A Keeper’s Tale: The Story of Tomkin and the Dragon Read online

  A Keeper’s Tale

  The Story of Tomkin and the Dragon

  JA Andrews

  Contents

  A Keeper’s Tale

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Part 2

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Part 3

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  The Ever After

  Afterword

  A Threat of Shadows - Ch 1

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2016 JA Andrews

  ISBN: 978-0-9976144-3-5

  Created with Vellum

  For my husband.

  I love you.

  A Keeper’s Tale

  The familiar inn smelled of roasted apples, spiced with possibilities. Lulu threaded her way among hips and legs, stepping over fancy, clean townsfolk shoes and muddy, worn farmer boots. She ducked under elbows and slipped through the hum of anticipation, until she caught a glimpse of the black robe next to the hearth. She shouldered past the last of the crowd and felt the fire warm her cheek.

  There really was a Keeper, settled in a chair only steps away, in merry conversation with the baker and the blacksmith.

  Lulu paused. Weren’t Keepers supposed to be white haired and hunched? This man’s hair was as black as his robe. He wasn’t what she was expecting, and she almost ducked back into the crowd. It was his eyes that stopped her. They weren’t serious or weighty. They were bright, and he glanced around the room with a curiosity Lulu understood. When he glanced down at her, his eyes crinkled around the edges.

  “Hello.” He smiled. “I’m Will.”

  Lulu smiled back, hesitantly at first, but it was impossible for her to hold in smiles on a normal day, never mind on a night when a Keeper came to town.

  “Hello,” she said, grinning. “I’m Lulu.” She wanted to say more, to ask him…but he was a Keeper, and the familiar room had turned into an enormous cavern with the townsfolk crowded behind her like giants.

  The Keeper leaned forward. “You look like a young lady with a question.”

  Lulu’s heart skipped. She had a thousand questions. But tonight only one mattered. She leaned forward as well, gathering her courage.

  “Can you do magic?” she whispered.

  Will’s eyebrows rose. “Oh,” he said in a quiet, serious voice—a Keeper sort of voice, “Keepers have far more serious things to do than perform magic tricks for little girls covered in grass.” He plucked a little green stalk out of her hair.

  Lulu sank back and bit her lip. It was so very hard to keep clean.

  But Keeper Will held it out toward her with the tiniest hint of a smile. Before she could reach for it, the little snip of green stretched and the end of it swelled, until tiny white flowers burst out of it.

  Lulu’s heart burst open with it. Magic! He had done magic! She took the flower in awe.

  “Tonight,” the Keeper continued, “I am here to do something better. Tonight I’m telling stories.”

  Lulu rolled the little flower stem between her fingers. It was the most amazing thing she’d ever seen. “Why bother telling stories when you can do magic?”

  He laughed. It was that sort of laugh grownups do, not because they think it’s funny, but because they’ve been caught off guard.

  “You ask all the right questions, my dear.” He studied her for a moment. “The sort of questions a Keeper might ask.”

  Lulu’s pulse quickened.

  “How old are you?”

  “Seven.”

  “Ahh.” Will sat back in his chair. “Then it will be a few years before we know if you are a Keeper or not. If, in a couple years, you do anything—” He waved his fingers through the air. “—magical, come to Queenstown and find the Court Keeper. We’ve been waiting a very long time for a new Keeper, you know.”

  Lulu beamed at him. “My mother says I have more questions than a Keeper.”

  The man threw back his head and laughed again, the sound filling the room. It was loud enough that the room gave the Keeper their attention and shuffled to find seats.

  Keeper Will bent close to her again and whispered, “I haven’t answered your question yet.” His voice carried throughout the room when he continued, “Keepers tell stories, because stories are the most powerful thing on earth. A good story can wiggle its way into the deepest part of your heart. It can shape your dreams or your fears. It can change how you see the world. It can even change—” He tapped her nose with his finger. “—how you see yourself.

  “And that is real magic.”

  Lulu glanced down at the flower in her fingers.

  “Lulu is unconvinced,” he said to the room. “So I’ll attempt to prove it.” He turned back to her. “Is there a story you’d like to hear?”

  “Tomkin and the Dragon,” she blurted out, almost before he was done asking. A round of hollers and cheers agreed with her.

  The Keeper leaned back and nodded. “That’s the exact sort of story I’m talking about. Excellent choice, Lulu.”

  He pulled his hood up and stared down at the floor for a long moment, perfectly still. The room sank down into silence, and Keeper Will began.

  Part I

  Tomkin Thornhewn,

  youngest son of the Duke of Marshwell

  and aspiring hero,

  slipped at the very worst moment.

  * * *

  -From Keeper Alaric’s retelling

  of Tomkin and the Dragon

  1

  Along the southern border, a company of soldiers surged forward like the waters of the Great River, battling a deadly foe and performing acts of heroism.

  At his desk, Tomkin Thornhewn sat still like the waters of a small puddle, shuffling through a pile of paper and only dreaming of such renown.

