The Hero of Githlen (Part One)

As the youngest of three sons, Sir Tristan was expected to go far, to do great, heroic deeds. What he wanted, however, was to do nothing more than “laze about” as his father, Lord Talon of Mordanne, put it. There was nothing he enjoyed more than reading, although attempting to create his own works of writing came close. He read everything from fictional stories to nonfiction books on the various creatures and locations in Githlen, the country in which they lived. In fact, the only sort of book he didn’t particularly care for were cook books.

Lord Talon had tried a number of times to stop his son from reading quite so often. After all, a young man of just eighteen years ought to be doing something- going on quests perhaps, battling wicked creatures. He almost wished Tristan would go out and become an evil magician as Lord Anders of Crandia’s son had done- anything but sit in the library, reading for hours on end.

Then again, perhaps not exactly anything. Talon supposed he would rather his son read than write. The boy’s stories weren’t so terrible, he was a fair writer, but his works of nonfiction were utter nonsense. Nearly half of the things he put in them Talon doubted were true. Once, he recalled inquiring to his son about the section in his book on a former king. It had claimed that King Philip had spent much of his free time crocheting doilies. It even went so far as to describe the patterns of many of them and stated that the reason he was made them so obsessively was because he absolutely despised the rings cups often made on his wooden tables.

Tristan had simply shrugged in response and said that he’d tried to make it more interesting as that particular king had been rather boring. At hearing this, Talon attempted to make him understand that a work of nonfiction was expected to be exactly that-nonfiction! It seemed that this hadn’t quite gotten through to him, though, as not long afterwards he found himself reading a shorter piece of writing his son had given him on merfolk, their cruelty and ferocity towards humans (which was true), their great fondness of cheese, and a ceremony held on the first day of every month. Apparently, it was in celebration of something called ‘Rondulus day’ (which he hadn’t gone into detail about) and that during this ceremony, they formed a circle and performed a strange sort of dance while making loud gurgling noises that could be heard from miles away.

Once finished reading it, Lord Talon frowned deeply at his son who had been sitting before him, awaiting his reaction. This time, he didn’t even have to ask where he had come up with such poppycock. Tristan offered the information readily. “I dreamt of the ceremony,” he declared, and then hastily added that although he knew dreams were rarely true, it had seemed a pity to let such a wondrous one go to waste.

The cheese, he had explained patiently, was added in to humanize the merfolk a bit.

And that had been the last straw. The next thing Tristan knew, he was packing up to go on a hunting party that would be leaving the following day. It seemed that an ogre was terrorizing a small village about a five days’ travel away. And, despite Tristan’s incessant protests, he was being forced to help put a stop to it. It would, Lord Talon hoped, help to shape him into more of a man, like his brothers.

“You’re a knight, Tristan,” Lord Talon’s middle son, Stephan, who also happened to be going on the hunting trip, said. He had had enough of his brother’s complaints. He couldn’t bear to hear another word of how unfair, how utterly awful it was that their father was making him go, of how he could be using his precious time reading, gaining more information about the world, but instead had to pack. “Your job is to fight to protect our people!” he exclaimed. Stephan had always been Lord Talon’s favorite son. He was the bravest, strongest (as well as dimmest) of the three. Everyone always said he took after Talon the most- they even looked quite a bit alike with their large muscular build and thick chestnut locks.

Tristan surveyed his older brother with a frown before replying. “As you well know, I never wanted to become a knight in the first place. Father ordered me to.”

Stephan appeared to ignore him. “Villagers are being terrorized by an ogre,” he continued. “You don’t want to put a stop to it?”

“Me, personally? No, of course not. I don’t mind you putting a stop to it, however. You and the other knights can easily lay the beast alone, you don’t need me.” Stephan couldn’t deny that, and he didn’t try to. He knew as well as the others in his family that Tristan would prove to be more a hindrance to the party than help. So, he changed the subject.

“You won’t have any time to read,” he remarked, eying the books Tristan set in his bag with distaste. “And, anyways, you should pack only the necessities.” Tristan continued to pile more books into the bag as though he had not heard him. “Those will only weigh you down,” Stephan continued to warn. “You are going to be the one carrying those, no one else will-”

“I’m aware of that,” Tristan interrupted sharply. He set one more book about ogres in the sack before closing it. “And these are necessities.” He gave his pack one last look and an affectionate pat before heading downstairs to eat supper.

