The Bellringer (Volume 1 of The Year of the Red Door)

The Year of the Red Door

Volume 1

The Bellringer

Volume 2

The Nature of a Curse

Volume 3

A Distant Light

Volume 4

The Dreamwalker

Volume 5

To Touch a Dream

Copyright Page

The Bellringer

Volume 1 of The Year of the Red Door

Second Edition

ISBN: 978-1-944320-45-4

Smashwords Distribution

Copyright © 2017

by William Timothy Murray

All Rights Reserved

This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

For permissions, review copies, or other inquiries, write to:

Penflight Books

P.O Box 857

125 Avery Street

Winterville, Georgia 30683-9998

USA

[email protected]

Be sure to visit:

www.TheYearOfTheRedDoor.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

pfbrev19/1

Publisher's Note

This electronic version of the Second Edition comes with significant enhancements over previous versions. In addition to minor corrections within the text itself, there is also included a glossary at the end of this book. Besides definitions, the glossary also contains links to maps that are also included within this book. The maps themselves have been revised and have coordinates to help you easily find items referenced in the glossary.

Depending on your particular reading device, smartphone, or reading app, you may be able to zoom or enlarge the maps included. If that is not possible with your device, links are provided to the website (www.TheYearOfTheRedDoor.com) where you can view the maps on your browser.

We have provided the glossary and the maps at the suggestion of our readers, all of whom we sincerely thank. And we hope that all readers, old and new, will make use of and enjoy this enhanced edition.

Penflight Books  

Preface

Welcome to The Year of the Red Door.   For those of you who are curious, I invite you to visit the accompanying web site,

www.TheYearOfTheRedDoor.com.

There you will find maps and other materials pertaining to the story and to the world in which the story takes place.

The road to publishing The Year of the Red Door has been an adventure, with the usual ups and downs and rough spots that any author may encounter. The bumps and jostles were considerably smoothed by the patient toil of my editors who were, I'm sure, often frustrated by a cantankerous and difficult client.   Nonetheless, I have upon occasion made use of their advice, which was sometimes delivered via bold strokes, underlines, exclamation points, and a few rather cutting remarks handwritten across the pristine pages of my manuscripts. Therefore, any errors that you encounter are due entirely to my own negligence or else a puckish disregard of good advice.

For those of you who might be a bit put off by the scope and epic length of this story, I beg your indulgence and can only offer in my defense a paraphrase of Pascal (or Twain, depending on your preference):

I did not have time to write a short story, so I wrote a long one instead.

The Author   

To

Deirdre

The Year of the Red Door

Volume 1

The Bellringer

"For whosoever discovers the Name of the King

so shall he become King."

Prologue

Steggan's Fortunes

I come from your brother. This is his daughter, called Shevalia. He charges you with the care of her until she is sent for. Meanwhile, she is to be known as one of your house, with your name. When she is sent for, she and this box must come together. Your brother holds you responsible for her safekeeping during this time of strife, and he bids you take these deeds for land in County Barley in the Eastlands Realm. With coin also that your brother supplies, quit this place and go hither to the north and take up your abode. That land is fertile and at peace. Your wife and this child will be safe from the turmoil that plagues us here, and you may make a fine living on the property given to you. Do you agree to accept this charge?

Steggan Pradkin looked at the lordly messenger with suspicion, then at the box, old, made of polished wood, hardly bigger than a large book.

I ain't seen me brother in ten years er more, he said, throwing a quick glance at the tiny girl standing aside and behind the seated messenger. She couldn't be more than three or four years old. An' we're only stepbrothers, at that. In all these years has he done a thing for me? Why does he think I'm willin' to do this? An' why don't he come an' ask himself?

He cannot come or else he would. You do not have a name in these lands as he does, and you will not be known in the Eastlands. It is for the sake of his daughter that he does this. In exchange for your faithful service to this request, you will be amply rewarded, far wealthier than otherwise, and freed from being a tenant. When the girl and the box are sent for, you will again be rewarded. The land in County Barley has acreage enough for crops and cattle, good wells, a fair house, and a good barn. With the coin, too, you may buy all the other things needed for a successful farm. If you remain a tenant on this estate, your future will not be secure. Indeed, all here will fare poorly when the new governor of this province makes his laws, for the master of these lands is not friendly with those who have recently come to power here in Tracia. It will not be long before there is a new master of this estate, one who will not be so kind or lenient to his tenants.

Hm. An' what's in the box, eh?

That is not of your concern. But the box and the girl must both be kept safe. If anything amiss becomes of either the girl or the box, you will rue the day you were born. When she is sent for, she and the box must come together. That is the way of it. Without her, the box is worthless. With care to business, and with the skill of your labors, you should have no want of money after but a few years.

Well! A sweet bargain, for sure, it seems.

I believe it is very generous, nodded the messenger.

Hear that, woman? We can get out of this hovel an' in our own place!

Steggan's young wife stood across the room, one hand propping up an elbow casually so that her other could more easily hide her swollen lip. She nodded, without removing her hand from her face, and said, Oh, aye! Quite an opportunity, it seems.

The messenger glanced at her, quickly observing again her black eye and the cut on her cheek, and he was clearly uncomfortable with this interview.

There is a stipulation, he said.

Ah! Steggan frowned and nodded, leaning back in his chair and putting his hands on the table. I knew there'd be somethin'. Well, what is it, then?

Once every so often, perhaps every year, perhaps more often, you will have a visitor who will come to look at the girl and the box. He will have a key to the box and the means to see if the box has been tampered with. He will look at the girl to see if she is healthy or ill. He may also question your neighbors concerning you and the girl. If he finds anything amiss, if the box has been tampered with, or if the girl is mistreated in any way, a warrant will be submitted for your arrest.

