”

  “Wyndam’s voice . . . and Words,” the Reader says.

  And, oh, that is a bit unexpected. “Not for your daughter?” Solinde drawls.

  “Would . . . you . . . agree not to . . . take her?”

  “No,” Solinde dismisses, airily. Neris’s own rage is building now. She seethes, and her sandy hair rises and lashes in the air like furious snakes, her clothing fluttering warningly.

  “Wyndam,” the Reader grinds out. “For . . . Varnet.”

  “You cannot!” Neris howls. “He is mine to Deal away, or not!”

  “I . . . Dealt him . . . first,” the Reader says, with a narrow-eyed glare at Neris. “Can . . . again.”

  “No!” Neris screeches.

  “But I like having Words,” Solinde says. She flashes the Reader a black-mouthed grin, sly and bloody. “It makes me powerful. It makes me better. I will keep it. Ask for something else.”

  With a wave of her hand, she lessens the compulsion on the Reader, lets her speak freely, though she still cannot move. At her feet, her child has curled up around her ankles, sobbing piteously and jerking with exhaustion.

  “Christ!” the Reader snarls. “No. Absolutely not! Unacceptable! You will not leave the only black character in this thing voiceless, especially not a young black teen who has been wrongfully stereotyped as a thug. No way! It’s this, or nothing. If you want your son, you give Wyndam his voice.”

  Solinde watches her sister’s distress with amusement as she considers the Reader’s offer. “Yes,” she says at length. “Very well. I can always Deal for another voice, for more Words, from some other mortal fool. Yes, I accept!” The waves below boom in an echoing crash.

  Solinde makes another gesture with her hand, and one of the Reader’s arms rises at Solinde’s bidding, her hand out, ready to shake.

  “I will not let you—” Neris howls, and lunges.

  But Solinde is faster.

  She seizes the Reader’s hand, pumps it once, and Neris is halted midair, as if she has hit an invisible wall. She writhes and screeches, and drops to the ground, panting in fury. The wind returns as a gale, plastering everyone’s clothing against their bodies, flinging Solinde’s skirts out behind her in flapping banners. The child’s screams are carried away. Solinde tosses her whipping hair behind her shoulders, and laughs.

  “I’m here, Alis!” The Reader tries to soothe her babe.

  Neris scuttles to her feet. “Have your mad child, then!” she says, recoiling, ready to sprint. “I will take that one!”

  Neris surges forward, and Solinde steps in to block her. The Reader screams in distress, eyes wide and wild. Solinde is forced to grapple with Neris, wrestling her away from the Reader and her oblivious babe.

  “No!” the Reader howls, jerking and straining against the spell’s hold.

  Storm and gale clash and howl - Solinde may be a Spirit of the Sea, but Neris is a Spirit of the Sky, and the tornado and squall are her weapons, the cutting wind her sphere of influence.

  And then, suddenly, there is a blade inches from both their noses. Solinde jumps back, ready to slay whomever it is that is attacking them. And Neris, who had been held up by Solinde’s grasp, slumps. The pointed end of the astrolabe is protruding from under her breastbone, blue with ichor.

  The wind her rage had been generating dies off instantly.

  Neris falls to the ground, dead. Her corpse immediately begins to bubble and boil, evaporating away. Deal-Maker Spirits leave no bodies behind. That is why their blood is so precious. Even the astrolabe is clean of blood, but red-hot from the temperature of her death.

  A rush of relief, of happiness, of joy and love splashes over Solinde. Her extremities begin to tingle; she feels her smile grow, and is helpless to stop it. Her shoulders drop, her fists relax, and she sighs, her eyelids fluttering. Pleased.

  For behind Neris stands Varnet. He is there. Her son. Her child.

  Everything she loves; everything she has sought. Everything she has fought so hard for, wept for, bled for.

  There.

  Within arm’s reach.

  He is clad in the torn, filthy strips of what had once been his magnificent black-and-gold jacket and trousers. His feet are bare and bloody, his face gaunt with pain and hunger and lack of sleep. His normally impeccable slick of dark hair is a wild and ragged tumble. But his smile, his grin filled with teeth like knives, is the same.

