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The Innkeeper’s Dirge

Book 1: The Shattered Wing

By Jack Holder
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This is a work in progress. All characters and events are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

Piracy is bad, even though pirates are awesome. The unauthorized distribution of these materials is prohibited.

Chapter 1

In which a dinner party is started, and a small town unfortunately becomes important

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There was never a good reason to visit the town of Diwedd. That is what the people most enjoyed about it.

It wasn’t a particularly beautiful location. Situated a few days north of the Centai mountain range, the most notable geographical feature were the small groups of trees that broke up the rather staid farmland. Diwedd grew potatoes, and while they took pride in their tubers, and many of the townsfolk had lived off the plant for generations, it wasn’t something that dragged passerby to the local market.

Nor was the land strategic. Diwedd hadn’t been built near a fortress, or easily defensible ground. No, according to local legend, the first farmer who settled the region, almost three hundred years ago, had done so because he was tired, tripped, and found the beginnings of his first crop already growing. He decided to stay, and when others came by, they decided they liked it, too.

That was Diwedd to a t. A group of farmers who wanted to be left alone together. It seeped into their character, and the very nature of the town. There was no main street, and certainly no town hall to speak of. A main street, of course, invited outsiders to congregate there, and the townsfolk wanted none of that.

Instead, each shop and necessity was scattered around each farmstead. Old woman Joyner held the best forge in ten leagues, and would often put strapping young boys and girls to the task of blowing her bellows if they were caught traipsing through her fields. The carpenter Rindt was a bit of a vagabond, moving from farm to farm, always ready with a hammer or a saw to help in exchange for a warm meal and a quiet cot. The general store was run out of mister Tumpsen’s, as he was the only inhabitant willing to truly trade in commerce, and while the rest of the town grumbled about it, they all privately agreed that fruit preserves really did taste better from just over the mountains.

But the people of Diwedd were private, and that was that. There were no town hall meetings to gripe about where the roads were or who needed to be strung up. There were no annual gatherings, nor was there a single event to speak of. The people of Diwedd lived for themselves, and liked it that way.

There was, however, a singular exception. Every adult in Diwedd, young or old, male or female or otherwise, found their way once a week into the Crow's Call. The tavern was the only extravagance for most of the farmers, and while most didn’t need more than a drink, they all came to call.

Brynn Greenway knew that most didn’t come for the food, though he set a decent enough table. There were perks being the only proprietor around for a good league or so. But the farmers all had spouses that could cook far better than he did. And when a peddler came hawking wares, Tumpsen bought enough stock so that everyone had enough victuals to make it through to the next sale.

Neither was it about the drink. That, he knew, was not because of the quality. He’d been brewing ale and distilling spirits since his grandfather started teaching him more than fifty years hence. His drinks were potent, though perhaps less so when times were tough. And more than anything they warmed the heart and settled the spirits.

Still, it wasn’t that the village came by for a drink. Most only came for one, even if they nursed it for an entire evening. No, Brynn kept his doors open and his fare light, because even the most isolated souls wanted at least one connection to the world outside their door.

It was such an evening, even more so than usual. The harvest was over, but the snows had not yet started to pile in. Everyone in Diwedd could sense the cold coming, and perhaps knowing that this was one of their last chances for social interaction, decided to take full advantage of it.

They came by cart, or a dependable mount. A few of the farmhands even wound their way down the stream on pontoons, passing by on river rafts before moving on to those few homesteads that were still in need of help. They all arrived well before sunset, and began to have dinner.

Brynn was kept busy behind the counter for the first few hours. While most everyone needed to nurse a drink for a few hours, first they needed said drink. Brynn made most of his evening take before dark, and often he spent that time just listening and keeping up. He nodded to a few friends, and settled in to his routine.

“Brynn, what’s cooking?”

“Stew, Yoric,” Brynn said. “Been simmering for the last eight hours, should be just about right by the time everyone gets here.”

Yoric grumbled into his glass. This was his sociable night, but the mere concept of there being an ‘everyone’ was a little much to bear. Besides, what if Brynn didn’t make enough stew for thirds?

“Greenway!” A woman bellowed. Dressed in her best-stained dress and dancing boots, Abigail sashayed herself across the floor. Brynn chuckled, and started to pour two glasses of his signature dark ale.

