Марк Энтони: Curse of the Shadowmage

When he had finished dressing, Kellen knelt to open a battered trunk beside his bed. Gently he took out his greatest treasure, a bone flute that his father had carved for him. Kellen slipped the instrument into a leather pouch at his belt. He left his room—shutting the door quietly, as it was still early—and made his way down two winding flights of stairs to the inn’s common room.

A halfling woman with nut-brown eyes looked up from the fieldstone hearth. She was stirring the coals that had been banked beneath the ashes for the night. “You’re up early, Kellen,” she said merrily.

“Yes, Estah,” he replied seriously. “I am.”

Estah was the proprietor of the Sign of the Dreaming Dragon, the inn where Kellen lived with his father, Caledan Caldorien. The halfling innkeeper stood, dusting her hands against her homespun apron. Grown woman though she was, she stood only as high as Kellen’s shoulder. A curious look crossed her broad face.

“And may I ask what roused you from your bed before the sun has even climbed from his own?”

Kellen considered whether he should tell Estah about the frosty handprint he had seen on his bedchamber window. He knew that Estah, unlike many adults, would listen to a young boy’s words. However, she tended to worry unduly, and he didn’t want to distract her from her tasks about the inn, which were considerable. After a moment he decided against telling her. He could wait until his father was awake, if he must tell somebody.

“I thought I would help you knead the bread dough today,” he said instead.

Estah studied him for a moment. Then she laughed, eyes crinkling. “Very well, then. To the kitchen with you.”

Kellen liked kneading dough. He leaned over a halfling-sized wooden table in the center of the warm kitchen, rolling up the sleeves of his tunic so he could stick his arms deep into the floury mass. Mountains, castles, and dragons all took shape under his deft hands before he squashed them, laughing, like a careless giant. When the dough and Kellen’s arms needed a rest, Estah sat him down in front of the kitchen’s massive stone fireplace with a breakfast of oat porridge, honey, and sausages. The first red-gold glow of dawn was gilding the kitchen’s windows when Jolle, Estah’s husband, tramped inside with a load of firewood. As the halfling man went back out to the courtyard for more, Kellen got up and neatly stacked the wood he had brought in.

“It looks as if someone’s in a helpful mood today,” Jolle observed with a broad grin as he returned, setting down a second armful of wood. Like his wife, the halfling man was not even as tall as Kellen, but he was sturdily built.

“More so than usual, actually,” Estah commented with a sharp glance at Kellen.

Kellen just smiled mysteriously, returning to his breakfast. Sometimes it was fun to make adults wonder if you had done something wrong.

Soon Jolle had a summer-fattened piglet roasting over a steady fire in the gigantic fireplace. Kellen finished his breakfast and returned to the bread dough, this time shaping it into loaves instead of unicorns and wyverns. Before long these were baking in the ovens next to the fireplace, filling the kitchen with their warm fragrance. Kellen was wiping excess flour off the table when two voices drifted from the inn’s back hallway.

“I told you I would take care of the problem, Caledan.” The first voice was rich, like wine and smoke, but there was a sharp edge of annoyance to it.

“What’s the difference, Mari?” This voice was rougher than the first, almost a growl, but with a note of musicality to it all the same. “You wanted the problem taken care of, and I took care of it. It doesn’t really matter whether it was my knife or yours.”

The first voice was blistering. “For your information, Caledan, ‘take care of the problem’ does not universally mean ‘put a dagger in its heart.’ ”

Kellen looked up to see a man and a woman enter the kitchen. The woman was not pretty. She was tall and rawboned—though not at all ungainly—wearing doeskin breeches and a green velvet jacket over a billowing white shirt. She tossed her thick, darkfire hair over a shoulder like a horse tossing its mane; indeed there was something rather horsey about her large features and too-square jaw, though in a pleasing way.

If the woman was equine, the man was wolfish. He was lean and broad shouldered, and moved with a stiff, predatory grace. Gray flecked his dark hair, and his eyebrows were shaggy above gray-green eyes. His slate-colored doublet was well kept, but over it he wore a travel-stained cloak of midnight blue.

Kellen knew the pair well. The wolfish man was his father, Caledan Caldorien, while the square-jawed woman was Caledan’s companion, Mari Al’maren. The two of them were more than lovers; they were partners as well, for both Caledan and Mari were Harpers. As a team, they embarked on dangerous and invariably secretive missions for the mysterious, benevolent organization known as the Harpers. Kellen’s mother had died over two years ago. As his father’s constant companion, Mari might have filled the void. However, Estah was more than enough mother for everybody who lived at the inn. Thus, over time, Mari had become more like an aunt to Kellen, and a very special friend. Together they made up stories, practiced at archery—for Mari was a master of the longbow—and went for long treks in the rolling hills outside the city, hunting for lizards, interesting stones, and buried treasure. For a time, Kellen had imagined that Mari and his father might get married one day. Now he was not so certain. The two had always been contentious in their relationship. However, these days arguing was all they seemed to accomplish.

“Good morning, Kellen,” Caledan said, his grin cheerful if a bit haggard. Apparently, Harper work had kept the pair out all night, as it often did. He flopped into a chair and started to put his boots up on the table, but a sharp glare from Estah made him think twice. He lowered his mud-spattered boots to the floor. Mari paced tensely in front of the fire, arms crossed. She cast a smile at Kellen, but it was thin and fleeting. Kellen shot her his warmest smile in return, for which she gave him a grateful look.

“The spy we discovered in the High Tower could well have been Zhentarim, Caledan,” Mari went on in a low voice. “If so, he would have known if there are others of his kind in Iriaebor, and whether it’s the Black Network that’s behind the unexplained murders in the city. I really would have liked to have kept him alive long enough to ask him a few questions.”

Caledan gave a rough snort of laughter. “Answering questions is difficult when one has a dagger in one’s back. It’s very distracting to one’s concentration. At least so I’ve heard.”

Estah scowled at this. “Well, that’s fine talk for present company,” she said sharply, giving a meaningful nod in Kellen’s direction.

Caledan seemed not to hear the halfling’s reproving words. As happened increasingly often of late, his gaze had gone suddenly distant, as if he stared into some far-off place that the others could not fathom. It was just one of several peculiarities Caledan had been exhibiting recently. At times he seemed terribly far away, while on other occasions his temper would flare hotly at the most minor of annoyances, and he might laugh loudly—almost too loudly—at unlikely things such as a coal bursting on the hearth or a dropped plate shattering against the floor. Shadows hung beneath his eyes, gathering in the hollows of his cheeks. He had not been eating much lately, to Estah’s great concern. Kellen was beginning to wonder if his father might be ill.

Caledan’s gaze came back to his surroundings. “I don’t see why you’re so mad at me, Mari,” he went on as if there had been no pause. “I was having some fun and got a little carried away, that’s all.”