Forged

by Liam Reese

  “No one knows where the others are,” said Lully.

  Irae looked at Graic, who looked up solemnly from her packages — she was unwrapping them now, each one slowly and carefully, folding the paper neatly in the wake — and nodded.

  “Someone will,” she said.

  They all turned to look at Graic now, who responded only with an expression of annoyance and a violent one-shouldered shrug.

  “No, not her,” said Irae, waving a hand at her dismissively. “Jahan, you said yourself that they are the stuff of legend. Who knows the stuff of legends better than anyone?”

  Karyl frowned thoughtfully. “A scholar, I suppose,” he said. “A legendarian. A bard.”

  “Exactly!” said Irae triumphantly. “We need only to find a person who is schooled in such matters and hire him.”

  “Hire a bard?” said Lully. “I thought people usually paid them to go away.”

  “Ah, but sometimes they can be quite useful.” With the idea, Irae relaxed into the theme, seeing a glimmer of light on the horizon. “Now, Deen may not be the best area for a lot of things, but I’m quite certain that there are at least one or two legendarians here. The town is quite big enough for that. We have only to find them and see how much they can tell us about the Anvils. They point us in a direction, and then we will be merrily on our way. Now, how about that for a plan?”

  Lully looked to Karyl, who inclined his head and gave a deeply ambiguous shrug.

  “Very well,” said Lully, “if my lady thinks that it would be the best thing.”

  “Thank you, I do. The only question that remains is who will go out and find this blessed bard? I certainly can’t do it, not without risking my disguise even further.”

  “There’s been — a run-in here,” said Karyl, studiously not looking at Lully, who sighed.

  “I’ve made myself some enemies, I’m afraid,” she said. “It wasn’t my fault, I will say. They had big mouths and small brains.”

  “That’s why we were late getting back,” said Karyl confidentially.

  They all turned to glance at Graic, who had removed her shoes and was in the process of trying to separate the sole from the rest. She picked at it with broken fingernails, and only looked up at them after a moment.

  “Weevils,” she said.

  “Perhaps not Graic,” said Lully.

  “How old is she, anyway?” asked Thorn, clearly fascinated despite himself.

  “I think she stopped counting a few decades ago,” said Irae, wearily. She was fond of her former nurse, but at times like this she almost wished it would have been safe to leave her behind. She had even tried, a few times, but Graic had set up a offended screeching that was horrible to hear. The old woman was surprisingly hale and hearty, at any rate, and if her brains had been a little healthier, she could almost have passed for someone much younger. Well, if one paid no attention to the lines, wrinkles, grey hair, stoop, limp, and squint.

  Irae turned instead to Thorn, seeing a faint sheen of perspiration on his cheeks even in the cool room. “I suppose, by process of elimination, that leaves you.”

  “Me?” he said. “Out there in the village, trying to have a conversation?” He tugged on the ends of his hair spastically, pulling it over his ears. “Me out there, like a person?”

  Karyl and Lully exchanged glances, clearly not understanding this reaction. Irae stepped forward, reaching out toward him. He turned a terrified glance on her hand, and she dropped it.

  “You’ve done this before,” she said. “You’ve gone through villages on your own.”

  He shook his head, tiny little shakes more like a convulsion than a negation.

  “Not like this,” he said. He reached up again to his hair, still shaking his head, and nearly

  stabbed himself in the eye with his finger. “I can’t do it. I can’t. Can’t.”

  He hesitated for a moment, then wheeled about, dodged out the exit and slammed the door shut behind him.

  The rest of them stood silent for a moment, then Karyl heaved a sigh.

  “If he can’t manage a simple task like that,” he said, reasonably, “how is he supposed to help us when the pressure is on?”

  Irae shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “He has been in the woods on his own his whole life. I don’t think he knows how people work.”

  “He seems to do just fine with you, if you got him here,” pointed out Lully.

  “Yes, but it was just the two of us. And I approached him.”

  “The Cursed one curses himself,” said Graic, who was still sitting on the floor with her shoes off. They all looked down at her, and she said, helpfully, “Damn, damn, damn.”

  “She’s right,” said Irae.

  “She is?” Karyl raised his eyebrows.

  Irae made a face. “I think she is. Being Forged can be a gift or a curse but being raised by wolves in the woods has nothing to do with either of them. He may be capable of more than he thinks. He just hasn’t had a chance to try it yet.”

  Lully crouched by Graic and began putting her shoes back on. “So, what are you going to do?”

  Irae hesitated. “I suppose I’m going to have to try and talk him into it,” she said.

  “Oh, good,” said Lully, pounding on Graic’s stubborn heel. “Let us know how that goes.”

  Being outside recalled Thorn to himself a bit; the fresh, cool air helped, and so did being away from the others. It had been years since so many pairs of eyes had stared at him at the same time; it brought back unpleasant memories.

  It was ridiculous, to ask such things of him. It was ridiculous for him to have gotten involved in this in the first place! What had he been thinking?

  The very thing that had attracted him to this quest — the idea of going among people as a normal, everyday person that no one would look twice at — was the thing now causing him an acute case of panic. The irony was not lost on him, but he didn’t know what could be done about it. He took a few more steps away from the door to the kitchen and leaned against the stone wall of the building above it. He closed his eyes.