“Abigail,” he said. “Don’t tell me you’ve managed to wrangle the entire herd already?”

Abigail Elspeth kissed the bartender on both cheeks, before lightly batting him in the arm. “Have the girls working tonight,” she said. “They needed a little toughening up, so they’re out with the Clannaghans and that mutt of theirs. Sheep should be well-rested and fed.”

“Well, that’s mighty fine,” Brynn said. “Hope they have a pleasant evening.”

She leaned in close, giving him a hug. “And, of course, that means I’ll be all alone at the homestead,” she whispered. “If someone else wanted to be well-rested and fed.”

Brynn managed to avoid blushing red. Abigail took her two pints, and danced her way over to her neighbors, who were already howling in laughter.

Brynn shook his head, and continued pouring. And an hour later, after the Crow's Call was filled to the brim with seventeen whole guests, he moved on to the kitchen. It was a small affair, situated just past the bar. A simple butcher’s block held most of his knives and other cooking implements. And serving as heat source for both the food and the tavern was the hearth, upon which bubbled an iron cauldron that on a good day could hold several gallons of food.

There waiting for him was the stew, mutton stew that had been just about ready to froth into perfection. Brynn’s mouth watered as he took in the aroma of the rosemary and thyme, the pearl onions and carrots. This time of the year was one of his favorites, and especially because the townsfolk were a little more freer with their bounteous harvests at the beginning of winter.

To go along with the stew he had four marvelous loaves of rye bread, and even dear Yoric contributed honeycomb from his own hives. Brynn ladled the stew in, laid a generous piece of bread and honey on a side plate, and made sure everyone was satisfied before daring to go back to the bar and think about pouring another drink.

The townsfolk settled into their meals, and their chairs. Brynn had spared no expense, and had ensured that the tables had been lowered to help guests in the deep seated chairs. Chairs that one could both eat in, but also lounge and wile away the hours, lost in thought and drink.

Each patron gave heaps of praise to Brynn, and to Abigail for providing the fresh meat. They gave less praise to Yoric, but he still preened when they begrudgingly acknowledged his bees’ efforts. And then Diwedd began to eat and give small chatter.

Brynn sat on his stool behind the bar, cleaned a glass, and once again marveled at the Crow's Call. His grandfather had always told him that this place would never make enough money to be profitable. He’d never begrudged his son when he left Diwedd to seek his fortune, and often wondered why Brynn had decided to come back. But Brynn, like his grandfather before him, understood that the Call wasn’t about profit, not in a sense that the bigger towns always thought.

It was here, in these moments. Moments shared by quiet souls, good moments of kindness and camaraderie, that truly made the Call worth staying. It was home.

There was a lilt in the air. Brynn closed his eyes, trying to picture it. That must have been young Clannaghan, practicing his lute. Working up the courage to ask Samantha Elspeth to dance.

But…wasn’t Robert supposed to be out in the fields with Samantha tonight?

A light knock on the door, and someone came in after dark.

The room stilled. Everyone glanced at each other, doing a quick head count. Yes, everyone who was supposed to be here was here. And no one came into Diwedd after dark. There was never any reason.

And certainly not for anyone like this man.

Brynn’s eyes narrowed. This man could more accurately have been called a boy. He leaned against the doorjamb. Dressed in travel worn silks and had a finely trimmed goatee. He held a lute by his side, and a tired smile on his face. The boyish man took in the tavern room, nodded, and gave a grand smile.

“Greetings and salutations to you all, on this happy night! I hope everyone is enjoying the turning of the seasons, and may this be another spark of joy upon the anvil of life!”

He paused. “Anvil of life. No, that doesn’t sound right. It doesn’t even make sense, does it?”

Diwedd as one snorted, and returned to their drinks and meal. Great, worse than a vagabond, worse than a nobleman. A damned bard had somehow gotten lost and turned up here.

The bard made his way over to Brynn at the bar, and flashed a smile. “Good evening, sir. Am I to guess that you are the owner of this fine establishment?”

Brynn cocked an eyebrow. “Brynn Greenway. And yes, the Crow's Call is mine.”

“A pleasure to meet you. Call me Corwyn,” the bard said.

“Corwyn,” Brynn said.

“Indubitably.”

“What’ll you have?”

“A spot of spirits, and then your finest ale,” Corwyn said.

“Have you got any coin for that?” Brynn asked.