What? For what?

For theft of property. A price will be placed on you and your name given over to bounty hunters and reported to all the sheriffs of the land.

Steggan remained motionless, staring at the stranger. Behind him, his wife stifled a gasp as her eyes widened.

The girl and the box are important. Neither would be given over to you in this way unless the need for care was great.

After a long moment, Steggan stirred.

How much coin, then?

The messenger reached for his saddlebag and removed three purses, letting each thud on the table.

A stone of Duinnor silver, and a half stone of Glareth gold coin.

Steggan's face lit up as his wife audibly gulped.

Enough to set you up nicely in your new home and to keep the three of you for a fair while, the messenger concluded flatly. But you must make haste. If you accept this bargain, you must do so this night. If you do not accept, other arrangements will be made.

• • •

The girl, the box, the money, and the wife were soon all loaded into a cart, along with their sparse belongings, and after Steggan informed his overseer of their departure and settled his meager debts to the estate, he took them all northward. Within a month they found the place in County Barley, in the old Eastlands Realm, and they established themselves on the farm. They all toiled, even the little girl, but Steggan toiled the least, preferring the jug and the dream to the plow or scythe, and he sought more from the fruit of his schemes than from that of the land. Sometimes he seemed grateful for the change in his fortunes, but at other times he was resentful, saying that his brother ought to have done more, if he was so powerful and wealthy. Often was the night he held forth with jug in hand, his wife cringing while the little girl made herself scarce behind a chest or under a cot. And more often than not, the day after market would find Steggan at the tavern in nearby Passdale, then stumbling the long way home with little or nothing in his pockets to show for the produce sold that day, only to take more coins from the old purse and returning again the same evening to the tavern.

In spite of Steggan's behavior, and perhaps to the credit of the previous tenants, the farm did well enough for the first few years, and its fields and gardens provided food for the table with surplus to sell at the marketplace, which was enough to somewhat offset the growing expense of Steggan's drink. As foretold, during the third summer, a visitor did come to call, arriving during a time of day when Steggan was repairing a harness and his wife was hanging out the day's wash while the little girl pulled weeds from the kitchen garden. The visitor rode up on a fine horse, dressed in travel cloaks dusty with his journey, and, as Steggan put down his tools and approached, the traveler unbuttoned his overcloak and looked over the place.

Are you Steggan?

Aye.

Then I come to confirm the health of the girl and the safety of the box entrusted to your care, the rider said, dismounting. He pulled off his cloak, tossed it over the saddle, and hitched his horse.

Do ye come from me brother, then?

I am his agent, duly charged.

Well, come along an' I'll show ye the box.

Steggan led the man inside. Standing on a chair, he pulled the box down from a high shelf and placed it on the table.

It is somewhat scuffed up, the visitor observed suspiciously, turning the box to examine every side. There are scratches around the brasswork.

I ain't opened it, said Steggan. The scuffin's from movin' it 'round from time to time.

I can see it has not been opened, said the visitor, taking out a key from a chain around his neck. Please stand back.

Ain't I gotta right to see what's in it?

You do not. Your right is only to benefit from keeping it and the girl safe.

Unwilling to press the subject with the stern man, Steggan stepped back, saying, Well, that I've done, as ye'll see.

Steggan watched as the man turned the key and lifted the lid so that it blocked Steggan's view of the contents. The man's face remained expressionless as he gazed into the box and reached in to touch its contents. After a moment, he abruptly closed the lid and locked it, returning the key to hang about his neck beneath his blouse.

Very well. And the girl?

This way, right this way.

Back outside, Steggan led the visitor past his wife, who looked on with concern.

Ye best be startin' supper, hadn't ye, he grunted at her.

As soon as I get these hung, she replied, making a show of hurrying. Will he be stayin'?

Steggan was more than mildly relieved when the visitor said, No, thank you, madam. I'll be on my way after I see the girl.

Oh, very well then, said Steggan, gesturing toward the garden. Very well. Aye! Sheila! Girl! Get over here!

Why do you call her that? asked the visitor.

Well, it's a nickname, answered Steggan. These ain't fancy parts an' she ain't got need of a fancy name, eh? Get on out here, girl!

I'm comin'! I'm comin'!

There was a movement among the rows of beanstalks as a bundle of weeds appeared with two tiny arms stretched around, two naked feet underneath, and the very top of a head of light brown hair barely visible behind.

Yes, Uncle?

Drop them weeds an' come here!

The girl dropped her armful and stomped on them to approach. Wearing a simple blouse over pants, both made of sackcloth, she was barefooted with filthy feet and legs. In fact, she appeared to have not bathed in weeks, so mud- and soot-stained was every inch of her body. Her short-cropped hair was tousled and several twigs dangled from it. In spite of her appearance, she smartly stepped up to the two men and looked up at them, turning from face to face with her hands akimbo as if it was she who had summoned them.

Dressed in a boyish manner, the visitor stated.

Well, more fittin' when she's out of doors. An' she loves doin' things out of doors. Regular tomboy, she is.

Hm. Has she any shoes?

Why, of course. Why ain't ye wearin' yer shoes, girl?

I don't like 'em!

Get 'em on, an' let us see 'em!

She disappeared into the beans and quickly reappeared holding in each hand a tattered mass of something more akin to sandals, so many gaps there were in the leather.

See, there they are, Steggan said to the visitor. Well, put 'em on, girl!

The little girl dropped to the ground, sitting, and struggled to put the shoes on her feet.

Why is her hair cropped so short?

