The Tales of the Wanderer Volume One: A Book of Underrealm (The Underrealm Volumes 4) by Garrett Robinson (elon musk reading list TXT) 📕

“Thank you.” Sun turned to the barmaid. “And thank you as well.”

“Of course, love.” The barmaid winked and left. Sun felt blood rushing into her cheeks.

“Have a sip,” said the old man. “It is a decent enough brew.”

Sun sipped at the beer and found it good. Better than she had expected from a tavern in such a small town, though she still preferred the mead of home.

“That is pleasant,” she said. “Thank you.”

“And even better after a long day on the road,” said the old man. Sun must have looked surprised, for he smiled. “Your boots are muddy, and as I said, it is clear you are not from this place.”

He did not ask where she was from, for which she was grateful, though the question seemed to hang unspoken in the air between them. Slowly she drank another swig of beer.

“The second sip is better,” she said. “I imagine the third will be more so.”

The old man snorted and leaned forwards. “I love Tunsha dearly, and so I ask you not to repeat my words, but his brew is hardly the best I have ever had. In my youth I knew a woman who could brew the best ale in all of Underrealm.”

Sun nodded politely. But again she was struck by a strange feeling—a sense that she was missing something obvious. It was disconcerting. She had never been in this place—why should she expect anything here to be familiar?

As the old man kicked his chair back to lean against the wall again, she studied him more closely. He kept saying how she was a stranger in this town, and yet she realized suddenly that he, too, had recently traveled here. His chin bore several days of beard, and his long-worn clothes spoke plainly of travel—not to mention the second, stained cloak which she herself wore over her blue one. And mayhap most telling of all was his money. He had paid for her drink as if it was nothing, and Sun had heard many coins in his purse. Only someone traveling, and traveling a long way, would bear that much coin while looking so shabby.

Then Sun noticed something curious: despite his single arm, there was an unstrung bow leaning on the wall behind him. Sun knew bows, and this was one of the finest she had ever seen. It had certainly been crafted in Calentin, and she had already noticed signs of that kingdom in his features.

Her thoughts came crashing together with the force of an ocean gale. Sun’s mouth fell open and went dry all at once, and her fingers clenched upon the mug of beer.

The old man noticed her reaction, and his eyes glinted.

“Yes?” he said amicably.

“You … you are Albern. Of the family Telfer.”

The old man took a long pull from his mug, returned it to the table, and wiped some foam from his upper lip. “Now, what would make you say such a thing?”

“Your bow. Your face. Your … your arm. Forgive me if I am mistaken, but …”

He cocked his head. “But do the tales not say that Albern of the family Telfer lived a very long time ago?”

“Not that long ago,” said Sun. “And none of the tales say that he has died yet.”

The old man’s smile widened. “Then I suppose there is some worth in them. You have guessed aright.”

“But … but you …” Sun gestured vaguely, having no idea what to do with her hands. “You … you fought in the War of the Necromancer, and—and in everything that happened afterwards. You—” Sun’s voice fell almost to a whisper. “You walked alongside the Wanderer.”

She thought his eyes went a little sad at that. But he answered only, “Take another drink.”

Sun did so, downing quite a bit more than she had intended. It struck her gut, and a heady feeling crept into her skull. “I … what are you doing here?” she said finally.

Albern only gave her the same sad look. “I did walk beside the Wanderer, as you said. And it is her beer I praised so highly. Is that how you guessed?”

“That was part of it.”

“To think that legends of her ale survive to this day.” Albern shook his head. “I would give much to taste it now. Those were the days when Mag was happiest—when she lived in Northwood, and ran her inn, and loved her husband well.”

Sun gave a start. “Her husband?”

Albern raised his brows. “You know of her ale, but not of Sten?”

“I had never … they say she was not a lover.”

“They would be more correct to say she was not a bedder,” said Albern. “But love? Oh, yes. She loved Sten. And I suppose it is not altogether surprising that he should have faded away from her story. She would hate that he did. Yet talespinners often focus only on the choicest gems in their own treasure. They have not the jeweler’s touch, and so they discard the mountings that make the gems shine brighter still.”

Sun did not know quite what to make of these words. She tried for a moment to think of an answer, but when she could not, she took another sip of beer instead.

“But now we are unequal,” said Albern. “You know who I am, but I know nothing about you.”

“What do you want to know?” asked Sun, her pulse skipping.

“Your name, for one thing.”

“It is Sun.” It felt strange not to give her family name. Her tongue wanted to say it by reflex, and she had to restrain it from doing so.

If the look in Albern’s eyes was any indication, he had noticed her omission. But his tone remained kindly. “Do not worry. In this place, you are only yourself. You are not whatever person you left in the street outside.”

It was a pleasant thought, that she had left her past at the door like a coat. But she did not entirely believe it. She felt a need to steer the conversation away from