Tales of the Dragon's Bard, Volume 1: Eventide (5 page)

“No, sir, you see, I—”

“But that’s the very first thing you should do when they’re presented for arrest!”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“And then you just took them over to the Squire’s for lunch?”

“Well, Xander said that I should . . .”

Ward Klum shook his head. “Until their names are entered into the arrest ledger, they aren’t officially under the protection of the town, Jarod. There’s a proper order to things here in Eventide that must be followed, especially in our office.”

A dark chuckle rumbled from the centaur, cutting under the squawk of a gaggle of geese being herded into Trader’s Square.

“Don’t be so hard on the boy, Ward,” Bennis said with a deep, warm laugh. “Jarod, if Xander arrested them, then where is he? They’re supposed to be under his charge.”

The Dragon’s Bard had closed one eye and was peering at the farmer with the other.

Jarod was relieved to have the questions asked about anyone other than himself. He had never thought much about Farmer Bennis. He knew that the centaur worked his own farm north of town on the Mordale road past Wishing Lane, but the apprentice had never been out so far as to see it. Aren Bennis occasionally had dealings with his father, but they always made a point of speaking out of his hearing or taking their business elsewhere. Otherwise “the old half-horse”—as some in the town called him—kept mostly to his farm and himself.

“The Constable Pro Tempore said that he had an appointment with Beulandreus about a new door for the lockup,” Jarod said. “I was trying to get the charges from him to write them in the arrest ledger—just like you told me to, Father—but the charges were complicated, and I thought it best if you—”

“YOU!” the Dragon’s Bard exclaimed. “I should have known!”

Bennis’s eyes narrowed, his face falling into a frown.

“Can it possibly be?” Edvard’s face was filled with wonder as he stared at the centaur. “After all these years . . .”

“No, you must be mistaken,” Bennis said after drawing in a deep breath.

Edvard’s smile beamed. “In all my travels, I’ve never dreamed that one day I would be standing here and—”

Xander Lamplighter was rushing toward them from the stone bridge, calling out as he came, his voice all out of breath. “Master Klum! Beggin’ your pardon, but I need to be having a word with you, sir . . .”

The Dragon’s Bard took no notice of the rapidly approaching Constable Pro Tempore, reaching out with both his hands. “May I say . . . it is such an honor . . .”

“Just a minute, Xander,” Ward Klum said, holding up a narrow hand in a useless attempt to deflect the sound of the Constable Pro Tempore’s voice. He squinted with the effort of trying to pluck meaning through the noise. “I can’t hear what the jester is saying . . .”

“He’s not a jester, Dad,” Jarod offered over the conversation. “He’s a bard.”

“A what?”

“A
dragon’s
bard, Dad.”

“A dragon ward? But
my
name’s Ward . . .”

“HAR! HAR! HAR!”

The laugh of Farmer Bennis rolled like thunder across Trader’s Square, causing everyone to stop speaking at once. All the merchants setting up their stalls in the square looked up in amazement. Even the gaggle of geese seemed to hold still.

Bennis had reached forward in the confusion, grabbing both of Edvard’s hands in his right grip and dragging the Dragon’s Bard forcefully toward him. Now the centaur held the flailing minstrel in what appeared to be an affectionate hug with his massive left arm, except that Edvard’s face was pressed so firmly into the centaur’s padded coat that only muffled sounds were coming out.

“Well, now,” Bennis said, looking down at the distressed minstrel, “if it isn’t my old friend Edmund.”

“Edvard,” Jarod corrected.

“My old friend Edvard,” Bennis repeated with a broad, gap-toothed smile, “come to pay me a visit after all this time.”

The centaur gripped Edvard’s doublet at the back of the neck. Edvard hung suspended about hand’s breadth above the frost-coated cobblestones as Farmer Bennis held him out for his friends to see.

Edvard gasped for air.

“We’ve got a lot of catching up to do, Edvard,” Farmer Bennis said cheerfully to the still sputtering bard. “But we won’t be boring our friends with old stories about the past, will we?”

Edvard dragged in a painful breath. “But, surely, I—”

The centaur’s friendly shaking of the bard was playfully rough. “No, I think it’s best we keep those embarrassing tales just between us, don’t you?”

“But I—”

“Well,
don’t
you?”

