Tales from Opa, Volume II

By Darragh Metzger

He is a mysterious old man, a wanderer, a warrior, but most of all, he is the storyteller known only as "Opa". Here, in the days before his tales of the last Triads of Tir na n'Og, Opa weaves his magic throughout the land with stories of heroes and deeds of valor. His stories bring to life the fabulous land known as Tir na n'Og, the Fey who rule there, and the human champions who do their bidding—willingly and otherwise. But beware: for some, his tales change the way they view their world, their beliefs, their values—and themselves. The Tourney for Don Miguel: The Ranger and Mystic of a broken Triad decide to host a grand tournament in hopes of learning something of their late Cavalier's mysterious past. What could possibly go wrong? Chosen: An aging Cavalier, at the end of his career, his hopes, and his courage, finds he yet has one more role to play and the most important battle of his life to win. A Journey of a Thousand Miles: A young apprentice Mystic sets out for Tir to finish her education at the Mystics' Guild there. But against her will, she finds herself enrolled in a much harsher school, where each lesson means the difference between life and death. Three new stories of sword, sorcery, and adventure from the mysterious master storyteller of Tir na n'Og, suitable for adults and children of all ages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Darragh Metzger
• Release date: Jan 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215254813

Darragh Metzger

I make my living in the world's two lowest-paying professions: acting and writing. While my resume includes stage and screen credits, I've spent the last several years wearing armor, riding horses, and swinging swords with The Seattle Knights, a stage combat and jousting theatrical troupe. My publishing credits include plays, non-fiction articles, and short stories, one of which made The StorySouth Millions Writers Award Notable Stories of 2005. I've written two short story collections and ten novels to date, sold three of them in 2002, and have now re-released them under my own imprint, TFA Press. My first non-fiction project, Alaska Over Israel: Operation Magic Carpet, the Men and Women Who Made it Fly, and the Little Airline That Could, came out in 2018. I also sing and write songs for A Little Knight Music and The Badb. If I had free time (which I don't), I'd spend it with horses. I'm married to artist/fight director Dameon Willich.

Book preview

Prologue

"I would award Sir Darren first prize for the Grand Mêlée , Opa announced over the heads of the gathered competitors looking up at him with eager anticipation. Wide grins all around belied the weary, sweat-streaked faces. He paused for effect, then lowered his voice in a doleful proclamation of judgment, ...had he not accidentally decapitated Sir Miguel's horse. Striking a horse is grounds for instant disqualification."

Sir Darren ducked his head with an embarrassed grin as the other knights hooted and jeered in derision.

Sir Miguel scowled and held up his steed's corpse by the jagged end in one hand, the battered terrycloth head, one eye sagging dangerously on a single thread, in the other. Thanks, Darren, he said. My gran made it herself. And it was her own broom.

Then who wins? Who wins? yelled another knight, bouncing up and down on her toes as if about to take flight. Her silver-painted, mâché armor caught the bright, afternoon sun in sparkles and eye-searing flashes. Is it me? Is it me? Her cry was instantly taken up, and the shrill chant of me-me-me-me filled the air like the piping of a gigantic clutch of prehistoric chicks.

The audience, mostly family members, laughed and threw out a few encouraging whistles. Seated along a rotting wooden wall framing part of the empty lot that had, for this one special day, become a field of honor, they'd cheered lustily all day, entering fully into the spirit of their children's game. Many waved little handmade flags and banners with the colors and sigils of their young champions painted or sewn on. The sight warmed Opa's heart.

He spared a moment to sweep his gaze around the tourney field once more in honest appreciation. The lot, overgrown with grass and weeds, had been transformed with bits and pieces of old junk, cloth scraps, string, scavenged greenery, wildflowers, hard work, and imagination into a setting as festive as any could wish. Grass-stuffed targets, festooned with handmade arrows from the earlier archery contest, hung in a row along a crumbling brick wall, the remains of a building falling into decay, opposite the audience. Cut-out and painted monsters, targets for the Fire-Ball Throwing contest, lay in bent and shattered piles against the wall where they'd been hastily dragged.

