Fable: The Balverine Order (Fable) (24 page)

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Authors: Peter David

Tags: #Fantasy, #Young Adult, #Science Fiction

BOOK: Fable: The Balverine Order (Fable)
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“I mean them. How she made them feel!”
“
Is
that what you mean?” James said challengingly. “You with your ideals of perfect heroism. Looking to have your own little glow of light following you around?”
“As compared to you? Do you know what happens to Heroes with dark alignments? The darkness starts showing up on the outside!” He approached James and started ticking off aspects on his fingers. “You grow horns! And your eyes glow red! And . . . and flies start following you around ...”
“Oh, please.”
“It's true!'
“You don't have an exclusive on what's true and what's false! There's plenty of information about the world that isn't in any of your books!”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Like—”
“Well? Don't just stand there, James. Enlighten me. Tell me what—”
“Like that my father left us!”
Thomas stared at him blankly, taken aback by the statement, which he did not entirely understand. “What do you mean? I knew that. He died when you were—”
“Not ‘left us' in that sense. I mean actually left us. Walked out on us. Said he was going out for a while and never returned. Your father may be far from perfect, Thomas, but at least you have one. And I swore, I
swore
I would never be anything like him because I saw what it did to my mother. But what did I do at the first opportunity? I ran out on my mother and on my family. I became exactly what I swore I never would become.”
“You said they wouldn't miss you.”
“They probably won't, but that doesn't make what I've done any better.”
“Then”—Thomas was utterly perplexed—“why did you come? It's not as if I asked you; I certainly didn't beg you. Why are you here if you feel that way?”
“Because you were going, and I thought you needed me. And I figured I'd be letting you down if I didn't come with you.” James shook his head, running his fingers through his hair. “How stupid does that sound? I mean, really. You're of age. I should have just left you to your fate instead of volunteering to come with you. I ...” He sighed heavily. “I feel like I'm losing the will for this, the longer that we go on ...”
“Ridiculous,” Thomas said firmly. “You have more will, more determination, more resolve, than anyone I've ever met. And the fact is,” he admitted after a brief hesitation, “the fact is that you were right. I would be lost without you, James. Truly lost. And . . . well, maybe I'm no different than you.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I'm letting my feelings about my own family affect how I'm reacting to what we're facing now. I mean . . . no matter how many times I tell myself that the things my mother said on her deathbed were meaningless, it still hurt like hell. And so I wind up not being particularly sympathetic to Mrs. Mullins, you know? Although the fact that she tried to pummel us to death didn't do much to endear her to me either.” He picked up a small stone and threw it in a random direction, watching it rebound off a tree. “Maybe you're right. Maybe we should tell Mrs. Mullins the truth and just let things sort themselves out.”
“And allow their deaths to be on our conscience? Not sure I see the purpose of that. Let's face it, Thomas: If we take our mutual blinders from our eyes and give our best guess as to what really happened, it probably did play out exactly as father and daughter described. And if the mother finds them ...”
“There will be more of the same, only worse,” said Thomas. “Bruises that don't ever heal.”
“Hard to heal when you're dead.”
“You really think she's capable of killing them?”
“Oh yes,” James said without hesitation. “You saw the woman. The
kraken
wouldn't have wanted any part of her in a battle. I mean, maybe its cruel to her to let her live a life of uncertainty, but it's only one person being made to suffer instead of three. Four, if you count the child that's growing in Hannah's belly.”
“You say all this now,” said Thomas, “and yet you ran off intending to inform on them. And you were going to tell the pig farmer for that matter, in order to get the reward.”
“Yes,” said James, “and I'm not proud of that. I guess I needed some time on my own so that I could come to my own conclusions. Conclusions that were, as it turns out, identical to yours, but at least I knew for sure that they were, in fact,
my
conclusions.”
“Rather than just deferring to me, you mean.”
“Pretty much. I was actually getting ready to retrace my steps when you decided to knock me to the ground.”
“Sorry about that,” Thomas said with obvious chagrin. “I just . . . needed to stop you.”
“Well, next time, try shouting, ‘Stop!' That'll work just as well.” He flexed his shoulder tentatively, wincing as he did so. “You were lucky. If I had any warning at all, I'd have handed you your head.”
“No doubt in my mind,” Thomas said diplomatically.
James studied him, trying to determine whether Thomas was being sarcastic or not. Thomas kept his face carefully neutral. Finally, James lowered his arm, and said, “Horns? Seriously?”
“That's what I've heard.”
“I'm sorry, but that really just wouldn't work for me. For one thing, I typically look good in hats, and horns would make head apparel problematic.”
“To say the least.”
“So”—and James rubbed his hands together briskly—“to Sutcliff, then?”
“Unless there is someplace that you would rather go.”
“Any number of them. But Sutcliff would seem to be the place. Especially since we now have a name to ask for.”
“You mean Kreel,” said Thomas. “A man who claims to hunt balverines regularly.”
“It would seem to make him the perfect guide.”
“Yes. Which is enough to worry me,” said Thomas, “since I've discovered that most things in life that seem perfect tend to be anything but. Still, he would give us—at the very least—a starting point.” He glanced around. “Where is the Poxy Cur?”
“Oh, she'll probably show up in a few minutes.” James, now standing, brushed off the dirt from himself. “You know how kids are. They don't like to hang around and see their parents fighting.”