“I surely do. Though if you would prefer I lighten up your abode with a song…” Corwyn started to sling the lute across his body.

“No!” Brynn said, perhaps a bit too loudly. “No, coin, please.”

He shot a look around the bar. Everyone had their faces frozen in alarm. Having someone with an instrument was one thing, but actually playing it? And forcing them to listen, or worse yet, join in song? That would have been far too much.

Corwyn shrugged, and slapped a few golden coins down on the counter. “Very well, then. Hope that’s enough.”

Brynn tried not to let his hands shake as he picked up the coins. Diwedd hadn’t seen a gold coin in several years. He quickly pulled out a bottle of whiskey that he’d been letting sit for the last decade, and made sure to wipe the dust off before pouring a dram into an actual glass.

Corwyn took a sniff, a sip, and then let out a long sigh. “Now that is wonderful, good Greenway. Truly magnificent, and a testament to your craft.”

Brynn blushed while he poured the man a full ale. “I mean, you just keep working on your craft, and hope that in ten or twenty years, it all pans out.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” Corwyn said. “Though some appreciation would be nice.”

“Please forgive the response,” Brynn said. “Everyone here is rather private. They’d appreciate music, as long as they were given enough notice ahead of time.”

Corwyn finished the whiskey, and chuckled. “You have to be prepared to accept the art? It can’t sneak up on you, is that it?”

“Got it in one,” Brynn said.

Corwyn sighed, and patted his lute. “Maybe later I’ll be able to break you out.”

“Perhaps on the way out of town?” Brynn asked. He handed Corwyn his ale, and another beside. “After a fine meal, of course?”

“I’ll gladly take the meal, good sir, but I’m not trying to run,” Corwyn said. “Unless I’m being run out?”

“Not at all, not at all,” Brynn said. Golly, first Abigail, and now this flubbing. He was normally calm and reserved, but tonight it seemed like he couldn’t find his tongue.

“That’s wonderful,” Corwyn said. “A dinner party would be absolutely horrendous to miss.”

“Dinner party?” Brynn asked. “What dinner party?”

“The one tonight, of course,” Corwyn said. He paused, as if remembering something. Or rather, remembering something that he had long ago forgotten. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did we not send word about this?”

A dinner party? In Diwedd? No, of course no one had sent word about this. No one stayed at Diwedd, and certainly no one made plans for entertaining in this town!

“Brynn?”

The bartender blinked, and looked up. Yoric was at the other end of the bar, holding an empty bowl and a rather sour expression.

“Oh, c-coming! I’m coming!” Brynn called. He turned to Corwyn. “I’m so sorry, but you did not send word and I…I think I have to get Yoric a new bowl. I’ll be right back.”

“But we’d be willing to pay!” Corwyn called as Brynn shuffled Yoric into the kitchen. The big man gave half a squawk, and then decided to take advantage of the opportunity and refill his bowl himself.

“Yoric,” Brynn hissed. “I need help.”

Yoric nodded. “I keep telling you, Brynn. Just a couple of slices of orange peel would do wonders for the flavoring.”

“It’s not about the stew, Yoric!” Brynn tried his best to shout and not shout at the same time. He leaned against the door, taking the slightest peek back into the main room. He spied the bard turn to the rest of the crowd, and raise his pint in congenial bliss.

Brynn shook his head. He couldn’t explain it, not to Yoric. In fact, not to most of the town. Near everyone in Diwedd had never left home. Neither had their parents, nor their grandparents. But Brynn hadn’t started in Diwedd, he had to find his way here. Chasing the legacy of a grandfather he barely knew, and running from a father he knew all too well.

Brynn shuffled Yoric back out the door, but remained inside, considering. There were other towns that Corwyn must have passed. Ones with greater prestige, better ale, maybe even better drinks. Certainly easier to get to. He could be meeting others here from outside the country, but why? And where would anyone be that Diwedd could possibly be a good meeting place?

He frowned for a while, and then wiped it off, set a smile on his face, and walked himself back out into the bar. Just in time for a refill for Corwyn, and for several other patrons as well. He tried to fill the drinks in silence, but it hung on the air, waiting. A baited breath that demanded someone break it.

“So, you’re a bard?” one Faerghus Mcrye hazarded asking.

Corwyn bowed, beaming. “Indeed I am.”