The lists, marked out by chalk, string, and anything heavy enough to anchor it in place, filled the center of the space. Here and there, discarded bits of homemade armor, broken, carved-wooden weapons, and the occasional abandoned stick horse lay momentarily forgotten in piles of colored sand—remnants of the fire-balls—and the dust of battles won and lost that day.

Clearly, the stories Opa had told to these children when last he came this way had taken root and put out a very promising, even splendid, little crop.

Each year, his circuit took him farther and farther afield. Each year, the ripples he caused spread farther, presaged more and greater changes. The melding of two worlds.

The old storyteller raised a hand, and the cries subsided like magic, though the eyes turned up to his had lost none of their shining luster. Only long practice enabled him to hold his solemn expression in place. He would not mock or belittle their efforts, these young warriors-to-be who played at being heroes, who dreamed of knighthood. Of wearing the mantle of honor in truth. Of earning the right to be called Cavalier.

"Victory of the Grand Mêlée passes to Sir Miguel by default, he announced, motioning to keep the torrent of noise he fully expected from pouring forth until he'd finished. Let us hail each and every one of the valiant competitors who have gathered this day in good fellowship to celebrate the Way of the Sword, the Code of Ohma passed down to us by that great and gracious lady, and all the heroes who have come before us. He raised his hands. Hip-Hip—"

HOORAY!! The massed shriek of happy voices sent a few curious pigeons working their way toward the laden banquet table into startled flight. The audience joined in, rising from the chairs they'd brought from nearby homes, and the salvo deepened to a rousing roar peppered with enthusiastic clapping. Even those who had snuck from their chairs to set up and arrange the Victory Feast paused in their efforts to add their voices.

Opa glanced toward the hastily-assembled, makeshift banquet table stretching along the wall behind the audience. Freshly-made savories, home-baked delicacies, casseroles of every variety, and other delights covered nearly every inch. A veritable cornucopia of delicious odors escaped the coverings over baskets, bowls, pots, and platters to hang in the late afternoon air, beckoning. His stomach gave a quiet, impatient growl.

And now, allow me to present the Grand Champions of the Tournament of Four Corners, he said loudly enough to drown out the rude noise. Beginning with the Mystic Champion, as is proper. Haste was needed, and not only because of his long-neglected stomach. The children and audience must be fed and settled before the storytelling could begin. He must waste no time building on the promising foundation already in place.

All showed ingenuity and promise...and good throwing arms. Warm laughter arose from the audience, quickly sinking back into anticipatory silence. Master Leroy, however, not only burst all his fire-balls on his designated targets within the time limit, he also showed great chivalry in offering to heal Red Jill when she scraped her knee in the running archery competition. He nodded to a youngster who stood at the back of the group of children as if uncertain of his welcome. Master Leroy, step forward and be hailed Champion!

The children all cheered and applauded; even the others who'd competed as Mystics showed no rancor toward the winner. Leroy, in a torn and soiled robe he'd almost certainly made himself, hurried forward with shining eyes and a grin almost wider than his small face could hold. Red Jill, standing nearer the front, lifted her leg almost to her waist to show off the bandage to all around her, and several moments passed while the children gawked appreciatively and made admiring noises.

Opa smiled down into the boy's wide, dark eyes. The fire-ball contest and other Mystic events had been entirely make-believe; hollowed eggshells filled with colored sand, much chanting and hand-waving, and a great deal of over-acting. This child was almost certainly too young to display much in the way of real Mystic ability. But the very fact that he and the other Mystics had chosen to compete as such indicated that, at the very least, some inner voice whispered the possibility. Time would tell.

Master Leroy, he said gravely, Accept with pride the accolades of your comrades and peers, which you have so rightly earned this day.