Oh, well, that's on account of she got it all tangled in with pine pitch last week, an' it was all we could do to save what she's got left.

Hm. And does she ever bathe?

She certainly does, Steggan nodded defensively. Most ever' fortnight, if me wife can catch her.

The visitor frowned as he watched the girl struggle to tie her shoes. After a moment, he gave an almost imperceptible sigh, and with a little shake of his head, he turned.

Very well. I've seen enough. I must go.

Steggan watched the visitor ride off, then turned to the house and bellowed, Get back to yer weedin'!

The girl frowned and just before disappearing into the stalks, she kicked her shoes off.

Did he say when he'd be back? the wife asked as Steggan slumped through the door.

No.

He pulled a cup and a jug from a shelf, kicked a chair over to the table, and sat down heavily, uncorking the jug and pouring its pungent liquid into the cup. Before him on the table was the box, and he hardly took his eyes from it for the rest of the night.

• • •

Two years later, the incremental increase of drink and brooding was taking its toll on Steggan, his temper, his increasing indifference to work, and the labors needed by the farm. So, too, it had its dark way with his wife, his niece, and those of the county who had at first been willing to be good friends and neighbors. When the visitor came again, Steggan had the temerity to insist on more money.

You have been paid and rewarded in advance, the visitor told him. The agreement stands, promises made. And they shall be carried out.

Surely me brother will send for his child soon, argued Steggan. Am I to take care of her, feed an' clothe her, for the rest of her life, then?

If need be.

Then why don't he come himself? Aw, but I reckon he's too high an' mighty, eh?

His agents are faithful to him, sir. And I hope you are, too. I bid you good day!

• • •

Matters only grew worse. Within the month of the second visit by his brother's agent, Steggan's wife had abandoned him and the girl, running off with a traveling tinkerman who passed through the parts. And, to Steggan's increased aggravation, the little girl was becoming ever more willful and disobedient. Steggan's fortune was soon depleted by drink so that he, by the necessity of his tavern debts, began to work somewhat harder than before, and to drive the girl harder, too, insomuch as his sorry state and her impishness would allow. The years crept by. And though the mysterious agent never returned, and neither was the girl sent for, Steggan nonetheless felt as though he was being watched. This feeling only increased his sullen and spiteful disposition, and he took to mumbling and glancing over his hunched shoulders. The farms and neighbors all around prospered in relative happiness and peace while Steggan's land steadily declined in fruitfulness. And while his neighbors enjoyed and celebrated each passing season, sharing with each other good company and kind spirits, Steggan and his young charge grew ever more aloof of them and ever more miserable.

Part I

Chapter 1

The Surprise Visit

Day 1

244 Days Remaining

When is the beginning of any story? Is it at the start of its telling? Or is it long before, in the eons of events, small and great, that lead to a tale's remembrance? It may be that any story is merely a journey where the teller guides the listener into a gentle boat and pushes out onto a river already long in course. And during that excursion, the listener may also feel the currents, and experience the bends and shoals formed by the force of history. Afterwards, when the teller of the tale has departed, and the passengers of his boat are safely ashore, they may then gaze farther downstream toward those days that come when the tale they just heard is forgotten and any remembrance of the past is washed away.

The time of this story began with signs and strange omens that appeared throughout the lands of the earth, and in the seas, and overhead in the skies. A new star appeared, briefly and brilliantly in the eye of the constellation Behemoth, and it lit the ice-covered lands of the north where it shone with the light of a half moon. It vanished after only a week, leaving no trace of itself.

At the beginning of this story, far to the southwest, and deep within the bowels of the earth, a dragon stirred from its long slumber. Turning over in its bitter sleep, it spat angry fire and smoke, shaking the ground far above his lair as he sent his molten bile through ancient cracks in the earth to the surface, spewing into the air, forming a new mountain with its ash, laying waste fair towns and villages, and smothering the grasslands with soot. For a year the dragon tossed and turned in its angry slumber, its hot venom flowing forth fitfully before all was again quiet and the new mountain shook no more, cloaking itself with gray vapors under which its shoulders became green with the next springtime.

That following summer was long in the old Eastlands Realm, not so hot, but pleasant with ample rain throughout so that by Midsummer's Eve the first crop of corn was already well tall and the woods were full of blackberries in green profusion. The mead of the region was deemed the best in many years and the wine that was vintnered that year in great quantities by the Eastlanders was for a long time sought after and well-savored as of special quality and rare lightness.

In faraway Masurthia, the coastal islands and capes were battered by typhoons. Every seaside tree and house within twenty leagues of the Bay of Famatir was swept away by the year's end, causing the peoples of that realm terrible hardship and sorrow.

Meanwhile, in the Thunder Mountains and throughout the foothills of the forest surrounding them, all of the trolls disappeared without trace. That was not a bad thing, some held, for they were a cruel and clumsy race and now the forest roads were suddenly clear of them. But, since their passing was so uncanny, some wondered what worse thing might now lurk in their place with the secret power to rid the land of trolls. Witches, maybe, or galafronks, even. Rumors began to filter out of the Thunder Mountains concerning bandits and marauders who had taken up in those mountains. However, such talk may have been much overstated by fireside and bedside, especially in the Eastlands where the elders liked for the youngsters to know their place.

Then, in the dry, hot deserts of the southwest, the Dragon People stirred. Ever at war with their neighbors to the north, they ordered their armies once again, formed their ranks, and gathered for a new conflict. Within their lands, they cruelly put down any who opposed them, and whosoever was not killed or could not escape became their slaves and thralls. So Belsalza, Emperor of the Dragon People, rid his court and his lands of any opposition and secured his domain as his forebears had done in ancient days. Soon his armies were on the march. There were some who continued to oppose Belsalza, even within his own lands, and they did so valiantly for many years, forming secret leagues and dangerous alliances.

