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DargonZine Volume 14 Issue 03
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DargonZine Distributed: 4/8/2001
Volume 14, Number 3 Circulation: 757
========================================================================
Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Beginning Morals Mark A. Murray Naia 1016
The Snows of a New Year Charles F. Schweppe 3-5 Deber 1016
A Woman's Prayer P. Atchley Melrin 1017
========================================================================
DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a
collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
Please address all correspondence to <dargon@shore.net> or visit us
on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/. Back issues
are available from ftp.shore.net in members/dargon/. Issues and
public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
DargonZine 14-3, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright April, 2001 by
the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@shore.net>,
Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@mnsinc.com>. All rights reserved.
All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories
and artwork appearing herein may not be reproduced or redistributed
without the explicit permission of their creators, except in the case
of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution.
Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
========================================================================
Editorial
by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
<ornoth@shore.net>
I have to admit an embarrassing fascination with reports and
charts. Over the years I've drawn charts of how far I ride my bike,
asthma attacks, my salary growth, my net worth, temperature trends,
computing performance and capacity, and any number of other things that
could be quantifiably measured over time. I must admit a particular
weakness for software like Excel and Quicken, which allow me to indulge
in this obsessive behavior without resorting to easel-pad sized graph
paper and a slide rule.
DargonZine is, of course, a natural outlet for this compulsion.
I've got graphs and reports about things you'd expect, like how many
readers we've had, how much fiction we've printed each year, and how
much traffic our Web site gets each month. Then there are some
additional statistics, like how many stories each writer has produced,
and the elements of the Dargon milieu that get referenced most
frequently.
The data relating to Dargon people, places, and things is a
particularly fertile ground for inquiry. When a writer uses a character
or place that someone else introduced in a previous story (as opposed to
something they themselves created), that's what we call "borrowing". In
true data fiend fashion, I have reports that indicate which elements are
most frequently borrowed, which writers have borrowed the most, and
which writers have created things that are borrowed most often.
If that sounds a little compulsive, consider that I've also been
known to create charts of the ages of our writers, their levels of
participation, and personality traits like their preferred quantity and
method of receiving criticism!
So I thought I'd take this opportunity to share some numbers that
piqued my curiosity this morning. I found myself wondering how many of
our readers had been around since we started keeping detailed records of
subscriptions back in 1994.
What I found was that about 12 percent of our current subscribers
have been here for more than six years, and that fully one quarter of
our readers have been with us for more than four years. That kind of
loyalty is a pleasant surprise, and it's really great to know that there
are so many people out there who value our work enough to stay with us
for so long!
Of course, all statistics can be interpreted differently, so I then
turned the question around: are those numbers high only because we've
recently done a poor job recruiting new readers? Well, half our readers
joined DargonZine within the past two years, so I don't think so.
Furthermore, of the people who subscribed to DargonZine in the past
year, about 60 percent of them are still with us. Interestingly, of the
readers whom we lost in the past two years, only one in five
unsubscribed; the rest were removed from our distribution list because
their email addresses became inactive. For an Internet publication,
that's an amazingly high retention rate. From all that, I infer that our
readers seem to like what we've been doing. That's good, because we're
back again in this issue with more of the same!
The issue begins with longstanding favorite Mark Murray, whose
standalone story introduces us to a new setting that will appear in
several forthcoming stories: the recently-founded village of Nulain. We
continue with a great first story from our second new Dargon writer of
the year, Charles Schweppe. Charles' story is given color from his
background in medieval history, and we really look forward to more great
tales from him. And the issue concludes with "A Woman's Prayer", the
last chapter in P. Atchley's three-part series about Rasine and her
daughter Oriel.
So, for those readers who have been with us for years, I offer my
thanks as well as the gratitude of all our writers. And for those of you
who are only just getting settled with DargonZine, I hope you enjoy the
great reading material we provide, and that we can share our journeys
throughout the years to come! Thanks, and enjoy!
========================================================================
Beginning Morals
by Mark A. Murray
<mashudo@netzero.net>
Naia 1016
"And the beast rose up and roared," Raven Forester told her two
children. She brought up her two slender arms so that she could mimic
the beast's claws. Her fingers curled inward and looking closely, one
could see the calluses in her once soft and dainty hands. She opened her
mouth and bared her teeth while growling. Her long black hair traveled
over her shoulders as she leaned forward in the chair. Dark eyes peered
through her long bangs.
