The Innkeeper's Son Read online

  THE HARVEN LEGACY

  BOOK ONE

  THE INNKEEPER'S SON

  By: Jeremy Brooks

  Table of Contents

  1 A Crimson Sky

  2 Enaya Relador

  3 Sarimus Harvencott

  4 Crimson Sails

  5 The Othoran Plains

  6 The Treasure Hunter

  7 Carleton

  8 Bale Farrushaw

  9 Navan Prianhe

  10 A Single Beam of Light

  11 The Blue Trellis

  12 The Clockmaker

  13 City of Horses

  14 Thalson’s Dagger

  15 Shraels

  16 The Trouble With Light

  17 Taking a Side

  18 Proposals

  19 Swordforms

  20 Convergence

  21 The Price of Escape

  22 The Dahara

  23 The Ritual of Cerseay

  24 The Girl Who Bleeds Light

  25 Without the Light of Day

  26 Three Hearts

  27 The Librarian

  28 Prophecy

  29 Dark Clouds

  30 Into the Storm

  Chapter one: A Crimson Sky

  There was something wrong with the sun. Sim stood there shirtless, in the vegetable garden behind his parent’s modest inn, staring warily at the blazing afternoon sky, convinced without reason that there was something wrong. The sun seemed almost dull to him, like a brass rail tarnished from wear and in need of a good polishing. The sky was clear and cloudless, yet he couldn't help searching the horizon without a persistent feeling of dread. Early that morning when he went out beyond the stable to hang the linens, he first noticed the odd sensation of something foreboding tickling the back of his mind. It had been that way most of his life. People in the port city of Dell had long accused Sim of being a doomsayer, as he was often prone to visions of ill tidings. Sometimes Sim wished that he could pass off his intuition as nothing more than an overactive imagination, but it seemed that whenever he felt this way, something bad happened. Whether it was a fierce storm, an outbreak of locusts across the Othoran plains, or a crime somewhere in the village, Sim's strange premonitions always occurred. With a last suspicious glance up to the sun, Sim abandoned his digressions and returned to his chores.

  It was just past noon, and Sim had spent the last hour of his day gathering vegetables in the garden behind his parent’s inn. In the days to come, the city would be overrun with merchant sailors from all over the world looking to trade during the Othoran Festival. The Festival was an event held in Dell every year to celebrate the othoran harvest. Since the wheat only grew in the plains around Dell and was considered the finest grain in the entire world, the harvest was a special event. While most of the townspeople looked forward to the enormous profit that the festival generated, Sim couldn’t wait until it was over. It was the busiest time of the year at his parents' inn, and he dreaded the increased workload. He had no desire for life as an innkeeper.

  Gardening was one of the few things that didn't feel like work to Sim. He enjoyed working with the land and had always felt an affinity for nurturing the growth of the vegetables in his parents' garden. Dell was a port city on the coast of Caramour, an average sized equatorial island, so the weather was perpetually warm and sunny, and keeping the garden a year round chore. Sim spent most afternoons among rows of carrots and turnips, tilling the soil and filling rabbit holes. Out in the garden he could drink in the sunlight and wrestle with his thoughts, alone, free of distractions. His life seemed simple in these moments, a departure from the daily reminder that he was bound to work at his parent’s inn forever, even as he watched all of his friends move on to jobs on ships at port or overseas. More than anything, Sim wished to join a crew and sail away to some unknown adventure, but his parents were adamant that he remain in the village, a simple innkeeper's son.

  "Siminus, I'll need that basket of tomatoes before long," shouted his mother Bella, from the large kitchen window overlooking the garden. Irritably, he glanced over his shoulder, examining Bella's soft motherly face, before answering, "In a minute."

  Bella was a short, plump woman, with a wiry mop of graying hair pulled into a bun and unassuming gray eyes accented by a row of very deep crow's feet, a testament to a life of hard work. She crooked a smile at her son and playfully waved a large wooden spoon in his direction.