Amongst the sailors and fisher-folk of Glareth on the east coast of the world, there spread word of new and wondrous sea creatures in far off waters. They were like fish, it was told, with butterfly wings that danced upon the waves about their ships and boats. Along with many of their watery kind, these lovely creatures dove and swam and danced upon the waters, calling to the seamen in a strange language like the chiming of soft bells, singing melancholy songs and songs filled with the music of delight. Upon their return, a deep enchantment came upon many of the seafarers, and they longed to go back to the strange and beautiful wave-dancers and to hear once again the watersongs. Of those seafarers whose hearts were filled with such yearning, and who did return to those waters, very few were ever seen again.

Far into the northern and western lands of the earth, and high up in the highest tower that overlooked Duinnor Realm, the secluded King of the Seven Realms learned of these strange and wondrous and foreboding things. As his agents came from far and wide to bring rumor and tidings, the King's astrologers made their observations known to him, his counselors gave their considered opinions, and his wise men brought their books and scrolls to show him what may have been written of old about such things. The King mulled over all that he heard and all that was shown him. He sent forth more of his agents to do his will, some to watch, some to listen, and some to lay in wait for any who might usurp his power.

Others watched, too. Some with their eyes, others by casting their stones and their bones, and a few by listening to their hearts and the murmurings of the earth and the stars. Thus, while the King was filled with dread and worry, though he never breathed his fears aloud, these others, scattered throughout the world, saw reason for hope in the subtle shift that was taking place in the cosmos, upon the earth, and within the seas.

As the years passed, some things changed only slightly with little commotion made or notice taken. The scattered ruins of the First and Second Ages gathered more dust and covered themselves a little more with vines and forest. A few more scrolls were lost to the tireless work of moth and mildew, their words never again to be seen. Fewer people cared to learn the Ancient Speech or to tell the stories of the beginnings of things or how Men came to these shores. A few more shadows crept into places once full with light, a few more paths disappeared forever under root and brush, and once-great highways grew thin, like rivers in a long drought, until only the thread of them remained. The neglect of people was matched by the attention of nature, and so many honored barrows of old became merely tree-covered hills. And there were fewer still of those who were here first, who remembered through their long years the joy of a young world not yet troubled by strife or sadness, a time when their hearts were not yet hardened by the melancholy passage of steady Sir Time whose tread is too light to be heard, and whose path can never be retraced.

Yet all these strange tidings and signs and slow change, seen and unseen, meant little to the peoples of the old Eastlands Realm, and their years were full of peace and bounty. They quietly flourished amongst the confusing happenings of the world, paying little heed to rumors and tales from across the mountains or over the plains. The years passed, one after another, with little difference from one to the next. Disputes were few and petty, families grew, and many grew wealthy, if peace, bountiful harvests, fat babies, warm hearths in the winter, and cool rains in the summer are any measure of wealth. The springs and summers as well as the autumns and winters all had their toils and joys, their beauties and their bounties, and generally each season passed into the next not too quickly, nor too late.

And so that is how things were on a morning of the last summer of the Second Age, though few knew it would be the last. So early in the morning it was that the night's coolness still hung in the misty air as Mr. Robigor Ribbon opened his shop doors and pulled back the curtains on the display closets. It was a sundries store, packed with everything from dried herbs dangling from the ceiling to bolts of cloth on tables. There were clay jars full of buttons and others full of beans, racks of pots and pans, shelves of candles and lamps, kegs of oil, crates of tea, blocks of soap, and bags of seed. There were racks of hats, vials of ointments, a shelf of pipes and tobaccos, bottles of ink, a vase of quills, a corner of tools and ready-made nails, a barrel of pickled cucumbers. And there was even a small case of modest jewelry—mostly brooches and bracelets and necklaces (although there were a few nice rings)—and it had a lid with a looking-glass on the underside that, when lifted up to reveal the contents of the case, provided a way for the buyers to admire themselves. It was just a little shop, and it was so packed and stuffed that it was a tight squeeze to pass between the tables and shelves, but it had years of cozy wear on its strong wooden floors. This floor, and the cellar below, had served as Mr. Ribbon's place of business for many years, ever since he left his grandfather's farm out in the county countryside. Already an astute trader of grain and produce, it was that year that he made his first arrangements with the blacksmith to sell ready-to-use tools and farm implements on commission and had soon after made trades and deals and bargains with craftsmen and traders far and wide. On a summer day twenty years earlier, he purchased the building here in the small town of Passdale, and that very same week he asked Mirabella Tallin to marry him. A year later, they were wed, and the upstairs floor became their new home, though in terrible need of repair. By the following summer, it was also the home of their son, who was now growing into a fine young man. Mr. Ribbon was pleased at how his wife had made such a cheerful and cozy home for them upstairs, and he was justly proud of his shop and of the important role it continued to play in the life of Passdale and the surrounding County Barley.

Mr. Ribbon could hear the clatter of pots upstairs as Mrs. Ribbon put away the breakfast wares, and, as he settled onto a stool at his desk, he heard a slight creak on the stair behind him.

Ye best tread lighter to sneak up on yer ol' man, he said, putting on his spectacles and opening a ledger book.

