Tales of the Dragon's Bard, Volume 1: Eventide (9 page)

The ladies of Cobblestone Street all believed Beulandreus Dudgeon to be the ugliest dwarf in the world—although, in truth, none of those same ladies of Eventide had ever seen any other dwarf for comparison. He was barely four feet tall and seemed nearly as wide, with a great barrel chest and massive arms and legs. He kept his head shaved bald. Mordechai Charon believed it was because he was a smith and worked around open fires all day; none of them suspected the real reason and he wouldn’t have told them even if they had asked. No one ever asked Beulandreus anything about himself, and the smith never bothered anyone else. He retained his dwarf beard and had been seen on his rare trade excursions in town to let it splay out in a long, frizzy bush from his face. While in his shop, however, he kept it carefully braided and secured beneath his wide belt. His apron and clothing may once have had a color but now mostly resembled soot. His hands and face were so blackened with the iron that he worked with constantly that Marchant Merryweather claimed he would rust if he were ever to take a bath. He had bright, grey eyes that shone out from either side of his bulbous nose and, according to Aren Bennis, a beaming, gap-toothed smile when the humor struck him.

“Uh,” Jarod grimaced, “I guess you overheard that.”

“At that volume,” Aren Bennis chuckled as he clomped up behind the dwarf to join them, “I would have been surprised if the folks in Meade didn’t overhear you.”

“You need Treasure Box,” the dwarf asserted, wiping his hands on a cloth nearly as dirty as himself.

Jarod had been largely raised in or around his father’s countinghouse. It was filled with massive, locked, iron boxes, many of them made by Beulandreus. “Thank you, Master Dudgeon . . . but I don’t think one of your strongboxes will do for a—”

“
Treasure
Box,” the dwarf asserted. “No strongbox. Different. Special.”

The centaur, towering over the dwarf, looked down in surprise. “You have a Treasure Box, Beulandreus?”

The old dwarf only snorted loudly, then trundled over to the back wall. He snatched a huge iron key from its peg and opened a door in the back wall of the shop, grumbling to himself, “Idiot humans . . .”

“You have one here?” Edvard exclaimed in surprise.

“Secret!” Beulandreus exclaimed. “Wait!”

The dwarf returned a few moments later, gripping the iron key in one hand and a small object in the other. Returning the key to its peg, Beulandreus walked up to Jarod and held out his hand.

It was the most delicately carved, magnificent box that Jarod had ever seen. Beulandreus set it in Jarod’s hands. It was remarkably light, and the relief carving on the lid was so intricate that Jarod was afraid to touch it.

“It’s beautiful, Master Dudgeon,” Jarod whispered. “But, I’m afraid it’s too small. I need something that can hold a lady’s hat and—”

“Humans!” the dwarf snorted. “See everything . . . understand nothing.”

“I don’t understand,” Jarod said, shaking his head.

“It’s a Treasure Box,” the dwarf stated emphatically.

The young man glanced over at the Dragon’s Bard, who only shrugged. Jarod looked back at the dwarf, not comprehending.

The dwarf took the box back and explained. “Something special to hold the love that is bigger than anything can contain.” Beulandreus pushed in hidden catches on either side of the small box and, with a click, the box began to unfold into larger and larger sizes. When the box reached the size of a hat, the dwarf pressed a second set of hidden catches on the other sides of the box. The box stopped unfolding at once.

“These set the size of the treasure box,” the dwarf explained. “When you push these other catches, yon box folds back as small as it ever was. Push the same again, and the box unfolds to this same size. You want a different size . . . push the second catches again when it is open and box resizes till you push second catches again. Simple . . . even for human. Look inside!”

The dwarf opened the box, and Jarod was astonished. It was larger inside than it was on the outside.

“Treasure Box,” the dwarf said matter-of-factly.

“I think that the box,” Jarod said in wonder, “is perhaps a greater treasure than the hat I hope to put in it.”

Beulandreus reached out and took the box from Jarod. He pressed a set of catches and the box folded itself down to its original, palm size.

“Box unimportant,” the dwarf huffed. “What you put in it what counts. You not win true heart with an empty box.”