  Beyond the door of Tomkin’s small study, late summer sunlight streamed into the empty hall of Marshwell Holding. The only noise was the rustle of paper as Tomkin rummaged through curious old maps, stiff accounting pages, and the soldiers’ skirmish reports, finally finding the letter from his father.

  * * *

  Tomkin,

  Your brother, Elton, had a day worthy of one of your stories. While leading a morning patrol, he stopped to help a soldier whose horse had foundered, and discovered a stash of letters beneath the man’s saddle. The soldier had been spying for Baylon the entire summer. ’Tis no wonder all our plans have failed. He confessed that the vile Baylonians hold his wife, who is with child. The poor woman is in the warlord’s camp. She is kept in a cell, shackled.

  Tonight, at dark, we infiltrate and rescue her from the devils. Would that I had an army instead of this small company! I would make sure the fiends did not survive the night. As it stands, we will trust to a moonless night and stealth.

  When your mother returns from the north, the two of you should celebrate. Your plan for crossing the twin rivers was flawless. We at the front would have a hard time without minds such as yours supporting us from home.

  With my love and gratitude,

  Your father

  Post note: I forgot to mention that Elton, while bringing the spy back t
o camp, heard a clink in the woods. When he investigated, he flushed out a scouting party from Baylon and captured their commander. The man is the highest-ranking prisoner we have ever caught. Heroics come more naturally to your brother than any man deserves. When he is duke, he shall do more between his first full moons than I have done in my entire life.

  * * *

  Tomkin shook his head and let out a huff somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. It would probably only take Elton a fortnight. He jotted down some notes on the soldiers’ reports, putting them in order, underlining parts he’d add to Marshwell’s official records.

  …Sir Elton leapt from the rocks and knocked the Baylonese soldier from his horse…unhorsed two more devils with a single stroke. Tomkin underlined the phrase. How does one even do that?

  Tomkin glanced out the window. It was past noon. Today’s messenger should arrive soon with word from the border. How had his father’s small band rescued a woman from a camp as large as the warlord’s? There was a twinge of dread in his stomach. Or maybe it was hope. Or a stomach-churning combination of the two.

  He imagined the captured woman cowering in the corner of an earthen cell. The soldiers moving through the woods, shadows slipping among the snakes of campfire smoke, the mouse-like creak of the cell door. Lifting the woman from the darkness, carrying her into the wide night.

  The hall door swung open, scattering Tomkin’s thoughts like a startled flock of birds, and he was back at his desk in Marshwell. Twinkles of dust spun lazily near the windows. The scent of roasting chestnuts wafted by.

  “Dorlow the Candlemaker,” the page announced.

  Tomkin let out a long, deflated breath. Candles. Right. The holding needed candles. He gathered the soldiers’ reports and closed them in his record book, setting it off to the side to make room for the accounting ledger.

  “Send him in.” Tomkin took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. He could make his own day sound exciting. His brother might be off rescuing the helpless, but Tomkin was…buying candles…bringing light to the holding. Tomkin Thornhewn, Bringer of Light.

  The stories from the army called to him, so Tomkin set a map facedown on the pile, hiding anything exciting from his view.

  There was a shuffle of feet near the door to his study and Tomkin gave the candlemaker a short nod before opening his ledger and lifting his quill. “Good afternoon, sir. Your visit is timely. The holding is running low on candles.” He glanced back at the records. “The price for a season’s worth is ninety silver?” He looked up.

  The fact that Dorlow was a candlemaker was so perfect, it almost made up for the fact he wasn’t a maiden in need of rescue. The man looked like he had been made of wax, then hung to dry and stretch until everything, from his eyes to his jowls to his fingers, were long and droopy. He hung back by the door of Tomkin’s study, wringing his hands, his fingers sliding and bending through each other in a way both mesmerizing and ghastly.

  “Is there something wrong, sir?”

  “M’lord.” The man bobbed a short bow. “I’m afraid the price is not the same as last spring. You see, m’lord, there was a great fire in the forest near my home…”

  Tomkin nodded. “We know of the fire. We were told no homes were damaged.”

  “No, sir, no homes. But the smoke, you see, sir, the smoke o’ the fire settled down in the vale. All the bees, in all the hollows, fled.” He clenched his hands together, his eyes anxious. “This is the last o’ my supply o’ candles, sir. I’m afraid I must raise my prices…” Dorlow’s gaze dropped to his hands. “…to a hundred fifty silver.”

  Tomkin sat back. His mother was still annoyed he’d paid extra for that herd of cattle last month, even though the two bulls were bound to end up being worth the price. If he made another overly generous deal, she’d stick her nose back into his accounting. It had taken until his twentieth birthday to get her to leave it in his hands. He wasn’t going to ruin it before a full season had passed. Especially over candles.