Thomas laughed at that and clapped James on the shoulder. Then, in all seriousness, he said, “I
would
be lost without you, you know.”
“Yeah, I know,” said James with an indifferent toss of his head. “I just wanted to make certain that you knew.”
“I FIND THAT VERY HARD TO BELIEVE.”
The storyteller stops and regards me with polite confusion. “What's that, Majesty?”
“That business with horns and flies and such. I mean, the thing with the glow is hard enough to swallow, but now I'm supposed to accept that negative decisions cause a demonic aspect to manifest? Honestly, how could that be possible?”
“Since you are asking, Your Majesty,” the storyteller replies, “I should think that you would know that as well as anyone. How many times have you encountered individuals about whom you could make judgments based purely upon their appearances? A modest maiden, perhaps? Or a barbarian warrior? Does not a thief telegraph his intentions with his shifty nature? Or a swaggering brute his predisposition toward violence?”
“That is all true enough,” I say, “but it is hardly the same thing as claiming that one's choices cause physical changes—”
“Can you not discern a glutton by his more-than-ample physique? The laborer by the quality of his hands? The dandy by the softness of his?”
“Again, there are exceptions, certainly
...
”
“No exceptions,” the storyteller says with conviction. “Who we are, what we are, the type of person we are . . . all these things are discernible in a hundred different manners to one who is observant. It is all a matter of degrees. And Heroes are like other men and women, only more so. They are held to a far higher standard and thus operate on a grander scale than mere mortals. So if people look upon a Hero who is positively aligned, does it not make sense that they would perceive him as the essence of goodness? And by the same token, if his actions are negatively aligned, then such would be visible even to the naked eye of the most common of commoners. Certainly, horns and gleaming red eyes would be far in excess of the physical changes one would see in an ordinary, life-size individual, but Heroes . . . they are much larger than life. So naturally the manner in which their decisions impact on them would be larger-than-life as well, as least as far as observers are concerned.”
I give that explanation some thought and find myself nodding slowly. “I admit that that makes a certain degree of sense. Very well, then, storyteller: I accept your explanation, at least for now. So”—and I gesture lazily—“you may proceed with your tale if you are of a mind to. As I recall, the lads had managed to salvage their relationship when it was teetering on the brink of total destruction, am I correct?”
“You are indeed, Majesty. Were you concerned that they would not be able to do so? That there would be an irreparable rift between them?”
“I was worried that might be the case and was hoping it would not be,” I admit. “The lads are well matched in temperament and deserve to bring this quest to a successful conclusion united.”
“Why do you believe that the quest will in fact be concluded successfully at all? You do not know that of a certainty.”
“That is true,” I say, “but it seemed a safe assumption.”
“Assumptions are never, by definition, safe. Quests do fail, Majesty. Heroes do fall short of their goals. Many even die in the attempt.”
“That is true, but who tells such stories? The fact that the story of Thomas and James is sufficient to warrant repetition by one such as you would seem to assure that it was fulfilled. What other reason would a storyteller have for describing their adventures?”
“A cautionary tale, perhaps. The mere telling of a story does not guarantee a happy ending. A tale of young love can end tragically in the deaths of the two lovers, their romance forever denied, at least in this world. That does not make the story any less potent.”
“But these are not two young lovers of whom we speak. These are two friends upon an adventure. What purpose to tell their story if not to bask in their triumph?”
“To remind others,” says the storyteller, “of the high price of failure.”
I consider that, and then say, with a touch of worry, “Well, now, that is a consideration that is genuinely going to fester within me.” I draw my great cloak around me even more tightly, for it seems to be getting colder still, and we have been outside far longer than I had anticipated when I first came out here. “Very well, then. Speak of these matters with no assurance of the outcome, and I shall hope for the best.”
“As you wish, Majesty.” And he leans back, his gaze drifting inward as if he is seeing the matters playing out before his inner eye. “James, as it turned out, was quite correct; Poxy rejoined them before they had traveled half a mile. She simply emerged from the woods as if she had not departed, her tail wagging eagerly in greeting. Together, the three of them retraced their steps and then kept on the road headed east. Every so often they would affirm from passersby that they were indeed heading toward Sutcliff, and the response would always be a ready confirmation. A few suggested that there were other destinations that might be more interesting and—to use their term—more modern. ‘Modern' was, of course, a relative term, since much of the countryside was primitive by the standards of Albion to which James and Thomas were accustomed. But Sutcliff, by all accounts, was primitive even by the standards of Blackridge. There were no factories pumping out smoke, no great machine shops pounding out manufacturing. More than that, though, was the architecture of the place. The buildings were made of crumbling stone, with gargoyles mounted atop in eternal crouches that made it seem for all the world as if they were ready to leap upon unsuspecting visitors. Some claimed that Sutcliff was a haven for all things uncanny, that hollow men haunted the cemeteries, and banshees drifted through the streets late at night. None of these were the boys able to verify personally; on the other hand, they weren't really trying all that hard since these were not creatures that they had any desire to encounter.

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