A King's Bargain

by J. D. L. Rosell

  Lenora looked between his eyes for a long moment. "Did something happen?"

  "Not yet. But it could."

  "Bad?"

  "Good. I think."

  She frowned. "We've never kept secrets from each other before."

  Garin shrugged. "Might not be anything to tell."

  "Does this have something to do with that stranger visiting Bran yesterday?"

  No secrets in a village — he'd always known that. "Something like that."

  Lenora sighed and reached over to put an arm around him, leaning her head on his shoulder, offering in silence what words could never convey.

  "I'm trying to decide," he found himself saying.

  "Decide between?"

  "Staying or going."

  She went very still. "Leaving Hunt's Hollow, you mean?"

  He tried to say it, but the word caught in his throat, so he nodded instead. "Just for a while," he added quickly. "I don't know how long. But it won't be forever."

  When Lenora remained silent, words pressed out of him once again. "I've always told myself I would see the World, sis. That I wouldn't just be content to stay here and split Father's plot in quarters with our brothers. I've lain awake nights, staring at the stars, imagining my stories will be written in them."

  He stopped just short of the most embarrassing, boyish admittance of them all. I've imagined myself as Markus Bredley stealing into those dwarven vaults. I've pretended I'm Tal Harrenfel in all his deeds. Stealing the Ring of Thalkuun. Killing the northern marauders and burning their black-sailed ships. Kneeling before the King as he heaps praise on my shoulders.

  Lenora lifted her head from his shoulder but kept their arms twined together. "The youngest son often flies the coop," she said quietly. "I guess I always knew you would, too, someday. I just didn't think someday would come so soon."

  "You knew I'd leave?"

  She nodded. "Honry has put down deep roots and has a family of his own now. Corbun and Naten both have girls from the surrounding countryside. But you've chosen to spend every free moment you had with a man who moved here from the wide World and barely lived here for five years."

  Garin brushed absentmindedly at his hair, uncomfortable under his sister's sharp scrutiny. "I suppose that's true."

  "But it's not just that. You've a fire in you, Garin. You need to feed it with all the World has to offer. If not, if you stay here without venturing away…" She shrugged. "I'd be afraid of that fire burning you up inside."

  He briefly met her gaze, then looked away again. "So you think I should go."

  "I think you should do whatever is right for you."

  "But is that what Father would have done? Is it a man's decision, or a boy's?"

  Lenora rarely snorted, so it took him by surprise when one escaped her. "That's the last thing you should be worried about. Men are often boys, and women are sometimes girls. We are what we are."

  Garin frowned, not sure he agreed, but unable to refute it.

  "But if it's us you're worried about," she continued, "we'll be fine. Corbun and Naten are still around, and even when they start their own families, all three of them will be close by." She grinned suddenly. "And don't forget that I can take care of myself and Ma both if I need to."

  He sighed. "I suppose so."

  She squeezed him tight. "Take the night; think about it. You can always make the decision tomorrow. And, no matter what you decide, I promise Father would be proud of you."

  She pulled away and headed back toward the house.

  His eyes stung for a moment. Wiping at them, he bent to pick up the bucket from among the pigs and followed after her.

  The traveler glared across the table. "You can't keep me bound here forever."

  Bran smiled back at him, all of his teeth on display. By some stroke of luck, he'd managed to keep most of them through the long years. "To the contrary. The terms of the Binding Ring very much say I could."

  Aelyn's eyes narrowed further still. "I can't harm you. But I could bundle you up and transport you across the kingdom if I have to."

  "If you think you could manage it."

  Bran took the bottle and raised an eyebrow. Aelyn's lips curled in a sneer, but he held his glass forward yet again, and Bran splashed in another helping of the marsh whiskey, then refilled his own.

  "Say what you will about Hunt's Hollow," he opined, "but you can't deny we have the finest whiskey in the whole of the Westreach that's made with swamp water."

  Aelyn coughed and dribbled the whiskey he'd been drinking back into his cup.