“There!” Edvard exclaimed. “Now you have the perfect container for the most precious gift you can give your beloved! All you need now is the means of presenting it!”

Jarod groaned. “I suppose by that you mean something better than, ‘Hey, Caprice, here’s a box with a hat in it.’ How am I going to make some great, romantic speech when I can barely speak to her as it is?”

“The plan, my boy!” the Bard insisted.

“What plan?” Aren Bennis asked suspiciously.

“Consider it! You get tongue-tied whenever you face her, yes?”

“Maybe,” Jarod fumed.

“Then all you have to do is present your gift and tell her your feelings without looking at her.” Edvard threw his arms out in triumph. “I have devised a stratagem whereby you will be able to convey your true feelings to your beloved without ever having to look into her eyes!”

Aren Bennis frowned. “What nonsense is this?”

“I have already spoken with Father Patrion Trantus of your local church, who has offered his services to arrange—”

“Father Pantheon?” Aren roared. “He cannot even seem to pick a god to worship. You cannot seriously consider asking that addle-brained—”

“Hey!” Jarod shouted. “This is my quest! I’ll take care of this myself and without any help from—”

“Jarod? Is that you?”

The young man turned quickly at the sound of the familiar voice.

“Caprice!”

“I thought that was you! I was beginning to wonder if I would run into you at all today.” Caprice smiled beneath her large green eyes.

Even the blacksmith shop brightened in that moment, as though the sun had risen in Jarod’s heart.

“Did you make brown bread today?” Jarod stammered as he reached back behind him.

He felt the dwarf press the Treasure Box into his hands.

• Chapter 6 •

Father Pantheon

Eventide was set on both sides of the Wanderwine River, the main waterway through Beauford County in Windriftshire and, as such, an ancient trade route between the sea and the plains cities to the north. There, beneath the falls next to Bolly’s Mill, the Wanderwine split at Prow Rock into the West Wanderwine and the East Wanderwine Rivers, the West Wanderwine being six feet longer than the East Wanderwine. This was measured twice by Jep Walters after he had lost a bet with Squire Tomas Melthalion. From the tip of Prow Rock to the end of the sand spit at the rivers’ confluence just south of Lucius Tanner’s tannery, the river measured exactly one thousand forty-four feet and five or seven inches. The rivers diverged in the north and converged in the south, surrounding a piece of land known locally as Boar’s Island—although no one remembered ever seeing a boar there. It was a matter of local pride that the course of both the West Wanderwine and the East Wanderwine resided entirely within the charter limits of the town.

Reaching skyward just above Prow Rock on Boar’s Island, the Pantheon Church stood nestled among the trees, its four corner spires towering more than eighty feet above the town, no more accurate measure being available, as Jep Walters was unwilling to take that bet. The church was blessed with a surrounding and densely foliated copse of trees that insulated its holy place from the more mortal town around it. An elevated rectangular platform of polished stones formed its floor. This was reached by wide stairs on each of its four sides. Ornately carved columns set between the towering corner spires supported the tiled roof overhead, leaving the interior space majestically open. It was not the grandest structure, but the setting was perfect for showing its beauty, and it graced the town above the diverging rivers like a polished gem.

For Father Pantheon, however, it was a depressing sight.

His name was actually Father Patrion Trantus of the Order of the Lady of the Sky, or so he would tell anyone who asked, though no one ever did. He had begun his sojourn through mortality as Patric Fielder, son of Morina and Ned Fielder of Springtown in the farthest reaches of distant Notheringshire. Springtown had a small church with a most charismatic Sister Priestess Estra, whose amazing brown eyes and deeply dimpled cheeks may have led to Patric’s early religious stirrings. Too soon, the Sister Priestess Estra was recalled to the Cloisters in Mordale, replaced by a Father Mendacious who, despite his gruff demeanor, took an interest in Patric. He taught the young man how to read holy script as well as the common letters and instructed him in the ways of the Lady of the Sky and the infallibility of the clerical leadership. When the time came, it was Father Mendacious himself who recommended Patric for admittance to the Lyceum in Mordale—the religious school within the Cloisters. There he proved adept and remarkably attentive—especially to classes led by Sister Priestess Estra, who by that time was an instructor in Spiritual Interpretations. His ordination was complete when, after finishing the coursework, Patric took the name of Father Patrion Trantus and eagerly awaited his first task from the Lady of the Sky.

