"My surname isn't Sunstring," Wren said to Tal. "If my father can make up his name, why can't I?" She looked at Garin next. "And you. Are you tailing me?"
"Wren, Wren," Falcon said, placing a hand on her shoulder. "We've already had our fun with him."
Now that he saw the father and daughter side by side, the resemblance was unmistakable, down to the green-gold eyes — though Wren's colors swirled so slightly, and her ears were so lightly pointed, he could barely tell she had any elf in her at all.
She shrugged off his hand. "You can never have too much fun."
"Spoken like a true trouper," Tal said approvingly.
That she gave him, a living legend, as cool a glance as she had Garin, made him feel better — if only slightly.
She glanced at Garin again. "Come on. I'll show you the ropes since they're going to ask me to do it anyway."
Looking at Falcon, who nodded, then Tal, who raised an eyebrow as if to say What are you waiting for? Garin hurried after her. He had to hide a grin.
A day of lessons could turn out to be not so bad after all.
Stories Under the Stars
Falcon leaned back and sighed. "Ah, is there any fairer feeling than a rooftop under a clear sky paired with a glass of Jakadi wine?"
Tal smiled and lifted his wine to his lips. Though neither of them could be called young anymore, he'd felt a boy as he followed the bard out of one of the castle's windows and onto an obscure open rooftop. If the space had been meant for any purpose, he couldn't divine it, but it suited their purposes well enough: two old friends, drinking together, and reminiscing over days gone by.
"Perhaps a warm bed with a wily woman waiting in it," Tal posited. "Paired with a glass of Jakadi wine, of course."
"Perhaps for me, old friend. But I know there is only one woman for you, and she's quite cold." The bard patted his arm consolingly.
Tal arched an eyebrow, hiding the depth of feeling awakened by his words. "You make it sound as if she's dead."
"Dead of affection, perhaps." Falcon's eyes found his. "She has a son now."
For a moment, he was as still as the night-shrouded castle below them. Then he sucked in a ragged breath and laughed. "Well. That's put to rest, then."
"If only," Falcon said wistfully.
They drank.
"Your daughter seems hale and healthy," Tal said, following the first change of topic he could invent, as he poured them each a second glass, finishing off the bottle. "If not quite happy."
The minstrel sighed. "She's restless, that one. And damned stubborn. Sometimes, I wonder if she missed the influence of a mother, and that's why she's as hard as a soldier."
"Then you told Wren of her mother?"
"You know I've always believed in telling the truth. When it matters," Falcon added at Tal's raised eyebrows.
"How did she take the news?"
"With a biting retort, like she takes most things. Sometimes, you'd think she was Aelyn's daughter more than mine."
"Oh, I wouldn't go that far. The only thing Aelyn could father is a thornbush."
They both laughed and drank.
"But she's young," Falcon mused. "She's at that age, you know. When you think you need to prove something to the World — or to yourself, at least."
Tal leaned his head back, idly finding the constellations of the three Whispering Gods among the stars. "I know the feeling well."
"Ah, but you would. The old feelings of inadequacy from being a warlock's bastard, I imagine?"
He looked around sharply at his old friend, wondering what had provoked that barb, but Falcon's smile was guileless. A callous remark, nothing more, he told himself, and let it pass.
"Your Garin seems to be faring fine," Falcon continued, not noticing Tal's reaction. "What exactly is he to you, anyway? I heard a rumor — that you wrested him a duchy from the King. But that's fanciful even for my stories."
"That might be true. If it's what the boy wishes."
Privately, he held his doubts. Duchies never brought much happiness to any of the dukes he'd met, but they did bring their share of misery. And Garin had been adapting well to the traveler's life before they arrived at the castle. Perhaps you've been more influential of a mentor than you realized, he mused. Or perhaps it's who he's meant to be.
A breeze, cold at their altitude, stirred through the silence, and Tal's wandering gaze found Yoldur's constellation and the four serpents coiling from his back, one for each of the Extinguished, symbolizing their eternal servitude to the Prince of Devils.
Glancing back at his friend, he found Falcon had been touching the dark bracelet he kept under his sleeve but pulled his hand away at Tal's gaze. "That only makes my question as to who Garin is to you all the more intriguing," he noted.
Tal closed his eyes. I cannot tell you all of my stories, my old friend. Especially not this one.
Aloud, he said, "Garin came around my little farm in Hunt's Hollow before anyone else. He accepted me into their community for all that I seemed an outsider. He'd listen to the stories I told — believing them all to be lies, to be sure, but he listened. And he has a sharp, curious mind and an unsettled spirit."
"Sounds like a certain man I knew in his youth."
"But maybe he doesn't have to end the same way," Tal said softly. "Maybe he can be different. Better."
"Happier?" the bard suggested.
Tal raised his glass in answer, and they drank together again.
When they lowered their goblets, he glanced inside. "We're going to need more wine."
Falcon leaned over his chair, then righted himself with a grin, a bottle in his hands. "A good trouper always comes prepared."
"Another Jakadi? The King has been generous with his royal actors."
The bard shrugged as he uncorked the bottle and topped off their glasses. "He and the other nobility."
After he set the bottle down, he looked back at Tal, good humor fading. "Why did you come out of retirement, Tal? I thought you were done with all this."
Tal forced a smile. "I thought you might need more material. What have you been up to since you finished my songs anyway?"
Falcon raised an eyebrow, letting him know the deflection hadn't been lost on him. But he answered, "For a time, I didn't write anything. After your legend, tales of lovers twining together in lonely gardens or knights and their glorious deeds in battle had lost their appeal. But then I began to dig deeper." He leaned closer, the gold in his eyes turning quicker. "I began to look into myths of the Worldheart."
"The Worldheart?" His gut clenched. Perhaps, he mused, my old gut has had too much fine wine. But when he'd only read hints of that word in one other place, far removed from the Coral Castle and the Dancing Feathers, he had a feeling the wine couldn't be blamed.
"You know it, surely? All the power of the World, coalesced into a single stone? And the bearer of it becoming the Sovereign of All, the Master of Time and Material, able to weave the fabric of reality to their designs?"