  “Hello, Mother,” he says.

  Solinde smiles back. “Hello, my darkling boy.”

  She holds out her arms.

  And like the good, good boy that he is, he steps into them.

  Varnet is taller than her now, can lay his head against the top of hers easily, but he smells the same, feels the same, warm and alive. She can hear his heart beating under her own ear, pressed against his thin, gasping chest. He is shivering in relief. His hands dig and clutch at her back.

  “Mother,” he whimpers, and Solinde pets his back, his nape. “I missed you.”

  “My child, my baby,” Solinde says, and her voice is hitching. There are tears on her cheeks, a joy that she cannot contain thrilling in her breast. “I missed you, too. You’ve done so well. So well, my son. I am so proud of you.”

  Varnet huffs a sob and curls further around her, holding tight.

  The world goes quiet as they cling to one another. The storm pauses. Even the babe has hushed. Even the mortals below have gone silent. The world stills. It holds its breath.

  And then Varnet pulls away. He reaches up, cups her face in his filthy hands, and kisses her forehead tenderly, reverently. “How beautiful you are, Mother,” he says. “How good you are.”

  “My boy,” Solinde murmurs, drifting in the bliss of his touch, his praise.

  “And what is this?” he asks, turning to the Reader and her child.

  “A gift, my son,” Solinde says. She cannot bear to be out of contact with him, and wraps her arm around his waist. He slides his hand over her shoulder, cupping, thoughtfully careful of his strength. “A wife, I think, if you want her.”

  Varnet laughs. “Oh, now there’s a thought, isn't it? Hello, Miss Piper!” he says. “What a delight! I never expected to see you again.”

  “Fuck you,” the Reader spits.

  “And still as crass as ever, how lovely. And what is this, wriggling by your feet? A worm?”

  “A halfling Reader,” Solinde says. “She will be a valuable servant to us when we have raised her to it.”

  Varnet wrinkles his nose and sneers. “The other half is Turn, I assume? Eugh. Better to exterminate it, Mother, like the vermin it is. If you want a half-Reader child to keep, I’ll get one on the bitch myself.”

  Solinde frowns at the casual cruelty of the dismissal of the babe, but says nothing. Her son is right; a child that is half-Reader and a quarter Deal-Maker will be more powerful still.

  “Pl
ease, no!” the Reader groans, her voice low with horror. “From one mother to another, please, I beg you.”

  But Solinde says nothing. Her son has made his choice. She watches as Varnet raises his hand, glowing with green.

  Nineteen

  It takes us the rest of the day to cross the Stoat Forest, and we reach the seaside town of Lymecove at twilight. It is quiet at this hour, the windows in the limestone homes glowing orange and welcoming. But we dare not stop. The harbor is on the other side of town, and we cut through back alleys quickly. My stomach growls when we pass the street of sailors’ inns, and the enticing perfume of seared meat and fresh bread permeates the air. Capplederry growls back. We push on, though, determined to reach the ship—assuming Caerdac and Bradri found a ship willing to carry us—before we rest.

  The air takes on the sharp scent of salt and fish as we head along the harbor-side road and out to the edge of town. It is cool, with a swift sea-borne breeze, and the damp patches that remain on my clothing, along the seams and around my collar, turn abruptly uncomfortable.

  Just as he promised, Caerdac is waiting for us at the top of the Shift Berth, in Long Pond Harbor. He is waving enthusiastically when we pull up, though we could not have missed the scarlet dragonet curled on the ground behind him. Bradri’s eyes are closed, her wings tucked against her side, and I realize as I slide off Capplederry that she is asleep. Their searching flight must have been long and exhausting.

  “Is that the ship?” Bevel asks, peering down the rickety dock. “What is that? A Caravel? I like those; they’re fast. That’s good.”