“So you couldn’t find honest work?” his wife Tonia said, having already finished Faerghus’ second drink along with her own.

There was a slight tightness in the smile, but Corwyn still laughed. “Unfortunately not. The song called sweeter than I could run from it. I’ve been traveling ever since.”

“Traveling?” Abigail said, snorting. “In these times? Suppose you’ve got a few tales to tell.”

Corwyn chuckled. “One or two, young lass. What would you want to know about?”

Young lass? Abigail was surely a decade older than Corwyn, at least. Her girls would attest to that. But Abigail laughed at the charge. “A charmer, then. How’s that been getting you on during the wars?”

Brynn reached out his hand, trying to give pause. “Abigail, there’s no reason to bring that up.”

“No, no!” Abigail muttered. “Don’t worry, kid, I’m not blaming ye. Gallantil knows it’s not you I’m angry with. It’s those damned Fiorae that I’d like to string a noose around. But the wars have been going on for near a decade, and we’re just lucky the whole damned continent hasn’t been washed away because of it.”

She grabbed her drink and slammed it down in one pass. “But since the rest of us are all tucked away in this little corner, I thought since you’re so talkative I’d ask. Are we living in the end times?”

The door opened, and a princess walked in.

Well, that is what she must have been. Dark skin shining as she wore a crimson and golden dress. Her hair bound up in curls, with bright brown eyes that sparkled with delight. She wore a dark cloak, flung upon to reveal soft hands and a warm smile.

Every eye in the room was upon her, mouths open in awe. This was not like the bard and mere pageantry. The minds of everyone in the tavern were transfixed at the door, staring at the vision of loveliness before them. She was small, petite even, but seemed unlike anything in this world.

She was beyond it all. She was beyond them. They were all wretched, horrid things, fouling the air that she breathed. How low could they be to dare breathe her air?

Brynn felt a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off. If someone needed a drink, they could get it later. Now, now he needed to take in this woman. The hand tapped again. When Brynn didn’t respond, it clenched, nails digging into his arm.

Brynn cried out, and raised his arm to strike the offender. Corwyn raised his hand, holding up a sack of coins. “Peace, barkeep. I come in coin.”

Brynn blinked, and shook his head. “Um, what?”

“I wanted to lay some coins in your hand for my dinner party,” Corwyn said. “And you were going to be gracious enough to accept because you are such a wonderful host.”

That seemed like a wonderful offer. And if Greenway could stop staring at the young woman for five seconds, he would most likely have noticed the surprising amount of heft to the purse in Corwyn’s hand. One glance, and Brynn would have started planning a feast for the party, and a month of free spirits for the town.

But instead, even in the midst of his anger, he could only see eyes for her. Watching as she moved forth through the townsfolk. She placed a hand on the bar, looked up at Brynn, and smiled.

“Would you kindly pour a girl a drink?”

Brynn was already reaching for his best bottle. He poured her a dram of whiskey. And then a glass of his favorite bottle of wine, just in case. And just in case she wanted something without alcohol he was ready with a glass of cider.

The woman took the glass of wine, smiled, took a sip, and turned. Her eyes widened, and she laughed. “Corwyn! I didn’t know you’d make it here before me.”

Corwyn smiled, and opened his arms wide for a hug. The princess squealed, and wrapped around him in a tight embrace.

“I’ve missed you,” she said. “Promise me you’re singing a song?”

The bard laughed, and held her tight. “Maybe later. I’m in the midst of my meal.”

“Ooh! Yes, food!” The woman said. She turned to Brynn, smiling. “I’d love what Corwyn’s having.”

Brynn moved as fast as he could, and had a bowl of stew down in front of her before she’d had a chance to finish her second sip.

She took a bite, gave a small sigh, and nodded to Brynn. “Thank you so much, sir.”

“Greenway,” Corwyn said. “His name’s Brynn Greenway.”

“Greenway,” the woman said. “My name’s Ismé. Pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure, dear miss,” Brynn said. “Is mine, and everyone here in Diwedd. Welcome to our humble town.”

Ismé laughed. “Humble. That was the word I was looking for.”

Brynn nodded, smiling. Why was he smiling?

He did not know. Corwyn mentioned something that caused Ismé to giggle, and the two drew away to a corner of the room.

