Alex Bledsoe - Dark Jenny

Someone tossed a fresh log on the tavern’s dying hearth fire. The popping sparks and surge of fresh warmth reminded me that these things I was describing happened years ago, and that I could no longer change the outcome. Nevertheless, in telling the story I found myself wishing I’d been smarter, more courageous, better somehow. I wished I’d been worthy of the dream of Grand Bruan, even though I understood now that its failure was inevitable.

The group gathered around me was larger, too. I’d been so engrossed in my tale that I hadn’t noticed the newcomers arrive. For someone in my profession, that kind of obliviousness was not reassuring.

They all watched me expectantly, their faces scrunched in concentration. I had no idea I was such a riveting storyteller. Then again, the subjects of my story were Marcus Drake, Elliot Spears, and Ted Medraft, who carried many less worthy tales told on cold winter nights. Even seven years after that fateful day, peddlers still brought new broadsheets recounting more and more outlandish adventures of King Marc and the Knights of the Double Tarn. At least my outlandish adventure had the virtue of being true.

Finally Callie broke the silence. “So was he really as tall as they say?” she asked softly.

“Who?” I asked.

“King Marcus,” she said with the same reverence I’d heard priests use to invoke their gods. “One of Tony’s songs says, ‘His crown tapped the ceiling beams.’”

Tony was Callie’s no-account minstrel boyfriend, addicted to giggleweed and other girls. He left before the first snowfall, promising to return and marry her. She was the only one who believed him.

“He was a big guy,” I agreed. “He had to be, to swing Belacrux. That sword weighed a ton.”

“So you handled his sword?” Angelina asked, deliberately sarcastic. It was her default mood when she wasn’t sure how to respond, and I knew it for the defense mechanism it was. That didn’t stop it from annoying me.

“Angie, please,” Liz quietly scolded. She was the only one in the room who’d dare stand up to Angelina in her own tavern. I squeezed her hand where it rested on my leg. She winked.

“So did you really get to hold Belacrux?” Ralph the leatherworker asked, childish eagerness making his voice go high. “Did it really have a pommel made of emerald?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I did. And, no, it wasn’t really covered in jewels. They wouldn’t stand up to as much pounding as that sword got. It was just a big sword for a big man.”

“But it was sharp enough to cut a butterfly’s wing, right?” seamstress Esme asked.

I felt like a nanny explaining a bedtime story. “I didn’t get a chance to try that. But it seems unlikely.”

“Oh,” she said, disappointed.

I tapped my ale mug, which I didn’t remember finishing, either. “My throat could use some lubrication.”

“This story isn’t that good,” Angelina muttered, but gave me a refill anyway.

I took a long drink from my fresh mug just as the door opened to admit yet another new listener. Sharky Shavers quickly closed the door and blinked in surprise at the group gathered around me. “Did I miss something?”

“Eddie’s telling us about King Marcus Drake and the Knights of the Double Tarn,” Callie said. “He knew them.”

“Really,” Sharky said skeptically. “So this doesn’t have anything to do with the coffin outside I nearly tripped over?”

“I’ll get to that,” I said.

“Yeah, he’ll get to that,” Angelina said, “about the time this keg runs out, I’m sure.”

“Good, I’m curious about that, too. The boy who delivered it asked me where to find you,” Sharky said.

I sat up straight. “Boy?”

“Yeah, he came up the river trail about three hours ago. Rode a big horse pulling that coffin. Looked about sixteen or so; his voice hadn’t changed all the way, even. Had a little scar on his cheek. Knew the name of the town, and your name, and that was all. I told him your office was here.”

Liz turned to Gary Bunson. “You said it was an old man.”

“It was an old man,” Gary said defensively. He was used to being on the defensive, usually because some white lie had collapsed beneath him. But I sensed his outrage was sincere. “Why the hell would I make up something like that? Wasn’t it, Eddie?”

The click in my head as everything fell into place was so loud I’m surprised no one else heard it. I wanted to laugh, but not because it was funny; it was the sheer unbridled audacity of it. I’d looked the old man right in the eye and hadn’t seen it. Back when I’d been on Grand Bruan, I dismissed all the claims of magic that tried to intrude into my theories. Now, after some of the things I’d seen the past few years, I knew better. But still…

Liz noticed the change in my expression. “What?” she asked softly.

I grinned and shook my head. “I’ll tell you later.” I took another drink and said, “All right, let’s get back to the story. Up until now everything had happened pretty much in one place, Nodlon Castle. Now I was about to cross almost the whole island. Being outside, on a fast horse and with a goal to accomplish, felt great after all that court intrigue. But…”

I saw a painting once, hanging in the castle of a king who’d hired me to verify his chamberlain’s honesty, called Sunrise on Grand Bruan. It depicted the aftermath of the Battle of Tarpolita far differently from the tapestries in Nodlon Castle. In the painting bodies covered the slope, while at the top young Marcus Drake stood leaning on the pole that bore his standard. He was realistically depicted as weary and wounded, and the sun cast a red glow over everything that simultaneously hid the real blood and made the whole image look blood-soaked.

That same sun rose before me as I headed due east toward Blithe Ward, showing me fields and forests of blood. I was too preoccupied to recognize it for the omen it was.

The landscape outside Nodlon was ripe and full with late-summer produce. Prior to Drake’s rule no one would have dared plant such huge fields with a single crop, fearing they’d be set alight as part of some military action. Now I saw at least one barley field stretch to the horizon.

The horse Kay had provided was pure muscle and single-mindedness, bred and trained to carry messengers. I was heavier than she was used to, and my horsemanship was dire, but she had a strong sense of professionalism and didn’t let me slow her down. We made astoundingly good time.

Part of this was the ease of the road itself. It was paved with flat, even stones, with ditches on either side for drainage. At first light it filled with horses, men, and wagons loaded with produce and trade goods, all heading toward Nodlon Castle. Eventually I passed the tipping point, and traffic began to flow with me toward whatever awaited ahead.

As the sun peeked over the top of the forest, I noticed a distant, obviously man-made cloud hanging in the morning air. I couldn’t tell if it was smoke or dust. It was to the northeast and grew larger as I watched, which meant it was coming this way. If it was smoke, it was a hell of a fire; if it was dust, then it was a hell of a lot of people. Either way, it was a long way off and I’d be well gone before it reached the road.

I stopped at the first messenger transfer station, a small building attached to a corral where a half dozen horses milled about. Smoke curled from the chimney, and a man stood outside smoking pensively on a pipe. As I rode in and dismounted, the horses all came to the fence, eagerly jostling to be the next one selected.

The man on duty looked at the seal on my message, then at me. After a moment he gave a shrug and, with little wasted movement, took the saddle and bridle from my horse and put them on a new one. I was on my way within minutes. “Ride like the wind, messenger,” he said flatly, by rote.