Chapter 1:
The Incident at the Old Well
Duck could hear his own heartbeat as he crouched panting in the thistles, and he figured others could hear it as well, so he tried to hold his breath. With fox-like movements he poked his head out and scanned the woods for his pursuers, trying ever so carefully to stay hidden. The muscles in his legs ached as they both held him low out of sight and maintained enough poise to propel him speedily away at the slightest hint of danger. He was not long in waiting before he spotted an enemy lurking in similar fashion some distance off.
“I’ve found him!” cried his assailant, rising to his full, unimpressive height and pointing in Duck’s direction. In moments more of them appeared, struggling through the undergrowth in an attempt to ring him in.
“Stupid complexion,” muttered Duck to himself, glancing down at the feathery, stark-white backs of his hands. He sped out of his cover like a horse from the gate.
As his name implied, Duck Ducaine was not like other children. Well, to put it more precisely, he was half not like other children. He was one of very few Chantlings left in the Land—creatures that were person-like in all the ways that animals were not, and animal-like in all the ways that people were not.
Though he wore clothes just like a normal person, his body was attired from about the knees up with white, feathery down, his pinkish skin only showing through on the palms of his hands. Below the knees, his legs were about as skinny as most boys’ his age, though they were scaly and sort of a blackish-orangish color. Duck didn’t like them at all, save for his feet, which had five long, skinny toes that were webbed together and made him twice as fast as the fastest swimmer he knew, but somewhat of a clumsy runner.
His face compounded the issue of confusion that most people met him with, for it was almost impossibly proportioned. His eyes were slightly bigger than most people’s, and they were the sort of intelligent, graying-blue color that belonged to a good portion of the human population of the day, and they looked straight forward, unlike a duck’s eyes normally would.
His beak was almost not a beak, but definitely not a mouth, either, for it was orangeish and stuck out a few inches from his face, and his nose was a part of it. He might even have been unique among sentientkind in that he didn’t posess a chin, at least not like you or I know them.
To say that Duck ‘stuck out like a sore thumb’ would be to overexagerate the noticability of sore thumbs. There, panting and crouching in the brown and green undergrowth, his unmistakable features could have been spotted by a half-blind dog at midnight.
As Duck hastened through the woods, he noticed that his attackers had since armed themselves with sticks and were closing in on him. He bent low and armed himself as well, too tired to run anymore, and he met his adversaries head-on with a great clacking of wood.
He fenced quite handily for his age of only eleven or so, and with a few good whacks to the knuckles he had disarmed a handful of foes. Still they pressed him onward toward the clearing.
“Alright, alright, hold it!” cried Duck between heavy breaths, signaling for respite. “This isn’t fair! You’ve got everyone on your side!”
An unusually confident-looking Petey Baxter strode up, his portly frame leaning heavily on a stick, his blondish hair plastered to his head with sweat.
“Yeah, well, maybe you shouldn’t have switched sides so many times and gotten everybody steamed at you!” he cried.
“It’s not my fault the teams were uneven,” retorted Duck. “I was just trying to make things fair!”
“They’re fair alright,” said Petey. “Us versus you. That’s what I call fair! Let’s get him!”
The army of little boys and girls lurched forward with a cry, and Duck took off running for the clearing.
“Don’t let him get away!” cried Petey, standing with a foot atop a log and pointing valiantly with his crooked stick. Duck’s tired feet ferried him safely into the clearing, but the war band quickly closed to within spitting distance.
Mounting the first few steps of the old well, he turned to make his final stand. Just as he did, the bell that hung atop the main hall sounded a single, solemn toll, and almost instantaneously the yard of the Driscoll Orphanage and Boarding School was flooded with rambunctious students. Seeing the milieu that was unfolding, some joined in and began giving Duck’s opponents what-for, leaving only Petey and a handful of youngsters to press the attack on Duck.
“Aw, come on! We were gonna get him!” cried Petey, looking a bit downtrodden again, as was customary for him.
“Looks like my team wins again!” laughed Duck, climbing a step higher.
“It ain’t over just ‘cause recess is!” cried Petey. “Besides, you’re down three points. And I’ve got the Cupper.”
He held aloft a little tin mug, dented and dinged from what very well could have been centuries of use and misuse. Those who understood the significance of such a thing were quick to show it with wide eyes and excited titters.