The boy's grin widened. Thank you! He turned and bowed, visibly drinking in the fresh applause, then hurried back to his place.

A fine start. Opa signaled for quiet; the applause stilled with gratifying alacrity. For the Ranger competitions, we had more contestants, and we saw some fine shooting! He nodded approval at the youngsters waving their bows—some of them homemade, others cherished remnants of another era—overhead and cheering lustily, while their families applauded. It was a narrow thing indeed, and in the end...we have a tied score! Mistress Jennifer and Master Heath, step forward and be hailed Champion!

A scrawny girl with a pointed chin and dirty, fuzzy blonde hair bounced forward, grabbing en route the arm of a boy who would be devastatingly handsome if he grew into the promise of the square jaw, large hazel eyes, and hair the color of ripe chestnuts. The two skidded to a halt before Opa and looked up like pups awaiting a treat.

Mistress Jennifer and Master Heath, Opa said with a nod to each, accept with pride the accolades of your comrades and peers, which you have so rightly earned this day. The children turned, grinning hugely, and bobbed to the cheering audience over and over like feeding chickens until Opa sent them back to their places.

And now, for the Grand Prize of today's tournament. Opa paused while a fresh chorus of shrill cheers and whistles rent the air. Many have won glory today, and many have shown their metal and revealed their quality before our admiring eyes. More cheers, interspersed with raucous whoops. He waited for another moment. "Points have been awarded for Swordsmanship, for the Joust, and for the Grand Mêlée. Cheers again. For deportment and conspicuous displays of chivalry. More cheers. Ah, the indefatigable energy of youth. For courage in the face of certain defeat. He pushed on over the top of the inevitable torrent of cheering. Would that we could award prizes to all who excelled at each of these tests of valor! But instead, we must choose amongst those who strove so valiantly, to select the one whose overall score is highest. He held out one hand. Sir Miguel! Stand forth and be hailed Champion!"

This time, the cheers arose mixed with notes of puzzlement or dubiety as well as approval. The young victor, clearly caught by surprise, reddened to his hairline. Rocking from the good-natured blows, backslaps, and the occasional noogies awarded by the other Cavalier contestants, he pushed through the crowd to where Opa stood and looked up with a solemn expression. But in that grave, unsmiling face, the dark eyes glowed with equal parts elation and disbelief; a cautious sort of joy undermined by something too like fear.

Opa smiled down at him. Shorter than most of the other boys his age, stocky, and with no great promise of beauty to come. But something in Miguel's hopeful glance spoke of concealed depths, a soul rich with promise.

The magic that lived within Opa stirred. This one.

He knew the makeshift tournament he'd been asked to judge was no simple game, no mere day of make-believe for these children who had never before dreamed of more than the meager, desiccated lives they'd been born into. No, this was one of the signs for which Opa watched: the first, green shoots of a rebirth, a new world springing, fresh and free, from the ashes of the old, ripe with possibility.

New growth required nourishment.

Beginning with the boy standing mutely before him.

Miguel acquitted himself well with sword and shield, and was among the three highest scores, he began. He scored well at the Joust, without once taking unfair advantage of an opponent's lapses, and never once lost either lance or shield. He stood against Darren and held his own with courage and honor, until the loss of his horse forced him to yield. He folded his hands before him and looked down at the lad with every appearance of gravity. Therefore, accept with pride the accolades of your comrades and peers, which you have so rightly earned this day.

The boy, face burning red, turned to make a jerky bow and started to bolt back to his seat. Opa gripped his shoulder to halt the motion. As Grand Champion of today's tournament, Sir Miguel, an additional prize is yours. You have the honor and privilege of choosing the first of the three stories I shall tell this day. But first... he raised his head to address the smiling faces around them ...to the Victory Feast!

With a fresh outburst of approving yells as vociferous as they were shrill, the children bolted for the banquet table, where their parents, anticipating the stampede, quickly herded them into order. The line moved rapidly as people loaded vessels with offerings.

