Tal nodded with a smile. "Falcon is the truest friend I've had. He helped me through my blackest years and has stood by me ever since." No matter what he learned about me and my past.
His gaze slid sidelong to the youth, who only seemed more confused, and wondered if he could dare expect the same from him.
Garin laid back in the bed, sighed long and deep, and marveled that anything so soft and comfortable could exist, much less be his to sleep on.
Goose feathers, Tal had said it was stuffed with. Garin wondered how many gooses one would have to pluck to get enough feathers to fill a bed like this. One hundred? Two? It was a ridiculous thought for an absurd luxury.
He wagered he could get used to it.
His room — or rooms, rather — were every bit as extravagant as the bed. A closet was dedicated to his bodily needs, with servants to take out the chamberpot at intervals throughout the day. There was a room for "entertaining guests," as Tal had put it, and a room for sleeping. The bath had been in a common area, but he hadn't minded as he settled into steaming hot water, fragrant with rose and spices he'd never before smelled.
But now, his body clean and relaxed, his mind began to turn over the many mysteries surrounding him. Foremost among them was the man who had brought him here, the man who had pretended to be nothing more than a chicken farmer for five years, who was a hero of Avendor with enough clout to defy a king. Not Bran any longer, but Tal Harrenfel — Red Reaver of the Northern Coast, Ringthief of the Goblin Queen, Devil Killer of horned Heyl—
The Magebutcher.
The more he thought about it, the less he understood. What was the truth behind the names? Who was Tal Harrenfel? And why had he negotiated with King Aldric on Garin's behalf?
And the people from his past. That strange minstrel Falcon, so familiar with his touches and carefree with his smiles, who had written the songs of Tal Harrenfel, if Garin had understood the implications right. The Warlock of Canturith, who was supposed to be a long-time adversary, the one who stole the Ring of Thalkuun from Tal, then later drove him north into hiding. But that, too, seemed uncertain now.
And then there was the matter of their task, finding a traitor working on behalf of some unnamed enemy. Aelyn had ventured across the whole of Avendor to fetch Tal so that he could hunt this traitor. What made him so necessary for sniffing them out? Was it because he was a legend? Did it have to do with whatever enemy was behind the treachery?
Garin rubbed at his head. So many questions and so few answers. And the man who could answer them all was as forthcoming as a locked chest. The more he saw, the smaller Hunt's Hollow and even the East Marsh seemed.
But as much as the questions needled him, and despite it still being light outside, Garin found his worries drifting away. Questions could wait, he decided drowsily, until after he'd gotten his best night's sleep.
Passage II
The first variety of Fount, those whom possess the Blood, is cloaked in mystery, for the origins of their sorcery are still unknown.
Some have posited it is nothing more than the reemergence of a distant and forgotten ancestor of one of the Heart Races. Others suppose these individuals harbor secret religions to obscure deities. But I prefer the explanation of the Blood for several reasons.
Founts of the Blood can, for seemingly no reason, perform magic just as capably as any of the Heart Races. But while this might imply little more than an unknown ancestor, those of the Blood differentiate themselves as well through great and terrible accomplishments.
Aqada the Conqueror, for one, long boasted of being as capable of magic as any Obelisk sorcerer, and indeed proved it through defying our brethren's attempts to stop her — yet she was only a human, and showed no signs of any of the Heart Races. And another, Sage Hester, who invented many of the healing decoctions we still use three hundred years later — despite being a half-breed of the Dun Races, did he not claim never to have adopted a patron spirit, but worked magic of his own will?
- A Fable of Song and Blood, by Hellexa Yoreseer of the Blue Moon Obelisk, translated by Tal Harrenfel
Treachery’s Due
Tal ghosted down the dark hallway, a small, heatless light balanced on his fingertips.
The castle was silent, most of its residents long ago asleep. The hour had been slow in arriving. But I'm accomplished in nothing more than wasting time, he mused.
He'd passed the daylight hours by eating, bathing, and sleeping, making sure to spend his idle hours in the public eye in complete and utter frivolity. He'd ordered clothes to be made from the King's tailors for both himself and Garin, then hounded the servants for Jakadi wine, making a grand scene in the great hall, where several knots of nobility lingered, of having the servants send a full tun to his room. By this point, everyone would be asking who this tasteless boar of a guest of the King's was, wholly convinced that, whoever he was, he was a provincial pig unworthy of a monarch's attention, and despising him all the more for it.
Now, creeping down the sleepy hallway, shoes left behind in favor of noiseless stockings, Tal played the unseen side of the coin he'd tossed: the conspirator in the night.
Reaching the door, he set his hand to the wood and gently pressed on it. The door swung silently open on well-oiled hinges, and Tal stepped inside, closing the door behind him with the greatest care.
"You're late," an irritable voice greeted him.
Tal extinguished the werelight as he walked into the flickering orange glow of the fireplace before him. "You would have said that even if I'd been early."
Aelyn smiled from the chair in which he sat by the fire, but there wasn't a trace of humor in it.
"To business," the mage said, gesturing at the chair opposite him.
Tal examined the seat and, finding it untainted, sat.
The mage had raised one eyebrow. "Do you think me a child to play a low prank on you?"
"Perhaps not a low prank. But certainly a high one after the one I played on you."
The elf's molten eyes swirled faster. "Your buffoonery never ends. And to think the King of Avendor would entrust this task to you."
"He couldn't just rely on you. You're not even his subject — you simply arrived at a convenient time, after all of this started, so he could be sure it wasn't you behind it all." He gave him a lazy smile. "To take this on alone, you'd need a folktale and a bard singing your praises."
But instead of his gibe rousing Aelyn further, the swirling in his eyes began to slow. "Do not make a fool of me before King Aldric again," he said in a low voice. "Or I will be sure to level the field."
Tal smiled, sharp and bright. "I wouldn't dream of it."
"I'm sure." The mage retreated into the darkness and returned with a small handmirror in hand. "This is the cursed object discovered in the King's room. Nothing more malignant than a scrying mirror, but in a king's room, that is a potent weapon indeed."
Tal extended a hand, and Aelyn handed it over. The metal frame was cold, and as he turned it over, the glass appeared scratched and clouded on either side.
"If you had this, why the excursion into the Ruins of Erlodan?"
"Because the link is broken. I could no more use it to track our Enemy than a broom."