I was not sneaking. I was walking natural, retorted a boy who came up from behind and shoulder-bumped his father (something he would not dare do if Mr. Ribbon had a quill in his hand, for young Robby knew the business lay on every stroke of his father's pen). Mr. Ribbon looked at the young version of himself, smiling back. The boy, having just turned twenty-one, had his father's broad shoulders and, although Ribbons might never be tall folk, Robby was still growing out of his teenage scrawniness and showing all the signs of the Ribbon stockiness to come. They also shared the same black hair (though one was curled with some silver threads), the same chocolate eyes, full nose, and, as of recently, the same height.

Ye'll be taller than me, if ye keep havin' these growin' spurts, an' if yer mum keeps feedin' ye so! he uttered aloud before he could stop himself.

Robby laughed awkwardly at the sudden sentimental outburst. I already am! By a couple of inches, at least! Stand up!

I'll stand up to hand ye this! the father replied, getting up and reaching toward the wall where the cleaning tools waited. Before Robby could protest, he was given a broom.

Why don't ye take care of the front this mornin' whilst I look at what needs doin' today.

Yes, sir.

Thank ye. An', son?

Expecting additional tasks, Robby looked back at his father.

Yes, sir?

Ye did a good job with the books, yesterday. I went over 'em last night an' ever'thing was perfick. Yer numbers whar right, an' yer stock estimates whar good, too. An' I agree that we oughta forego any more pelts. They're in the way an' ain't nobody int'rested in 'em. Good job. Good job, indeed.

Thanks, Daddy. I want you to be able to count on me to help.

I know I can, son. I know I can. Ye make Mirabella an' meself most proud of ye.

Mr. Ribbon turned back to his ledger as Robby walked out onto the store's porch. Across the dirt road that ran in front of the store was a low stone wall bordering the Bentwide River, flowing away to Robby's right and thence southward. Across the river, the far banks rose up gently into fields of grain. Just as he stepped out of the store, the sun broke the mists over the distant ridge and bathed the morning in its golden light, setting the mists that rose over the river aglow as they burned quickly away. To the northeast, he could see the track of the river, marked by dense poplars along its banks, bend away toward the tall bridge that spanned the water, its stone towers just visible through the thick foliage. He closed his eyes, yawning wide and stretching his arms out, one holding the broom. With his eyes still closed, he listened. Already, Clingdon's anvil was ringing from the other side of Passdale, behind Robby, and he could barely hear the creak of Greardon's waterwheel, turning the stones of his mill just down the road to his left.

He turned that way to begin his sweeping, heaving another yawn as he opened his eyes, and saw for the first time a fine-looking, rusty-brown horse in saddle tied at the end of the porch, its head bowed out of sight to munch the grass below. A wave of surprise and bewilderment washed over him as he took a step toward the animal, but nothing like what he felt in the next moment as he tripped and tumbled over some mass at his feet. He hit the floor with a thud, and, rolling over, found himself gaping into the face of a strange man who had apparently been asleep with his back against the store wall and his legs sprawled across the porch. He had many weeks of travel-beard on his sun-darkened face, and brilliant green eyes that now opened below the brim of his hood and fixed Robby. The brown and olive cloak to which the hood was attached wrapped around the stranger like a blanket, mud-spattered and dust-covered.

You should watch where you are going, he said to the boy plainly.

You should watch where you sleep, Robby shot back, more than a little flustered and getting to his feet. Who are you? And what business have you loitering on our porch?

The horse lifted his head and looked on curiously as he munched. Robby, picking up his broom, noticed several things at once as the stranger got to his feet and stretched. He was tall—the top of Robby's head came up to this man's shoulder at best. His hood fell back from his head, revealing shoulder-length, light brown hair, the bangs on his forehead broken by a white streak of hair joined underneath to his right eyebrow by the line of an old scar. He kept his cloak, which fell down nearly to his ankles, pulled around him, but Robby saw that hanging from a shoulder belt was a dark leather travel case, embossed with a strange emblem, and Robby saw also the plain signs of a sword hilt jutting out from under the cloak.

Well? he prodded.

Well. The stranger finished stretching and dropped his arms to his sides, looking at Robby with a smile and with what seemed to Robby a familiar squint. If this place is still Ribbon's, and if Robigor Ribbon is still the proprietor, then I have business here.

I am Robigor Ribbon. Robby felt a little petulant after having been unceremoniously tumbled to the floor. It was true; he did carry his father's first and last name.

If that is so, then you have shrunk and grown young, and a bit more irksome than when we last saw each other, and yet your memory has grown old and forgetful. The stranger crossed his arms and tilted his head, eyeing Robby with a cocked brow. Robby felt his cheeks redden with embarrassment, as one might when caught in a lie, even though he had not actually lied. And, yet, the tall man went on, I do believe we have met, on several occasions, in fact. And though you carry the name I ask for, I think there is another who does, too. And if the other is your father, then he would want to see me since I have ridden hard and long to see him. If not, he shrugged, I will deal with you.

Robby was not sure what deal with you meant, and he felt his face turn from pink to crimson, just as he realized that all along he had been somewhat frightened of this man, though the fellow had done nothing to warrant the reaction. Inside, was all he could squeak out. My father is inside.

The stranger suddenly chuckled and grinned, Surely you don't recognize me, but we fought many a war together on the sand hill and in blacksmith Clingdon's old barn when you and I both were nigh ten or twelve years younger and you were only up to my waist.

Robby felt a strange sensation come over him as memories unfolded in his head.

Ullinseed? he whispered to himself, then, with more confidence, Ullinseed! Can it be you?

That is what you used to call me.

