A Balance Broken (Dragonsoul Saga) (3 page)

Before the foundation of the Western Realm, the inn now known as The Sleeping Gryphon was an outpost of the Bluecloaks, far outside the border of the kingdom. However, as the west became more civilized, this structure became a waystop not just for soldiers, but for nearly every trader or pioneer passing along the westward trail. Rebuilt at the expense of the king after the Gavanor Rebellion, it has become one of the finest inns in the entire kingdom.

— “Second History of Gannon, Vol. III” by Elyn Bravano

T
allen Westar stretched his hand back under the old stove and scrubbed the horsehair brush back and forth with vigor. The grime he targeted came free at last, though not without a good scrape of his knuckle on iron. He cursed and sucked a small dot of blood welling up on his finger. Tallen despised this job, but his arms were the only ones in the family long enough to reach that spot.

“Cleaning is half of cooking,” his father used to tell him. His memories of the old man were few, but still clear – most of them revolving around the kitchen where the innkeeper taught his youngest son the cooking part of the family trade. The thought saddened Tallen, bringing back memories of Lloyd Westar’s death in the Bloody Flux nearly a decade ago.
With Mother gone to the cabin most of the year, it’s left to me to keep this kitchen running. Dad would have wanted it that way.

“Have you finished in there yet?” his middle brother called from the open, three-storied great room. Glynn offered a friendlier countenance with the customers, if not his younger brother, and usually took on the duties behind the bar. “Won’t be any more folks eating tonight, and Linsay went home. I need your help out here with the drinkers.”

Tallen tossed his brush into the bucket of wash water, splashing gray suds onto the tile floor. Most of the black came off his hands with a hardy wipe on a towel. He stepped through the swinging half-door and approached the washbasin behind the bar. “You just want to get everyone out tonight so you can go home to
her
. The new hasn’t yet rubbed off your nuptial bed.”

Glynn tossed a white rag at Tallen to replace the dirtied one he had thrown over his shoulder. “Get rid of that grime under your nails before you serve any of my customers.” Glynn’s frown split into a wide grin, as he leaned over to whisper, “Actually, Linsay can’t keep her hands off me. You’ll understand if you can ever ask Jennette to marry you.”

Tallen laughed in spite of his doubt, the comment about his fingernails irking him more than the one about his sometime girlfriend.
Father would never have abided dirty hands in the Gryphon, and neither will I!

He bent over the washbasin and scrubbed the fine, sheepswool brush over his hands. His umbrage at the thoughtless comment from his brother washed away with the grease.

Glynn stood at the other end of the bar, fists on his hips and an odd look on his face.

He knows he’s too hard on me, but he doesn’t have the guts to admit it. I know he’s had a lot on his shoulders since Dad died, Mom left, and Jaerd joined the army. I can give him the space to be himself. I just wish he could do the same for me.

“Truth is,” Glynn said, now in a more fraternal tone, “and don’t tell mother in any of your letters to her up north…” He looked over his shoulder as if Kaylyn might appear at any time. “But I think Linsay may already be…” his grin doubled in width, “…with child!”

Bursting with a hearty laugh, Tallen wrapped his arms around his older, smaller brother. Glynn returned the gesture, first tentative, then slapping Tallen on the back.

“You must keep it quiet,” he whispered into Tallen’s ear. “For now, at least.”

Although a few patrons called for more ale, the crowd inside the Gryphon remained sparse. As evening wore into night, the clear sky hanging over the inn had filled with clouds carrying the promise of rain. Tallen knew most farmers would work late in their fields to beat the coming storm.
Everyone else is at home saving their coin for the Sowing Festival in three weeks. My own purse is a little lighter than I might like.
Tallen scowled at the few customers haunting the corners of the spacious common room.
Looks like that situation isn’t getting any better tonight.