“Where did you find that?” asked Duck with a raised eyebrow.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Petey.
“It does too!” yelled Duck. “My team found it first. You stole it from us!”
“Can’t steal from my own team.”
“Alright, who’s the betrayer?”
Duck searched the faces around him. A handful of the potentially guilty lowered their eyes to the ground.
“I can’t believe this! My own team!”
“You ain’t got a team!” laughed Petey. “Not since you started switchin’ sides!”
“I do too have a team!” cried Duck, though even he was becoming suddenly less interested in what they were arguing about than in what was going on at the other side of the yard.
Everyone was heading that way, and in the middle of a mass of dumbfounded children stood a half-dozen or so grown men, all wearing boots and beards and uniform tabards that bore the symbol of T’yrie Eliese…men sent by the King himself, for whatever reason. In the moment’s confusion, Duck knocked the Cupper out of Petey’s hand, then mounted the fourth step of the well and held it over the opening with his stick through its handle.
“Surrender,” he said, and as the other children realized what was going on, their eyes grew even wider than before. “Surrender or the Cupper gets it!”
“You wouldn’t dare!” cried Petey, shaking out his stinging hand. “You’d lose, too!”
“Doesn’t matter. My team’s got more wins. If the Cupper’s lost, this year’s series is over, and I’m the champion.”
“Don’t do it,” said one of the little girls, holding up her stick.
“I’m on Duck’s team,” said another, turning toward Petey.
“Me too!” cried another.
“What is this?” cried Petey. “You’re betraying me, now?”
“I ain’t ‘trayin’ no one!” cried another young lad. “I quit!”
“You can’t quit!” yelled Duck and Petey in unison, and they began, along with their fractured factions, to argue the rules of the game. The prattle went relatively unnoticed in the immense crowd of children, though, for most were too busy asking the visiting men-at-arms as many questions as they could possibly think of.
The schoolyard sounded a bit like a circus might, if circuses happened all at once. Everyone knew that they were supposed to be getting on to their afternoon classes, but the presence of the strangers seemed to be enough of a reason not to. In a few moments, however, one sound did supercede all others. It was the dreaded voice of Mr. Phillip Driscoll, the not entirely unthreatening headmaster.
“Duck Ducaine!” it roared from somewhere over on the steps of the great hall. Duck looked up in abject terror, but several other things happened just then that momentarily drew his attention.
Firstly, when he recoiled at the angered mention of his name, the cupper slipped off the end of his stick and landed precariously upon the rim of the well. As he and a host of other children moved to save it, his feet went out from under him and he toppled forward, everything from the waist up vanishing into the well’s gaping maw. He dropped his stick and watched it click-clack all the way down into the darkness, and in a few moments he heard a distant splash.
He felt his lower body rushing to catch up with his upper one, and as he writhed in fear he saw a multitude of faces staring down at him from up above, their eyes alive with terror. A few weak hands clutched at the hems of his pants, and he felt himself slipping out of them.
“Help me!” he cried, his voice echoing down into certain annihilation, but the other children were strong enough only to arrest his fall, not to raise him up. He hung there for a few anxious moments, then suddenly a new face appeared over the edge. It was one of the grownups, a tall, slender man with long black hair and murky, green-brown eyes.
He beheld Duck very curiously for just a moment, as though he had never seen a Chantling before, then hauled him by his ankles back into the blessed daylight. He knelt and put his hands on Duck’s shoulders, then peered into his eyes with a mix of wonderment and awe, faintly masked as concern.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
“Yes. Fine, thank you,” said Duck, writhing under the man’s strong grip as he watched Mr. Driscoll approaching. The man kept right on looking at him, making escape more and more implausible with each belabored step the old headmaster took towards them.
Finally Mr. Driscoll plodded up, leaning on his cane and glowering down his knobby nose and through a pair of thin spectacles.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. “You know you’re not supposed to play near the old well!”
“We were just playing a game of knights and brigands,” began Duck.
“Knights and brigands?” cried Mr. Driscoll. “Aren’t you a little old for that sort of thing? You and Peter both! You should be ashamed of yourselves, leading all these little ones around in your foolish game!”
Those who hadn’t already laid down their arms were quick to dispose of them while Mr. Driscoll’s attention was on Duck.
“But we just——
“No buts!” said Mr. Driscoll, as he always did. Several youngsters did their best to hold back snickers, as they always did.