It was a remarkably short wait. The ink was barely dry on his patents before he was summoned before the Lord Masterpriest and the Council of the Sky. A town’s congregation was calling for a priest to conduct the ancient rites in a newly built church. By the command of the council—and presumably the direct wishes of the Lady of the Sky—Patrion set off at once to minister to the spiritual needs of the congregation, filled with all the fervor of his faith and a determined conviction.

Except that when he arrived there was no congregation.

It was true that there was a new church, but no one in the town had heard of his goddess, the Lady of the Sky, nor did they particularly care to learn about her. Of those who claimed worship of a deity, there seemed to be as many different gods and means of worshiping them as there were followers. The application of elemental magic forces—such as the wishers of the well employed—seemed to be of far more interest and devotion in Eventide than blessings or curses from a distant spiritual power.

However, the parish council for the village was most anxious to have someone of religious training conduct services in the new church they had just completed. The matrons of the town believed that religion—at least as a general concept—would help civilize Eventide, and the patrons who led the town knew that they could never be considered more than a hamlet until they had some sort of church. As they could not agree among the citizens on the parish council which particular god the temple should honor, they determined—after a committee recommended it—that they would build a pantheon temple to include all the gods that anyone might care to worship. They did so at once; all that was wanting was an authoritative figure with an open-minded view of worship to administer it.

Father Patrion may have gotten his religion from Sister Priestess Estra and Father Mendacious, but he had gotten practical and pragmatic wariness from his father. He was sure that his Lord Masterpriest had made a mistake in sending him here but was also a man who devoutly believed divine inspiration never made a mistake. If he were to go back to the council of Masterpriests claiming that one of their inspired leaders had made a mistake, he would be dismissed—and he most desperately needed to succeed here.

After all, he told himself, his assignment was for only one year. Then he would be recalled to the Cloisters and be reassigned by the Masterpriests, and his replacement could deal with the moral and ethical issues of being mistakenly assigned.

Since then, more than twenty years had passed.

It seems that an unprecedented
second
error had been perpetrated in not recording his assignment to the church in Eventide. Yearly, then monthly, then weekly he began writing the Masterpriests at the Cloisters in Mordale, each letter an exquisitely crafted prose offering that would gently remind them that he was in the wrong place and for the wrong period of time without ever once even implying any fallibility on the part of the Council. Their responses were equal to the task, thanking him in each case for his work on behalf of the Lady of the Sky and avoiding mention of anything remotely related to a mistake ever having been made or, for that matter, any action that might possibly either rectify or remedy his status.

Year revolved upon year, and his handsome young lines softened over time. He grew a belly on the offered meals by the fine ladies of the town and occasionally at the Griffon’s Tale Inn. His hairline receded as his bald spot grew until they met, forming a small island of hair struggling to survive at the top of his forehead. He wore the robes of his calling less often than perhaps he should, choosing a felt-brimmed hat more often in winter than the knitted cap of his office. Graying stubble covered his cheeks more often than not. Yet still he hoped that perhaps through his influence over time he could convince these people of the error of their various ways and bring them into the true fold of his Lady’s gaze.

Instead, he found himself conducting every kind of worship service imaginable for any number of different gods, goddesses, natural forces, and spirits. He had to be all faiths to all people, and it was beginning to wear on his own soul. Despite his insistence, the people of the town had quickly begun to refer to Father Patrion as Father Pantheon. It was an endearment to them while also somehow defining his place in their very small circle of community. As an outsider, it meant that he was, if not entirely accepted, then at least recognized as having a connection to them and the land. They never acquired much use for his “Lady of the Sky” goddess, and his hope of converting any of his patronage to his religion faded over time. Still, he had come to love the many different citizens of Eventide and believed that in his own way he served them to his Lady’s approval.