  Bran smiled again and drank his down, sighing as the fire crawled into his belly. His smile was coming looser the further into the bottle he went, and he was almost starting to enjoy his surly company.

  "So, my old acquaintance, what brings you to Hunt's Hollow?"

  The traveler wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes glimmering as he looked up. "You know very well what. I've come to fetch you for King Aldric."

  "Why? You're Gladelysh. You're not his subject. You serve at Queen Geminia's pleasure."

  "It is, shall we say, a convoluted chain of command."

  "It always is in the courts of royals."

  Aelyn exhaled in a sharp huff. "I serve as Gladelyl's emissary to Avendor."

  Bran raised an eyebrow. "That does little to elucidate the present situation. But an emissary — surely that's a waste of your varied talents."

  "Strange to hear you speak of wasted talent."

  Ignoring the barbed comment, Bran drank back his mug of whiskey, then poured himself another. "Hunt's Hollow has a hallowed history," he said, swirling the golden liquid in his cup. "Do you know how the town earned its name?"

  It was Aelyn's turn to raise an eyebrow. "I barely knew what it was called before this journey. But I'd guess a man stumbled upon a meadow and found it adequate for hunting." He shrugged. "Most names lack artistry."

  "This isn't one of them. There's a tale told by the elders of the times before the village began, before any of the Bloodlines had settled these wildlands. Then, this was only marshland, and considered a place best avoided."

  "As it still is," the traveler muttered.

  "Yet its few visitors told tales of marvelous things, and chief among them, one prey worthy of only the greatest hunter: the Phantom Doe."

  Aelyn snorted. "As likely a folk tale as any I've heard."

  "The Phantom Doe was a legendary beast, said to be as clear a blue as a glacial peak. The hunter was young and eager to prove himself, and he'd tracked the tales across the Westreach to these very swamps. At times, he thought he'd glimpsed his quarry, but mostly, there were only ordinary beasts and the stinking mire."

  "A fact sadly still relevant."

  "But with every mile, he grew nearer to the eastern mountains, and the danger grew. So it was that the hunter wasn't caught unawares when he came upon a clearing and saw the greatest of all beasts the East has to offer."

  "Let me guess," Aelyn said drily. "A dragon."

  Bran grinned. "The dragon was longer than a seaworthy ship, and its head went higher than the tallest tower. Each talon was as long as a spear and as sharp as a sword. His mane of spikes bristled with each movement of his flat head as he tasted the air with his flickering, forked tongue. Dragons hunt by taste like snakes, and this one had tasted prey on the wind."

  "A dragon." The traveler shook his head. "As if this tale could grow more unbelievable. The ancients might write of such beasts, but no one has seen one in generations. More likely, our ancestors were having a laugh at their descendants' expense."

  Bran shrugged. "The dragon was real to the hunter. He crouched in the hollow of a tree, quivering and trying to remain still and silent, for a dragon's hearing and sight are almost as keen as its sense of taste. But the dragon knew he was there. Slowly, it crept toward the hunter, and no tree would be able to hide or protect him once the dragon caught wind of him.

  "But as the dragon loomed over the hunter's hiding place, som
ething darted through the brush at the other end of the clearing. The hunter watched in amazement as a doe, shining the brilliant blue of a cloudless sky, leaped over the tall grass to dart into the woods. The dragon, hearing the doe, whipped its head around and roared as it set off in pursuit. The hunter yearned to follow the doe himself, but fear kept him behind the tree until long after the beat of the dragon's wings had faded away.

  "When both beasts were gone, the hunter exited the hollow and looked around. No longer did he wish to hunt the Phantom Doe, for he had realized it was a spirit sent by Mother World to protect this place. So he decided to settle a town in that clearing, the place that would later become the very town we sit in." Bran spread his arms and grinned. "Hunt's Hollow."

  Aelyn shook his head. "A diverting tale to explain a backwater town. Now, was there a point to my torment?"