  "In another minute you'll wish you'd brought me those tomatoes this morning." Softening a bit at her playful taunting, Sim smiled shamefully and nodded, “Yes mother." Quickly plucking a few more plump red tomatoes from their vines, Sim left the garden and went to see his mother in the kitchen.

  He dropped the basket of vegetables on a long stone countertop and kissed his mother on the cheek as he entered the kitchen. There was a pitcher of cool water and an empty glass waiting for him, which he gratefully made use of as he watched his mother deftly chopping tomatoes, and pitching the quartered chunks into an enormous simmering kettle hanging over one of several lit hearths. Despite the overwhelming heat coming off the cook fires, and the sweltering atmosphere in the kitchen, Bella didn't appear to have a drop of sweat on her. Sim always marveled at this. For as long as he could remember, he had never seen his mother sweat. It was as if she was completely impervious to the heat. She just kept about her work, day in and day out, feeding an entire inn with never a cross word or complaint about the heat or the workload. Sim was simply amazed by her.

  Refilling his water cup, he turned to set back out into the garden. Before he could reach the door, Bella caught him by the arm. "Your father would like a quick word with you before you go back out, Siminus," she said, and then continued with an admonishing tone, "Don’t roll your eyes, young man. He's up at the bar. Run along and see what he wants."

  Sim reluctantly made his way back through the kitchen and out into the tavern, finding his father Sevin, alone behind the bar. It was still early in the afternoon, and unlike most inns in Dell, the Kelmor Inn's common room was more of an eatery than a barroom. They got very busy in the evening, but most came for the delights of Bella's kitchen rather than the debauchery of Sevin's spirits.

  Sim approached the bar with a sense of dread. Every time his father summoned him, it was to increase his workload or to give him some overused lecture about hard work and humble living. He was twenty-one now, a man in the eyes of most, but Sevin still chose to treat him like a young irresponsible boy. With each passing day, Sim could feel his relationship with Sevin growing more distant and cold; in his mind, it was his father's fault.

  Reaching the bar, Sim took a seat on a stool right in front of his father. Sevin was a short stocky man, with shoulders like mountain ranges and hands that could snap a sword hilt in half. He had dark purposeful eyes, and a short crop of salt and pepper hair. Unlike his wife, Sevin always appeared to be sweating, and carried at his side a musty rag which he constantly used to wipe across his brow.

  "Have you finished in the garden?" he asked Sim in a deep quiet voice, never looking up from the glass he was wiping.

  "Just about," Sim said with a yawn, unconsciously resting an elbow on the bar, letting his head nestle comfortably on his bent arm. "Mother still needs a few turnips and potatoes, and the cabbage row could use some water, but almost anyway." Without realizing it, Sim had gently begun to drift off to sleep, but before the sweet caress of a much-needed afternoon nap could touch his heavy eyelids, Sim felt the hard impact of cheekbone against oak, as Sevin slapped his elbow off the bar. "Hey!" he cried, rubbing the sore side of his face. "What'd you do that for?"

  "Cause I haven't got time for lazy good-for-nothings at my inn," Sevin answered, without the slightest hint of anger or irritation. His tone was quiet as always, patient but deman
ding respect. "You know this is going to be the busiest weekend of the year. With all the merchants in town for the Othoran Festival, we need to be prepared. Now I need you to hurry up in the garden, because you still need to ready the stables for the extra horses we'll be getting in the coming days and make sure the wash basins are all ready by suppertime."

  "Wash basins? Why can't Maehril, take care of those? It's her job," Sim complained.

  "Maehril's got her hands full with the room turndowns, and she's going to be helping your mother in the kitchen come suppertime. Don't look so surprised," Sevin could read the reaction on Sim's face at the mention that Bella would need help. "Your mother's not as young as she used to be, and its time she took to teaching someone how to run things in that kitchen. The Othoran Festival is becoming bigger every year, and we'll need everyone working together to get through it this year." Sevin paused and looked his son over thoughtfully. "What's on your mind boy?"

