Tales of the Dragon's Bard, Volume 1: Eventide (8 page)

Merinda’s voice was hoarse but she sang on. The pixies were all sitting comfortably in pots, pans, large spoons, ladles, and anything else Merinda could find that could not easily be broken. These she had scattered across the table in the kitchen.

Merinda knew that the song was coming to an end. She had sung the chorus four times already, and though the pixies did not seem to either notice or mind that, her voice simply could not go on.

. . . we’ll sing to the wind and the heroes,

Of willows in field far away, dear lass,

Of willows in field far away.

Merinda fell silent.

Glix stood up on the table and pounded it with his foot, joined immediately by all his fellow pixies, their wings flicking in added appreciation. The racket their feet made jarred Merinda, who had momentarily fallen asleep, back to wakefulness.

“That were grand!” Glix shouted. “Now it’s our turn.”

Merinda sat up warily. “Your turn to . . . to what?”

“Sing, ma’am!” Glix shouted. “Pixies are famed in every corner of the land for their gifts in the lyrical arts.”

There was a lad of the name Tat

Who came to the bawdy house and sat—

Merinda leaped up from her chair. “Stop!”

Glix looked up at Merinda, upset that his song had been interrupted.

Merinda glanced around the kitchen. She had managed to keep it in order despite the pixies but her strength was waning and she knew it was only a matter of time before her guests utterly destroyed her perfect, sensible life. She had to do something to end her terrible ordeal. Her eye settled gratefully on the one object in the room that suddenly gave her hope.

“Your song, Glix, is . . . um . . . most amusing and diverting,” Merinda said quickly. “But I have a gift for you.”

“But what about my song?” Glix asked insistently.

“It’s a gift . . .
for
your song,” Merinda replied.

Glix’s brows arched up with interest above his violet eyes.

“You’ve never really heard a song properly until you’ve heard it . . . inside a pickle barrel!”

The following morning, with the storm abated and the sun not quite yet over the horizon, a bleary-eyed Merinda Oakman rolled a pickle barrel out the alley door of her kitchen. The lid she held firmly in place, and the faint sound of singing could be heard coming from within its staves.

Merinda looked both ways down the alley, making sure that no one was watching. Then, in a rush, she snatched the top off the pickle barrel, dashed into her home, and slammed shut the kitchen door behind her. It took her the remainder of the day to put her house back in some semblance of order, and the shop itself did not open for two more days. Harv Oakman returned on the third day, and as they greeted each other warmly, Merinda could not find the words to explain what had happened. She was too embarrassed by her foolishness in letting the pixies in and decided not to mention what had happened.

Out in the alley, Glix, Plix, Dix, Snix, and the rest of the pixies climbed out of the pickle barrel and into the daylight.

It is a little-known fact that some pixies actually prefer the interior of an empty pickle barrel to other spots—especially when it is sitting next to a warm fire with its lid held down by a large iron pot on a cold winter night.

“That Merinda is a right woman,” Plix said happily. “She knows how to show a pixie a good time.”

“Right that!” Snix agreed. “She sure were right about singing our songs in that pickle barrel. Never better!”

“Took us in, she did,” Dix nodded, slapping Glix on the back. “Saved our lives and all when she didn’t have to lift a wing. Wish we could do something for her.”

“We own her a debt, we do,” Glix agreed. “Don’t you worry, lads. Pixies never forget them who they owe. Ever she needs us in the future, you can be sure that every pixie among us will be there to help.”

• Chapter 5 •

Treasure Box

Would you remind me once again why we are here?” the Dragon’s Bard sniffed.

Jarod did not hear the boredom that permeated the Bard’s words. “Just wait . . . you’ll see. I come here every day for this.”

Edvard looked around the interior of Beulandreus Dudgeon’s blacksmith shop with a critical eye. There was a large stone hearth at the back of the shop with two smaller forges to the left. An enormous overhead bellows hung from the ceiling, its handle uncomfortably low to the ground for the use of a human. An anvil stood mounted firmly on a wide stone platform within easy reach of where the bellows handle extended. A spot in the stone under the handle had a perceptible wear to it—a slight hollow announcing the spot where the smith so often stood. Near this was a large, carved-stone water bath where forged metals could be tempered into their intended strength. The fires in the hearth and the forges blazed hot, making conflicting eddies in the air of heat and chill. Everywhere there was ironmongery. Heaps of metal—both those finished and those yet to be shaped—were scattered about the area in a chaos of plows, war axes, horseshoes, rapiers, kettles, helmets, scythes, pikes, breastplates, cleavers, and hammers. All this metallic chaos was housed under a pitched slate roof supported by large, rough-cut wooden posts. Two sides were completely open to Hammer Court.

