This is a tattered volume in the "Riverhaven Academy of Learning" library.
The Story of Tatia and Byron,
from The Tales of Citharon WayGuester
"You've been really quiet,
Citharon," said the tall Elven ranger, as he tossed back the remains of
another mug of ale. "By real,
I mean unusually so. As in only
telling us one tale so far this night, and here it is time for the false
dawn."
The Halfling bard grinned
lazily. "Friend Acton, my
mouth has been busy nonetheless." He
pointed a pudgy finger at five empty mugs dripping with the remains of ale.
They were stacked pyramid fashion on the table, two straddling three.
A sixth, full mug, clearly intended to crown the rest, was in Citharon's
hand.
"Well," rumbled a
Dwarf from somewhere deep in his graying beard-- "will ye no' consider one
more tale? I can smell my guardin'
shift hobblin' this way, and it stinks."
Citharon stretched.
"I suppose so, Maur, if you'll buy me a set tomorrow night."
Maur snorted, a sound that woke
a few of the tavern's more relaxed inmates.
"I do that, and I'll have ta run extra duty ta pay the rent.
You're a tiny fiend, Citharon-- but done and done.
Fair price for your tale."
"All right, then."
The bard meditatively stroked the six strings of his biabli.
"But mark, nothing epic. I
won't speak of kingdoms lost, doomed lovers or cursed items.
I'll tell you a true tale of something that happened once not too long
ago in Riverhaven. It's not spoken
of very much, because few people know the real story. But I had it from
several reliable sources, and went their myself to check it out once."
Citharon paused, and his eyes seemed to briefly focus on the events of
another time and place. Abruptly he
shuddered, and a took a swig of his ale.
"Well, at one time there
was a wealthy, well-bred young man named Byron Dunshade.
He came of good human stock and had seen battle in distant lands.
When his parents died, and with no surviving kin, Byron returned to the
old Manor. He was sick of war, and
as the last surviving Dunshade thoughts of marrying and raising a family
occurred to his mind.
"It chanced that the very
first day after his return Byron met a young woman.
Her name was Tatia. She was
fresh and winsome, and she knew these things; what's more, she was unattached,
and not a little lonely after having brought several romances to unsuccessful
conclusion.
"Byron could have cared
less about the casual facts of Tatia's recent past.
He only had eyes for this wonderful, beautiful creature who appeared to
have stepped out of a storybook-- a tale of some raven-haired princess in a land
faraway, gazing from the window in a tower that touched the sunset for a knight
unseen, unknown, to share her life.
"And so he courted her.
Often they were seen together, sometimes in the company of other young
people; though Byron found these friends of Tatia rather thoughtless and shallow
after the horrors of war. Truth to
tell, he only had eyes for Tatia, and the more he studied her the more he found
to admire in private, away from the world's frivolity.
She in turn was touched by all this attention from a wealthy, well-placed
young man; and as time went on, Tatia's pleasure changed first into affection,
and then to love.
"Within three months the
nuptial bells sounded. Byron and
Tatia were married amid lace and orchids, opals and diamonds, green lawns and
blue skies and a moment that stretched beyond time into a forever place called
memory.
"Scarce a year after that
they had a child, Laurel. In time
she displayed her mother's dark rich hair, her smile and laughter; and Byron
loved her.
"But Laurel's effect on
Tatia was still greater. I produced
this child, ran the thought through her mind: I created life.
For Tatia who had never so much as considered her friends more than a
series of running social engagements, this fact was a personal revelation.
Byron's part in the matter was of no consequence.
Tatia had made a child...and Laurel was a work of art.
Perfect in every way.
"From the start there was
something in Tatia's attitude towards Laurel which puzzled Byron-- a look,
perhaps? A glance that conveyed
some emotion that Byron never received? But
the squire of Dunshade had nothing to complain about.