“You’re old enough to know better by now,” continued Mr. Driscoll, and then his furrowed, angry-looking face turned slightly less so. “Anyway, I suppose I’m glad you’re alright. Scolding you is a lot easier than fishing you out.”
Duck didn’t know whether to smile or frown, so he performed sort of a mixture of both.
“I suppose this old thing was due to be shut any time now,” Mr. Driscoll went on, tapping the old well with his cane. “Maybe we can put up a little plaque with your name on it, Duck Ducaine, to commemorate the last incident at the Old Well.”
Duck nodded, his heart swelling with pride. As far as troublemaking went, there was no greater honor than having your name attached to such an infamous story as this was shaping up to be.
Having said all he believed necessary, the grumpy old man in his frumpy vest, shirt and trousers turned and beheld the strangers with interest.
“Is there something I can help you with?” he asked. “Would one of you kindly explain who you are, and why you’ve decided that now’s the best time to disrupt my schedule?”
One of the men-at-arms, a blonde-bearded one, strode haughtily forward.
“Name’s Wilhelm,” he said. “My company and I are stationed in Bulkhead, but we’ve been granted special leave to come this way during the tournament season.”
“Bulkhead?” said Mr. Driscoll. “Why’ve you come so far?”
“I thought it only fitting that I should return to the place where I was given my opportunity to be a squire, in order to give the same opportunity to others,” said Wilhelm. There was a collection of excited whispers from the group of boys gathered all around.
“What in the Land are you…wait a minute…is that you, m’ boy? Wilhelm Targuss?”
“In the flesh,” said Wilhelm.
“Well, I’ll be,” said Mr. Driscoll. “How many years has it been?”
“Thirteen and more,” said Wilhelm.
Mr. Driscoll had a peculiar look of wonder, pride and sadness on his face, but before he said one more word to his former pupil, he raised his voice above the din of the schoolyard.
“Alright, time for the afternoon session,” he said. A groan of displeasure could be heard on every child’s lips as they begrudgingly filed back into the school. Duck lingered, hoping to catch a word or two more about Wilhelm’s purpose there.
“You’re dismissed,” said Mr. Driscoll, turning to face him.
“Yes, but I just…I’d like to say thank you,” said Duck. The dark-haired man-at-arms nodded with a half-smile.
“You’re very welcome,” he said. “I noticed that you fought quite well just there. How do you think you’d you like to be my squire?”
Duck’s eyes lit up.
“You mean it?” he cried. He glanced up at Mr. Driscoll, who frowned.
“We’ll see,” was all the old man said. “In the meantime, you’ve got class to go to.”
Duck sighed, but he knew better than to press his luck. He walked slowly back towards the great hall, straining to hear whatever they might be saying about him.
“I thought only knights could take squires,” said Phillip, turning and facing the men-at-arms.
“Normally, yes,” said Wilhelm. “Have you forgotten that we are nearly to the seven-year mark?”
“Are we, now?” answered Phillip with disinterest. “How could I be so foolish.”
“You never were much interested in that sort of thing, were you?” asked Wilhelm with a chuckle.
“What sort of thing?”
“The tourneys. The First Knight competition. You’re as unexcited now as you were back when I was a lad.”
“Forgive me for not brimming,” said Phillip, scratching the middle of his head, where his line of graying brown hair abruptly stopped.
“I only wonder why?” asked Wilhelm. “The coronation of a new First Knight is one of the most exciting times in our entire kingdom! Prisoners freed to win back their freedom…disgraced men able to reclaim their family’s lost honor…orphans given the chance to ascend to knighthood…what greater a thing can you think of? How wonderful is this kingdom, that any man, no matter his creed, may sit at the right hand of the King?”
“I cannot blame you for your patriotism,” said Phillip, “but I wonder if your loyalty is misplaced?”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Tell me something, my lad: have you a woman in your life?”
“A wife of five years, yes,” answered Wilhelm.
“A wife, you say? And have you a daughter or a son?”
“Two daughters.”
“I see,” said Phillip. “And what of the tourney? It is your desire to become this Kingdom’s next First Knight?”
“It is my desire to serve the King in whatever capacity I am capable of achieving.”
“But you will compete, will you not?”
“I will.”
“And if you are killed in the tourney? What then? Who will look after your wife and two daughters?”
