Bran Hambric: The Farfield Curse (18 page)

"I want some answers, now, or I’m not listening to you at all," Bran said. "I want to know who you are, how you found me, and why there’s a hidden room full of—"

"That’s enough about the room," Astara cut him off. "Don’t talk about it."

"What is it?" he demanded.

She hesitated, as if she didn’t want to say, but she finally gave in.

"If you really need to know," she whispered, "Mr. Highland works with the Mages Underground here in Dunce. He’s a

distributor of the outside newspaper—not just to mages, but to others as well, people sympathetic to the cause."

"The books," Bran pressed. "There’s enough for a hundred jail sentences in that room."

"Those are for the mages hiding in town," Astara said. "We distribute them as well. There are code words they say at the counter, and then Mr. Highland brings them up."

"And I suppose you just looked Sewey up," Bran said bitterly, "found out he worked at the bank, and knew if something happened I’d know to come along."

Astara nodded. Bran shook his head.

"I don’t know how you pulled it off, but you’re good at it."

She said nothing, but even then Bran knew she was pleased. He looked about the room.

"Well, you’ve got me here," he said. "I’ll listen. But only for five minutes."

"You can’t begin to understand it all in five minutes," she said, and something in her voice signaled urgency. "You’re the one who’s filling in the missing pieces. There’s so much you don’t know about your mother or why she left you."

"Please tell me," Bran said, forcing himself not to flinch at her mention of his mother. "I don’t know anything about my past, and even if I can’t believe you, it’s more than what I’ve got now."

Astara glanced down for a moment. When she looked up again there was a strange light in her eyes, as if there was a story behind them, written with pain and sorrow. Just looking at her seemed to read volumes of it to Bran.

"Your mother’s name was Emry Hambric," she said slowly. "I know you’ve heard it before."

There it was again, that name.
Bran clenched his fingers together.

"Yes, I’ve heard it," he replied with a hint of frustration in his voice. He felt as if her gaze could pierce into his soul, and she could see all the pain and loneliness he had felt for years, never knowing his parents.

"Bran," she said slowly. "I know it hurts you, never knowing her. It has to. But even though you never knew her, the things she did are still left behind."

Astara lowered her voice. "Your mother was murdered, because they were searching for
you,
and she wouldn’t tell them where she had left you. So they killed her."

Bran was completely taken aback.
Murdered because she wouldn’t tell them?
How could Astara possibly know this— more about his own mother than he did?

"Who was searching for me?" he blurted out. "Why?"

"People your mother knew," Astara said. "The others who helped her create the Farfield Curse."

Something ominous in Astara’s words seemed to catch in Bran’s mind, echoing with a flare of evil in it.
The Farfield Curse.
He had never heard it before, and yet it seemed as if it were something familiar: darkly recognizable, like the name of an infamous serial killer.

"What is that?" Bran asked, his voice instinctively lowering.

"Your mother created a curse, Bran," Astara said, her voice going to a whisper. "The Farfield Curse is what they called it. It’s a secret not even most mages know about, something so terrible I can’t even find out what it was. But your mother

was a part of it: a great criminal plot that was being worked years before either of us was even born."

"My mother was a magic criminal?" Bran said, hardly believing it, even as his words echoed what Astara had said. She nodded slowly.

"It’s all secret," she said. "The plans, the plotting. It went on for years. You won’t find a mention of what she did anywhere, at least not in any records we have access to."

Bran was left in a stupor, unable to comprehend the words she was speaking, as if a wall in his mind was instinctively blocking them out. His mother a criminal? The two words didn’t even seem to fit in the same sentence together, and when he thought them, all of a sudden his face felt hot and his fingers curled into fists. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be.

"I—I can’t believe it," Bran said. "Please, this has got to be a joke."

"Does it sound like I’m joking?" Astara said with disbelief. "Do you think anyone would joke about this, bringing the police here just to talk to you? Why would I go through all that trouble?" She shook her head. "Bran, your mother died while trying to save
you.
And even though she stalled them, they will search for you until every corner of the world has been checked."