Robby's mouth dropped open, remembering the bright young man that had stayed with them for a season when he was ten or so years old. He recalled trailing after him from here to there throughout the countryside on some business beyond his young comprehension. And he remembered wrestling with him on the kitchen floor over a piece of sweet cake, laughing until they cried. He remembered lying on the floor in front of the fireplace while Ullinseed and his father sat in their chairs smoking their pipes long into the night, while his mother knitted. They talked about all manner of strange and wonderful things and faraway places and tales full of mysteries and adventures and other serious things, too. Each night, they talked and talked until Robby could no longer keep his eyes open but still tried to listen until their voices became murmurs mixed with the crackle of the dying embers. He vaguely remembered being carried to bed, sometimes by his father and sometimes by Ullinseed.

Robby woke suddenly from his near-dream, staring blankly at Ullinseed's outstretched hand. Robby grinned, too, and took the hand.

I usually do watch where I sleep, said the traveler, putting an arm around Robby and leading him inside, and this lapse on my part will not soon be repeated on your porch!

I'm sorry for the way I acted, Robby said seriously, but we've had a certain number of strangers about, lately.

I probably would not have acted so calmly myself, Ullinseed laughed, so don't be sorry. These are times to be careful in. You challenged me, and rightly so. Just as I hope you would do any stranger. Look at this, he waved his hand around as they entered. Business appears to be just as prosperous, and perhaps more so!

Mr. Ribbon heard the commotion and the voices outside and was working his way from the back stockroom to the front when, turning a corner, they came into view. Mr. Ribbon froze, broke into a smile, and stretched out his arms. Robby watched the two men embrace, patting each other on the backs heartily and shaking hands.

It's good to see you again, Robigor!

It's been too long, Ullin. Three years? Four?

About that, I think, since I last passed through, but much longer since I last saw Ribby, he said putting a hand on Robby's shoulder. And now he's a man! Hard to believe.

Yep, I reckon ye did miss him the last few times ye came through, with him at his letters an' all. Come. Come on in. Mira! Mirabella! As Mr. Ribbon called upstairs, he pulled at the arm of the welcomed guest who gently resisted the tug.

I cannot stay long, he was saying as Mrs. Ribbon appeared. A little taller than her husband, thin and with skin like milk, her crimson hair pulled up, she was still tying the side laces of her bodice. When she saw the stranger, she halted, staring at the visitor. Suddenly her entire countenance transformed as her face lit with recognition and joy so that her green eyes welled with tears, and she rushed to him.

Ullin! she cried out in happiness. Oh, Ullin, blessed stars above! To Robby's shock and some dismay, Ullinseed picked his mother up and twirled her about like a lass, barely missing a rack of jars, the both of them laughing with delight.

Do you remember Robby? she asked when her feet were back on the floor. Holding out her hand to her son, she pulled him to her, putting her arm around his shoulder proudly.

Oh, yes, I remember him quite well, though he is a man now. But I think he does not well remember me.

Yes, I do, Robby stammered, trying to smile. At least I think I do.

Robby, his mother put a hand on both of his shoulders and looked straight into his eyes. This is Ullin Saheed. He is your cousin, my brother's son.

Oh, yes, Robby said, shaking hands again with him. Robby had forgotten that he had a cousin and that he once had an uncle, too. While Robby tried to remember what had happened to his uncle, and why his cousin looked so much older than his mother, his parents were trying to bustle Ullin Saheed around.

What do you mean you can't stay long? Mirabella was demanding. At least for a few days.

I'm sorry. Not even for a night. My business will not wait. It brings me here, but then I must be off. I must push through Forest Mistwarren, thence to Colleton, and from there by boat to Glareth by the Sea. I hope to return this way. Even then I will not tarry long. I must reach Loringard before the snows cover the pass and block my way back to Duinnor.

I suppose you go to see your mother in Glareth? she asked.

I hope to see her, yes. But it is business that takes me there, not pleasure.

What could be so urgent that you cannot stay but for a—

Mira! Mr. Ribbon broke in gently, then looked at Ullin. Yer business, urgent er no, is yer own affair. Can ye not stay at least to rest for a little while? An' maybe get a decent meal?

As it happens, since my business brought me here to see you, I've allowed time. First, however, I need to see to my mount. He has carried me faithfully and fast and with little reward or rest for sixty-odd days.

Of course. Robby! See to Ullin's horse, won't ye, son? Get him liveried over at Torman's. An' hurry on back, as we might be needin' ye.

Wait, Ullin said as Robby turned to go. Would you mind first removing the saddle and bags, and lay them up on the porch. That and a tarpaulin over the saddle might keep away questions at least for the short while I am here. There are too many people around that would ply me with handshakes and questions and hold me from my course.

Surely, surely. Robby, see it done just as he says an' get on back as soon as ye may.

Yes, sir, but if secrecy is needed, who shall I say the horse belongs to?

Tell Torman it belongs to the Post Rider, which is true enough since that is what I am these days. Thank you, Ribby. Ullin said.

I am called Robby, now, as I'm grown up and no longer a child.

And you may call me Ullin Saheed, since your skills of speech are much improved, too. Or just Ullin, as do most.

Robby smiled and nodded. I'll be back as quick as I can.

Ullin's horse was eyeing Mrs. Ribbon's herb planters, just out of the reach of his tether, when Robby came outside. Soon the cinches and straps were loosened, and Robby was pulling off the saddle. He could not help but notice the strange embossing on the saddlebags and buckles, some foreign lettering he supposed, something like the script of the Westlands in some of his mother's books. As he removed a bedroll and bundle that hung on the back of the saddle, he saw protruding from it the hilt of yet another sword, longer and finer than the one worn by Ullin. He put it carefully down in a pile to take inside and quickly had the saddle off and up onto the porch. After taking the other things inside and tucking them away in a corner, he covered the saddle as requested. He quickly took up the reins to lead the handsome horse away, but the beast was reluctant to leave the thick grass.