Edvard nodded and managed a thin smile. “Indeed. We’ve . . . got a great deal of catching up to do . . . old friend . . . just between you and me.”

“Indeed,” Bennis’s mouth opened into a wide though cheerless grin. “Just between you and me.”

“I were just coming to tell you ’bout—oh!” Xander, his breath puffing out in great chuffs from his exertions, saw the centaur holding the Dragon’s Bard for the first time. The Constable Pro Tempore bent forward and placed his hands on his knees. “I see you’ve done already met the prisoners, then.”

“Just now, it seems,” Ward Klum replied, his eyebrows rising. “Although there also appears to be some disagreement among the assemblage here as to whether they are suspected rogues or guests.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sire?” Xander tended to blink when he was confused or uncertain. In the view of the scribe, Xander seemed to blink quite often.

“Farmer Bennis has avowed that they are friends of his who have come—why have they come, Farmer Bennis?”

“Catching up on old times,” the centaur replied, though the prospect sounded more threatening than inviting.

“Well, be they friends of Farmer Bennis or no,” Xander said, his face reddening in the chill, “I’ve a complaint lodged against that one by the Widow Merryweather and Missus Taylor, and you know how
they
can be! They’d like to have my head if I was to let him go. I thought they might have given Jarod the slip whiles they was off to lunch, but seeing as he’s still here . . .”

“Yes, yes,” Ward responded with an impatient nod. “Well, I’m sorry to inconvenience you, Xander, but as they did not escape from my son, as you had evidently hoped, we had better arrest them properly. Bring them inside. I take it that Beulandreus hasn’t finished the door for the lockup yet, so there’s every chance that they may escape later on and save either of us the trouble of having to answer on the matter to either Marchant Merryweather or Winifred Taylor . . .”

“I’ll take them,” Farmer Bennis said.

Everyone, including Edvard, looked at the centaur in complete surprise.

“You’ll what?” Xander gaped.

“I’ll take them. Release them into my charge, Xander, and I’ll keep an eye on this Dragon’s Beard for you.”

“Bard,” Edvard managed to correct before once again being silenced by a vigorous shake from the centaur.

“I don’t know,” Ward frowned. “It’s highly irregular . . .”

“Now, Ward, you know I’ve been a member of the village militia longer than our Constable Pro Tempore has been constable,” Bennis said, his enormous hand still gripping the Bard’s shoulder so tightly that the Bard was forced to grimace, much to the enjoyment of his scribe. “If that’s not enough, you can make it official if you like: swear me in as . . . oh, Adjutant Pro Tempore if that will help. They would still be under arrest, and all you have to worry about is keeping the ledgers straight.”

Xander smiled. Ward bit at his lower lip.

“And that would get those hens on Cobblestone Street satisfied, wouldn’t it?” Bennis added with a wink.

Ward chuckled once. “Very well, Aren, these two are now in your charge. Should they escape your watchful eye while they’re on your farm—”

“I’ll be sure to report it to you at once,” Bennis said, curling his right fetlock back beneath him as he bowed slightly. “But this Bard and I have a great deal to discuss—and I don’t think he’ll be leaving anytime soon.”

“Wherever did it go?” Edvard spoke his thoughts aloud for the benefit of those who might be paying attention to him. He stood upright, taking off his flamboyant hat so that his magnificent brain might cool as he scratched his head.

“What is it now?” Aren Bennis grumbled as he knelt down on his forelegs, quickly rolling up the painted canvas tent. They were not more than a quarter of a mile beyond the town just off the western road to Meade. The Dragon’s Bard had set up camp just north of the road up a gentle rise. The crest of Mount Dervin could just be seen above the dense line of trees farther to the north.

“My book, I’ve lost my book,” Edvard answered with a distracted air.

“What book?” Aren was losing patience with the Bard.

“
The
book!
My
book!” Edvard answered hotly. “The one Abel gave me so that I could learn how to re . . . the one I was reviewing for a second publication! It was here when we left this morning.”

“Well, find it or leave it,” Bennis said with a dismissive sigh. “We’re going to lose daylight soon, and I’ve got cows that need caring for yet.”

“Now, see here, my good man . . .”

The centaur scowled at the Bard.