“All I am seeing is that brute Aren Bennis talking horseshoes with a dwarf,” Edvard said through a yawn. “It is a gripping encounter and, no doubt, normally the prime source of amusement in Even-dyed, though I honestly do not see why this should fascinate you when you’ve got
me
to entertain—”

“No, not that . . . I come for
that,
” Jarod said, pointing outward across the court. The open sides of the blacksmith’s shop not only allowed easy entrance to Beulandreus’s establishment but afforded a panoramic view of all Hammer Court and down the length of King’s Road beyond. The streets were busy with both town and country folk, as a break in the winter weather had afforded a more pleasant day and an opportunity for trade before another storm settled on the town.

“You mean that fat woman pulling the cart?” Edvard said, perplexed. “I’ll admit she looks amusing, but—”

“No, not Missus Conway,” Jarod said. “More to the right!”

“My right or her—oh!” the Dragon’s Bard exclaimed.

Walking from Charter Square down the length of King’s Road and seemingly directly toward them was a beautiful young woman, her auburn hair and heart-shaped face framed perfectly beneath the wide brim of her straw hat. A cloak was clasped about her neck, but in the unexpected warming of the changeable winter afternoon, she had pushed it back behind her shoulders. Her dress fit her perfectly, hinting at her exquisite figure, though the once rich cloth of the panels was faded and the hem showed signs of wear and permanent stain. Across the crook of her arm she carried a large, covered basket with careless ease despite its apparent weight, her chin held high as she took in the sights of the people moving through town about her.

“Here then, I take it,” Edvard asked knowingly, “is the fair Caprice?”

“Caprice,” Jarod sighed as he nodded and moved to be slightly more hidden by the shop’s post. “I wanted you to see her . . . you know, the reason for this great quest of yours.”

“It’s
your
quest, Jarod,” Edvard corrected, “not mine.”

“That’s what I said,” Jarod replied, confused.

“Never mind.” Edvard shook his head, then turned to his scribe. “Strike out that last part and be sure to fix it later so that I make sense.”

The scribe, sitting on an uncomfortable iron bench nearby, pretended to make the notation. Abel had been so consumed by the arduous task of knowing which of the Bard’s unending utterances were worthy of being immortalized on the page that he had had far too little time to consider the mystery of the vanished book and the woman who had come from the woods to steal it. When occasion permitted—which was rare indeed—he would ask the Dragon’s Bard about it, but Edvard was entirely too wrapped up in the manufacturing of Jarod’s quest to be bothered with actual criminal doings or the question of why, of all their belongings, a woman should wish to steal a book. Still, even the scribe had to admit that Caprice Morgan looked like a woman who deserved a champion, even if he were of the local variety.

Caprice entered the square and then turned, crossing the cobblestones of Hammer Court southward, nodding to acquaintances as she passed the blacksmith’s and entering the shop just beyond.

“Madeline Muffin?” Edvard asked as he read the sign above the shop.

“It’s Madeline Muffe’s bakery,” Jarod answered, relaxing slightly now that Caprice was no longer in view. “Her husband gave the shop its name, but Madeline hates it, or so I’ve been told. Caprice comes into the shop every Four-day to bake her bread in the ovens.”

Edvard looked sideways at the young man. “Every Four-day?”

“Yeah,” Jarod sighed.

“And, I take it, you find some reason to be here in the noble if somewhat cluttered shop of Beulandreus Dudgeon on that same Four-day each week as well?” Edvard chuckled. Seeing the pained look on Jarod’s face, he hastily continued, “Why, that is perfect, young man! You have already anticipated my plan! You must present yourself everywhere before your beautiful and thus far oblivious Caprice. Have you spoken to her?”

“Well, of course I have!” Jarod replied at once, his face taking on a ruddy color.