Miguel's mouth opened as he stared up at Opa, then quickly shut, a whirlwind of expressions flashing across his unsmiling face. Opa lifted his hand from the boy's shoulder. Think upon your choice while you eat. I shall call upon you when the time comes.

Miguel nodded mutely and headed back to where his grandmother sat beaming at him in undisguised pride. Then he took his place in the line for food.

As the guest of honor, Opa had the most comfortable chair, which a broad-shouldered man with callused hands and a cheerful expression moved to the fragrant shade of a butterfly bush pushing aside broken bricks to cover a portion of one wall with life and color. Opa laid his pack down behind it, unbuckled the great, brass-quillioned sword from his waist and hung the belt over the back of the chair so the sword's hilt lay close to his right hand. The children eyed it enviously, but by now already knew he would allow no one to touch the grim and ancient guardian he had carried for as long as anyone remembered.

In moments, eager helpers presented him with a well-laden platter and a tall, foaming tankard that smelled of berries and toasted grains.

Chatting and laughing about the day's events, parents and children alike pulled chairs into a semi-circle around him, or settled onto the beaten grass as close to him as they could manage while they ate. He could feel their eyes on him, filled with anticipation and barely-concealed impatience. Waiting for him to finish his meal so that the telling could begin. It pleased him; they would be ready, open to the magic of the story when it came.

Without appearing to do so, he watched Miguel, sitting beside his grandmother's chair which he'd placed only a few feet from Opa's. Around the boy lay a small circle of empty space, a gap between him and the other children. Miguel's doing, or theirs?

If he was aware of it, Miguel gave no outward sign. The lad ate hurriedly, keeping one eye on Opa, the other dutifully attuned to his grandmother's needs; the old lady's poor eyesight made juggling plate, eating utensils, and her single, small cup of the homebrew something of a challenge for her.

The child had not been here the year before, when last Opa came to this all-but-forgotten community at the edge of a ruined city. Yet clearly, he'd heard something of the tales Opa told, the legends the stories passed on. The lessons they contained.

Opa sensed a reticence in the boy, something more than ordinary shyness, deeper than simple self-doubt. Some childhood trauma never quite forgotten? It marked him, kept him apart from the other children in small, subtle ways. The high spirits and laughter washed over and around him without once bringing a smile to that serious mouth.

The boy needed a story. The choice was his, but he must be guided to the one he truly needed.

Opa finished a final bite of pastry stuffed with spiced meat and melted cheese, washing it down with the rich, slightly sweet homebrew. Then he set his empty plate on the ground beside him and rose.

Like a stone dropped into a pond, the simple action sent ripples across the awareness of his audience; voices quieted, small, restless movements settling into stillness.

With a silent prayer for guidance, Opa softly released his breath and opened himself to the magic. Then lowered his summer-sky-blue eyes to Miguel's questioning brown. Tell us, Master Miguel, have you made your choice? He sent the smallest touch of energy, like an invisible, silken thread, wafting out to wrap around Miguel, seeking whatever lay concealed behind those guarded, secretly hopeful, eyes.

The boy hesitated, ducked his head, and looked around. I...your pardon, Opa, I can't decide. He hurried on before anyone could take his admission as an invitation to snatch the choice from him. Do you think the Fey might...do the Fey ever watch tournaments? To choose Triads? Or Triumphants?

Unexpected, that question. But perhaps a good thing: it gave Opa a chance to insert a lesson into the telling. Education was best absorbed through entertainment, after all.

When men came to Tir na n'Og, they brought many customs with them, including that of the tournament. Tournaments came to hold great importance, for many first became champions upon the field of honor, and so came to the notice of the Greater Fey. But that is not how Triads are Chosen. Nor how Triumphants came to be.

He drew in a slow, inaudible breath, and sent a whisper of his power out to swirl over and among the people gathered around him. Those who still ate or drank began lowering cups, putting aside plates.