  The candlemaker stepped forward. “I know ya think that’s too high, sir. But I’ve searched the countryside. There aren’t no bees. I’ll need to travel to Southshire, or maybe as far as Greentree to find some.” He paused. “I can’t sell the candles to the common folk for the price I need, but I thought maybe you, sir, here at the holding…”

  Tomkin tapped his quill on the paper. The candlemaker’s asking price was obscene. But Dorlow made the only decent candles in the area, and the holding was running low. The scales in this particular deal were tipped in Dorlow’s favor. His mind ran over the situation again. There was always a way to tip the scales. The holding needed candles. But what did a bee-less candlemaker need?

  Tomkin bit back a smile at the most obvious question he’d ever asked himself. “My mother’s gardens have a problem. Instead of the normal number of bees, which she insists are good for her plants—”

  “Oh, they are, sir,” Dorlow interrupted. “Bees’d be the reason her garden is so lovely. I saw one.” He leaned forward. “The duchess has southern mint bees! They make rich, dark honey. And their tongues—” He raised one eyebrow for emphasis. “—are unusually long.”

  Tomkin tried not to grimace.

  Dorlow settled back on his heels. “Real beauties, those mints.”

  Tomkin felt the scales begin to shift. “Recently a second hive has formed and the far corner of the garden is overrun with bees.” He had been putting off dealing with the bee problem every day since his mother had left. “If you, sir, were willing to remove one of the hives, my mother would be deeply grateful. The bees would be yours to keep.”

  The candlemaker’s entire face lifted at the news. “A hive o’ long-tongued mints! Thank ya, sir! ’Tis a kingly gift!” He bent into a droopy bow. “Kingly!”

  The scales clinked down on Tomkin’s side. “Not a gift. Consider it partial payment. Ninety silver plus a hive of southern mint bees.”

  “Agreed!” Dorlow rubbed his waxy fingers together so quickly Tomkin was afraid they might catch fire.

  The candlemaker hurried off, and Tomkin added a note to the list of things to tell his mother when she returned tomorrow.

  …The candlemaker skipped away to remove the hive and our intrepid hero relaxed after a battle well fought, pleased the holding would be lit with the glow of candles and the gardens would have fewer long-tongued beasts. Tomkin finished with a flourish, smiling at the smooth line. Few things in life were more satisfying than writing with a good quill.

  Life was one story after another. Some stories just needed a little help to make them interesting.

  If Marshwell were an important duchy, or close to any important part of the world, the problems people brought to him might provide good stories all on their own. Tales of pirates or monsters or evil wizards. But instead, Marshwell was tucked away on the southern border of Queensland, and though it was one of the largest duchies, it was filled with peaceful hills and homey folk. Not far enough south to have exotic seas. Not far enough north to have perilous mountains. It was the sort of place a hero might pass through on a great quest, but only to find a safe night’s rest in a comfortable barn.

  Tomkin picked the map up off the pile of soldiers’ reports and tilted it toward the window. He squinted to read the faded, spidery writing. The map showed a large, bean-shaped island in the Southern Sea. The isle was nameless besides the notation “Territory of Marshwell.”

  The sheer oddness of the map was pleasing. How did Marshwell, with the entire country of Coastal Baylon between it and the sea, own an island? Of course, the island was fairly Marshwellian: one lone volcano, surrounded by an unbroken expanse of grassy plains, and inhabited exclusively by a breed of hairless sheep.

  What was the point of hairless sheep? If there was ever a place in need of a good story, it was this one. Tomkin let the map fall to the desk. It was a shame it wasn’t a good island. One with sinister ruins. Or maybe an ogre. That would be better than the Isle of Bald Sheep.

  The door to the hall
opened. “A messenger from the Duchy of Greentree,” announced the page.

  A man with a squinty sort of face, pale skin, and lips thin as knife blades stepped in. He wore a green vest emblazoned with a silver tree.

  “Good morning,” Tomkin said, nodding politely. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d had correspondence from Greentree.

  The messenger looked around the room, as though searching for a more suitable person to address, before offering Tomkin a slight bow. “The Lord of Greentree sends his personal reply to the Duke of Marshwell.” The messenger glanced around again.

  “The duke is my father,” Tomkin said, holding his hand out.

  The messenger, with obvious reluctance, held out a letter sealed with bright green wax and stamped with a tree. The man looked like a villain. Not a diabolical one—just the sort of minor henchman who delighted in piling discomfort and delays upon the hero. And probably enough paperwork to drown him.

  Tomkin took the letter and considered it for a moment. It was addressed to his father, but the duke was at the border. And Tomkin’s mother wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.

  He slipped his fingernail under the edge of the seal. “Is the letter urgent?”

  The man’s lipless mouth drew down into a frown. “I do not know.” He sniffed. “I do not read letters not addressed to me.”

  The man was definitely a villain. But heroes didn’t ignore their duty just because a minor foe disapproved. Tomkin gave the man a sour smile and broke the seal. He unfolded the letter, and his attention snagged on his own name.

  * * *

  Duke Thornhewn,

  I have considered your proposal and agree a marriage between your son Tomkin and my daughter Lissa would be mutually beneficial.