  I can’t make out the coloration or markings of the ship—all its lights are doused, and this dock has no lanterns—but there are indeed three masts with triangular sails barely silhouetted against the star-less sky. In this light, I cannot make out what shade they are, but they look almost mustardy from here. I am struck with a thought that I have seen a sketch of this ship before, during my turn as the Shadow Hand. But then again, I saw many sketches of many unlicensed ships, and if this one is docked at the Shift Berth, then I had undoubtedly been made aware of its existence at one time or another.

  Shift Berth is the only unlicensed dock in Lymecove harbor. Ostensibly, it is only meant to be where ships who have not sought prior permission may tie up while they are awaiting official recognition in the city harbor. But because of that, it is also a favorite berth for ships who must make emergency stops for rations or repairs, and for those with shady business to conduct, which requires them to be docked and gone within hours. In short, it is perfect for smugglers, racketeers, pirates, and anyone else who is willing to take on passengers at the last minute for a pile of coins and with no questions asked.

  “That’s your ship,” Caerdac confirms. “They were just around the breakers of the cove. Lucky for us. And oh, how we surprised them.” Caerdac grins like a naughty child who has gotten away with a prank. “You should have seen the look on the captain’s face when we landed right on the deck!”

  “Did they fire at you?” I ask, concerned. I swing down from Capplederry’s back, ready to render first aid if necessary. It is now a fatherly instinct to immediately look for blood.

  “No,” Caerdac says. He pulls a length of white cloth from under his leather vest. “We came in under a white banner.”

  “Clever,” I say, and the thought of what I might offer the rogue lad in return for this favor begins to germinate. I had been worrying the nugget of what Kintyre, Bevel, and I might give, or what he might ask for, the entire ride here. Now, seeing how clever, honest, and genuine he’s been, I’m starting to get an idea. “What did the captain say? Is he ready to leave immediately?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Let’s go, then,” Kintyre says. “We’ll bring the horses aboard, just in case. If nothing else, they can rest and take feed there. Hup!” He spurs Dauntless forward, and my horse, winded and exhausted, trots as if he knows that water and grain and repose wait for him at the end of the dock. Perhaps he does. He has always been a clever creature.

  Bevel and Karl follow in their wake. I wave Capplederry and Wyndam on, and turn to Caerdac.

  “Thank you,” I say earnestly.

  “We saw the witch, too!” Caerdac blurts as Bevel passes him.

  “You didn’t engage her?” I ask breathlessly, dread strangling my lungs.

  “Nope, did as you said, just hung back and followed her. And yes—it was definitely to the Ivory Tower that she went,” the lad offers. “And . . . and I saw her set down your wife and child with my own eyes. We turned back after that.”

  “Thank you. As for your recompense, I thought we could perhaps discuss—”

  “A home,” the dragonet blurts, and I jerk back, startled. One golden eye opens and stares at my face. I thought Bradri asleep, but of course she would not sleep through our conversation, especially with how covetous she is of Caerdac’s person. Bradri lifts her head, shakes her weariness off her shoulders, and peers down at me from the height of her slender neck. “We talked about it, and we’ve decided that we want you to give us a home.”

  “Something nice, and dry, and warm,” Caerdac says. “It needn’t be large, but you’re all lords, ain’tcha? You can grant us land in your Chipping. Or a farm. Something with a bit of garden to work for ourselves, and a roof over our heads?”

  I feel my grin spreading, that germinating seed of an idea sprouting, leaves of thought uncurling.

  “Forget a mere house on a farm. What do you say to a manor?” I ask, reveling in the amusement in the lad’s face.

  “A . . . what?” he asks.

  “Forssy! Move it!” Kintyre calls from the gangway.

  “I’ll explain when we return,” I say, his urgency tugging me along the dock. I begin to jog, to where I can see the rest of my party handing their mounts up the gangway and onto the darkened ship. Capplederry waits patiently behind the horses, Wyndam half-hidden in his ruff. I am not surprised to hear the snap of leathery wings in the air.

  From above and slightly behind me, Caerdac calls: “Oh no! We’ve done our part, you tell us now! What do you mean, ‘a manor’?”