  What was he going to do now?

  The door shut so quietly that only Thorn would have been able to hear it. He looked up to see Jelen coming towards him. Only — only she wasn’t Jelen, anymore, was she? In fact, she hadn’t ever been Jelen. She was only Irae, the princess of Ainsea, an orphan like himself, fighting a battle that he did not believe in and which had no hope of success. He had felt a slow and creeping fondness for Jelen, silly though she was, but a princess — that was another thing. Even having suspected the truth, it was difficult to wrap his mind around.

  Anyway, he missed the young woman who had pried him from his hole in the woods and demanded that he follow her into civilization for the sake of queen and country. He couldn’t tell yet if they were the same person. She didn’t look different. She was still shortish, a little broad-shouldered beneath her cloak. But she carried herself a little differently now that she wore her own name. He expected her to be surer of herself, the vague air of self-aware pomposity to have sharpened and clarified. Instead, as she approached him, she looked almost timid. She twined her fingers together, nervously.

  Well, that made two of them.

  He’d been right; he had no idea what to do in the presence of a royal.

  In lieu of having the faintest idea, he tried a bow. It was awkward, all elbows and knees, and he thought at one point that he might hit his forehead against the ground. Thankfully, he made it down and back again without mishap and focused his eyes on her once more. He coughed a little and cleared his throat.

  “Your Majesty —”

  “Oh, dear. I have a feeling that this is going to be awkward. I did lie to you about who I was.”

  “Yes,” he said, “you did. You aren’t Jelen at all. You’re royalty.”

  She gave him a smile that was uncomfortably genuine. “I’m Irae,” she said. “Somewhere between uncrowned Queen and regent ascendant. Regess of Balfour, High Ruler of
Ainsea, the daughter of the November King. which makes me the December Queen, of course, though I have not actually received the title. Like a cloak stolen by a mountebank, it is currently being worn by an imposter. And now you know why I was so upset and angry, the first time we met, when you gave me your unvarnished opinion of the princess of Ainsea.”

  “Enraged vanity,” he prompted, deliberately provoking her.

  She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders and sailed over the dig with flying colors. “It is indeed still a fresh wound, to be ousted from my rightful place.”

  He thought better of his attempts, and lowered his eyes, as respectful as he knew how to be. “I can imagine,” he said. “But all wounds heal in time, my lady. And someday, this one will not plague you as it does now.”

  “I only have to get to that day first.” She seemed to melt a little, coming closer and standing by him. Her shoulders were still stiff, but she wasn’t holding herself quite so regally as before. “Once I have my throne back, everything will be forgotten. And things will be better, you know, Thorn. For you, for Karyl, Lully and Graic, for all the rest of my loyal people.”

  “For yourself.”

  “Yes,” said Irae, “for me as well. I’m sorry I lied about who I was. But I didn’t know whether you could be trusted.”

  “Oh, of course. Clearly, someone who lives as an outcast in the woods is liable to rush to the authorities if a rogue princess comes calling on him.” He leaned against the wall again and folded his arms. “Anyway, I knew you weren’t telling me the truth, and I figured it out fairly quickly. It was easy as anything to peg you for noble-born.”

  “What?” She stepped away from him. “You knew?”

  “Of course I knew.”

  She was clearly baffled. “How?”

  “You’re upset that I saw through your cunning disguise. Well, for one thing, my

  Queen, you seemed a bit too invested in your cause.”

  “I am not the only one! It is a valuable, worthwhile cause.”

  “And for another,” he carried on regardless of her protests, “I mentioned the works of Riskel, a relatively poorly-known poet by all accounts, and you recognized him. Now, it struck you as odd that I should read poetry— did it not strike you as odd that I could read at all? Because that’s what I picked up on.”

  By the way she studiously looking away, he almost thought her embarrassed, but surely not. Surely he knew better than to assume such a thing.

  She was the queen, after all, wasn’t she?

  An ousted queen, but royalty nonetheless.

  She said, quietly, “I did not think about it.”

  Thorn considered whether to pursue this. Letting it alone seemed the kindest thing he could do for her. If she was embarrassed after all.

  “You have been treated badly,” he said, “being taken away from what you were rightfully due. And your uncle should certainly face the consequences. But please remember that not everyone has the luxury of fighting back. You want to rally the people, but the people are getting on with the business of living. What difference does it make to them whether you or your uncle sits on the throne?”

  She turned to him, her expression passionate. “It does make a difference. My uncle began as a benevolent ruler, but surely even you have noticed how much worse things are recently?”

  Thorn shook his head at her. “My lady, you overestimate me. I have lived in the woods through your father’s rule, your uncle’s rule, and I will continue to live in the woods regardless of whether you succeed or fail. You preach change for the better, but kings and queens control taxes and wars, not the attitudes of the people. What difference does it make for me which month is on the throne?”

  She smiled wryly. “My father always told me that we were all fisher kings. I need to believe that a good heart on the throne will reflect a good heart in the people.”

  Thorn shook his head.

  “You can’t change everything,” he said. “You may be a queen, but you are not a god.”