The last two farmers, both with plenty of sons and grandsons to plow their fields for them, wobbled out. Tallen wiped down their abandoned table. The old men had left a copper each next to their thrice-emptied mugs. Tallen frowned. He could not buy half a mug for himself with the measly tip. He made a foul gesture, little finger flicking his nose toward the closing door, but jumped when it banged open again, caught by a gust of wind.

Lightning crackled through the night, announcing the rain’s arrival. Two men stood framed against the flash. One, tall with flowing black hair and a thick mustache, bore a longsword strapped over his shoulder. The other, shorter and rotund, wore a graying goatee beard and carried a dog-headed staff. Both men were clad in the blue cloaks of the Royal Guard of Gannon, though red fringe trimmed the shorter man’s cloth.

“Hallo to the inn,” called the taller soldier, whose collar held three silver stars. “My men and I seek shelter before this deluge makes our travel impossible. Have you rooms open? We carry the king’s coin.”

“Absolutely, General,” Glynn said with pride from behind the bar. “Always a room in the Sleeping Gryphon for Bluecloaks. It’s been that way since the Western Realm was founded.”

Tallen pulled chairs out from around a large table near the still glowing central fireplace. “Even before it was founded.” He tossed a couple of split hickory logs onto the embers, stoking the flames to warm the room. More heavily armed soldiers followed the first two men through the door, seating themselves with some order around the long table Tallen prepared. A wolfhound the size of a small horse followed close behind them. The dog padded over to a rug near the fireplace, circled twice, and curled up, his snout examining the entire room.

The general cast his eyes about the inn and nodded in approval. “Stew and bread for all of us, if you have any – including a bowl for Brawny here.” The wolfhound snorted. “Ale all around.” He flipped a fat, Eastern mark in Tallen’s direction.

Catching the shiny piece of gold in the air, Tallen examined it for a moment. Stamped upon it glittered the image of Arathan VII, like most coins in the kingdom these days. The Old King, as he was often called, had ruled for nearly seventy years. Few grandfathers could remember a time before his reign.

“I have some of today’s stew still warm in the kettle, sir.” Tallen nodded his head. “Would you take butter or oil for your bread?”

“Both,” grumbled the rotund man with the staff. “And that stew better have hoofed meat in it for the price Boris paid.” His gray eyes had not left Tallen since the soldiers entered the inn, and something about the man’s stare rattled Tallen’s nerves.

“I use beef from a farm just a few miles away sir.” His voice remained cool. “I assure you it was fresh when I prepared it this morning. The vegetables are last autumn’s store – carrot, onion, and parsnip. However, they keep quite well in our root cellar here.”

The man’s bushy eyebrows loosened, but the stare continued. Tallen felt it on his neck all the way into the kitchen.
It’s not just that he watches me, it’s the intensity. I’ve never felt such a gaze.

The olive oil glistened a pale green when Tallen poured it into a small bowl. “This comes from a special provider,” he called through the service window, “who makes a trip from Gavanor six times a year. He brings me the freshest of his stock from Avaros. My younger sister, Dawne, churns the butter.”

Tallen tossed a little more beef stock into the cauldron hung on the heavy iron hook within the fireplace. A little adjustment to his banked fire, and soon the stew bubbled away again. He scooped out enough for half a dozen bowls, placing them on a tray along with the butter and oil. He set a couple loaves of bread next to them and hefted the tray onto his shoulder. Bumping the swinging door with his hip, he returned to the great room.

“Here you go, sirs.” Tallen smiled, sliding the tray to the center of the table. “Hope everything meets your needs.” He sat a bowl down in front of the dog, who almost had it gobbled down before he turned back to the six soldiers.

“Thank you, lad.” The general wiped foam from his coal black mustache with the back of his hand. “If it is half as good as it smells, your stew will be almost as welcome as the ale.”

“Hear, hear,” said a giant of a man who sat at the captain’s right, tearing into a butter-slathered loaf. He tossed a chunk of the bread to Brawny, who caught it in midair. A big, dwarf made battle-axe rested on the empty table behind the soldier. Tallen had seen their craft before, but never one so large. The image in his mind of the huge man wielding it sent a shiver down his spine.