No more than an hour later, Tristan was lugging his enormous bag to the sitting room and his awaiting father. Lord Talon had requested to check over what he had settled on packing, under Stephan’s advisement, Tristan assumed. He made a mental note to fill his pack with rocks.

Lord Talon sat on a high-backed wooden chair in one corner of the room, a small teacake in one hand, while William, his eldest son, lounged on the sofa beside him, a glint of amusement in his eye. Tristan dragged the pack to his father’s feet and then took a seat beside his brother, who moved aside to make room.

“Stephan tells me you filled your pack with books,” Talon said, shooting Tristan a disapproving glance. “He’s worried that you will slow the hunting party down.”

Scowling, Tristan said nothing as his father leaned down to open the sack. As he emptied its contents, the frown on his face deepened steadily. When he turned around the slightest bit to see his brother’s reaction, he was unsurprised to see the small smile of amusement he was attempting to hide behind a hand as Talon pulled out book after book.

“Do you truly believe you need all of these?” Talon demanded when, at last, he’d finished piling them into two neat stacks on the floor. Unlike William, who was nearly turning blue from holding back laughter, the lord looked entirely un-amused. Tristan had a hard time finding any humor in the situation as well.

“Certainly,” he replied solemnly. Rising from the sofa, he knelt before the books, taking one in his hand. “This one here is o the various edible plants found in forests- a very useful book, no? And this book,” he grasped another, “this one is on ogres. If we’re to be hunting the beasts, don’t you think I ought to know a bit about them first?” He ripped a third book from the middle of one of the piles, knocking many of them to the floor. “And this one is on surviving in the wild!” Lord Talon watched him with his mouth slightly open, an appalled look on his face. He didn’t often read, but that didn’t mean he liked to see his books being battered about!

“That is enough, Tristan,” he said, eyes widening. “You don’t need any of those! The men whom you’ll be accompanying will know all about surviving in the wild and they’ve slain ogres before- you don’t need a book on them!” He rubbed his temples as though trying to rid himself of a headache. “Put them all back.” Tristan didn’t move. “Now!” He simply sat there, on the floor, with a befuddled expression on his face.

Three servants came forward to do Lord Talon’s bidding. The moment Tristan saw them, he scrambled to pick out the books he thought he needed most before they were replaced back in the library. When his father realized what he was doing, he shook his head fiercely. “Tristan,” he said in a low, warning voice.

“Just five?” his son pleaded.

“No!” But, in the end, he was persuaded into allowing the boy to bring two. However, there was one condition; he could not pass them onto anyone else to carry. If he insisted on bringing them, he would have the unfortunate job of heaving them around himself. Still looking glum, Tristan agreed and then rose from his spot on the floor to take back his possessions.

Some wondered how Tristan had ever managed to earn the title of knighthood in the first place. The answer to the befuddling question was actually quite simple. Yes, it was true that Tristan disliked fighting (some would call him cowardly, in fact), it was also true that he was quite lazy, and furthermore it was factual that he was spoiled; he shuddered to think of sleeping on hard ground, of eating stale bread, and drinking from a stream. The idea of insects crawling over his sleeping bag caused him to shudder- the thought that he would soon be unable to take a warm bath in the morning absolutely repulsed him.

However, he was not so very terrible at fighting- actually, he was a fair fencer and rather good at archery- a sport Tristan essentially enjoyed, as long as he was aiming at nothing more than a target board. Not that that would be very helpful on the hunting trip- the ability to accurately shoot an arrow at a drawn target- and he loathed to think of aiming his bow at an actual live animal.

Tristan sighed heavily and spent much of the day sulking about in the library. Being too nervous to keep his mind concentrated on reading, he could do nothing more than sit and mope. He also refused most food offered to him, until William reminded him that he’d need his energy.

“Oh, of course,” he groaned bitterly. “I suppose I ought to eat all the good food I can for soon enough, I shall be forced to eat awful dirt and insect infected bread, tough dried meats, and lumpy porridge.” William laughed aloud, causing the scowl Tristan wore to grow deeper.