Brynn smiled, and returned to cleaning his glasses. While the two strangers had intimidated him earlier, this was something that he recognized. They chatted in the torchlight, and leaned closer together. However, they did not look upon each other romantically. Instead, Greenway could see something quite different. Two lost friends, clinging to each other. Hoping against hope that past bonds were still there.

“I think they’re trouble,” Yoric whispered, sucking down his fourth bowl.

“You think Ivan is trouble after he’s rolled into town for the fifteenth straight year,” Abigail retorted. The mother poured herself another drink, and glanced at Ismé. “Though there might be something to what you’re saying.”

“You’re both fools,” Brynn said, scowling. “They’re here for a dinner party.”

“Here?” Yoric asked. “Why here?”

Brynn shrugged. “My food, perhaps?”

Abigail laughed. She clapped Brynn on the back, and shook her head. “Darling, I love you, and your food. But no one is traveling for it. We come for your companionship, and the food is a bonus.”

She stilled. “Which is why everyone who isn’t you is more than a little suspicious of what they want to do here.”

Indeed. The rest of the patrons were trying their best to hide their curiosity and discomfort. Their glances were surreptitious and subtle, at least in their own minds. Trying to glean any information on the intent of the two strangers. What were they doing here? Land barons, hoping to survey what they might eventually buy? Warmongers, for either the Theocracy or the Golden Confederates? Perhaps they were even wandering spirits, hoping to lure honest folks down dark paths to ruin. Ismé looked the part, certainly. Corwyn did not.

For their part, the two did nothing to dissuade rumor or assuage fears. Corwyn kept ordering drinks, and the two continued to talk. Ismé laughed when appropriate, always a little longer than necessary. The bard’s hands twitched, reaching for the lute, longing to play. But he did not pull out the instrument, and everyone seemed the happier for it.

The revelry continued until late. Around nine o’clock, perhaps understanding just how rude they were being in staring, the regulars at Crow's Call started to make their excuses. Some paid immediately, either with coin or barter. Brynn gladly took a sack of potatoes or a salted ham hock back into the pantry in lieu of payment. Some, like Abigail, had a line of credit that they added to. They would either pay up when their prospects turned, or Brynn would see them turn up to help rebuild the tavern, or help with an addition. No one let their debts linger too long.

And neither did anyone stay. They took their dishes to the sink, some even taking it upon themselves to clean and dry in thanks. They mumbled their goodbyes, with promises to see each other soon, whether or not they meant it. And they filed out into the night, still far too sober for anything other than sleep.

Abigail was one of the last to leave. Brynn ushered her to one side of the bar with a smile and a small basket. “Wrapped up some bread and a flagon for your girls.”

Abigail snorted. “Like they’d want to see me tonight. I’d just as soon crimp their style.”

Brynn shrugged. “Maybe they’d like a nice snack.”

“Imagine it. Mother showing up on their big night alone, with their first beer and a big ole kiss!”

Brynn decided now was definitely not the best time to disabuse Abigail of the notion that her daughters had never tried alcohol before. “At least have it waiting for them in the morning.”

Abigail took the basket. “Fine. They’ll enjoy a good piece of toast.”

Brynn was not entirely sure the flagon was going to even make it home.

Abigail looked to one side, making sure to keep the strangers in the corner of her eye. “Brynn, are you sure you don’t need some extra help?”

Brynn shook his head. “It’s just a dinner party. A couple more friends, and I might even get a chance to rent out the rooms upstairs for once.”

Abigail chuckled. “Would be nice to have someone in those beds other than Yoric. Speaking of…” The farmer slung an arm around Yoric’s shoulder as he was looking wistfully back at the bar. “Come on, ye’re on the way home.”

Yoric gave a sleepy cry of protest, but allowed himself to be dragged out. And then Brynn was left with the strangers, who were still lost in their own conversation.

Brynn sighed, and put a log on the fire. It was going to be a long night.

He poured another glass of wine, and walked over to the fireplace. The two had chosen one of his favorite spots, right next to the wall. Able to enjoy the heat without being blasted by it, Brynn had wiled away so many nights after closing up settled in a deep chair, book in one hand and marveling at his own spirits settling in another.

The two strangers seemed to enjoy the spot, and even laughed as Brynn walked up. Ismé accepted the glass with a smile. Corwyn paused, realization dawning on his face.

“We are the only people here, aren’t we?”