  I grin back over my shoulder at them. “How do you feel about a career in law enforcement?” I ask. “For I have a friend in dire need of an apprentice, and he has a wonderfully large house with many empty rooms. And the perfect livery to turn into a dragon’s horde.”

  “That’s not an explanation!” the lad shouts. Bradri lands on the dock beside the gangway, and Caerdac dismounts just as I reach the others.

  “I promise I will explain further,” I pant, just as Kintyre steps from the dock and onto the wobbly bridge that is the gangway. “Later.”

  “Now!” the lad says, moving to block the way forward. Kintyre stumbles back when one wine-colored wing snaps open across his path. I hear snorting laughter echo back from the ship’s deck.

  “I must—” I gesture at the ship, trying not to let my frustration bleed through.

  “Then you can explain on board!” Caerdac says.

  “You’re not coming with us,” I counter.

  “We are. We secured the ship; we’re coming,” Bradri insists, sounding petulant. “Besides, there’s still the hatchling. I won’t rest until I know she’s safe.”

  “You’re just a lad,” I say. “Both of you. You’re too young. Please, I can’t be responsible for—”

  “I’m no younger than him!” Caerdac says, pointing to Wyndam. My nephew crosses his arms and shifts his weight onto one leg, smirking and smug.

  “You’re untried!” I say. “I have seen you with a sword, lad, and I shan’t—”

  “We’re going,” Bradri hisses, and her throat glows like she’s swallowed coals. “The captain already said we can.”

  “Let them aboard, brother, for the love of the Writer, and let’s go,” Kintyre sighs. “We’ll argue about whether they’ll be climbing the Ivory Tower after.”

  Kintyre ducks under Bradri’s wing and starts to climb.


  “Oh, wait!” Caerdac says, suddenly looking nervous.

  “Now what?” Bevel asks, hesitating on the steps to the gangway.

  “It’s just that, when I said the ship was for you, the captain . . . had a few things to say about that.”

  “Oh?” Kintyre laughs, nearly to the top. “And who might the captain be?”

  “Me,” another voice adds from on deck. It is female, deep, sultry, and tinged with a Gadotian accent. “Hullo, sweetie.”

  “Oh!” Kintyre gasps, whipping around to face the woman who has stepped up to the top of the gangway. “Um. Issie. Hi.”

  The Pirate Queen Isobin offers my brother a sharkish grin, growing more pleased, it seems, the redder his face turns. “Kin,” she replies with a head dip. Her amusement is too thick to read how she really feels about seeing him again. “It’s been all of eight months. You’ve called a surrender on parenthood so soon?”

  “Ah, no,” Kintyre mutters, rubbing the back of his neck and blushing.

  Bevel, who had mounted the gangway behind Kintyre, makes a noise of disgust and shoves his way around his trothed. He puts himself between the former lovers and glowers. Ah, yes, there is the bull-doggish expression I know so well. “We’re on a rescue quest,” he says. “So, if we could get going?”

  “Yes, of course,” Isobin says, and her voice is smooth as melted chocolate and gilded with good humor. By the deeply etched lines around her eyes and mouth, I would guess that this is a woman who loves to laugh, and does so often. “Well come, Sir Bevel Dom, and welcome aboard.”

  “That’s Lord Bevel,” he corrects her, and it is the first time I’ve ever heard my brother-in-law insist on the honorific offered to him by his throthing. He must feel spectacularly threatened by Kintyre’s former lover indeed.

  “Is it now?” Isobin says, stepping aside to allow Bevel to bully his way onto the Salty Queen. She glances at Kintyre and raises a questioning eyebrow. Kintyre just ducks his head like a naughty schoolboy and slips past her.

  I mount the gangway next, and the length of the walk affords me the opportunity to get a good look at our erstwhile hostess. She shares Wyndam’s glittering jet eyes—or rather, I should say that Wyndam shares hers. They both have the wildly curling black hair, as well, though Isobin’s is pulled back from the crown of her head in tiny braids that hug her scalp, the ends left to flutter around her shoulders like a storm cloud. Her skin is of course darker than Wyndam’s, and her lips more plush.