Come, there, Robby said soothingly, you'll have your belly full soon enough. And a nice grooming, too.

The horse glanced at the store, then allowed himself to be led away.

• • •

Special Post, eh? Mr. Ribbon asked as he and Mirabella led Ullin upstairs.

Yes, for nigh onto a year I've carried that commission, too, for special dispatches.

Where is the usual man, Bob Starhart? Mirabella asked. It's been well over a fortnight since he has come through.

An' how did ye come to be commissioned as a Post Rider, anyhow? D'ye still carry the King's sword?

Yes, I am still a Kingsman as well. How I came to be also riding Post is a long story, and the short of it I will tell you later. Of Bob Starhart I cannot say, and I'm very concerned. I was to deliver to him several dispatches to be taken to other parts and was to receive from him the Post for Barley since I was to come this way, anyway. But when I reached Janhaven, where the Post Station is, they had not seen Starhart for three or four weeks. That was yesterday. His wife was much concerned, too; she was at the Post Station when I arrived. And, by the time I left there, she had convinced the Post Riders there to send out another search party for him southwards along his last route. My understanding is that they've already scoured the countryside for him, and this was to be their last attempt to find him. I would have accompanied them, but my business cannot wait.

Oh, that don't sound good at all, Mr. Ribbon said. I certainly hope he ain't met up with them bandits that's rumored to be about them hills 'round thar.

I was told that a number of unsavory characters have been passing through and loitering about Janhaven, Ullin nodded. As you can imagine, everyone over there is quite worried.

Here, let me have your cloak to clean. There is bathing water and soap over here, Mirabella directed Ullin. Clean up a little and come to the kitchen. Our questions can wait until after you've eaten and had a bit of rest.

• • •

Robby hurried to the livery stable up the road about a furlong, and was glad that he did not run into anyone along the way. He had a strange feeling that he was caught up in some mystery and was a little perturbed by it, too. At the very least, he did not want to answer any awkward questions about the horse and was grateful that only the stable hand was at the livery. After leaving instructions to give the horse the best—water, oats, a check of the shoes, and a rubdown—and telling the attendant to put it on the store's account, Robby started back home. He almost broke into a run but checked himself to a very fast walk. He was irked by the notion that Ullin, having arrived out of the blue and full of mystery, was probably explaining everything at this very moment, so that by the time he got back home all would be told, and he would stay in the dark. He took the steps by twos onto the porch and into the store and the stairs likewise, panting as he got to the top floor. His mother was busy in the kitchen, and in another room his father was looking over some papers, some rolled up and held by leather cords, others folded and sealed. He heard pouring water from the washroom, and, walking to the open door, he saw Ullin rinsing his face in the washroom. His cloak, sword, and travel bags were out of sight. He was wearing a dark green jerkin over a black blouse from which, as he bent over the basin to dash more water onto his face, a silver locket dangled. The legs of his breeches were tucked into high, brown boots, almost up to his knees, that were laced tight. Robby saw the right boot had a sheath made into the side of it out of which a dagger hilt protruded.

You certainly are well armed, Robby said, leaning against the doorway, trying to breathe easy and act nonchalant. Ullin turned, wiping his wet arms with the towel.

Better than some, he said. Not as well as others.

I noticed you had a long sword in your bedroll, a shorter one, and your boot has a dagger.

The dagger and the long sword are my own. The other shorter one is standard issue to Post Riders.

I never saw Bob Starhart carry one.

Ullin hung up the towel and shrugged, putting the locket back under his blouse.

Mr. Starhart is not a Kingsman, he stated.

Do you have much call to use any of them? Robby went on.

Sometimes. When necessary.

Where did you learn to use them?

Far from here, in the King's Service, Ullin replied, rolling his sleeves back down and moving toward the door. Now, what about you, though? You look well. The last time I came through, I was told that you had just finished your letters with the local schoolmaster. I thought you were to go to Glareth to continue your studies there.

Yes, that was the plan. Robby shrugged and went on. But one thing and another has put me behind. For one, I had to take care of the shop for about a year while my father traveled back and forth to Colleton on trade business. By the time that was all settled, I had missed two terms. Then, on top of that, I decided to wait for a friend of mine to finish his letters so that we could go to Glareth together and take the entrance examinations together. Only he's taking longer to get his papers from the schoolmaster than I hoped.

I see. Then you must be pretty impatient to get on with things.

I don't know. I suppose, in a way. But I don't mind waiting a bit longer, as it turns out. He's a good friend. And when he does get his papers, it'll be good to have a friend to go with me. And I'm still reading with Mr. Broadweed, the schoolmaster, to keep my skills up. He has lots of books that he lends to me. That is, when I'm not helping with the shop.

And what of your friends? Do you see them much? Or has your work in the store prevented that?

Yes, I've been busy. And Billy, the friend I mentioned, the fellow I hope to go to Glareth with, is kept busy at his family's estate, too. That is, when he's not at school. His place is Boskland, if you know of it. And my other good friend, Ibin, has taken up metalwork there, too, sort of. So I don't get out and about much these days, except for running errands and such.

Yes, I know of the Bosklanders. A hearty old clan, by the tales of it. And I seem to remember, Ullin said, as Robby guided him down the hall, a bratty little girl who threw dirt clods at us. For almost a whole day she followed us across County Barley taunting us. Remember how you'd tag along with me on my mapping surveys? Anyway, she certainly was a wild little girl. Do you know who I mean?

