The Seven Frog Brothers, a story in 9 parts, Orrin the Sly

More about The Seven Frog Brothers, a story in 9 parts, Orrin the Sly

The moon stood high in the sky, its light slicing like a dagger over the edges of the trees. Orrin the Sly sat on the back of Gravus, the Shadow Toad, his cloak fluttering gently in the night breeze. Beside him, the wheel gleamed on the saddle, a pale skull emblazoned in its center—a symbol that terrified travelers even before they saw the rider himself. "We don't need violence," Orrin murmured, "only the suggestion of it." Gravus snorted in agreement, as if she knew the power of appearances. Orrin wasn't like his brothers. Fendral searched, Calvarn fought, Thariel questioned, Merrik remained silent—but Orrin was deceptive. He could appear friendly and dangerous in the same breath, twisting words in such a way that an opponent would catch himself. He had learned this game in the alleys of the cities, among merchants and minstrels, among rogues and storytellers. But now the pool called to him, and Orrin knew that even the cleverest ruse was meaningless if he forgot its source. The call sounded not like a song, but like a riddle whose answer only he could find. Gravus set his massive legs on the path. The toad moved slowly, but he knew hidden ways: places where the ground gave way, clearings revealed by the moonlight. Orrin smiled as he noticed the shadows closing behind them. Anyone who followed them would be lost. Soon they reached a fork in the road. To the left lay a brightly lit path, to the right a narrow bridge encased in brambles. Orrin reached into his pocket, pulled out a small coin, and tossed it into the air. It landed in the grass—on the side of the skull. "So right," he murmured. Beyond the thorns, a path opened up, lined with fireflies. But after a few steps, three figures stood in the way: shadowy creatures, with eyes like coals and voices like tearing paper. "Those who would walk here," they hissed, "must pay the price of memory." Orrin didn't dismount. He only inclined his head. "A memory?" he asked. "I have many, but not all are for sale." The shadows laughed, dry as dust. "Give us what makes you who you are, frog." Orrin seemed to reach into his pocket, but he pulled out only a blank sheet of paper. "Here," he said. "The memory of my first ruse. Invisible to you, priceless to me. Good luck deciphering it." The shadows reached for the sheet—and lost their shape. They disintegrated as if they had never existed. Orrin smiled thinly. "Sometimes nothingness is more valuable than anything." Gravus grumbled softly and continued on his way.