"I hope it didn't look as funny as you," young Graham Forester
giggled. His dimpled cheeks flashed across his face as he smiled and
laughed.
"Hush," the older Forester child said. "I want to hear the rest."
Jerial sat straight and rigid, his hands placed upon his legs. His
attention was upon his mother, waiting for her to continue.
"Aww, Jer," Graham complained. "You're like father. So stern and
hard. If you fell into the river, you'd not only drown, but scare all
the fish out of the water."
"Graham," Raven smiled. "That's not true. Your father would scare
the fish so far that they'd land in the sea." Graham laughed and rolled
back onto the bed.
"Mother," Jerial pleaded. "What happened next?"
"Straight," Raven said. "The duke drew back his sword and smote the
beast. The heavy blow caused a great wound. Instead of attacking,
though, the beast turned and fled. The duke and his men followed, but
they were not as fast.
"The beast leaped and ran and was gone from sight. The duke and his
men searched for bells, but found nothing. There wasn't even any blood
to track. Giving up, they were turning towards home when they heard a
groan nearby."
"It was the beast, wasn't it?" Graham asked.
"Hush," Jerial said.
"The men crept forward slowly, weapons drawn and ready," Raven
continued. "The woods grew thick with brush and briars. They carefully
waded through, getting closer and closer to the noise. Monstrous moans
and groans cried out.
"The duke led, and deliberately moved each branch and briar out of
the way. The closer he got, the less the moaning became. So, slowly
moving a branch aside ..." Raven said, imitating the duke's action. "And
the beast ..." As her arm reached the limit of its arc, she jumped
forward and grabbed young Graham.
"Aaugh!" he screamed and jumped backwards out of her grasp, his
legs frantically kicking the quilt in an effort to push himself away.
"Mother," Jerial sighed, only having moved slightly when she scared
Graham. He rolled his eyes at her and waited for her to finish.
"And the beast wasn't there," she said.
"Huh?" Graham said. "You scared me for nothing?"
"No, little tree rat," Jerial replied. "She did it because she had
fun scaring you."
"Hush," Raven said. "At least we have excitement in our lives. Now,
where was I? Oh, yes, the missing beast. The duke found a man lying on
the ground with a severe chest wound. Being the duke, he instantly
fathomed what had happened."
"Wait," Jerial said quickly. "The man was the beast."
"No," Graham said. "The beast hurt the man in its escape."
"And the duke," Jerial continued. "The duke realized that the beast
wasn't evil, but it was defending its home."
"Yes," Raven said. "But is there anything else?"
"He was the beast?" Graham asked.
"Yes," Jerial said, ignoring his younger brother. He leaned forward
a slight bit. Not enough for most to notice, but his mother saw it and
knew that he was intent on figuring out the puzzle and moral of the
story.
She knew her boys well. While Jerial thought about the answer, she
looked over at Graham. He was small with short brown hair. He still
carried some weight but their move to the new land had hardened him
somewhat. Looking back to Jerial, she saw his muscular frame tense as he
pondered the story. His long, dark hair, sharp nose, angular chin, and
blue eyes were the very image of his father.
"Don't trade blows before you realize whom it is you are
attacking," Jerial stated. "It may turn out to be a potential ally."
"Yes," Raven said. She rose from the chair and brushed her hair
back over her shoulders. "It is a story your father keeps close to him
now that we are finally here in Nulain."
"Why did we have to move way up here, mother?" Graham asked. "I
know we had to move. Our land was taken by the Be-in-sons," he said,
having trouble with the word, but determined to do his best. "We had to
go somewhere, but wasn't there someplace closer to home to go to?"
"No," Raven sighed. "Your father and I did not have a choice in the
matter. King Haralan gave other nobles and us some land to compensate
our losses. The king named it Nulain and proclaimed your father regent
of it, but we aren't really a duchy. We aren't ruled by a duchy either.
And we couldn't decline an offer from the king, now could we?"
"No, mother," Jerial agreed. He moved his hands behind him and
leaned back, relaxing somewhat.
"No one wants to talk about these things, but your father and I
think that this was the only land the king could get from the other
nobles. No one really wanted it. It's rocky and hilly and no place for a
good farm. The grass doesn't grow very well, so feeding livestock is
tough. The mountains are very close but the only valuable thing there is
trees."
"That's what we do, though, mother," Jerial said, closing his eyes
and tilting his head back to catch the sunlight streaming in through the
window. "We chop down trees and sell the wood to other people. If we can
tame the mountains, we can thrive here."