Oh, yes, Robby felt his heart thump and hurried Ullin to the kitchen.

Whatever became of her?

I'm not quite sure, Robby said awkwardly, feeling his face redden. I wish I knew. I haven't seen her around lately.

Ullin looked at him with more insight in his concerned expression than was comfortable for Robby.

Hm. That's too bad. I hope she is getting along all right, he said. Before he could say more, Mirabella took over.

Here. Sit. I've got some leftover breakfast pie, baked just this morning, and I have put with it some slices of ham. There's a plate for starters. Here's some hot coffee. A jug of cold apple juice. And here is a bowl of strawberries. There's more of everything, so eat to your fill.

This is quite enough, and more. Ullin sat and looked around the table where no other plates were set. But what of you?

Oh, we have already had our breakfast, she replied. I'll see what I can do about that filthy cloak, she said as she left the room.

Robby felt a hand on his shoulder and saw his father motioning him aside.

Son, he said. I need ye to do a few things.

Yes, sir?

Mr. Ribbon took out a scrap of paper and handed it to Robby.

I need ye to watch the store whilst Ullin's here. An' I need ye to put these things together for him. The best stuff, top drawer. An' pack the pouches full an' tight solid, an' all. Only in the amounts I've written, an' no more.

I understand.

Lemme know as soon as yer finished an' ready for me to check it.

Robby looked at the list then back into the kitchen at Ullin.

Off ye go, son. An' don't ye let on that anybody's here 'cept us Ribbonses, lessin ye must.

Yes, sir.

Once more, Robby felt he was being put out of the way, so to speak, of the information he dearly wanted. As he began looking for the things on the list, his curiosity grew more intense. It was as if it had been building up for years and years, with no way out. Anyway you looked at it, he should have been away from Passdale years ago, getting his schooling at Glareth and then traveling about on trading business. As it was, at twenty-one, he would be older than most of the applicants at the Glareth Academy, and would be older, still, when he graduated. The delays were vexing, but he knew they could not be helped. The store, their livelihood, must come first, and his father's travels had been necessary. As impatient as Robby was, he understood how things were, and made the best of things. But there was so much he did not know about the world, especially that which lay beyond Passdale and Barley, and he was anxious to get on with learning about other places. Now, with Ullin's sudden appearance, he was face to face with a potential fulfillment of his curiosity, but instead he was thwarted at every turn from satisfying it. He could almost hear his father's voice telling him that he was too young to understand that to satisfy one's curiosity, one must often let other longings remain unsatisfied, that the path to one is sometimes the path away from another.

At the moment, Robby's path was clearly in the bins and drawers, shelves and jars of the shop he had always known. Over the years, since he was eight or nine, whenever helping his father stock, he had mentally noted where things were from, or else he had asked his father. After a while, he understood that more than half of all the things in the shop came from places he had never been; indeed, the world of Passdale and County Barley was very small. As a lad, he wrote down the names of those places, even making copies of the ledger books. But, in his copies, instead of amounts and values, he put place names, and, if he knew or could find out, the distances and direction from Passdale to those places. Once, he took his list to schoolmaster Broadweed, hoping he could show them to Robby on a map.

Well, I have a few old maps here, the scholar told him. But don't you know that your father has better maps than any man within thirty leagues of here? And for a man who's rarely been more than that distance from Passdale, he probably knows more than anyone in these parts about, well, about other parts. And your mother knows even more.

That was indeed a surprise to Robby. Certainly the boy had seen the maps and charts, but he somehow did not realize they were real. Later, when Robby asked his father about them, and when Robby showed his list, his father was amazed at the boy.

Well! I never did see a list like this un here! he said, scratching his head. He looked at Robby, and laughed. I reckon it's time yer ol' man gave ye some lessins, eh? And night after night, they had pored over the maps, with father telling son all he knew about every place on the maps, which was not all that much aside from where things were made and a few stories he had picked up. Even then, there were many things in the shop from places not on the maps, and Mr. Ribbon was hard pressed to figure out where on the maps to point. So Robby copied the maps in his own young hand, and made notes right on the maps, such as:

Bransondale—good pottery

Millsin Fork—flint

Tilderry—linen

Dirkshire—cheese, soft white

Barsonfar—cheese, hard yellow

Tallinvale—glass, clear and blue-green

From those youthful days to now, it never occurred to Robby to ask his father where he got those maps. Perhaps more irksome at the moment, Robby had not yet seen even a fraction of the places he had charted. Now, as he pulled down a blanket and put it on the table, he said, Lowbough, which was where it was woven. He reached for a vial of ointment, Umston, and a block of oilwood, Chawbree, and turned to prepare a couple of pouches of tobacco. Bessinton, he said as he picked up the pouches, and Farbarley, as he opened the keg.

A short time later, Mirabella came downstairs and saw him standing before a table, list in hand, going over the things he had laid out there. He pointed at each item, looking at the list, saying, Bessinton, Passdale, Hazleton, and so on while his mother watched silently from the stairway. She let him continue until he had checked everything on the list. When he put the paper down, she approached.

It appears you have gathered bits from the whole of the Eastlands and beyond, she smiled. Robby looked at her and then around the room.

I suppose, he said. But most of Eastlands' bits will stay here.

Including yourself?

What do you mean?

I know restlessness when I see it, she said mildly. And I know how disappointed you are that you have not already gone to Glareth and out into the world.

I try not to let it show, Robby said.

It doesn't show all that much, she answered. "You are remarkably patient for someone your age, and for someone who has been kept from the things he desires. Billy's mother tells me that he is progressing with his studies fairly well, and I have no doubt that you'll be at the Academy in Glareth in time for the