  "The point is, you came here seeking a legend and found a man." Bran held up his hands helplessly. "And sometimes, that's all you get."

  Aelyn leaned close. "Maybe you're just a man. But your name is bigger than you, and it's time you remembered that. The King of Avendor has need of you, not Brannen Cairn."

  "Even kings can be disappointed. And disappointment is nothing I'm not used to."

  The traveler cocked his head, a small smile on his lips. I never liked when he smiled, Bran thought.

  "And what of the disappointment of your long-lost lover?" Aelyn asked softly.

  He stiffened. "What does she have to do with this?"

  The traveler's smile grew, like an angler feeling the hook set in a fish. "Nothing directly. But wouldn't she be sad to hear what you've become? A drunken old chicken farmer, hiding from his name and deeds."

  Bran sat back, staring up through a hole in his roof at the fading light. "The past never dies, does it?" he spoke softly. "It only sleeps, then one day drags you back in."

  Aelyn set his cup down, then withdrew a hand from below the table. Bran's throat tightened, and his body went rigid as the man placed a leather-bound book on the table, just outside of a small puddle of spilled whiskey.

  "Only if you let it," Aelyn said quietly. "And what, pray tell, is this piece of the past you've dredged up?"

  He didn't shift his position, but every muscle in his body had tensed. "Hand that to me, Aelyn."

  "Did you not think I would recognize the Darktongue? Did you think my studies in the Gray Tower had faded from my memory?" Aelyn's molten eyes searched his. "Now, tell me: what are you doing with such a fell book?"

  "Have you read it?" Bran asked quietly.

  "Only the title. A Fable of Song and Blood. Meaningless drivel, from what I can tell."

  "You don't know the half of it. Now, hand it over, or I'll be forced to take it from you."

  Aelyn's eyes narrowed. A long moment passed. One of Bran's hands below the table inched toward his belt knife.

  Then Aelyn released the book with a thump and sat back, crossing his arms. "Have you become one of them?"

  Bran took up the book and only exhaled as he tucked it under his arm. "You know me better than that, Aelyn. That book is the one weapon we might have against the Enemy. Promise me, if anything should happen to me, that you'll protect it."

  That seemed to take the traveler back. But after a moment, he nodded. "Very well."

  The inevitable had come. Bran rose to his feet, silently cursing his swaying vision. "Make any preparations you still have — we leave in the morning. I just have one more loose end to tie up tonight."

  Without waiting for a response, he turned from the house, taking the book with him.

  Garin was still awake when he heard the tapping at the window. His heart, already racing over the decision, began to pound.

  "What's that?" Naten asked sleepily from across their shared room.

  "Nothing. Just getting up for a piss." Garin scrambled out of bed and pulled on his clothes, then half-walked, half-stumbled his way out of the door.

  Bran leaned against the fence post of their front gate, only just recognizable by the twin moons' light. Though he wore the same sweat-stained, homespun clothes as usual, something about his stance looked different, more like the man Garin had glimpsed with the traveler. Tucked under one arm was a book, a rare enough sight in Hunt's Hollow, but hardly the strangest thing about Brannen Cairn.

  "You were awake still," Bran observed when Garin was close enough.

  "Been thinking."

  "Good. It's time to make a decision."

  Garin's heart was like a prisoner banging on the wall of his cell. "Now?"

  The farmer smiled, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight. "Once you decide to do a thing, best to get it over with. So what do you say? Are you ready to see more towns and cities than you can count on both hands?"

  Garin found his gaze wandering up. Even with both moons ablaze, the night sky was littered with stars, and his eyes immediately picked out the familiar constellations telling his favorite stories.

  Markus Bredley wouldn't hesitate to go, he thought. And Father went when it was time. Not an easy decision to make — but grown men make hard decisions, and it was time Garin made his.

  He lowered his gaze to meet Bran's. "I'm ready. When do we go?"

  Bran grinned. "I knew you'd come, lad. We depart before first light tomorrow. I'd tell your family before you leave, though. Avoiding farewells is like ignoring an arrow in your side. Best to pull it out and let it bleed now rather than have it fester for a long time yet."