Her words were dark and shattering; they were nothing that Bran wanted to hear or believe. They wrecked everything he had ever clung to about his mother.
She was dead?
He had told himself for years that somehow his mother might be alive somewhere. He had imagined it so many times that he had come to believe it without question, so that when Astara told him it wasn’t true, her words were a knife, striking down his mother right before him.

"You didn’t know her at all," Bran said, feeling anger rising inside of him. "She might be alive, and out there looking for me right now. She might not have been able to take care of me years ago, that’s all. You probably didn’t see her once. You’re making it all up!"

Astara motioned for him to be quieter. "Everyone is going to hear you!" she hissed through clenched teeth.

"I don’t care if they hear," Bran said. "You brought me here and lied—my mother is
not
a criminal."

"I didn’t lie," Astara said. "You just don’t want to believe the truth."

Her words came at him like a slap to his face. Why were her words upsetting? He knew better than to believe her.

"You’re making it up," Bran said again. "You can’t even tell me how you know my mother."

Astara opened her mouth to speak, but suddenly, there came a piercing sound from the windows, and Bran heard the horn of the Schweezer going off, and Sewey shouting his name.

"Sorry, my time’s up," Bran turned away from her toward the door, feeling relief that he had been distracted from listening to more.

"Wait!" Astara said quickly. "You don’t understand."

"Maybe I don’t
want
to understand," Bran said. "Just leave me alone."

He heard her scribbling on something with a pen, and he looked over his shoulder and saw her rip a piece of paper off a clipboard on one of the crates. She shoved it at him.

"Here," she said. "
This
is how I know your mother."

Bran hesitated but finally took the paper, pushing it into his pocket without reading.

"I think after that you’ll believe me," she said. "If you don’t, at least I’ve kept my word."

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, white envelope.

"This too," she said. "Believe me or don’t: I made a promise to give you this."

He met her gaze, unsure of what she was saying, but took the envelope as well.

"Don’t open it until you get home," she whispered. "You’ll be glad you waited."

Bran looked at it but promised nothing, still frozen in the doorway at the strangeness of her actions. He didn’t know what to say in return.

"Meet me back here in two days," she said, stepping from him slowly. "I’ll tell you everything that happened."

"I won’t be there," Bran said, shaking his head as he turned for the door.

"You will," she replied, in a way so certain Bran began to feel uneasy.
What could she do that would change my mind so much?
At the moment, he didn’t really care.

"BRANNN!" He heard Sewey’s voice again. "I’M LEAVING!"

He stuffed the envelope into his other pocket and hurried back the way he had come. Just as he shot out of the alley toward the bank, there was a flash of headlights, and behind them, the angry eyes of Sewey Wilomas. When Sewey saw him, he honked the horn.

"Bran!" he shouted. "This is no time to be wandering across the street in alleyways!"

Bran hopped in, and Sewey huffed and puffed like he was going to blow the bank down.

"Couldn’t find a filthy gnome anywhere," he said. "And not a filthy clue either!"

They rocketed out onto the road and were quiet for a while, until Sewey spoke up.

"What the rot were you doing in that alley?" he demanded grumpily.

Bran wasn’t ready for Sewey to ask that, and he started stammering for an answer. "I…um…"

"Stop it!" Sewey burst. "If you don’t have a sensible thing to say, then just be quiet!"

Bran didn’t feel like talking anyway. There were few cars on the road at that time and even fewer businesses with their lights on. Sewey careened over a crosswalk and passed a stop sign without pause, and nearly hit an early-morning newspaper truck. He slammed on the brakes.

"Rot!" he roared. The car screeched to a halt, though the truck passed unscathed. "Look, the trucks are already out. It’s so early, why am I even going home?" he asked aloud. "I’d never get to sleep this way, and I’d just lie in bed like a sick old crab and feel miserable."

"I think I’d rather get twelve minutes of sleep than none at all." Bran said, irritated.

"Then you can be a sick old crab and sleep in the backseat," Sewey said, "while I go off to the pub and cool my nerves."

"Are you sure the pub’s the best place for that?" Bran said.