“The food isn’t as bad as that, little brother,” he assured him, still chuckling.

Not in the mood to be laughed at, and still doubtful of the truth in William’s words, he turned to the book setting directly in front of him (which happened to be one of the very same books that his father had ordered he leave behind) and began pretending to read it. His eyes scoured the words on the page, but not one got through to his mind. Tristan’s head was far too full of thoughts to pay any sort of attention to the material before him.

How many days would the hunting party take? He wondered. Weeks? The possibility made him grimace. How was he going to stand it? Surely it would be the death of him! Another, calmer voice broke through his panic. Think of something else, it ordered. Clear your mind. After all, what was the use of spending his last day for what could be weeks- in the palace sulking?

A walk, he thought decidedly. He would go outside for a walk in the village outskirts. And once there, he would simply sit, take in the view, and perhaps take a nap or write a bit.

With that settled, he forcefully snapped the book shut and looked up purposefully. William had already gone, leaving him alone in the library. Tristan would’ve liked to ask him if would care to join him outside. However, he didn’t want to take the time to locate him. It’s not laziness, he lied to himself, I simply don’t wish to let anymore of my precious time go to waste.

Oh yes, another voice in his mind spoke, full of sarcasm, it’s not as though you didn’t already waste half the day!

Tristan sniffed in disdain and then arose from his chair.

As he walked through the hall, he paused briefly to look upon his late mother’s portrait. It hung beside a large picture of his father, his grandfather, and one of himself and his two brothers- each looking very stiff and formal. He could imagine Stephan wearing such a sober expression on his face, but the look did not suit William at all- William, who was most certainly one of the warmest and friendliest fellows that Tristan knew. Tristan didn’t particularly care for the expression on his own face either- he’d been told that it lacked the glint of humor he often had in his eyes.

Turning back to his mother, he sighed. She’d always been a small, delicate sort of woman, and after having been taken by a particularly bad illness five years before, she’d died. Tristan looked at the locket she wore, which now hung about his neck. He fingered it affectionately. About three years before she had passed away, on his tenth birthday, she had handed it to him making him promise to give it to his daughter (or if he had none, then his son) when he felt the time had come.

The locket had been in her family for many generations and it had been tradition to pass it on to the firstborn girl. However, as she had never had a female child, she’d decided on giving it to Tristan. She’d not given any reasons as to why she had chosen him, but no one had seemed to need one. This continued to confuse Tristan as, first of all, it had belonged to their mother, and secondly, it was magical.

Legend said that it had been cheated by one of the most powerful magician the world had ever seen. A man who had been deeply in love with one of Tristan’s great, great, great, etc. grandmothers on his mother’s side. He had gifted her with the locket, and it had been passed down ever since. No one was quite sure of why exactly he had put within it a magical wind, but it was assumed he had intended for her to use it as a weapon of defense when he wasn’t there to protect her. Either way, Tristan found that it often came in handy- especially during summer.

Once he had stepped outside, the intensely bright sun nearly blinded him for a few moments. After a few moments of blinking, his eyes adjusted to the light. Just to his left set the manor’s gardens, a beautiful area when the flowers were in full bloom. He had a fleeting thought to walk through them instead. But, no, he had walked along those paths numerous times. At the moment, he desired to be somewhere different- somewhere he’d never been before. And so he started down the dirt path heading towards the village.

The day was only comfortably hot for a few minutes, the sun softly warming every last inch of his body. When he finally reached the village, he found that he was beginning to sweat. Irritably, he wiped his brow with a sleeve. He hadn’t even walked very far yet- the walk to the village was quite short.

Without a second though, Tristan flicked open the locket. An instant later, an unnaturally cool breeze on such a hot summer’s day swept around him, circling his body, tousling his hair, coddling him. Sometimes he thought he could smell his mother’s perfume in the wind. Opening the locket and breathing deeply in the wind had comforted him countless times after her death- it comforted him now.

As he walked through the village, the crowds parted quickly to allow him to pass. That was another advantage of the locket (or perhaps a disadvantage at times); people recognized him immediately. For who else maintained control of a magical wind? Some nodded their respect upon catching his eye. Others exchanged uneasy glances and stood back as far as they could manage. Not everyone liked the idea of magic- many were frightened or made nervous by the mere mention of it.