  Garin nodded, though when he imagined his mother's face upon hearing his news, he wasn't sure he agreed. "Before first light then."

  He turned to enter his home for what he knew would be the last time in a long time.

  Passage I

  I commence this writing in the tongue of the source of all magic, the tongue of Yuldor's Heart itself. But though it may seem arrogance to do so, I do it but from caution. Only those with the iron will required to wield Mother World's treacherous power should be privy to the secrets I herein inscribe. For, if they bear any truth, they have the potential to wrought destruction not only on our Glorious Empire, but all the lands to the West and South.

  These secrets I allude to relate to a rare and curious phenomenon. All have heard the tales — of those who, despite giving no supplication to a patron god, nor descending from a race naturally inclined toward witchery, are able to summon magic.

  Many have proposed theories for this phenomenon. Even as I compose this treatise, I cannot confirm many of my suspicions. But the ideas alone are evocative enough to threaten sacrosanctity against our Savior, the Peacebringer, that I must exercise all caution.

  Perhaps this book will never feel the touch of light. Perhaps I will not have the courage to complete it. Nevertheless, I must write it, and not only for the sake of the truth. If my theory proves correct, there will come those of Song and Blood, whom I will call Founts, powerful enough that they will rip the World asunder as we know it.

  And we must be ready.

  - A Fable of Song and Blood, by Hellexa Yoreseer of the Blue Moon Obelisk, translated by Tal Harrenfel

  The Traveler’s Home

  Before the sun had emerged from the East Marsh's horizon, three figures — two upright, one slumped — walked under the town's welcome archway and down the road leading away from Hunt's Hollow.

  Despite the mage's grumblings, they had no horses or mules. King Aldric's constant requisition for their use along the Fringes made them scarce in the East Marsh at the best of times, and all the more since a disease had recently taken many more. Aelyn insisted he had the seal of the King and they could seize any beasts they found, but Bran flatly refused, saying he'd have to drag him if he wanted to ride. And though Aelyn looked perfectly willing to do so, the traveler only huffed and turned away.

  Garin kept looking at the two men from the corner of his eye as he battled with his overpacked rucksack. Their packs were smaller except for Bran's weapons. The chicken farmer carried a bow and quiver of arrows, and had tucked a sc
abbarded sword under his bag.

  But it wasn't their possessions that drew his eye; there seemed a brightness to their steps, a liveliness to their faces, that spoke of who they were. This was their home, this winding road. All other places were waystones and resting places, the sojourn the only place they could be at peace.

  He looked back at as the last of the buildings faded behind him and wondered if he'd become the same as these two travelers.

  Then his mother's face came to mind, and he cringed. He hadn't had the courage to say goodbye, no more than leaving a brief note. He hadn't had the courage, either, to tell that to Bran. Though Bran thought Garin was wiser than he'd been at his age, he'd still ignored his advice.

  He resolutely put her face from mind, imagining instead all the wonders waiting ahead of them. Halenhol, capital of the Kingdom of Avendor, was said to have buildings that touched the stars, and knights in shining silver armor that rode through the streets, and peoples of every Bloodline, color, and shape. Elves, dwarves, and even goblins living beside humans in the greatest city in all of the Westreach — even the World.

  Maybe.

  The truth was, he didn't know how much of it was a crock of crap made up by bored old men to entertain young children, and how much was real.

  He glanced nervously at Bran, wanting to ask his endless questions, but the look of the man's face stopped him. A solemn expression had claimed his features, and with the morning sun behind them and his hood pulled low, his face was cast in shadow. More and more, he wondered how he'd ever thought Bran a hapless chicken rancher.

  "You have a question."

  Garin startled at Bran addressing him, but said with forced calm, "What makes you say that?"

  "Because curious young men always have questions." Bran glanced sidelong at him, and the solemnity had been replaced by fey humor. "And feathers that float alike know their flock."