Brynn shrugged. “Until the rest of your party arrives, of course.”

“But this is…” Corwyn stopped, chuckled, and stood up. “Ah, well. I guess we’ll have to recompense a good night’s sleep as well.”

The bard hooked his arm around the innkeep’s shoulders and started leading him away. “Come, Greenway. Let’s discuss the bill.”

“The what?” Ismé asked.

“Just the little matter of the bill,” Corwyn said. “No need to bother you.”

“It’s not a bother,” Ismé said. She repositioned herself in the chair, facing Brynn’s back. “Did our new friend Brynn mention something of the bill?”

Brynn started to turn around, and Corwyn’s grip tightened around him, trying to restrain. There was a flash of concern on the bard’s face, which was gone when Brynn tried to examine more closely.

“No,” Brynn said, feeling heat rise up his collar. He turned to look at Ismé, and bowed. “No, we haven’t yet. And I wanted to mention, just in case you were wondering, we do have a set of rooms available for rent upstairs.”

“Lovely!” Ismé said. She laughed, clapping her hands. “How many rooms?”

“Half a dozen,” Brynn said. “They are all clean and well-tended. This is in case your party is large and will be staying late.”

“Half a dozen,” Corwyn said. He tutted. “Might need to talk about this later, Ismé.”

“We all will make do,” Ismé said. “And it seems like you’ve found us a lovely place to meet, Corwyn.” she turned to Brynn, and smiled. “We’ll take the rooms.”

“Wonderful!” Brynn said. “The rooms are usually six silver coins each per night, but I think I could manage a deal for the whole floor…”

“That’s great!” Corwyn said, holding up the coins. “Just take the-”

“But is that really necessary?”

Corwyn and Brynn fell silent. Ismé stood up, and walked over to the two men. Her eyes sparkled, staring straight at Brynn. “I mean, is it? Brynn, I feel like we’ve really begun to have a connection here. Haven’t we?”

Brynn gulped. Something was going on with his head. There was heat swimming on the corners of his eyes, obscuring the br. Everything seemed hazy and ill-defined, save for Ismé.

“We’re friends now, aren’t we?”

Brynn nodded.

“And friends don’t need to worry about things like payment, do they?”

He shook his head.

Ismé took his hands, and held them tight. “Thank you so much, Brynn,” she whispered. “I knew I could count on you.”

She could. She always could. Brynn would do anything for her.

“Now, be a dear, and if you could set the table for the rest of the guests,” Ismé said. “The hour is getting late, and I know your new friends would love such a wonderful meal like yours.”

Brynn was racing. He heard a brief chiding “That was cruel,” before he ran into the kitchen, grabbed a few rags, and began wiping down the tables. He ran back out with some soap and water, scrubbed down the tables and began rearranging the furniture.

Why was he doing this? Brynn’s mind was starting to feel concerned as he moved. He didn’t just want to do this, even with his, in his own opinion, generally helpful nature. The tavern owner moved like a man possessed, serving some desperate need. He needed to get the room ready for the guests. He needed to make stew.

And he was starting to feel a grip of fear, because he couldn’t explain why.

Corwyn watched the older man wrangle with a particularly heavy set of chairs, and sighed. “I suppose you don’t want me to help him?”

“Oh, it’s his job, Corwyn,” Ismé said. “Men like him like the mundane drivel. Don’t take it away from him.”

“I haven’t taken anything away from him,” Corwyn said, a little too pointed for the woman’s taste.

She pursed her lips, and then smiled. “Have you spoken with everyone else?”

“Everyone? Of course not,” Corwyn said. “I sent word to a few, and hoped for the best.”

“Gosh, everyone here,” Ismé said. She took a sip of the wine, and sighed. “How long has it been since all seven of us were in the same place?”

Corwyn’s eyes narrowed, and he stood up. He moved behind the bar, and refilled his drink.

“What?” Ismé asked. “Something I said?”

“You know damn well it is,” Corwyn muttered. The bard walked past Brynn, and patted the old man on the shoulder. “You’re going to be okay, sir. I promise.”

That did not seem as reassuring as Brynn felt it could be. The promise of non-violence always seemed to acknowledge that violence was, at one time or another, very, very possible. And Brynn still was moving chairs, and setting a table, now completely against his will.

He gulped. “Um, how many will be attending this dinner party, miss? Sir?”