  “Let me try,” she asked of him simply. “You can turn a man into a tree. You can’t tell me that the unexpected never happens.”

  He pushed away from the wall and turned from her. Down the dark alleyway, he could see the fading light of the setting sun turning all the dampness to a golden sheen. People lived poorly here in Deen. People lived poorly everywhere.

  “You can’t ask me to go off into this city and find a bard,” he said, “not when I’ve spent my whole life on my own in the woods.”

  “If you really cannot bring yourself to try,” she said, “we can go elsewhere. We will wait till tomorrow — or better yet, leave under cover of darkness and travel through the night. There must be another village nearby, and perhaps it will be large enough to have a legendarian.”

  He eyed her for a moment. “This is you trying to talk me into it, is it?”

  She blushed a little. “You heard that?”

  “I hear a lot,” he said. “I don’t know if I ever mentioned that to you, but my hearing is extremely acute.”

  “Hmm.” She covered her mouth with one hand, thoughtfully, and looked at him. “That could come in handy. I will have to remember that.”

  He swept her a sarcastic little bow. “Anything to be of service, my queen.”

  “Is it because your ears are — like that?”

  He flinched. “Like what?”

  She reached out but stopped just shy of touching him. He took a step away, and she dropped her hand to her side.

  “I have seen them,” she said. “Don’t think that because I am young and naive that I am completely stupid. I do notice things. Sometimes.” She took a half step, allowing him a little space but still close enough to reach out and touch, though she made no move to do so. “Let me see, will you?”

  He took a deep breath, held it, then pushed his hair back, allowing her to look. Where there should have been a pair of normal ears, there were only two flat holes, each surrounded by a small circular ridge of hardened, scarred skin. The ridges were not smooth, but raised and corrugated, the skin shiny and pale. It looked not so much that Thorn had been born without external ears, but rather that they had been forcibly removed, or cut off.

  He stayed still for only a brief few seconds, then shook his hair back down, overcome with embarrassment. But her eyes, when he met them, were kind, not disgusted, and she did not look afraid as people so often did.

  “You dream of living as a normal man,” she said. “What better day to start than today?”

  7

  Time Spent With a Legendarian

  That was how he found himself wandering through Deen early the next morning, somewhat desperately, avoiding eye contact as much as possible and trying to overcome his innate tendency to stay in the shadows. Deen was busy, even not long after sunrise. Thorn had been directed towards the center of the village by Karyl.

  “Is that where there may be a bard?”

  Karyl shrugged. “That was the last place I saw before the trouble started,” he said. “It has the most shops and businesses. I think it is worth a try.”

  And so, on the strength of Karyl’s thinking, Thorn wrapped his cloak around himself, took a deep breath, and headed into the dragon’s den.

  Of course, no one knew that he was Forged. He reminded himself of this every few minutes, as he made his way through the throng. It was market day — of course it was market day — and he could hear not only a wide range of people, but a wide range of accents and strange words that he assumed must be other languages. His hearing was more of a curse than a blessing in an environment such as this. He put his mind on the point of the venture, trying to avoid being overwhelmed, and looked at the street corners.

  “How will I know if someone is a bard or a legendarian?” he had asked before setting off.

  “If they are a bard, you will want to throw a brick at them,” Lully advised him.

  “Listen for stories, rather than music,” Jelen — no, Irae — told him. “Legenda
rians will often have books with them. Bards learn orally. Listen for stories and look for books.”

  In amidst of all the noise, it was difficult to differentiate recitation from mere chatter. Thorn rather wanted to throw a brick at everyone, just to shut them up. But as the sun rose steadily higher and ever more people joined the crowd, it became easier to see that certain ones were offering services to the passers-by. Scribes, with ink-spotted hands and faces, wrote with their paper on rickety three-legged tables or against the wall or, in one case, on the customer’s back. Woodsmiths, silversmiths, and crafters, all had their wares somewhat haphazardly displayed. Then, yes, Thon spied a young man on the corner of the street, both arms spread wide in an unavoidably declamatory fashion. Thorn concentrated on him for a moment so that he could hear what was being said.

  “Fleet like a deer, sunspot to shade

  Of greater things than dust, I vow,

  The head and heart of love is made

  Of long-held faith and trust, e’en now.”

  “Riskel!” Thorn breathed. It gave him such a pleasurable jolt to hear the words spoken out loud that it was as though the sun had broken through the clouds above him. He moved towards the young man, almost involuntarily, and was noticed almost at once.

  The young man beamed at him.

  “Aha, a customer!” he said. “You are a man of taste, no doubt, sir. I don’t suppose you’re looking to hire an aspiring bard?”

  “No,” said Thorn. “I only recognized the words, that’s all.” The bard had a pack, but Thorn didn’t see any books. Riskel was a poet, not a historian; it was unlikely that this young man would be able to offer what they were looking for.

  “Riskel?” The street-corner bard clutched at Thorn’s sleeve; Thorn shook him off as politely as possible. “You know of Riskel? He’s one of my favorites, you know. I’ve heard him said many a time. I always sit around listening like a child being told a bedtime story. I’ve been thinking of putting him to music.”