A Count’s messenger arrived a few days later in the middle of the week with a letter from Lord Alard. The knight came by horse and looked nervous, delivering the letter to the mage and making a fancy bow before leaving without looking back.

“He smelled like battle, master.” Gillibert complained, waving one of his wings. “Strong smell of blood.”

The mage kept silent and closed the door before opening the letter. Alard’s writing was filled with formal waste of time that was a sign something bad had happened and that he didn’t want to explain it in the letter itself. The noble’s caravan was late and they had to stop to deal with an emergency.

He and Gillibert spent the whole morning tidying up the house. His laboratory was finally done, his small library was slowly getting filled with books, scrolls and tomes to help his disguise as sage and alchemist. The mysterious book was moved from his drawer to a locked chest in the attic.

After that, Gillibert started bothering his master so they could take a stroll around the town. Otterwesh surely would have something for them to kill time. As a way of getting rid of the owlet’s nagging, Isemberd accepted and they went out.

They arrived at the town near lunchtime and stopped near the market to buy something to eat. They passed by the store where Joran worked to greet him, and he pointed them to a tavern named Otter’s Den, where a bard would offer a bit of music and stories later.

The place was cozy despite not being too big. Isemberd stopped near the counter and asked the tavern keeper for a beer. The man was apparently old with a beer belly, but he moved really well and his arms were thick and strong. Isemberd looked around for the girl he knew Joran was interested out of a little curiosity to know how she looked like, but he didn’t find her.

“Bird of prey, eh?” the tavern keeper asked while frowning towards Gillibert and leaning over the red wood of his counter. “Are you the lad the Count sent us to work as sage?”

Isemberd pulled a chair and left his owlet hop over the counter.

“Yes! I’m in charge of any services that involves law, medicine, alchemy or similar, sir…?

The keeper had his eyes glued to the small owl all this time. His big mustache and thick eyebrows were both gray.

“Ernin Louis from the old Rivien down south from here.” He replied, offering his hand to the sage.

His handshake was strong. Isemberd introduced himself:

“You can call me Isemberd.”

The usual reply came almost immediately:

“No surname or place of origin?”

The young man replied:

“Is a long story, mister Louis. What is the bard going to show us today?”

Mr. Louis filled a cup with beer from a nearby barrel and left it over the counter near the sage. He got closer to Gillibert again analyzing the bird with a serious expression. He offered a finger to the owlet that gave him a distrustful glare before tiptoeing back near Isemberd’s hand.

“Your owl is very well-behaved” the tavern keeper said, relaxing both expression and shoulders. “And different too, those are gorgeous chest feathers…”

“He’s an amazing company.” Isemberd said. “Has been with me since he got out of his egg. Don’t you have any snack that I can give him?”

The old man shook his head and laughed.

“I’ll see what I have in the kitchen, my cat might have caught a mice or two. Or something else, if I can find it.”

Before leaving, he added:

“The bard is going to tell some stories soon. See if he can lift the people’s spirits up a little. All of this talk of wolves and undead are getting people a bit down, you know what I mean?”

Isemberd nodded.

“Thank you.”

He waited while drinking his beer and sometimes caressing his owlet’s head, that closed its eyes. The sage’s eyes darted around the people that entered, trying to pay attention to whoever had more of a traveler attire, and occasionally he greeted back someone that waved at him. Keeper Louis came back with a small leather pouch that he gave the alchemist.

“Attention, attention here, ladies and gentlemen, and old Louis!” The bard said as some people started closing the windows pushing tables and chairs, and the volume of chatter went down.

Someone pulled Isemberd’s sleeve with him turning in time to see Maeven walking around with other children and hoping to wave at him near the commotion.

“Mister alchemist teacher!” She greeted.

“Miss little poet.” Isemberd replied, nodding at her.

Maeven laughed and went to sat near him while her friends dispersed around to join their family and other friends. She and Isemberd talked a little before Louis came around and started chatting with the girl about her clumsy brother.

Then a violin note pulled all attention towards the fireplace of the tavern where the bard was starting to talk, with the magnetic tone that could only be described as the magic of a stage:

“Ladies and gentlemen! I know times have been weird lately, with monsters, bandits and… god’s forbid, mages! All wandering around! Lads and lasses, fear not because we of Otterwesh are neighbors of a special and legendary place!”

Isemberd turned to the bard in time to see him play a few notes on his instrument. His boot was on top of a chair, his hat was tilted a little, a pretty red feather moving it. The artist was using elegant clothing that were practical for traveling and in orange and white, the colors of House Wells.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

“…right there near the border where our small stream full of otters turn into a mighty river exists a place called Nott. A magical place, you see? It was there that our horrible war against Soryn met its end!”

Hearing the name of the neighbor kingdom made Gillibert get up, paying attention after flying back to Isemberd’s shoulder. The young sage sat properly to watch the show. People stood silent to listen to the bard while he started narrating about the great battle over the bridge that connected the two kingdoms:

“It was night and a storm was raging, and the river was running high and mighty. People of nearby towns of both places were outside to help victims of a few houses that got destroyed by the bad weather. At the time, both kingdoms were already discussing peace treaties, but that wouldn’t stop our mages from the famous Crystal Octahedron to be there in a secret mission: to steal a magic grimoire that belonged to one of Soryn’s mage-generals.”

The Crystal Octahedron was a legendary and recent company of battle-mages of Neoria’s military. During the war, they were absolutely crucial to stop Soryn from invading the kingdom.

While talking, Louis’s waiter walked around silently delivering food and drinks. Gilibert was paying attention like the children were, with widened eyes and in awe. Isemberd looked pale and sick.