In the beginning, said Opa, "humans who found their way to Tir na n’Og were unlikely to find their way out again, for the Sidhe—the Greater Fey—never forgot that Man had driven them from the earth with smoke and steel. In their own land, the faerie folk were ruled by nothing but their own whim, and men were blown like leaves in the wind of their passing. The Wild Hunt rode each night beneath the eternally full moon, and Man was their prey, dying on the fangs of their beasts and the points of their spears.

"It was Ohma, daughter of Lugh the Golden, Lugh of the Long Arm, who changed all that. It was Ohma who threw her protection over men. It was Ohma who enlisted the aid and support of the three Powers, firstborn and greatest of the Sidhe, so that they forbade the Wild Hunt, and made between Human and Fey the covenant we honor to this day.

"And it was Ohma who taught mankind the Code, and set our feet upon the path we would forevermore tread in Tir na n'Og.

"In gratitude, men honored Ohma and took her wisdom for their own. Human and Fey alike took up her Code and followed the way it led. The warring Fey Factions agreed to let humankind become the bridge between them all, and laid down their swords.

"And so, out of the greatest among the humans, the leaders of the Fey Factions chose the first Triads to carry out deeds of honor in their names. And some among those Triads survived to become the first Triumphants, who were given stewardship of the cities of men, and the first Ironlords, who were given the Law and sworn to uphold the welfare of the land.

These champions brought order and justice to a land long troubled by war and lawlessness. Humankind and Fey alike prospered when the Chosen strode like giants among us. We honor their names with tales of their deeds, and the deeds of those who have followed.

He looked once more into the round, dark eyes staring up at him in spellbound wonder. Miguel, suddenly remembering where he was, let his breath out and blurted, Please, sir, I want to hear about some of those heroes, the ones who started at tournaments. Because maybe someday— He stopped and flushed red again, looking suddenly miserable. I wish...I would like to get a chance to be in a real tournament someday. The boy looked down, his voice dropping to a mumble that barely carried to Opa's waiting ears. Like the real heroes. In the stories.

And here it was. The magic had found the right door. The right story lurked just behind it, waiting for it to open...

Opa hesitated. This was Miguel's story; logically, it should feature a Cavalier. But what the magic called forth carried something more, something different...

Tournaments are grand events indeed, he said lightly, and wagged a warning finger. But, as with any grand event, not all things may go as planned.

Anticipatory chuckles rippled through the gathering while a plump, cheery woman hastened to refill his tankard. Opa once more let his gaze travel over the audience, drawing all eyes to his. His voice deepened, rising to fill the space and wrap his audience in wonder.

Here we sit in the spring sunshine, with summer waiting on the morrow. He lowered himself to his chair once more and picked up his tankard, raising it as if for a toast. But in the time I speak of, Autumn had come to the land of Tir na n'Og.

A breeze, no longer carrying the breath of spring, floated through the gathering; parents drew their children close, as if sheltering them from an unseasonal chill. The crumbling walls and make-believe finery faded, forgotten, as Opa's words became images, became reality, and another world rose around them, sweeping all else away...

I am reminded of a great tournament that took place long ago, said Opa, held in honor of another Sir Miguel.

The Tourney for Don Miguel

Chapter 1

S uperb, the Chamberlain of the Triumphant of Drachenfel said as he lifted the elegant silver goblet from his lips. Anagnian, one presumes?

An old favorite. As if she'd grown up drinking fine wines. Or anything other than cheap ale. The thought almost made Mattie smile. Though if you prefer something from Drachenfel, I'd be happy to send for some. We're well stocked. She didn't want to confess she preferred Anagnian wines over those of her adopted city-state. It seemed churlish. Especially since she knew the Triumphant stocked nothing but Drachenfel wines in their cellars.

