“Is it true what they said about the Wanderer? About the way she fought? All those things she did?” Again her voice dropped almost to a whisper. “Is it true what they say about how you lost your arm?”
Albern smiled. “That is a pile of questions all at once. You know, I imagine, that if I were to tell you all the stories you ask about, we would be here for months?”
“I know that,” said Sun quickly. “But … but could you tell me the important parts, at least?”
He studied her more closely still, and Sun felt that he was seeing more than her face, more than her fine clothing. She felt understood in a way that she rarely had before, truly seen in a way that no one in Dulmun had ever made her feel.
“The important parts,” murmured Albern, and it was as though he was talking to himself. “Yes, I suppose you might need to hear the important parts.” Then he spoke in a normal tone of voice again. “But I think the important parts are quite different from what you believe them to be. I will tell you a story if you wish, but not the story of my arm. Not tonight.”
Sun could not help the crestfallen look upon her face. “Why not?”
“Stories may belong to whoever knows them, but these are more mine than most,” said Albern, smirking a little. “I do not mind sharing some of my adventures with you—but only if you will listen to the ones I choose. Do we have a deal?”
It was not such a bad thing, Sun supposed. Knowing what she did about Albern and the Wanderer, even a simpler tale was bound to be exciting. And the beer was good. Glumly, she nodded.
Albern motioned to the barman again—Sun had not even realized her mug was empty—and waited for two more beers to be brought out. When the drinks had been set down on the table, Albern leaned his chair forwards, drank deep, and waited for Sun to do the same.
“Very well, Sun of No Name. These are the tales of the Wanderer.”
I was not young when this story began, but I was younger, at least. This was decades ago, and though my temples were just starting to grey, I was still hale.
In those days I lived in the town of Strapa, but I had been hired to guide a party of travelers through the Greatrocks. Leading the party—at the end of our journey, not the beginning—was Loren of the family Nelda. Have you ever heard of the Nightblade? That was her. Then there was the girl Annis, of the family Yerrin, and Gem of the family Noctis—no blood kin of Loren’s, yet closer to her than siblings. There was also the wizard, Xain but … well, he was less than cheery company.
And there was one other who set out with us from Strapa. But I would rather not speak of him now, for no story should begin on a note of tragedy.
I guided them all through the Greatrocks, across long leagues and through great dangers. We had some dark times in those mountains, and some good ones—both victory and defeat, though not in equal measure.
What you care about is that at the end of the journey—the end of that journey, at least—we rode down from the Greatrocks and into the town of Northwood. Our hearts were heavy, but our steps were light. To me, riding into Northwood was like visiting an old friend. I had dwelled there for some time. And Mag lived there. Mag, who would one day be called the Wanderer, and to whom legend had already given other names—first among them, the Uncut Lady. Mag, the mercenary, the barmaid, the wife. Mag, my dearest and oldest companion.
How long had it been since I visited her last? I do not remember now. Too long, I am certain. It is often that way when two people part after their youth. We made plans, we promised we would not lose touch, we thought we would always remain close. Such promises are always made in earnest, but the world usually works to break them, and so it was with us. It had been years since we had seen each other, and though we sometimes sent letters, even those had become more infrequent.
Mag and Sten had built their inn with some help from the townsfolk. It had a second floor, which was unusual in Northwood, but very necessary; Mag’s skill with brewing was well known, and she had many visitors from both near and far. But despite its size, the building did not seem to loom over you when you approached. Rather, it stood with welcoming arms spread wide, like an old woman greeting her grandchildren as they come to visit. Sten had fashioned a large sign to hang over the front door; upon it, a great rock thrust out of the land, waves and wind crashing against it.
“The Lee Shore,” I said. “And does it not feel like one after those mountains?”
We were eager for rest, so after tending to our horses, I pushed open the door and led our little party inside. Once through the door, I stopped to soak in the feel of the place. It was a sunny day outside, but I felt like I had found a warm hearth in the middle of a blizzard. I imagine you appreciate the atmosphere of this tavern where we are now. The Lee Shore was superior in every way you can imagine.
There behind the counter stood Mag. A figure of legend, though she did not look it at the moment. Her hair was held back by a string, and her arms were streaked with grease and dirt and sweat. But she had washed her face and hands, and as we entered she was scrubbing a glass clean.
She looked up suddenly, and our