The bard continued:

“It was there near the bridge in the small town of Nott that our eight mages were ambushed by Soryn’s mage-hunters and some troops that were stationed near the village. The members of our special mage force were under all sorts of disadvantages possible: hurt, surrounded, under a storm and with civilian from both kingdoms under the magic crossfire.”

Isemberd drank all of his beer in a single nervous sip. He was starting to have difficulty breathing.

“But who were the eight young mages from the Crystal Octahedron, you ask? Our military’s magic jewel? Well, each one of them was a master of at least one school of magic, geniuses trained since childhood…”

The disguised sage rubbed his face. Now he barely could hear what the bard was saying. He couldn’t breathe, and his heart was beating fast.

“…throwing away lightning and creating powerful gusts of wind to block arrows, summoning ghosts and monsters to attack their enemies and hurling giant boulders of stone with the power of their minds!”

In the middle of the description, Isemberd felt as if he was underwater with his ears and hard breathing. He heard Mr. Louis complaining:

“Hey, you didn’t talk about the death harpies! A whole flock of them were there!”

“Let the man work, innkeeper!” someone yelled.

“Yes old man! Do you wanna come over and tell the story in his place?” someone else added.

The bard laughed it off and waved at them a few times with his violin arc before making a deep sound and continue talking as if all the interruptions were a part of his show.

“The battle was fierce, and both groups seemed to reach a stalemate, until one of our eight prodigies, a young hero already fed up with all the carnage, started flying high, so everyone could see him. There he was an easy target for arrows or the dark powers of the monster-slayers…”

With a fancy gesture pointing towards the keeper, he added:

“And for the giant war-owls of Soryn, enormous and ferocious birds of prey capable of tearing apart a man inside his armor and taking cattle from the ground with her talons!”

Isemberd stood up, taking Gillibert clumsily in his hands. He leaned towards Louis, that looked at him with a worried expression. He pointed to a few silver coins over the counter, near his empty cup. Louis tried to talk to him, but Isemberd didn’t hear anything the old man said. He barely could hear the bard’s potent voice filling the room, the description of the battle, the hero and the violin notes.

“… and then in a burst of light that turned night into day for a terrifying moment…”

The mage blinked, remembering himself of that burst of light. That burst of light. The one that changed things.

He left without listening to the end of the story. He apologized to Maeven and left. His face was red while he walked fast, trying to breathe. Outside, he hoped nobody would notice him as he started moving towards the woods walking first, and then running. Outside the town, Gillibert left his hands and started flying near him.

“Master! Slow down! Master!”

Deeper into the grove Isemberd tripped onto something and fell on the ground rolling until hitting a tree. There he stayed for a while before sitting down with his back against the trunk that stopped him. His broken glasses were lying around somewhere.

Gillibert came flying with his expressive eyes full of worry.

“Master Isemberd! Are you okay!? Did you hit your head!?”

The mage was in the middle of a panic attack. The angry voice in his head wouldn’t stop mocking him, and he couldn’t breathe. The memories of the battle near the bridge in Nott were filling his mind. Memories of a battle so terrible he felt like puking while seeing them again. The bard’s words left him with a very complex amalgamation of feelings.

The young mage silenced the magic bird with a gentle touch and simply closed his eyes, trying to calm himself down. A few hours passed by and night came, and he was still there sitting on the dirt. There were no wild animal capable of endangering him, but Gillibert stood nearby in vigilance, widened eyes almost without blinking, worried about his master.

“Gilli.” Isemberd called.

“Yes, master?”

In the blink of an eye, the bird came flying to his lap, moving a powerful gust of wind in the process.

“I’m waiting for you to ask about Nott.”

“Is death harpies how Neoria people call my brothers?”

Isemberd gulped. He took his broken glasses.

“Yes.”

The owlet walked right and left a few small steps before asking:

“Master, you were in that battle, right? The one the sir with the weird guitar was telling about?”

“I was.”

Uncomfortable silence.

“It wasn’t anywhere near how he told, was it, master?”

The mage breathed deeply. He put his glasses in his face.

“Do you remember anything about Soryn soldiers?”

“Nothing.” Gillibert stretched his wings in a weird imitation of a shrug. “Only my brothers. The few nice ones… and the others. The bad ones.”

Isemberd stood up, taking the owl to his shoulder. During Gillibert’s thoughtful silence, he asked:

“Don’t you want to know about the Crystal Octahedron? Or the battle? Or the other mages?”

“I never saw master like that! So no! I don’t want to talk about things that make you sick and fall around and…”

“Octahedron mages were…”

“Master!” Gillibert pecked him painfully in the ear. “I don’t want to know!”

“I need you to know who I am.” Isemberd replied.

“But I already know who you are!” Gillibert talked back.

“Gilli.”

“No! Master!”

They stopped for a tense moment. After Isemberd looked away, the owl asked:

“What happened to that hero of the story?”

Isemberd glanced at the darkness of the woods and started walking in the direction he knew for sure would lead to their home, while fighting memories and the nagging voice cursing him that only him could hear. He remembered the supposedly eight mages, the monstrous mage-hunters and the hero created to cover up the true story behind the battle.

With a gesture his glasses started fixing themselves, lenses and metal turning and twisting until they looked like new again, glowing faintly in yellow.

“I killed him.” He replied in a monotone voice while walking in the dark as if he himself was the ghost of that haunted grove.

Silence reigned during their way back. When Gillibert landed at his roost to sleep, he stood there observing his master with widened eyes lost in thought. Isemberd kept to himself, with his quietness threatening to swallow the house.