Something in his voice relaxed her just a bit. She sat gingerly on the edge of the seat. She reached out for a vessel filled with sweet, fresh smelling water, and drank deeply. The food suddenly was irresistible. He sat and watched and waited, passing untried dishes to her as she ate.
His patience was rewarded, for in time, her hunger sated and her thirst slaked, she was ready to talk. After all, he seemed both reasonable and gracious. She would go so far as to be polite. “Thank you for the food and drink.”
“As you deserve. May I speak to you? I take your silence as permission, so let me say this. Your well-being
She felt herself falling into a pleasant and amiable conversation, relaxing as if this peaceful old man were one of her great-uncles voicing concern for her. It was a kind of glamour, something only trust can provide, and she found herself trusting him.
The Dark Lord asked her to give voice to the anger that smoldered within her. By her answer, he discovered its true root to be righteous, for it was based on the injustice meted out to her people. He then told her that he, too, had been wrongly judged. He spoke of his long learning, and of the rebuilding of his library. How he assembled it from materials secured by stealth from a great library, since burned to the ground that lay in the far lands to the south. Then he spoke of the nature of his art. “I deal with all substances. I find the essential value in all — including the debased, the vile, and the shunned. I take the life of a mere insect, a thing deemed worthless, and elevate it, in its purity and essence to the great stature it deserves. This I can do for you, Ara, who are already a noble and fearless warrioress. You have been deceived by others, even your Amon, who deserted you for his own adventure. Would you now embrace your own purity, your own destiny? She ate and drank further and asked him to explain many things, for he wished her to know all and to make her own decisions. He told her of the elusive nature of the lights in the northern sky, and then showed her a fabric that embodied the very nature of those celestial colors, that
Here Jess’s notes began again: “This is from an official record of the Canton of the Halflings. It’s disturbing.”
I am Mercy, humble crier of news for the Realm of the Halflings.
Hear now the Chronicle of Ara’s Betrayal, a quick-spoken account of her collaboration and her ambition. Woe to us all, and woe of greatest measure to the race of Halflings who for generations have shunned the hamlet of Frighten. Guilt for this outrage is theirs.
Ara was brought into the presence of the Dark Lord, still dressed as an orc-messenger bearing the insignia of the Source. So was she condemned to death as a spy. Her guilt and her defiance were evident, but by his glamour and her misguided will, she joined his cause.
Now his emissaries come to our lands. They command us to pledge our fealty to the Lord of the Source and agree to live under the Dominion of the Queen of the Halflings, or suffer war!
Cadence looked down at the last page and bit her hand. She couldn’t believe it. All this long tale as but testament to the pervasive powers of evil. All this tortured path she had followed. Ara The Betrayer! She could feel the air wheezing out of her soul. She dithered with the pages until a mist of angry tears came. They stung like hot acid. Like the truth.
indent'>
She wiped her eyes and put her chin on her hand and stared at a disciplined column of ants marching towards the wilds beyond the curb. They took their lumps and reorganized, and so could she. Besides, she was a huge winner, wasn’t she? She had found her grandfather. But, truth be told, the edge was off. Crazy as it sounded, if you couldn’t trust Ara, who could you trust? It ate at her until the tears dried and she resolved to go back to the Algonquin and hold those original documents in her hand. She would challenge Jess and together they would test the veracity of this Elvish scrawl.
She rose to her feet and looked up.
Directly across the street, perhaps exactly where it should be, was a door emblemned with a discrete black and white sign: “Talisman Store.” Below that was a tacky stick-on metal sign in red and fake brass: “No Soliciting.” She walked over and looked at the building.
It was a brownstone that loomed up three stories. A hand-manicured garden patch, bounded by an ornate metal fence, waited out front, along with two healthy oaks for summer shade. She watched as a breeze reaped the last few leaves.
She went through the fence gate and approached the wooden door guarded by an iron doorknocker in the shape of a boar’s head. An intricate latch substituted for a door handle. She knew that here was a reckoning. She owed something — to herself, not Ara. She had hesitated at the pool and regretted it. She wouldn’t freeze up now. Go with your gut, as her Dad might say.
She raised the knocker, paused, and let it fall.
The resulting sound was a disappointing clunk. She waited, reluctant to disturb the privacy of some family, probably a hardworking doctor or diplomat.
Finally she heard dim sounds from inside. The door latch moved in unexpected ways, as some inner bolt released, then the door opened.
The man before her was tiny, genteel and hunched, like a retired watchmaker. He studied her through thick glasses, and then stepped aside enthusiastically, as if in sudden recognition.
“Please, come in.”
Almost without thinking, she stepped across the threshold. The door closed behind her with a solemn, unnerving breath, as if wood and frame had somehow melded. Just like that, she knew her gut call had been hasty. Here there were two possible outcomes: very good or very bad. She’d left a note for Jess with the name of this place. Other than that, no one knew.
“Welcome to my … store.”
He showed her down a brief hallway that led to a bright room. Cadence stepped into a rich, cascading flow of soft daylight. She looked up. A resplendent glass skylight, decorated with stained glass, filtered a waterfall of light that fell through large banistered stairwell openings in the upper two stories.
The room was tastefully arranged with illuminated, museum-quality exhibition cases, each treasuring a few objects. Large gold coins, some ancient, some new, and none from the Franklin Mint. Small, brass-capped feet of unknown animals — perhaps ferrets or mink. What was almost certainly a duck-billed platypus foot, fitted with an ivory cap and an attached chain of irregular drilled pearls the size of marbles.
She walked along the last row of cases, their contents adhering to no apparent order, but each containing items capable of transfixing the viewer. Here was a crucifix with a mast of antiqued brass and a crosspiece of a polished wood splinter. No doubt a medieval relic. Next, laid on its side on a field of black velvet, was a World War II era Zippo lighter with “36th Texas” etched on it and a bullet crease along one side. There followed a small demonic face carved in jade. On and on: a scrimshawed ivory tooth, three inches long, depicting a full-sailed whaling ship being Evel Knieveled by an enormous Leviathan. An incongruous Alpha Tau Omega pledge pin from the Vanderbilt University Chapter, Class of ’90.
Finally, she came to a case with a solitary object — an oversized pocket watch, case open, displaying a score of tiny dials, one whirling madly counterclockwise.
“You got our letter.” She jumped, the little man was hovering so close.
“Well, uh yes, but how did you fi … select me?”
“Our invitations are very … exclusive. Don’t worry, we’re harmless. What do you think of our collection?”
Her neck hair wouldn’t go down. “Its … interesting.”
“Do you have a talisman?”
“Well, I inherited one. I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing.”
“They can be either/or.”
She decided to quit talking and get out of there. She casually surveyed the exit. The inside latch on the front door looked complex — wheels and levers and a solid metal bar seated firmly in an iron trestle on the wall. Barred.