Oh, please don't go to such trouble. Truly, this is quite delightful. I haven't had a good Anagnian vintage in seasons. He paused, idly brushing a speck from the red and gold brocade of his robe. If I may be so bold, I would like to add my personal commendation to that of my masters, the Triumphant, in how swiftly and how well you and the Lady Rill have turned an abandoned, goblin-infested ruin into all of this. He looked around at their surroundings.

The gracious room still had an unfinished look; plaster-covered stone walls glowed a pristine white, too new to have garnered the smoke stains that would darken them over time. Burnished wood and polished stone gleamed save where covered by a rich carpet from Sahyun, or sparse but nonetheless fine furnishings from Drachenfel, Anagni, or Angkor. And a few random objects of beauty, some of which were clearly made by no human hand.

The Chamberlain returned his attention to her. I understand that your tenants expect a rich harvest this year; astonishing for a first planting, if I may say! You have done extremely well with this estate. Might one ask if you've finally decided upon a name?

Mattie smiled. "'Blaue Türme'. The settlement—it's almost a village already—is going to be called 'Weisshafen'. We'll announce them at the tourney."

Blue Towers and White Haven. He raised his brows and gave an approving nod. His eyes flicked to her forehead, perhaps to verify the colors of the mark she still bore there. Excellent choices, both.

Meaning, neither of the Fey Factions she and Rill, her Mystic, had served, would have cause to take offense. Of the third faction, well, she'd have to hope for the best. Hard to honor something when you couldn't tell what color it was. The mysterious marks on her brow and Rill's—three lines nearly as pale as the original three white dots they connected—had faded to a ghostly mauve. A mere shadow around the edges of the blue lines overlying them, the more obvious mark of their last Triad. Easy to believe she and Rill were only twice-Chosen, at first glance.

The Chamberlain took another sip, set the gorgeous goblet carefully on the table beside him, and leaned forward in his seat. The Triumphant has asked me to again express their pleasure and gratitude at the opportunity to act as Marshalls, and were most emphatic that I offer every assistance in making the necessary arrangements. What date have you set for the festivities, Lady Matilda?

A date? Mattie hoped she hadn't already made some obscure error in protocol. When she'd first broached the idea of hosting a tournament to Rill, they'd both quickly realized that neither of them knew enough to even know what they were getting into. She'd thought her carefully penned note to the Triumphant, that exalted former Red Triad to whom their Sidhe masters had granted the triune throne of Drachenfel, had made clear the true depths of her ignorance and need for advice. No, more than advice: a tutorial.

And would it be proper to ask him to address her simply as Mattie? She'd been Mattie the Crow for most of her life; certainly, for the entire time she'd served in the White and Blue Triads. And whatever color that one in between had been. She was only a Ranger. Lady Matilda was a name for a Cavalier or some great hero. We don't know. A date, I mean. You see, we haven't any idea what sorts of preparations are necessary or how long they'll take.

I see. He nodded, his smile broadening. If I may be so bold, I suggest that you first speak with the Carpenters' Guild. You'll need their help to build stands, barriers, and everything else. I'd also address the Drachenfel City Guard directly about hiring them for extra duty; you will need help maintaining order. Do you wish for this event to take place in one week, or two?

Mattie blinked. That's...awfully soon. We were thinking of a month or so out.

The edges of his smile retracted. Autumn is already upon us. Are you quite certain hosting an event so late in the season...?

Rill, from her favorite chair in the heavy shadows on the other side of the fireplace where the flame's light just brushed the edges of her face, finally joined in, her voice flat and cold as a wintery draft. Which would cost more?

The Chamberlain raised an eyebrow. Why, one week, of course, but—

If we set a date for one month hence, we'll have more time to get word out, to allow those from the farthest reaches of Tir na n'Og to travel here and participate. Mattie tried to sound firm rather than panicked. This was already moving too fast. They needed at least a month to get ready. At least. Whose idea was this, anyway? Oh, yes—mine. We want to make certain the tournament is a complete success. It should reflect well on all parties concerned, don't you agree?