“Very seldom is anyone killed, nowadays,” said Wilhelm. “Not usually until one makes it into the upper echelons of the tourney is his life in any real danger.”
“That’s as may be, but getting up there is the ultimate goal, is it not? And the King reserves the right to make the competitors fight to the death at his whim. You stake much when you put your hand to the sword, young Wilhelm. You risk leaving your young bride a widow and your two children fatherless.”
“Then perhaps I’ll do my part in keeping you in business a little while longer,” chuckled Wilhelm. His comrades laughed with him. Mr. Driscoll narrowed his eyes. As the men quieted, they sensed a bit of tension in the air.
“Do you think I am grateful for men like you?” asked Phillip. “For men like your father? You think I do what I do with the mindset of a business man?”
Wilhelm’s smile faded.
“I was just——
“If I was only interested in staying in business, I would’ve been a shopkeeper or a carpenter. I wouldn’t have bothered rebuilding this place from nearly the ground up, with tools I carried up from Fredrickson on my own back.”
“Mr. Driscoll, I was only——
“You were joking, of course,” said Phillip. “I understand. But you and I both know that jokes are only funny if there is an echo of truth in them.”
“I meant nothing by it,” said Wilhelm.
“Of course you didn’t. I only hope that you realize that the office of Knighthood is never to be undertaken lightly. You cannot seek your family’s love and wellbeing while you seek your own glory. Something must be sacrificed. It is my sincerest hope that you will make the right choice, when that time comes.”
“Here all along I thought you’d be proud of me,” said Wilhelm, shaking his head. Mr. Driscoll suddenly felt ashamed of himself.
“My dear boy,” he said with an almost fatherly smile. “After doing what I do, for as long as I’ve done it, I’ve realized something very important. I’ve no pride left…and therefore, none to give away.”
Wilhelm stood for a moment, chewing thoughtfully on his lower lip.
“Well, if my company and I cannot have your pride,” he began at last, “may we at least have a bed and a meal? We’ve traveled a long, long way.”
“That you have,” said Phillip. “Of course you are welcome to stay here for as long as you like, but I’m afraid I cannot have you proselytizing any of the children into squirehood while they are in my care. If you’re going to be around until the tourney anyway, I don’t see why you can’t wait until the summer holiday, when many of them will return to their families. Then you can ask their parents’ permission.”
“If it must be thus,” said Wilhelm. “I do hope that leaves us enough time for proper training.”
“I hope so too,” said Phillip, although Wilhelm knew the old man couldn’t be bothered to care. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to the guest house.”
He turned and began shuffling toward one of the several small outbuildings that also fronted the clearing, then stopped and addressed the men once more.
“If you prefer, there are several inns down in Fredrickson that might be more to your liking.”
“I, for one, have had enough of riding for today,” said Wilhelm, and his comrades seemed to agree. “We shall stay here tonight, but we shan’t impose upon you any longer. We’ll head south after breakfast tomorrow and stake our claim at the parade grounds.”
“Very well,” said Phillip. He opened the door to the guesthouse, which had but a single, lightly furnished room and some beds in a loft up in the eaves. The men set aside their burdens and made themselves at home.
“Supper is at six o’clock,” said Phillip. “If you prefer to take it with adults, many of the staff dine in the lounge just across the hall from my office. I shall join you there tonight, if that be your wish.”
“That sounds wonderful,” said Wilhelm.
“Anyway, I’ll leave you to rest for the time being,” continued Phillip. “If you need anything, just let me know.”
With that, he turned and led himself down the steps and across the lawn, a somewhat sourer-than-usual look about him. This look he carried with him all the way up the broad staircase leading to the door of the great hall, and even down the corridor to his tiny office. He might have gone on all day looking like that, had his wife, Marcy, not put a stop to it.
“Phillip Driscoll,” she said with a frown. She had been standing in his office doorway for a time, and the old man hadn’t noticed.
“Hmm?” he mumbled without looking up from his work, pretending not to have jumped when she called his name.
“What in Sul’s Land has got you so upset?”
“Huh? What are you talking about?”
“You’ve been moping about in here for the last half hour, and scowling a heck of a lot more than usual. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” answered Phillip, and he continued rummaging through his messy desk drawer.
“Really. You’re absolutely certain that seeing Wilhelm again hasn’t made you the least bit upset?”
