Her better judgment, no doubt…
“All right.” Pansy sighed, mentally adding cat food to hershopping list. “But that’s absolutely not a real book, and you know it.”
Blossom only grinned in response.
With a solid third of her basket now devoted to a ball of black fur, Pansy’s haul from the grocer proved far more modest than she’d initially planned. Constrained to only the most basic of staples, the handful of ingredients she absolutely, positively could not do without, her more elaborate culinary creations would have to wait. A frustrating twist of fate. And yet, looking down at the kitten, now tucked into a perfect loaf atop the smallest bag of flour she could find, Pansy couldn’t bring herself to acknowledge this fact with any real heat.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” she told the kitten, scritching him gently underneath the chin, where a single white stripe marred otherwise solid black. The kitten, pleased with this offering, began an appreciative purr, yellow eyes narrowing to contented slits.
As she crossed the town square for a second time, Pansy braced herself for another encounter with Mrs. Millwood, her shoulders pulling taut beneath the soft, pale yellow of her cardigan.Why didn’t I just take the long way around?
Thankfully, while Mrs. Millwood’s poster remained, plastered in full color for all to see, the woman herself did not. In her place stood a human man – tall even by his people’s standards – clad in sweeping indigo silks dotted with golden thread like stars. He stuck out like a sore thumb, undoubtedly visible from all corners of town. And yet, he carried himself like a longtime resident, greeting everyone who passed him by name.
They all recognized him, too, of course. As did Pansy.
The wizard Agvaldir had a face that was impossible to forget, dedicated almost entirely to a full, brown beard that would doubtless stir envy in many a young dwarf. Supposedly this made him handsome in some circles – human ones, mostly – but Pansy couldn’t see it. Nor could she see the kindly man the rest of Haverow loved so much. For the moment Agvaldir’s gaze locked with hers from across the square, Pansy felt no comfort, no reassurance. There was only the icy plunge of fresh dread spearing her through.
“Hello, little lady,” he said, his too-white smile stretching wider, all hunger and teeth. “Is there something I can do for you?”
The question dangled before her like a fishhook, exquisitely baited. Once upon a time, Pansy might’ve said “yes”, stretched out her hand and allowed Agvaldir to sweep her away on an adventure without a second thought. Plenty of other halflings already had. She’d seen them over the years, off to quest beyond the dark swell of the horizon at Agvaldir’s side, only to return months or years later, irrevocably changed. That is, if they returned at all.
But Agvaldir? Agvaldir never changed, and he always,alwayscame back.
The man was as much a permanent fixture as the river that abutted Haverow to the west. Not even the oldest residents could remember a time without him, their earliest memories locked to the day he saved the village from a magical blight – now, almost a century ago. While those same elders had turned old and gray, Agvaldir had remained the same. He was as youthful as ever, instantly recognizable in a way normal people weren’t; a consequence of his magic, no doubt.
Perhaps that was why he’d become such a blind spot,overwhelming familiarity truncating an otherwise obvious conclusion – especially when veiled in the barest sheen of plausible deniability. Agvaldir never advertised his true goal. He couched his words in allusions and implications, waiting until his target broached the subject first. Because if a halfling elected to become an adventurer of their own volition, well – he had no choice but to accompany them. At leasthe’dtry to keep them safe, from orcs and witches and goblins and trolls, unlike anyone else willing to let a halfling join their party. He was Haverow’s longstanding protector, the one who’d saved them from the Blight.He cared.
And so, the halflings lured in by his speeches, the indirect promises of glory and respect on a stage that had, heretofore, dismissed them by virtue of their short stature, were not victims, but, rather, selfish architects of their own misfortune. If only Agvaldir had been able to convince them of their folly, the other villagers often cried, somehow unaware that he was the one who had planted its seeds.
“I imagine you must’ve heard about the necromancer sweeping across the south,” Agvaldir continued, his expression turning solemn, though the sharpness in his eye remained. “Much as it pains me to admit it, it’ll be only a matter of time before her army of undead marches on the elven kingdom of Elhurian. Of course, that’s still quite a long way from here, so there’s no reason to be concerned. I’m certain my fellow wizards and I will find plenty ofbrave heroeswilling to join us on our upcoming campaign to quash Evil’s rising tide.”
Heroes like Wolf Banefoot.Like her grandmother.
Pansy’s chest simultaneously tightened and swelled. Evil certainly needed to be subdued. She wouldn’t dare argue otherwise. But reality wasn’t so simple. Just because wizards like Agvaldir only talked about saving innocents and preservingpeace and prosperity, didn’t mean there wasn’t an ugly truth hiding underneath that golden sheen. Violence and suffering were just as real, as much a part of any campaign as the purported good, and to pretend otherwise was straight-up dishonesty. The Great War had changed Pansy’s grandmother, just like it had changed so many others; and, unfortunately, that change had not been for the better.
Still, as much as Pansy would have liked to keep on walking, ignore Agvaldir and the unpleasantness roiling in her belly, right now, she needed him – albeit not in the way he was doubtless hoping. Her thoughts turned to the runes she’d discovered on the cottage’s lower floor, currently hidden beneath a dust-choked rug. Curiosity, buoyed by the fleeting hope that the magic contained within them might prove useful somehow, curled inside Pansy’s brain. Like an itch, it demanded to be scratched. And, as far as she knew, Agvaldir was the only one in the whole village who knew anything about magic.
“I’m sorry, but I’m no hero,” Pansy said with well-practiced politeness and a shake of her head. “But I do have a question for you.”
The wizard’s smile thinned, but ultimately held. “What sort of question?”
“Do you recognize these runes?” Pansy asked, producing the notepad from her pocket for inspection.
Although she held the notepad well above her head, Agvaldir nonetheless insisted on squatting down until his face was nearly level with hers. Perhaps he thought he was being polite; though, surely, someone in Haverow would’ve disabused him of this notion by now, considering he’d been visiting for over one hundred years…
Then again, maybe not, Pansy realized. She couldn’tremember the last time anyone had openly disagreed with Agvaldir – if ever. The village elders certainly never had; he was their savior, after all, their memories of him elevated by childish wonder and simplicity. And if they saw fit to defer to him, so would everyone else. Such was the benefit of old age.
The wizard squinted at the runes for a moment, then asked, “Where did you find these?”
So, he does know something!Excitement sparked in Pansy’s chest, obliterating the tar-like feeling that had previously congealed between her ribs. “I found them in the, uh, cellar of my grandmother’s cottage.” It wasn’t quite a cellar, but what else was she supposed to call it?
“Interesting,” Agvaldir murmured, a shadow of a thought flitting across his face, too quick for Pansy to parse.
“You know what they mean, then?” she asked, pressing closer in expectation.
Agvaldir shook his head, straightening back up to his full height and nearly taking Pansy with him when she rocketed up onto her toes on reflex. “I’m sorry, but no. In all my years, I’ve never chanced upon runes like this before.”
Pansy’s expression crumpled. “Not even in a book?”