  "Nothing," Sim answered defiantly. He tried very hard to avoid his father's glare but could not control his anger. "This is my last year," he shouted, coming to his feet and balling his hands into fists of determination. "After the spring I'm leaving. This isn't what I want for my life. This is your life, not mine."

  Sevin was silent for several moments as he studied his son. Sim had never so openly defied his father, and despite his fearsome glower, Sim was trembling with anxiety inside. He knew his father was a patient, peaceful man, but on a few rare occasions when a patron had gotten out of hand, Sim had seen the true force of his father’s anger. Sevin could fight like a mansabull when his anger got the better of him, and right now, Sim was testing his threshold.

  "You'll remain here at the inn where you belong," Sevin said at last, his lips pulled back against his teeth until he was practically snarling, his eyes boring into Sim's with an icy resolve. "This is the last time I'm going to talk about this nonsense. Now run along and finish your chores."

  Sim couldn't help but flinch under the weight of Sevin's imposing glare, but as he stood for a moment, watching Sevin turn his back on him, his frustration flared once more. "I'll be leaving after the festival, father," he said, softly. "I'm sorry that you disagree. I'm a man now father. A man. Every man deserves the right to make his own way in the world. I deserve that right."

  Sevin stood behind the bar, his back to Sim, not bothering to turn and face his son. "So you're a man now, are you?"

  "That's right," Sim replied.

  "What's your plan then?"

  The question caught Sim off guard. "What do you mean?"

  "If as you say, you're leaving, then where will you go? What will you do?"

  "Well…" Truth be told, Sim really hadn't thought much about it. Sure he had daydreamed every day since he could remember of leaving Dell in search of untold adventures, but he had never actually thought about what he would really do. He didn't have so much as even one brass coin to call his own since his parents never paid him to work. Frankly, he knew almost nothing of the world beyond the shores of Caramour, except for what little he heard around the common room. Sim had always just assumed that when the time came he would gather his belongings and join the crew of some merchant vessel docked in port. The rest would take care of itself. Looking at his father's sturdy back, Sim was certain that a poorly conceived plan like that wouldn't impress Sevin at all. "I suppose I'll join the infantry in Fandrall, like Raelin did."

  "Like Raelin, eh?" Sevin said, turning around to face his son. To his surprise, Sim could see that Sevin's face had softened, and what could only be described as amusement, now crested his father's hard brown eyes.

  "Sit down Siminus," Sevin said, resting his hands on the long oak bar top. "Since you claim to be a man now, I suppose it's time we had a talk, man to man."

  Sim moved cautiously toward the bar and settled onto one of the polished wooden stools. "Alright, Father."

  Sevin looked Sim squarely in the eye, and ran a large calloused hand through his sweaty graying hair. "I know that you and I don't always see eye to eye, but you must understand that if I'm hard on you sometimes, it's only because I'm thinking of the greater good. Do you know what the greater good is Sim?"

  "I suppose it’s sacrificing something you want to help someone else?" Sim answered, lowering his eyes to avoid Sevin's strangely compassionate expression.

  "That's right," Sevin smiled. "Perhaps I've underestimated you. Look, Sim. Raelin was a good lad, a kind-hearted boy, but he ran off to join the infantry, to get paid to fight and kill, without ever stopping to think about what he was fighting for. The world outside of our quiet little island is dangerous. Raelin fights now without ever questioning whether or not he's fighting for the right side. Unfortunately, since there's only one side to fight on, Raelin's never had the chance to choose whether or not the cause is just. Do you understand?"

  "I'm not sure I do,” Sim had to admit. The truth was that once a year, a ship with black sails came into port looking for any able bodied man over the age of eighteen. They offered reasonable pay and training with a broadsword or bow and arrow to men who wanted to come and join the Imperial army of Fandrall. Raelin had joined when he was eighteen, and in four years his parents had received just one correspondence saying that everything was fine and that he was soaring through the ranks of the Imperial army. Sim often thought of his old childhood friend and assumed that if he joined the infantry, he and Raelin could fight together, side by side, as they'd always dreamed as little boys.

