The Tales of the Wanderer Volume One: A Book of Underrealm (The Underrealm Volumes 4) Garrett Robinson (poetry books to read TXT) 📖

for it, for it may require the war to go on for a long while. But if it does, do not be surprised if you find yourselves becoming fast friends.”

“Like you and Mag?” said Chausiku with a smirk. “I confess I cannot see it.”

“Well, mayhap not like us,” I admitted. “Mag is easier than most to be friends with.”

“And yet she is so terrifying in a fight,” said Chausiku with a shudder. “I could hardly believe it. She deserves every legend I have ever heard of her. How did you become such good friends, anyway, when she is so much younger than you?”

That made me laugh. “It will surprise you to learn that she is, in fact, a little older than I am. We met when I had not quite seen my twentieth year, and she was already as good a fighter as she is today.”

Chausiku’s eyes were wide in his dark face. “Really? I would have thought she was a decade younger than you, at least. I would believe you if you said you were twice as old as her.” Then, suddenly, he looked uncomfortable. “Meaning no insult about your appearance, of course, Sergeant.”

My easy smile widened, and I shook my head. “I am sorry to disappoint you, soldier. Some people hardly seem to age, and some … well.” I waved my hand up and down the length of my body.

Chausiku snorted, trying not to laugh. “Well, in any case, you are lucky to have her for a friend. And now I think my mind has indeed tired itself out. I will see you in the morning, Sergeant.”

He turned and left me. It always amused me how shocked people were when they learned the truth about Mag’s age compared to her looks.

But Mag had aged, I knew. I remembered her when she was younger, and I knew her now. She was different, if not as different as I was.

Sometimes being close to a tale keeps us from seeing it clearly. A soldier on the battlefield might slay two foes and think the battle is close to won—but the general on the hilltop can see foes sweeping around the flanks and taste the coming defeat.

But sometimes, being close to the tale is what shows us the truth of it. We can see clearly the sunlight on a fish’s rainbow scales, while someone on the shore sees only an ugly trout through muddy, churning waters.

That is how it was with Mag and me. Certainly, she was someone you had to see up close to believe—if you believe in stories, that is.

Ah, well. I turned my steps towards my tent, and soon I was abed. I was alone for a long while, as Yue spent time with her squadron, mourning their losses with them. But even before she returned, I slept poorly. Roots kept digging into my head, and I could not seem to get rid of them, no matter how I tried to shift on the forest floor.

Now, I have commented on Mag’s appearance before this. But it is worth noting that she always looked younger than she was, even when she lived in that village called Shuiniu.

Ten years before Mag and I met, she had just begun her apprenticeship under Duana. Of course, she did not have a hand in the brewing straight away. As is the case with many apprentices, she spent her first several months taking care of odd jobs around the brewery. She would sweep up shavings, fix small things that had broken, and haul water and grain from one place to another as required. All the while, Duana would explain the craft to her, indoctrinating her into the finer aspects of the art.

And Duana would tell stories. It seemed she was a talespinner, of sorts, though none so fine as Dryleaf. But mayhap that is one reason Mag and I became such good friends. She always loved stories, and she would listen with rapt attention as Duana told tales of long ago. She heard stories of the time before time and the founding of Underrealm, the dark days of the Wizard Kings, and many great heroes and terrible villains scattered throughout the countless years of history.

And then, one day, Duana said something that made Mag frown and stop in the middle of her work.

“What is that?” said Mag. Her eyes were wide, and her hand stilled where it had been wiping a brewing vat with a rag.

Duana looked at her in mild surprise. With a giant wooden spoon, she had been stirring a large cauldron as it came to a boil. Now she glanced at the spoon, the cauldron, and the beginnings of her next brew. “What is what?” she asked.

“The word you just said,” said Mag.

“Meldin? That is the name of the Dragon in the tale.”

“Not the name, that other word. The D … Dr—”

“Dragon?” said Duana. “What about it?”

A shadow seemed to come over Mag’s face, her expression a cloud of confusion. “What is that? Is it an animal?”

Duana studied Mag, who seemed held as if frozen in ice. And the old brewer felt a powerful, mournful sadness enclose her heart. She often forgot how many little things like this Mag did not know, things that most children learned from bedtime stories.

But then, most children heard those tales from their parents, and Mag had had no such opportunity.

“They were not animals,” said Duana quietly. “They were … something more. Do you know of satyrs or centaurs?”

Finally, Mag moved, but only to give a tiny nod. “You told me of centaurs.”

“Then you know they have bodies like animals, but they are clever of mind like we are,” said Duana. “Dragons are something like that, but far greater and more terrible. They are more akin to Elves.”

Mag nodded quickly, eager to please. “I know of Elves.”

Duana smiled again. “Good. If you have heard of them, you can get an idea of Dragons.”

“Are they the same size