Bran sat back, staring up through a hole in his roof at the fading light. "The past never dies, does it?" he spoke softly. "It only sleeps, then one day drags you back in."
Aelyn set his cup down, then withdrew a hand from below the table. Bran's throat tightened, and his body went rigid as the man placed a leather-bound book on the table, just outside of a small puddle of spilled whiskey.
"Only if you let it," Aelyn said quietly. "And what, pray tell, is this piece of the past you've dredged up?"
He didn't shift his position, but every muscle in his body had tensed. "Hand that to me, Aelyn."
"Did you not think I would recognize the Darktongue? Did you think my studies in the Gray Tower had faded from my memory?" Aelyn's molten eyes searched his. "Now, tell me: what are you doing with such a fell book?"
"Have you read it?" Bran asked quietly.
"Only the title. A Fable of Song and Blood. Meaningless drivel, from what I can tell."
"You don't know the half of it. Now, hand it over, or I'll be forced to take it from you."
Aelyn's eyes narrowed. A long moment passed. One of Bran's hands below the table inched toward his belt knife.
Then Aelyn released the book with a thump and sat back, crossing his arms. "Have you become one of them?"
Bran took up the book and only exhaled as he tucked it under his arm. "You know me better than that, Aelyn. That book is the one weapon we might have against the Enemy. Promise me, if anything should happen to me, that you'll protect it."
That seemed to take the traveler back. But after a moment, he nodded. "Very well."
The inevitable had come. Bran rose to his feet, silently cursing his swaying vision. "Make any preparations you still have — we leave in the morning. I just have one more loose end to tie up tonight."
Without waiting for a response, he turned from the house, taking the book with him.
Garin was still awake when he heard the tapping at the window. His heart, already racing over the decision, began to pound.
"What's that?" Naten asked sleepily from across their shared room.
"Nothing. Just getting up for a piss." Garin scrambled out of bed and pulled on his clothes, then half-walked, half-stumbled his way out of the door.
Bran leaned against the fence post of their front gate, only just recognizable by the twin moons' light. Though he wore the same sweat-stained, homespun clothes as usual, something about his stance looked different, more like the man Garin had glimpsed with the traveler. Tucked under one arm was a book, a rare enough sight in Hunt's Hollow, but hardly the strangest thing about Brannen Cairn.
"You were awake still," Bran observed when Garin was close enough.
"Been thinking."
"Good. It's time to make a decision."
Garin's heart was like a prisoner banging on the wall of his cell. "Now?"
The farmer smiled, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight. "Once you decide to do a thing, best to get it over with. So what do you say? Are you ready to see more towns and cities than you can count on both hands?"
Garin found his gaze wandering up. Even with both moons ablaze, the night sky was littered with stars, and his eyes immediately picked out the familiar constellations telling his favorite stories.
Markus Bredley wouldn't hesitate to go, he thought. And Father went when it was time. Not an easy decision to make — but grown men make hard decisions, and it was time Garin made his.
He lowered his gaze to meet Bran's. "I'm ready. When do we go?"
Bran grinned. "I knew you'd come, lad. We depart before first light tomorrow. I'd tell your family before you leave, though. Avoiding farewells is like ignoring an arrow in your side. Best to pull it out and let it bleed now rather than have it fester for a long time yet."
Garin nodded, though when he imagined his mother's face upon hearing his news, he wasn't sure he agreed. "Before first light then."
He turned to enter his home for what he knew would be the last time in a long time.
Passage I
I commence this writing in the tongue of the source of all magic, the tongue of Yuldor's Heart itself. But though it may seem arrogance to do so, I do it but from caution. Only those with the iron will required to wield Mother World's treacherous power should be privy to the secrets I herein inscribe. For, if they bear any truth, they have the potential to wrought destruction not only on our Glorious Empire, but all the lands to the West and South.
These secrets I allude to relate to a rare and curious phenomenon. All have heard the tales — of those who, despite giving no supplication to a patron god, nor descending from a race naturally inclined toward witchery, are able to summon magic.
Many have proposed theories for this phenomenon. Even as I compose this treatise, I cannot confirm many of my suspicions. But the ideas alone are evocative enough to threaten sacrosanctity against our Savior, the Peacebringer, that I must exercise all caution.
Perhaps this book will never feel the touch of light. Perhaps I will not have the courage to complete it. Nevertheless, I must write it, and not only for the sake of the truth. If my theory proves correct, there will come those of Song and Blood, whom I will call Founts, powerful enough that they will rip the World asunder as we know it.
And we must be ready.
- A Fable of Song and Blood, by Hellexa Yoreseer of the Blue Moon Obelisk, translated by Tal Harrenfel
The Traveler’s Home
Before the sun had emerged from the East Marsh's horizon, three figures — two upright, one slumped — walked under the town's welcome archway and down the road leading away from Hunt's Hollow.
Despite the mage's grumblings, they had no horses or mules. King Aldric's constant requisition for their use along the Fringes made them scarce in the East Marsh at the best of times, and all the more since a disease had recently taken many more. Aelyn insisted he had the seal of the King and they could seize any beasts they found, but Bran flatly refused, saying he'd have to drag him if he wanted to ride. And though Aelyn looked perfectly willing to do so, the traveler only huffed and turned away.
Garin kept looking at the two men from the corner of his eye as he battled with his overpacked rucksack. Their packs were smaller except for Bran's weapons. The chicken farmer carried a bow and quiver of arrows, and had tucked a scabbarded sword under his bag.
But it wasn't their possessions that drew his eye; there seemed a brightness to their steps, a liveliness to their faces, that spoke of who they were. This was their home, this winding road. All other places were waystones and resting places, the sojourn the only place they could be at peace.
He looked back at as the last of the buildings faded behind him and wondered if he'd become the same as these two travelers.
Then his mother's face came to mind, and he cringed. He hadn't had the courage to say goodbye, no more than leaving a brief note. He hadn't had the courage, either, to tell that to Bran. Though Bran thought Garin was wiser than he'd been at his age, he'd still ignored his advice.
He resolutely put her face from mind, imagining instead all the wonders waiting ahead of them. Halenhol, capital of the Kingdom of Avendor, was said to have buildings that touched the stars, and knights in shining silver armor that rode through the streets, and peoples of every Bloodline, color, and shape. Elves, dwarves, and even goblins living beside humans in the greatest city in all of the Westreach — even the World.