“Seven,” Corwyn said. He glanced to Ismé. “Unless you were trying to add more?”

“I didn’t think I should,” Ismé said. “No need to make this any more tense than it will be. Besides, this is supposed to be just us. A real reunion?”

Corwyn nodded.

Brynn gulped, and looked to the kitchen. “I, um, I think I’m going to check on the stew. Make sure it hasn’t started to stick.”

“Good idea, Brynn,” Corwyn said. “And make sure you get a chance to sit down yourself!”

“Why does he even…what are you implying?” Ismé asked.

But Brynn did not hear the end of that. He raced into the kitchen, and slammed the door shut behind him. His arms shook, the shakes vibrating up to his neck. Brynn tried to stay still, to think for just a moment. What was happening to him? Why couldn’t he stop helping?

His feet took a step, and then another. Brynn could only slow his pace down to a crawl, collecting himself as he walked to check the stew.

Magic. That must have been what had happened. Ismé must have been one of the Enclave mages. She had to have cast a spell on him. But if that were the case, then Brynn didn’t know what to do about it. No one in Diwedd knew anything about magic, and neither did anyone for miles around, as far as he knew. And if they did, they were being gathered for the war efforts. Brynn was sunk.

He reached the pot, and scraped the sides and the bottom. The bubbling had calmed down, and the stew was beginning to congeal. Brynn added another log to the fire underneath, and then ladled the stew into bowls. He didn’t want the food to burn, and had a small nagging fear of what lay in store for him if it did.

“What am I going to do?” he whispered.

“I’m guessing add a bit of parsley,” a voice said. “Or if you’re feeling adventurous, paprika.”

Brynn turned. The front door back into the taproom lay closed and still. His eyes went towards the small back door leading out towards the stream. It lay ajar, and a man stood in the doorway. Dressed in a simple white tunic and green leggings, his hair bound up in curls, he looked like he was about to go to either court or a carpenter’s.

“I, um, what?” Brynn asked.

“Apologies,” the man said. “I suggested parsley or paprika because I could smell a wonderful aroma of carrots and braised mutton. Perhaps an added kick or a cooling bite would be just what your guests would enjoy.”

“I hope so,” Brynn said. Then he paused, and looked at the man. “Excuse me, are you here for the dinner party?”

The man bowed. “Call me Daenis, good man. How may I be of service?”

“Uh,” Brynn trailed off. Quite literally, as his feet were continuing to lead him back out the door. “I guess, grab a bowl?”

Before he could move, Daenis was upon him. Hands set the bowls down, and then grasped Brynn’s shoulders. Bright blue eyes pierced into Brynn’s gaze, glaring straight at him. The kind man of just a moment ago was gone, replaced by something fierce and uncompromising.

Daenis snarled, and placed a hand on Brynn’s brow. “Ismé. I’d hoped I’d arrived before her. Typical snobbery.” he closed his eyes and tapped Brynn on the forehead.

“I believe,” Daenis said. “That you are okay.”

There was a tone, like the sound of a bell. It resounded through Brynn, echoing in his core. Something caught on the sound, and shattered like glass. And Brynn collapsed to the floor, gasping.

“There, now,” Daenis said. “Let’s get you up to your feet.”

No. No, it cannot be. Brynn looked up at Daenis, and his face lost all color and cohesion.

“Daenis,” he whispered. “Daenis the Unbeliever?”

Daenis smiled. A sad, mournful one, and he bowed his head in acknowledgment.

“Ismé.” Brynn stood up, and pointed at the door. “I have Ismé Snowtea in there. The Sprite Tongue. The Charmer.”

“Yes, you do,” Daenis said.

“And Corwyn, the Chronicler?” Brynn asked. “The man of a thousand tales?”

“Anyone else?” Daenis asked.

“No, not yet,” Brynn said. He stopped, and paled. “You can’t mean that…the others aren’t coming here, are they?”

“We all are,” Daenis said. “We needed to.”

No. No, it was impossible.

Caitlin, the Soul Lance. Ailren of the Two Wings. Margaritte Evershade, the Barbaric Genius. And the lost one, Lysanne. Legends all, the ones who saved the world.

The Fiorae. They were all coming here.

Daenis laid a hand on Brynn’s shoulder.

“You should probably go,” he said.

Brynn couldn’t agree more.

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