The officer in the red-fringed cloak sniffed his bowl. “Smells like it could use more pepper.” He bit into a small, tentative spoonful before the frown faded. “Not bad. Well seasoned, for the most part, but definitely needs more pepper.”

Tallen nodded. “I would agree with you for my own palate, sir, but I must keep the locals happy.” With haste, he grabbed the grinder from a nearby table and sat it before the man. “They fear spices as if they might melt the stomach.”

The older Bluecloak’s pale eyes, barely leaving Tallen since their arrival, remained focused on him. “Do you know what this red fringe on my cloak means, boy?”

“Yes sir.” Despite his nerves, Tallen fought down his indignation at the mage’s assumption of ignorance. “You are one of the Royal Battlemages sworn to the service of His Majesty, King Arathan. It is likely you trained on the Isle of Wizards, and probable that you excel in the Fire Aspect.” He paused, but could not hold it all in. “We have books here on the frontier, sir. They read just as easily in small towns as they do in great cities. This inn’s own library is quite well stocked, and they are available for use by patrons.”
You are far from the first mage to eat from my kitchen. Though it has been a few years.

The furrow in the mage’s brow deepened. “Are you a Dreamer, boy?” he growled.

Shock darted through Tallen. “I’m sorry?” He chose his words with care. “I— I have dreams, like any normal person.”

“I mean…
Dreams
.” The Bluecloak mage squeezed his finger and thumb together. “Ones that seem more real than others. Dreams that sometimes come true.” The man continued his harsh stare a moment before leaning closer to the taller officer. Even though they both wore three silver stars upon their collar, the mage seemed to defer. “I think I see something in him.”

The general shifted his gaze from the stew to Tallen. Eyes that nearly matched the blue of his cloak appraised Tallen with a deft stare. Tallen’s gut sank, as if a predator had noticed him.

“You are the judge of power, not I.” The general released Tallen from his gaze. “Eat your stew.” He pointed his spoon at the mage’s bowl, before taking another bite from his own. “We have more to worry about than apprentice hunting right now,” he said around the mouthful. The general swallowed with a satisfied smile that crept above the dimple in his chin. “And let the lad do his job. He seems to do it well.”

The Battlemage’s scowl did not disappear from his face, but he did dip a piece of bread into his bowl. The frown lessened while he chewed. After a second bite, he waved his hand at Tallen in dismissal.

Tallen slipped away, the mage’s words filling him with apprehension. Something in the back of his mind warned him to avoid the Bluecloaks as much as possible for the rest of the night, although he knew that was easier said than done.

When Tallen delivered their second round of ale and more bread, the mage sat deep in whispered conversation with his commander. The gruff man seemed to give him no more mind than he might any other waiter. Before Tallen left the table, however, he was certain he overheard the word “Highspur”.
The great fortress?

After the soldiers quaffed their second ale—wooden spoons clattering into bowls wiped clean with bread— the general rose from his seat.

“That is enough for tonight, fellows,” he said. “We must be onward before dawn, rain or not.”

The rest of the squad rose with precision. The tallest, four bronze discs upon his collar, picked up the long, dwarven battle-axe when he stood. “You heard the Earl, boys. Get some clean sack time before we wander out into the wilderness.”

The other soldiers grabbed their gear and followed the sergeant. Brawny hopped up from his spot near the fire, and trotted after the soldiers.

Tallen moved to gather the empties. The mage ignored him when he stood, though the soldiers nodded thanks, each leaving a silver penny behind on the table.

“Good night, sirs,” Tallen said, watching Glynn lead them into the west wing. He stacked the empty bowls on a platter and took them into the kitchen. He stood at the sink washing dishes when Glynn returned through the swinging door.

“They will be off early. Their commander gave me coin for their rooms.” Glynn tried to stifle a yawn. “Do you have that gold mark he tossed you?”