“I mean, my good fellow,” Edvard corrected at once. “Can we not come to an understanding between us? This road to Meade runs well beyond that town and, might I add, far from any concerns of yours. I could be persuaded to start such a journey even now . . .”

“And be telling your tales along every measure of its length,” Bennis added.

“That
is
my greatest calling!”

Bennis turned toward the Dragon’s Bard, folding his enormous arms across his chest. “But there are
some
tales best left untold. Tales, I believe, that are best forgotten on behalf of all concerned. So until I feel that those tales are safely forgotten—I’ll keep you right here within reach to see that they don’t get told.”

Edvard’s face rose to meet the centaur’s gaze. “And just how long might that be?”

“As long as it takes me to trust you.”

“That long, eh?” Edvard said without much hope.

Jarod’s father had allowed him to come with Farmer Bennis to help strike the camp of the prisoners. He smiled as he gathered Edvard’s odd belongings from where the Bard had evidently tossed them haphazardly about. Vials—some still filled but the majority mostly empty—lay around the firepit. Odd brass spheres and copper tubing wound in coils lay in strange and wondrous array, as did a variety of pouches filled with strange-smelling herbs. Jarod was beginning to feel almost content to be out under the cold winter sun and away from the ledgers for an afternoon.

“One thing I don’t understand,” Jarod said. “Are you
the
Dragon’s Bard or
a
dragon’s bard?”

“Well, both, actually,” Edvard answered absently as he searched around the logs surrounding the firepit. “I am a dragon’s bard—it is a description of what I do. At the same time, as I am the one who serves stories to the Dragonking Khrag, I have a title—like king or queen or village farmer idiot—and that is why I am called
the
Dragon’s Bard.”

Jarod thought for a moment. “I don’t see it.”

“Well, if I had that
book,
” Edvard exclaimed in exasperation, “I could show you pictures that would clarify the point so that you
could
see it!”

“What you don’t see could fill a dozen of your books,” Bennis said, clomping carefully over to where the Dragon’s Bard was searching. The centaur pointed toward the snow. “Look. Those tracks through the snow come down from those woods and lead back into them again. They’re too big for pixies—who would be my first thought for your thief—and too small for a human male. Female of your kind, I should think.”

“And this woman stole my book?” Edvard huffed.

The centaur chuckled. “Considering where you placed your camp, it wouldn’t take Dirk Gallowglass to find and pillage it. With the painting on that canvas tent of yours, it’s a marvel thieves don’t rob you daily and take more than a book.” Jarod had gaped at the tent when they had first arrived: It was covered with intricate illustrations of noble kings, sword-wielding knights wearing impossibly complex armor, damsels in assorted forms of distress, and an epic battle panorama filled with creatures—some of which Jarod could not even name. The largest illustration featured two figures towering over the rest: a bard—who bore some passing resemblance to Edvard—defending himself against an enormous, fire-breathing dragon armed only with a quill. It was vibrant, garish, poorly rendered, and calculated to call attention to itself.

“What’s in this book that’s so important anyway?” Jarod asked as he pushed the Bard’s provisions haphazardly down into a pack.

“Important?” The Bard’s eyes flashed. Edvard evidently sensed the opportunity for performance and had never been known to let such opportunities pass. “Why, the book contains the essence of life itself! It holds a
quest!
”

“A quest?” Jarod asked with a hint of his father’s skepticism.

“Oh, yes, my boy.” Edvard warmed to his performance despite the chill in the air. “A quest is everything! It is the embodiment of our dreams and the vision of our better selves. The quest brings us to a place where we are tested not just for who we are but for who we are to become! It takes us beyond our safe home, past the portals of our horizon, and into the realms of power and magic, desire and nobility, passion and humility. It tries us to our core as we travel strange roads and overcome the forces of evil that oppose our rightful desire. It tempts us down paths that would steal not just the breath from our breast but the soul from our heart. And always in the end it brings us to a prize of inestimable wealth!”

“That would be Caprice, right?” Jarod offered, trying to follow the chain of thought.

“Well, no,” Edvard blinked, his rhythm momentarily stumbling over the question. “The actual prize may be many things, depending upon the quest. It may be knowledge from the gods or spiritual understanding or power or wealth untold . . .”

“And if I bring this prize back, then
that’s
what impresses Caprice?” Jarod asked again.