“Of course not,” lied Phillip. “I’m just looking for something.”
“Looking for what?”
“It’s not important.”
“If it’s not important, why bother looking for it?”
Mr. Driscoll finally glanced up, and on the face of his beloved, aged wife, he saw the same mischievous grin that had probably made him fall for her in the first place. A trace of a smile crossed his lips, and then he looked down once more and seemed to find the thing he was searching for.
“Here we are,” he said, holding up an ancient-looking piece of parchment.
“Is that what I think it is?” asked Marcy.
“Mm-hmm,” answered Phillip with his own ornery grin. “Address of an old friend.”
“And what, exactly, are you going to do with it?”
“I’ve been thinking a lot recently about young master Ducaine.”
“Duck? What about him?”
“I think it’s time to send him on to the old Grayfellow.”
“What? Phillip, you can’t be considering that already!”
“Already? Dear, the boy’s eleven. I’m afraid there’s not much more we can teach him here. It’s obvious that he’s bored in class. Haven’t you seen the way he stares out the window or buries his nose in those preposterous adventure books?”
“What boy his age doesn’t?”
“That’s just it, Marcy. I’m not sure if Duck really is a boy his age or not.”
“Phillip, that simply does not make sense.”
“No? Well, think about it for a moment. We’ve never had a Chantling here before. Eli asked us to take care of him for a while, until he was ready to begin his apprenticeship.”
“How do you know he’s ready?”
“I don’t. Not for certain. I just have an incredibly strong hunch. Duck could be an adult, for all we know. I know nothing about the aging process of Chantlings. It has just seemed to me, for a while now, that he has learned all I can teach him. He’s starting to revert to more childish things. Today he was leading a game of Knights and Brigands with Petey Baxter.”
“So…”
“Petey Baxter is nine, dear.”
“What’s nine to eleven? Phillip, I think you’re blowing this whole thing out of proportion.”
“Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not. In either case, I hear Eli’s back in Fredrickson, and supposedly he’s going to stay for a while this time. Now, I care for Duck the same as you do, Marcy, but, I think it’s time.”
“I don’t know, Phillip…”
“Well, like I said: I’ve spent a great deal of time thinking about it, and with all that happened today I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s for the best. Having Wilhelm and his comrades show up here today just sort of reaffirmed that feeling.”
“I knew that was troubling you,” said Marcy with a smile of satisfaction.
“Yes, well, congratulations,” glowered Phillip. “You’ve sussed me.”
“You don’t want Duck running off and getting wrapped up in that whole tournament lifestyle that you so openly abhor, do you? You know he’d absolutely love being a squire.”
“It’s not his place,” said Phillip. “The Kingdom needs him to be what he is. And what he is happens to be a Chantling. I’m not sure if that still means anything, but it should. He has a different purpose.”
“You really do care for the boy, don’t you?” said Marcy.
“I care for all of the children here,” answered Phillip. “I’m just unwilling to fail this one, as I feel I’ve failed others in the past.”
Marcy smiled an old, familiar smile that, because of all her wrinkles, made her look like she was about to pucker up for a kiss. She thought for a moment, cocking her head to one side, which unleashed a few silvery strands of hair from the loose bun she seemed to always wear.
“Well, it seems as though you’ve got your mind made up,” she said. “I suppose everything’s in order, then, except for one small detail.”
“What’s that?” inquired Phillip.
“Asking me if it’s alright. When last I looked, my name was also on the ledgers.”
“Ah, but of course, my dear,” said Phillip, rising from his desk. “I wouldn’t dream of making such a large decision without your input.”
He put the address in his pocket, then took his wife’s hand and followed her out of the office.
“Well, how about it?” he asked. “Shall we send the lad off to learn the weirder ways of the world?”
“I rather enjoy having him around,” began Marcy. “I think I’d rather him be a squire.”
“You must be joking!” cried Phillip. “After all I’ve just got through saying——
“Of course I’m joking,” laughed Marcy. “I just love seeing you get all worked up. It lets me know you care.”
“Of course I care,” grumbled Phillip. “If I didn’t, why else would I be so mean?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. So, are you going to send for Eli right away?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“And how are you going to break the news to Duck?”
“Break the news? Oh, trust me, Marcy. It won’t be the hardest thing I’ve done today.”