Of course, of course. The Chamberlain—why couldn't she remember the man's name?—picked up his goblet again, rotating it absently between his palms as he leaned back in his chair. His pale grey eyes, as they met hers, held more than a hint of the curiosity he was too well-bred to openly express. Might one be permitted to ask, Lady Matilda, Lady Rill...? At Mattie's nod, he continued. Is there a particular purpose or event you wish to honor by hosting a tournament here? Something that you hope to achieve, aside from providing entertainment?

Mattie's eyes flicked down, though she kept her polite smile firmly in place. She did not glance at Rill, huddled in sullen silence and wrapped in a cloak of bitterness darker than the shadows that concealed her. A cloak that grew thicker and heavier day by day.

Rill.

Aloud, she said, In our last Triad, when we served the Blue Faction, our Cavalier was a man known as Don Miguel de las Cortinas. Have you ever heard of him?

The Chamberlain's smile, the essence of polite embarrassment, gave his answer before he spoke. Forgive me, but I'm afraid I have not spent as much time listening to storytellers and bards of late as once I did. I'm sure—

She waved aside his apology. It is of no matter, truly. You see, no one has heard of him, apparently. Including Rill and myself. She hastened on before his eyebrows could complete their climb into his hairline. We have no memories at all of our time serving with him. We stopped at an inn one evening after our first Triad—the White Triad—was Broken—our Cavalier, Adela, was taken to serve elsewhere. Better make that much clear from the start; the survivors of Triads broken by death had an unfortunate tendency to go mad. She and Rill remained perfectly sane. Well, as sane as they ever were.

We shared a few drinks with an aging Cavalier who called himself Don Miguel de las Cortinas. More than a few drinks, actually. In fact, she couldn't remember the last time she'd gotten that drunk. And Rill, who rarely drank at all, had been in no better condition. Neither, it seemed, had Don Miguel. But...

When we woke the next morning, we were in a different inn and we had all this treasure, all this... She waved to indicate their surroundings, and by inference, the wealth that allowed them to live in such comfort. A manor house on a great and still growing estate; rich rugs on the floors; art on the walls; servants at her beck and call; fine wines. Faerie-crafted silver goblets. Luxuries unimaginable to Mattie growing up. The kind of wealth that only happened in the stories and songs she'd loved as a child. The kinds of stories and songs told of heroes and the rewards they earned for great deeds.

Rewards she had no idea what she and Rill had done to earn. Great deeds neither she nor Rill could remember.

But Don Miguel was gone. We had his belongings in our room with us, his horse and mule in the stable with ours. We wondered what had happened at first; we thought we'd just lost a single night. She made herself smile, knowing it looked false. We learned that all three seasons had come and gone—a full year or longer. That we'd been twice-Chosen—once by some other Faction and then by Blue—and served together with this man, this nice old man we'd gotten drunk and sung a few songs with. And we woke up Broken. And neither of us remembers how or why.

The Chamberlain stared at her, then shook his head. Fascinating! And neither of you recalls what wrought any of this? Most astonishing! He shook his head again. But I fail to see how hosting a tournament...

We hoped that a grand tournament would draw heroes from all corners of the land, said Mattie. And surely at least one of them might have heard of Don Miguel.

Rill surprised her by joining in, though her tone remained disinterested. Would-be bards, troubadours, storytellers, and every other kind of hanger-on haunt the tourney circuit. Some of them might have heard something. Might know something.

We just want to know who he was. What kind of man— Mattie paused, picked up her goblet, and took a token sip. When she resumed, her smile felt more natural on her face. His mule now belongs to our foreman, and we've retired his horse here on the estate. But if he has family, they deserve some of the rewards we accumulated. Or at least to know what became of him.

If I may be so indelicate, it rather sounds as if you assume he is, in fact, dead, said the Chamberlain. But that may not be the case. Your first Cavalier, after all...