Tristan paid none of them any heed whatsoever as he marched on by. He paused only once on his way to the outskirts, and that was only to purchase a delectable smelling raspberry pastry.

He took a turn heading left of the village, where there was no path to show him the way. As he continued onwards in this direction, he nibbled on the edges of the sweet and thought of animal hybrids. Perhaps his next piece of nonfiction would be on the topic of griffins. Exactly how he had come to think of this subject, he was unsure. Perhaps it had been the particularly large bird flying overhead that had caught his attention. What did that matter, though? He was simply grateful for the distraction.

After tripping over a small mound of dirt on the ground (most likely the work of a mole) because he was so caught up in his thoughts to notice it, Tristan decided to think about griffins further only after settling himself underneath the branches of a large shady tree just up ahead. As he sat on the ground, he attempted to make himself as comfortable as possible- scooting off of a lump and onto level ground. This did not prove an easy feat as the grass was dry and prickly. It poked at his rump and made the bare skin on his lower legs itch. With a frown, he tried his best to ignore it.

I must remember to pack an extra blanket for sitting on for the hunting party and on any further walks I decide to take, he thought, bringing his knees upwards and off of the scratchy ground.

Tristan didn’t stay much longer. The sky was beginning to darken as the day grew later- he had also finished up his pastry and had a hankering for another. He shut the locket on the way back for it was starting to get cooler and he no longer had a need for it (although Tristan wasn’t always sensible, it didn’t seem wise to use the magic of the locket unless he actually had reason to).

Not two minutes after stepping foot in the village, Tristan heard a voice yell his name. He craned his neck to search for the speaker. Who would be calling for him here? The voice hadn’t sounded very familiar. Perhaps I imagined it, he thought, although didn’t truly believe it.

“Tristan!” the voice called a second time. No, he most certainly had not imagined it.

Unable to think of any person he wished to speak to and wanting to return home to his room as quickly as he could, he sped up his pace- until a strong hand gripped his arm, forcing him to slow to a halt. Opening his mouth to protest this rude treatment, Tristan turned and at once recognized the man whose hand was clamped so firmly about his arm. It was Sir Anders, the fellow who would be heading the hunting party. He was a person that Tristan didn’t feel any dislike towards, but, all the same, he did not wish to speak to him at the moment. He would be in his company quite long enough come tomorrow.

“You are not a very easy person to find,” Anders declared, a good natured smile forming on his face. “I must’ve bee searching for at least an hour now.” Tristan thought he must be exaggerating- he hadn’t been gone for that long, had he?

“I was only taking a walk,” he responded simply, giving him a small smile back as not to look too unfriendly. “What is it that’s so important you had to tell me now instead of waiting for morning?”

“Ah, well,” the man sounded slightly uncomfortable and Tristan noticed that his eyes were focused on his locket. “It’s just that some of the men aren’t very comfortable around magic.” He hesitated. “I wondered if you would leave your locket at the manor while we’re away.”

“Absolutely not,” Tristan shot back resolutely. “I might possibly consider refraining from using it, but I shan’t leave it behind.” He couldn’t think of the last time it had left his neck since his mother’s death. Taking it off for a foolish hunting trip was out of the question.

Sir Anders sighed. “I suppose that might be good enough for the men as long as you swear that you won’t open it.” Tristan didn’t reply. “Will you?”

“I don’t understand why they’re so frightened of magic in the first place,” he grumbled. “They are knights, aren’t they? How did they ever become them, I wonder, if they’re so terrified of something so fantastic as magic?” He spotted the look of disbelief that briefly crossed the man’s face and caught its insinuation very easily. Who was he to complain? Immediately ceasing to argue his point any further, Tristan grudgingly agreed not to use the locket for even a very short period of time while on the trip. Appearing satisfied with this, Sir Anders parted ways.

Just as soon as Tristan returned home, he hurried up to his room and locked the door. First his books and now his locket! What next? Would he be forbidden to bring his ink and quills?

Undoubtedly, he would’ve had Talon thought to check his son’s pack the following morning. Luckily for Tristan, though, his attention had been needed elsewhere and so his belongings remained safely in his bag.

(To be continued...)