The Tangle Box by Terry Brooks

“Awk! Biggar is better!” the bird squawked.

“That bird looks familiar,” Abernathy declared, squinting darkly at Biggar.

“Just a common myna, my companion on the road.” The tic in Horris Kew’s eye twitched double-time.

Abernathy frowned. “I suppose you’ve trained him to attack dogs?”

“Awwwkk! Fleas! Fleas!” the bird cried.

Ben came around the table to put himself between Abernathy and the bird. “Aren’t you supposed to be in exile, Horris? What Brings you back?”

“High Lord, I simply want another chance.” A truly penitent look settled across Horris Kew’s angular face. “I have had twenty years to repent, to consider my mistakes, to think about my misconduct. I was lucky I escaped Landover alive, as Questor Thews can tell you. But now I wish to come back to my home and start over again. Is this possible?”

Ben studied him. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t do it, High Lord,” Questor cautioned at once.

“Don’t even think about it, High Lord,” Abernathy added.

“Awk! Hooray for Horris, Hooray for Horris!” the bird declared.

“Thank you, Biggar.” Horris patted the bird affectionately and returned his gaze to Ben. “I have a plan, should you decide to let me return, High Lord. I ask nothing of you or anyone but to be left alone. I shall live out my life as a hermit, a bother to no one. But should the need arise, I stand ready to serve in any capacity required. I have some little knowledge of magic that may someday be of use. I offer it for when you think it appropriate. You can depend on me to come if called.”

“I believe that it was your use of magic that got you in trouble the last time,” Ben admonished softly.

“Yes, yes, too true. But I will not involve myself in the affairs of the country or her people unless I am asked,” Horris said, lie, tic went the bad eye. “Should I violate this covenant, you may restore the ban immediately.”

“No,” Questor Thews said.

“No,” Abernathy echoed.

Ben tried to keep from smiling. He should probably be taking this more seriously than he was, he thought, but it was hard to get too excited over someone who looked like this fellow and whose worst offense was making chickens fly and cows rebel against farmers.

“Awk! Pretty lady,” the bird whistled suddenly.

Willow smiled and glanced at Ben. He remembered the child.

“I will think about it and give you an answer in several days,” Ben announced, ignoring the groans from Questor and Abernathy. “You can come back then.”

“Happily, High Lord,” Horris Kew responded, bowing deeply. “Thank you, thank you. I am indebted.”

He backed quickly from the room and was escorted away. Ben wondered what kind of bird Biggar was. He wondered how many words the bird could say.

“Well, that was a monumentally foolish decision!” Questor Thews snapped in disgust. “If I am permitted to say so, High Lord!”

“You are,” Ben replied, since it was already said.

“There’s something familiar about that bird,” Abernathy muttered.

“Just because a man looks harmless doesn’t mean he really is,” Questor went on. “In Horris Kew’s case, appearances are not just deceiving, they are an outright lie!”

Ben was already tired of the subject, and he held up his hands imploringly. “Gentlemen!” he admonished. He was hoping for looks of chagrin but had to settle for hostile silence. He sighed. You couldn’t have it your way all the time, he supposed. That was why most matters required compromise. “We’ll discuss this later, all right?”

Willow rose to stand beside him, and he smiled as she looped her arm through his. “Parsnip!” he yelled, and when his cook appeared to stand with his wizard, scribe, and messenger, he asked, “How would you feel about our adding another member to our family?”

“As long as it’s not Horris Kew,” Questor Thews muttered and looked not the least chagrined for saying it.

Gorse

Horris Kew departed Sterling Silver like a fugitive in the night, hastening away as swiftly as propriety and pride would allow, casting nervous glances left and right with every step he took. He hunched along with purposeful, ground-eating strides, his tall, gawky frame rolling and swaying with the movement, a strange figure in this strangest of lands. The tic he had mysteriously developed caused the comer of his eye to jump like a trapped cricket. Biggar rode his shoulder, an omen of doom.