Rill answered before Mattie could, her voice cold as a sheet of ice. He's dead.

We tried to find out where he was, you see, Mattie hastened to add. Rill went 'out'...spirit-walking. She found one of our Patrons. Who told us to stop looking for him, that he was dead. That we were Broken. Again. Her throat closed tight on the last word despite her fixed smile. But we still don't know who he was. What we did together. And we would like to know. We need to know, she thought but didn't say.

Impossible to explain to someone who had never served in a Triad what the death of one of them did. Impossible to make someone else understand how one could ache for someone one didn't even remember.

Even if she'd wanted to, there was no way to tell him what not knowing had been doing to her and Rill. How the hole in their memories had leached away the pleasure they should have found in their new-found wealth, their success. How what others assumed were rewards from grateful Patron Fey felt false, shameful. A lie.

How she'd watched Rill retreat into some shadowy inner realm, consumed by bitterness, self-doubt...I can't lose her too. I can't.

Nothing would restore Don Miguel to them. But knowing something of their Cavalier might fix that hole in Rill's spirit. Knowing what they'd done together, why they were now so favored, might restore the pride to her eyes, lift her head back to where she'd once carried it. Might bring her peace.

Might at least keep her from going mad.

The bond among Triad members was supposed to end when a Triad was Broken, but Mattie had never considered parting ways with Rill. She could not imagine life without her. Didn't want to. Even if they never served together again.

Rill had never said anything one way or the other, but she hadn't tried to stop Mattie from buying the estate, hadn't chosen to live elsewhere. Had helped drive out the various fell creatures, rebuild the manor house, the farms, the settlement; designed the mill, settled into the newly-restored manor readily enough. Had made no move to leave.

But she spoke less and less every day. Practiced her magic less. Took less interest in the running of the estate. Even ignored the trove of mysterious, magical artifacts currently housed in a steel-lined vault beneath the house that had once roused her cat-like curiosity and driven her to feats of scholarly research that had initially bordered on obsessive.

Instead, she sat, usually in that same chair, surrounded by an invisible cloud of sullen anger and depression that poisoned the very air around her. Mattie could feel it like ants on her skin. A constant, low-level anxiety that nothing eased.

Mattie might not be her Ranger anymore in the strictest sense of the word. But she was still her friend. Rill had saved her life more than once in their time together. And Mattie wasn't about to let her drift away into the darkness without a fight.

For a breath, a heartbeat, a silence that felt too thick to break settled over the room. Mattie mentally fumbled for some polite word or phrase, something to get the subject back on track, away from death and loss and the emptiness of living what should have been a life out of every man's dream—

The Chamberlain straightened and spoke briskly. "Well, you will need at least three days' worth of events. And if you wish to attract contestants from all the city-states, you may wish to consider what sort of prize you will offer. It should be something more than mere monetary reward. Something unique. He twirled the elegant, etched-silver goblet in his hands thoughtfully and tilted an eyebrow at his hostess. These, for instance. Clearly crafted by faerie hands, as is the set you sent to the Triumphant. Truly unparalleled. If you've any similar pieces...?"

We still have a few things. Mattie hastily scrolled through her memory of what lay packed in all those bags, chests, and crates in the vault below. I'm not really sure what, though. I'd have to go through the inventory.

We've already sold or given away most of them, Rill snapped. Do you plan to leave us with nothing?

Oh, Lord Most High. Mattie half-laughed, trying to smooth over Rill's rudeness. It isn't as if we've a shortage of pretties, she said more for Rill's benefit than the Chamberlain's. By the Seven, they had more wealth stashed in the vault and in the bank in Drachenfel than the two of them could ever spend, even if the estate itself never generated a mark, a brass, or a bit. But for the grand prize, we were thinking of that. She gestured at the mantle over the fireplace.

The original, rotting wooden mantle had been replaced