His wife and child were both incredibly beautiful, and like the Manor
they were entirely his to appreciate. His
days and nights were filled with joy at the pleasures they shared, whether it
was something as simple as lovemaking or as complex as taking a child out for a
ride on a swing.
"Yet gradually as the
years progressed Tatia's attention became increasingly focused on Laurel.
She was the treasure of her mother's delight, her every movement and
gesture exquisite. She still loved
Byron-- was he not her husband, after all?-- but Laurel was more than that.
"Byron took note of all
this with growing resentment. He
loved Laurel, too-- did he not take her for walks and show her the wonders of
the Manor...? But, he reasoned, all
things should be in good measure. And
Tatia was his wife, his love, his treasure, who should be focusing more
attention on him. He came to resent
Laurel's intrusion upon his life with Tatia, and every delighted squeal of the
child brought pain to the father's breast.
"Tatia remained oblivious
to her husband's dark silences and mute stares.
Her joy in Laurel rose at sunrise and only drew rest at night.
Meanwhile Byron's schedule had gone in the opposite direction.
He became nocturnal, spending long and longer hours in his study, trying
to put the thought of his wife from his mind. Of course he did nothing of
the kind. She was everywhere,
because she was nowhere. He felt
her absence like a red hot iron burning in his heart.
Byron touched little food but drank incessantly, and read the love poetry
he had written to Tatia during the days of their courtship.
"Finally, one evening,
Byron decided to gather his courage and end the madness about him.
Calmly he removed a long, elegant letter opener from his desk and rose.
It was Laurel's hour for bed, he recalled - as if he could forget.
He mounted the staircase, and entered the child's bedroom.
There before him stood the mother, smiling on her babe, and Laurel,
sitting on the soft mattress. The
child saw him; her eyes lighted up; she shrieked in delight, and waved with both
hands.
"Byron's hand slashed
outwards with a strength and accuracy worthy of a one who had fought long and
hard in foreign lands against the forces of darkness.
Laurel fell forward dead, her trusting smile fixed.
A woman's scream blazed across the room.
"Tatia...?
Tatia! recalled Byron, and he turned.
She stood there looking at him-- at last, looking at him!-- but in her
gaze was only horror. Where was the
love he had sought to return to them both?
Byron's cold fury suddenly took flame.
He tossed away the letter opener and grasped a fireplace shovel.
Then as Tatia screamed again Byron hit her...and again...and again...and
again. Then he fell to the floor,
wracked in sobs.
"Late that morning Byron
awoke. He saw Tatia stretched
before him in a dark pool of blood. The
wedding ring upon her finger winked at him, and instantly he knew what he must
do.
"Byron weaved up the
stairs like a drunken man, tears streaming from his eyes.
Carefully he opened a window in the attic, and climbed out.
Flattening himself against the ramparts, his eyes automatically searched
the horizon for the one thing they delighted in; then memory returned.
With a final cry of 'Tatia!' Byron threw himself upon the bright spikes
that lined Dunshade Manor's wall. He shuddered once, then lay quiet."
Citharon sat back in his chair
and ceased to speak. For a long
moment the tavern's other habitues remained silent as well, and
At length Acton cleared his
throat. "I thought you said
there was nothing lost here, Citharon," he said. The Halfling
stirred, and blinked. "Hmmm?
I said there were no kingdoms lost, doomed lovers or cursed items.
Yes."
"Well, it seems to me -
and begging your pardon, I'm no bard, mind you - that the kingdom of love was
lost. The lovers were doomed by
their own way of looking at things, and the cursed item was surely the innocent
babe."
Citharon nodded slowly.
"Yes, I suppose it is an epic of sorts, at that.
But there's still this difference: most epics are buffed up tales of long
ago, as real as Pontificus' rainbow armor.
The epic of Byron and Tatia Dunshade, now, that's real.
And the proof lies in the old Dunshade Manor itself, if you have the
stomach to look for it."
Then an unusually sober
Citharon took a long, hard swig of his mulled wine, and stared at the grinning
fire.