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

had meant no insult by it, and she thought she spoke the words lightly. Yet Albern’s smile faltered. When he spoke, it was in a subdued, almost mournful tone.

“I am sorry, child,” he said. “You are right, of course. It is only that as I tell you these tales, I cannot help but think of the times I traveled with Mag. And when I rode by her side … well, the two of us were so close, you see. We almost knew each other’s minds. Many things passed between us, plans and decisions, that never needed to be spoken aloud.”

He fixed Sun with a gaze that was suddenly clouded. She shifted where she sat. Her meat was in her lap, untouched and now forgotten.

“I hope this causes you no discomfort,” said Albern, his voice scarcely above a murmur. “But you remind me of her in many ways. I suppose I fell into old habits. But that was a different time, and I must always remind myself to see the world around me—as it is, not as I remember it. I should know better by now. Can you forgive me?”

“Of course,” said Sun, answering a bit too quickly.

“Thank you.” The old man’s smile grew. “But I must also ask a boon. I reserve the right to surprise you with some things. Any good tale must have a few twists and turns, after all, lest we grow bored of it. But I promise that the next part of this story should be very interesting to you—especially considering what you have told me about your family.”

Sun could not help herself—she smiled like a girl whose parents had just promised her a treat. “I cannot wait.”

“Then let us get ourselves upon the road, and I will talk as we ride.”

“You mean as you ride.”

Albern chuckled. “Your point is well taken. We must see about getting you a horse of your own.”

“I would greatly appreciate that.”

They packed up their camp—a quick process, for they had not unpacked all that much, simply their bedrolls and some small dishes for eating. As they had laid it all out the night before, Sun had thought she would have to do much of the work, but in fact Albern was much quicker at it than she. The same was true now; his bedroll was on the saddle long before hers was, and by the time she was ready to gather up their simple dishes, he had already bagged them all and slung the sack, too, atop the horse. As she had last night, Sun chided herself for her assumption. It was plain that Albern had been traveling all across Underrealm for many years since he had lost his arm. He had adjusted himself to taking care of the small business of life long ago, and was likely a much better campaigner than she was.

Albern climbed into the saddle and smiled down at her. Their breath poured out in a heavy mist in the still-chilled morning air, mingling far above their heads as it stretched up in search of the light clouds floating overhead.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Sun.

He nodded and nudged the horse into a walk. Sun strode by his side, one hand hanging idly from his left stirrup, as the old man continued his tale.

Autumn clung to the land, slow to relinquish it to winter. The days were cloudy, casting that gentle semblance of sunlight that illuminates the shadows nearly as much as everything else. It rained often, and sometimes it snowed lightly, but we hid beneath our oiled cloaks and rode on regardless. The trees all around us were a thousand shades of red and orange and gold, casting their leaves into the wind to gently brush against us as we carried on.

Our journey had taken us some weeks. After proceeding to the city of Bertram from Lan Shui, we had eschewed the King’s road and struck out west, carrying on all the way to the coast before turning north. There the road is often within sight of the ocean, that endless expanse that stretches forever, a blue blanket strewn with a thousand diamonds. In northwestern Dorsea, just before we turned east for Opara, Dryleaf had fallen ill, and we had halted for a few days to let him recuperate. As we drew at last to the borders of what had once been my homeland, I held on to a hope that our hunt might be at its end.

You will remember, of course, that in Lan Shui we had learned that Kaita was heading for Opara. You will also remember that we thought that message came from Pantu, the young boy who had once been a servant of the Shades, but that it had actually been Kaita in disguise. But of course we did not know that as we approached the city. We thought we would go unseen, and that our quarry had no idea we were even after her.

During our travels, I had engaged in a small project of my own. I told you of Jordel, the Mystic with whom I had journeyed through the Greatrocks, and who had perished before that journey’s end. I had promised the boy, Gem, that I would write a song for him, a song of celebration for a life more eventful than most. I had not had the time to begin it in Northwood, and the road to Lan Shui had provided little opportunity, for we were in a dangerous land. But on the long road to Opara, I spent many nights on watch and many days idle in my saddle with little else to do. And so I had begun my ballad. It was grueling work, for I had never tried my hand at songwriting in those days. It is not as easy as some think—not if you want to do it properly. Sometimes I could summon no words at all. Other times, a part of the