  "Siminus…" Sevin said, placing one giant hand on Sim's shoulder. "Wait until after the festival, and we'll have a long talk together, as men. Then we can sort out a path for you to travel in this world. Just have some patience."

  Sim stood up and looked his father in the eyes. As large a man as Sevin was, Sim still stood at least a head taller, yet he had always felt small in his father's presence. "Alright," Sim said, nodding grudgingly, "I'll stay." After a moment of shared silence, Sim turned to get back to his chores. Just at the entrance to the kitchen, he stopped. "One more thing, father,” he said, looking back over his shoulder at Sevin. "Something bad is about to happen."

  "How do you know this?" Sevin replied with a hint of trepidation in his voice.

  "It's just one of those things. There's something wrong with the sun. I'm not even sure what it is, but I'm certain something horrible is about to happen. And soon." Without waiting for his father to speak, Sim strode through the door leaving Sevin staring at his back, an unreadable expression on his face.

  Sometime after finishing his work in the garden, Sim found himself walking along the short gravel pathway to the inn's stable. Ever since the conversation with his father, Sim had been in a bit of a daze. On the one hand, he was still bitter about being told he couldn't leave the inn. On the other, it seemed as though he'd finally made some progress. Sevin had never even tried to listen when Sim had complained about being stuck at the inn before, but this time perhaps there was hope. That hope had carried Sim to fly through the rest of his gardening and now as he approached the large double doors of the big yellow barn, Sim was walking with an extra spring in his step. He'd even forgotten all about his earlier morbid premonitions.

  The doors to the stable were always a pain to open, as one side constantly seemed to stick. The left door pushed open with ease, but Sim had to force the right side to swing in after a great struggle.

  The air inside the stable was strangely cool, which Sim could never understand. Sevin claimed that the yellow paint had a way of deflecting the sunlight, but Sim was never sure about that explanation. All he knew was that no matter how hot the afternoon sun burned, he could always find a cool place to eat his lunch within the stable's walls, and over the years, it had become his daily retreat. Within the stable walls, Sim found solace from the mundane reality of his everyday life. He could be a mercenary hired by some faraway lord, fighting off beasts and ruffians, to protect his charge. Sometimes he dreamed that he was a sailor on Sevin's friend Sarimus' merchant clipper, riding th
e waves across a crystal blue ocean. There among the animals, Sim could be anyone other than a simple innkeeper's son, and that dream alone was enough to make his true existence bearable.

  Closing the doors, Sim stood for a moment and examined the inn's only horse, a mare named Valla. He knew it was time to feed the gentle brown mare, but he couldn't resist the urge to practice his sword forms. "You can wait a few more moments for your feed bag, can't you girl?" Sim said with a smile as he tenderly stroked the mare’s nose.

  Sim hurried to the last stall in the stable. He had to duck beneath the ladder that led up to a small hayloft and brush aside the strategically placed bale of hay he used to cover his secret cache of weapons. Finally, Sim removed the small piece of old plywood that covered the hole, and pulled out two slightly rusted and dull broad swords. He carried them to the center of the stable and stood for a moment, contemplating their weight within the warm flow of sunlight shining down on him from the stables only window.

  With no hesitation, Sim flowed into the forms taught to him over the years by Farrus, a village guardsman and his father’s best friend. Many times in the past, he and Farrus had snuck away to the stable against his father’s wishes and practiced the art of swordplay. Farrus was very adept with a sword and he had taught Sim everything he knew, until Sim actually began to surpass him in skill. Now, a man of twenty-one, Sim could wield both swords with surgical precision, the result of over ten years of unwavering practice. Often times he and Raelin had dueled with each other using wooden practice swords, out in the wheat fields beyond Dell's borders. Though Raelin had always been a challenging foe, he had never been able to out-duel Sim. Farrus had once even marveled at the ease with which Sim had taken to the blade, and his skill had become a source of great pride.