“When?” Edvard pressed.

“Why . . . I try to talk to her every Four-day when she comes out of the shop!”

“How endearingly bold of you!” Edvard said with what passed for encouragement. “And have you learned much about her in your conversations each Four-day?”

“Of course I have!” Jarod protested. “All sorts of things.”

“Such as . . .” Edvard prompted.

“Well, I’ve learned that her father prefers brown bread,” Jarod said, swallowing hard. “I learned it’s harder to come by the finer flours now than it used to be and that Madeline has to be cautious about taking wishes in exchange for baking since one of her ovens started being critical of which kinds of dough it bakes.”

The Dragon’s Bard stared at the young man for a moment.

“Do you even
know
this woman?” Edvard asked at last. “Outside of the types of bread her father likes, I mean?”

“Of course I do!” Jarod protested. “I’ve known her all my life. We used to play in the Norest Forest together growing up. She could read long before I could, and she would tell me all the stories of the Elder Times before the Epic War—the stories of the heroes and the monsters and the gods all being jealous of each other and fighting between them over mortals. We would sit at the top of Mount Dervin and find those legends in the clouds that passed so close overhead and talk of lands past the horizon and what it might be like for the people who lived there. We told each other secrets there and swore we would find our own adventures one day.”

“I am impressed,” the Dragon’s Bard nodded. “And just how long ago was that?”

Jarod turned away, looking back toward the bakery. “I was fourteen years when we last did that.”

“Long ago, then?” Edvard coaxed.

“Too long.”

“Long, perhaps, but not too long,” Edvard said, slapping the boy on the back. “You are, indeed, on a quest, friend Jarod . . . and we have an infallible plan! You have obtained a token of your feelings for your beloved Caprice in the haberdashery styling of your local expert milliner. But the token alone is not enough; it must be presented in a memorable and dramatic fashion, filled with the words of your heart and the demonstration of your devotion.”

“Oh, and just how am I supposed to do that?” Jarod snapped.

“By remembering the plan!” Edvard replied heatedly, his frustrations mounting with the young man. “First, obtain a great gift—this you have already begun. Second, present your gift as an undeniable invitation to attend the Spring Revels with you as her escort. Third, accompany her to the Spring Revels with her magnificent gift on display for the entire town. And—finally—win her heart through your attentions! It’s classic romantic quest fundamentals!”

Jarod looked pained. “I don’t know . . .”

“Listen, how do you plan on presenting your gift?” Edvard asked.

“What do you mean?”

“How were you going to ask your amazing Caprice to go with you to the Spring Revels?” the Dragon’s Bard urged.

“Well, I was going to just, you know, give her the hat and ask her.”

“You were not!”

“I wasn’t?”

“Look,” Edvard said, his voice carrying above the hiss of the forge around them. “I’ll be Caprice.”

Jarod squinted with one eye. “What do you mean?”

“I am going to pretend to be Caprice, and you be you.”

“I
am
me,” Jarod answered.

“Of course you are you!” Edvard roared. “But I’m going to pretend to be Caprice.
You
pretend that I am Caprice and that you are going to present your amazing gift to me and ask me to accompany you to the Spring Revels.”

“Oh!” Jarod nodded. “You mean, like practice?”

“Yes!” Edvard said with infinite relief. “We are just practicing. Now, I’m pretending to be Caprice. You pretend that you are asking Caprice to the Spring Revels. You’ve got your treasure with you to present to her. Now, what do you say?”

“You’re Caprice?” Jarod said with uncertainty.

“Yes,” Edvard nodded.

“And I’m asking you to the Spring Revels?”

“Yes,” the Dragon’s Bard urged. “What do you say?”

Jarod bit at his lip. For a moment he fidgeted with an imaginary hat in his hands and then thrust it out toward the Dragon’s Bard.

“I got you this hat, Caprice . . . I don’t suppose you want to go to Spring Revels with me?”

“NO!” Edvard bellowed.

“You don’t?” Jarod blinked.

“You don’t just shove a hat at a woman like that!” Edvard shouted. “You have to do it with style and grace! A treasure has to be discovered gradually . . .”

“You need Treasure Box,” came a gruff voice behind the Bard.

Both Jarod and Edvard turned in surprise.