"Who do you think you are: my father?" Sewey roared. "I’m an adult, I can do what I want!"

Bran knew Sewey hardly ever went to a pub except when he was at the Biannual Wilomas Family Reunion with his relatives, and they visited the one owned by his great-grand-uncle Groshnus. However, Sewey seemed set in what he wanted to do, and he turned the car around, looking for a good pub to stop at. He couldn’t seem to find just the right one, and they eyeballed almost every pub all the way from Seventh to Eighty-Seventh Streets.

"What’s wrong with this town?" Sewey asked. "Where have all the good pubs gone? They—"

He was about to say more, but suddenly, there was a flash of motion in front of the car. Someone leapt from the side of the road in front of them, as if he had appeared from nowhere.

"Sewey, look out!" Bran shouted, and Sewey slammed on the brakes.

"What the devil!" he roared. Bran was slung back and forth, the brakes squealing all around them, the car skidding down the road and swerving.

"What’s going on?" Sewey roared.

"A man jumped out!" Bran said, looking all around. "He was right in front of us!"

"What?" Sewey’s head rolled about. "I see no man!"

Bran looked again, but suddenly there was no one there at all. He rolled his window down quickly and looked down the street.

"I’m sure someone was there!" he said. He knew for certain he had seen the man.

"Close the window!" Sewey ordered. "It’s very late, and early, and I don’t have time for this."

"But we almost hit him!" Bran objected.

"Not a word!" Sewey said. "There’s no one there, and that’s final!"

Bran fell back into his seat. Sewey was just about to start driving again when he realized where they were.

"Oh!" he exclaimed. "Here we are!"

He raised his arm, and Bran looked at where he was pointing. It was a large, wooden building with lights on inside and a sign showing OPEN on the front door.

"It’s the Flob Hopkin’s!" Sewey said with a chuckle, pulling forward to park on the side of the road. "I haven’t been here in ages! Practically the last of the good pubs, I’d say!"

Eying the pub suspiciously, Bran saw through the windows that there were still some people in it and not too many ruffians, and the place was well lit. It had been kept well on the outside at least, a large wooden sign hanging over the door with a picture of a pint of Duncelander Ale spilling over, and the words Flob Hopkin’s Tavern and Inn painted beside it.

"Come on," Sewey said, and Bran followed him through the door. The wooden ceiling was very high, and the walls were made of dark bricks on which hung many animal heads and trophies from great hunts. There were round tables set out in rows in the middle of the floor, with booths against the walls and a few men about, most of them hanging to the corners. The air smelled of smoke and beer, but it was mostly a quiet place. A heavy, black raven sat on one of the fans in the ceiling, going around slowly and watching the people below. When Bran stepped in, the bird gave a loud screech and flew off. Sewey leaned to Bran’s ear.

"Watch out," he warned. "There are adventurers at places like this, maybe Wild Westmen, or even hardened criminals! Tell me if you see one, and I’ll report him to the authorities."

"What do hardened criminals happen to look like?" Bran whispered back.

Sewey paused, looking around the room. "Hmmm…like that man
there.
" He pointed at a man sitting in the far corner of the tavern. The man was leaning over with his eyes closed, sitting across from two other men whose faces Bran could not see. He was in dark clothes and had thick, blond hair; he was quietly listening to the other men and circling a silver cell phone in his fingers on the table. He didn’t look like any Duncelander Bran had ever seen.

"They look like
him,
" Sewey went on. "Always find their type, looking for treasure, looking for love, or looking for their lost father—but always looking for trouble. I’ll keep an eye on him. Maybe I can get him thrown in jail for something before morning breaks."

Sewey started toward the man but stopped just one booth short, sliding into the seat to face him. Bran had to sit down with his back to the men, but none of them noticed him or Sewey at all, even when Sewey went on clearing his throat for quite some time.

"May I assist you?" an old woman stepped forward with a tray under her arm and a pitcher in her hand. She had silver hair tied in a tight bun and two cigarettes in her mouth.

"I, er…" Sewey stammered. "I’ll take a water for Bran, and some Duncelander Ale for me."