and strange, almost a lullaby:
“How odd to watch a mortal kindle
Then to dwindle day by day.
Knowing their bright souls are tinder
And the wind will have its way.
Would I could my own fire lend.
What does your flickering portend?”
Bast’s voice faded until at last he sat motionless, watching the rise and fall of his master’s silent breathing through the long hours of morning’s early dark.
CHAPTER SIX
The Price of Remembering
I T WAS EARLY EVENING of the next day before Chronicler came down the stairs to the common room of the Waystone Inn. Pale and unsteady, he carried his flat leather satchel under one arm.
Kote sat behind the bar, paging through a book. “Ah, our unintentional guest. How’s the head?”
Chronicler raised a hand to touch the back of his head. “Throbs a bit when I move around too quickly. But it’s still working.”
“Glad to hear it,” Kote said.
“Is this . . .” Chronicler hesitated, looking around. “Are we in Newarre?”
Kote nodded. “You are, in fact, in the middle of Newarre.” He made a dramatic sweeping gesture with one hand. “Thriving metropolis. Home to dozens.”
Chronicler stared at the red-haired man behind the bar. He leaned against one of the tables for support. “God’s charred body,” he said breathlessly. “It really is you, isn’t it?”
The innkeeper looked puzzled. “I beg your pardon?”
“I know you’re going to deny it,” Chronicler said. “But what I saw last night ...”
The innkeeper held up a hand, quieting him. “Before we discuss the possibility that you’ve addled your wits with that crack to the head, tell me, how is the road to Tinuë?”
“What?” Chronicler asked, irritated. “I wasn’t heading to Tinuë. I was . . . oh.Well even aside from last night, the road’s been pretty rough. I was robbed off by Abbot’s Ford, and I’ve been on foot ever since. But it was all worth it since you’re actually here.” The scribe glanced at the sword hanging over the bar and drew a deep breath, his expression becoming vaguely anxious. “I’m not here to cause trouble, mind you. I’m not here because of the price on your head.” He gave a weak smile. “Not that I could hope to trouble you—”
“Fine,” the innkeeper interupted as he pulled out a white linen cloth and began to polish the bar. “Who are you then?”
“You can call me Chronicler.”
“I didn’t ask what I could call you,” Kote said. “What is your name?”
“Devan. Devan Lochees.”
Kote stopped polishing the bar and looked up. “ Lochees? Are you related to Duke . . .” Kote trailed off, nodding to himself. “Yes, of course you are. Not a chronicler, the Chronicler.” He stared hard at the balding man, looking him up and down. “How about that? The great debunker himself.”
Chronicler relaxed slightly, obviously pleased to have his reputation precede him. “I wasn’t trying to be difficult before. I haven’t thought of myself as Devan in years. I left that name behind me long ago.” He gave the innkeeper a significant look. “I expect you know something of that yourself....”
Kote ignored the unspoken question. “I read your book years ago. The Mating Habits of the Common Draccus . Quite the eye-opener for a young man with his head full of stories.” Looking down he began moving the white cloth along the grain of the bar again. “I’ll admit, I was disappointed to learn that dragons didn’t exist. That’s a hard lesson for a boy to learn.”
Chronicler smiled. “Honestly, I was a little disappointed myself. I went looking for a legend and found a lizard.A fascinating lizard, but a lizard just the same.”
“And now you’re here,” Kote said. “Have you come to prove that I don’t exist?”
Chronicler laughed nervously. “No. You see, we heard a rumor—”
“ ‘We?’ ” Kote interrupted.
“I’ve been traveling with an old friend of yours. Skarpi.”
“Taken you under his wing, has he?”
“How odd to watch a mortal kindle
Then to dwindle day by day.
Knowing their bright souls are tinder
And the wind will have its way.
Would I could my own fire lend.
What does your flickering portend?”
Bast’s voice faded until at last he sat motionless, watching the rise and fall of his master’s silent breathing through the long hours of morning’s early dark.
CHAPTER SIX
The Price of Remembering
I T WAS EARLY EVENING of the next day before Chronicler came down the stairs to the common room of the Waystone Inn. Pale and unsteady, he carried his flat leather satchel under one arm.
Kote sat behind the bar, paging through a book. “Ah, our unintentional guest. How’s the head?”
Chronicler raised a hand to touch the back of his head. “Throbs a bit when I move around too quickly. But it’s still working.”
“Glad to hear it,” Kote said.
“Is this . . .” Chronicler hesitated, looking around. “Are we in Newarre?”
Kote nodded. “You are, in fact, in the middle of Newarre.” He made a dramatic sweeping gesture with one hand. “Thriving metropolis. Home to dozens.”
Chronicler stared at the red-haired man behind the bar. He leaned against one of the tables for support. “God’s charred body,” he said breathlessly. “It really is you, isn’t it?”
The innkeeper looked puzzled. “I beg your pardon?”
“I know you’re going to deny it,” Chronicler said. “But what I saw last night ...”
The innkeeper held up a hand, quieting him. “Before we discuss the possibility that you’ve addled your wits with that crack to the head, tell me, how is the road to Tinuë?”
“What?” Chronicler asked, irritated. “I wasn’t heading to Tinuë. I was . . . oh.Well even aside from last night, the road’s been pretty rough. I was robbed off by Abbot’s Ford, and I’ve been on foot ever since. But it was all worth it since you’re actually here.” The scribe glanced at the sword hanging over the bar and drew a deep breath, his expression becoming vaguely anxious. “I’m not here to cause trouble, mind you. I’m not here because of the price on your head.” He gave a weak smile. “Not that I could hope to trouble you—”
“Fine,” the innkeeper interupted as he pulled out a white linen cloth and began to polish the bar. “Who are you then?”
“You can call me Chronicler.”
“I didn’t ask what I could call you,” Kote said. “What is your name?”
“Devan. Devan Lochees.”
Kote stopped polishing the bar and looked up. “ Lochees? Are you related to Duke . . .” Kote trailed off, nodding to himself. “Yes, of course you are. Not a chronicler, the Chronicler.” He stared hard at the balding man, looking him up and down. “How about that? The great debunker himself.”
Chronicler relaxed slightly, obviously pleased to have his reputation precede him. “I wasn’t trying to be difficult before. I haven’t thought of myself as Devan in years. I left that name behind me long ago.” He gave the innkeeper a significant look. “I expect you know something of that yourself....”
Kote ignored the unspoken question. “I read your book years ago. The Mating Habits of the Common Draccus . Quite the eye-opener for a young man with his head full of stories.” Looking down he began moving the white cloth along the grain of the bar again. “I’ll admit, I was disappointed to learn that dragons didn’t exist. That’s a hard lesson for a boy to learn.”
Chronicler smiled. “Honestly, I was a little disappointed myself. I went looking for a legend and found a lizard.A fascinating lizard, but a lizard just the same.”
“And now you’re here,” Kote said. “Have you come to prove that I don’t exist?”
Chronicler laughed nervously. “No. You see, we heard a rumor—”
“ ‘We?’ ” Kote interrupted.
“I’ve been traveling with an old friend of yours. Skarpi.”
“Taken you under his wing, has he?”
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