"Thrive?" Graham asked, pushing his brother's shoulder. "What's
that?" He wasn't having much luck moving his brother, so he leaned back
and placed his feet on his brother's waist. Before he could push, Jerial
rose from the bed.
"It means to grow and flourish and get bigger," Jerial answered. He
looked out the window at the mountains.
"Yes," Raven said. "We possibly can. And we have the best plot of
land. Do you remember the river that runs out of the mountains?"
"Yes."
"... yes."
"That is a boundary for the duchies. Our land was in duchy Asbridge
on a point that is next to Dargon and Narragan. These three duchies are
the sides to our land. The river flows out of the mountains from
Narragan and about where it crosses our land, it becomes the border for
Asbridge and Dargon.
"When we arrived here, we found a central site for our town and
called it Northern Hope. Some people are calling it Hopeville, though.
Whichever we end up calling it, it's our land and our dreams now. And
that is the end to our lessons," she said. "You have chores and
training."
"Will father be home soon?" Graham asked.
"I don't know. He went out to scout the area some more and to hunt.
Night will probably be here before he returns."
"Until dinner, mother," Jerial said, walking out the door.
"Do I have to go?" Graham complained. "Feeding the chickens and
pigs is boring. I want to hear more stories."
"Go," Raven ordered. "We'll talk about your training at dinner."
"I want to be an artist," Graham said, jumping from the bed into
her arms. She caught him and hugged him tightly to her.
"Your father has the decision," she warned. "Now go." His feet no
sooner touched the ground than he was out the door singing a children's
ditty.
"There!" Othra Miller shouted, his outstretched hand pointing
skyward. His other hand shaded the sun from his brown eyes. He was a big
man, with rolls of fat hidden by a tailored tunic. A long, thick
mustache and a goatee adorned his face, while a bald spot grew on the
top of his head, reaching out to diminish his already short brown hair.
"Looks like a goose," Othra's son, Harrell, guessed. "Can't tell
for sure."
"Looks like a challenge," Kael Forester said. "It's a long shot for
the bow, but let's see if I can make it." Kael lifted his long bow and
pulled back the string. The muscles along his arms flexed and shaped
themselves as he sighted past the arrow. His hand rested alongside his
angular chin as he watched the flying bird.
Letting out his breath in a slow, relaxed manner, he loosened his
fingers. The bowstring twanged as the arrow shot upward. The three of
them watched as the arrow sped true. The goose jumped in mid-flight, but
did not fall. They could see the arrow continue past the goose to land
over a hill. The bird's flapping was erratic. Slowly, the bird lost
altitude and was forced down near where the arrow had disappeared.
"I think you hit it," Othra said. "Let's find out."
"We haven't seen much else all day. Might as well go," Harrell
agreed.
Kael thought about it for a moment. They were a good hike away from
home, and if they searched for the bird, it would be dark before they
returned. While they all knew the way home, it was still a new land and
traveling at night was dangerous. "We'll search, but not long."
Large boulders interrupted the rolling hillsides sporadically.
Rocks littered the ground and trees grew in groves throughout. They were
still on Kael's land, but going a bit farther from where the bird had
landed would take them to the foot of the mountains. The ground grew
steep and the trees grew closer together to cover the sides.
They climbed the small hill and searched the area on their way down
the other side. Small pockets of gulleys crisscrossed the area and could
hide almost anything. Shrubs and thickets grew here and there and
concealed small game, although they hadn't found any on this trip.
"Help," a woman cried from somewhere close. Her voice sang softly
through the air to play upon the men's minds. In response, they
quickened their pace towards her plea.
"Where are you?" Harrell asked.
"Here," came the melodious reply, tinged with painful sorrow.
"I see her," Kael said and ran to her. He reached where she was and
knelt beside her. She was a slim, dainty woman with pale, soft skin. A
silky tan-colored dress covered her body, but there was a place torn
from it around her upper left arm. Blood seeped out from a wound to
stain her finely woven clothes. Her hair was short and multihued, from a
light brown to a dark brown. Her eyes were black and soulful. She held
his arrow in her right hand.
"It came out of the sky and pierced me," she explained.
"I am sorry, milady," Kael said. "It was my arrow. I tried to bring
down a large bird for dinner, but I believe I missed it. We were
searching for it in the chance that I had hit it."
"Who are you?" Othra asked. "Where do you live?"
"First, we should get her someplace to take care of that wound,"
Harrell stated. He knelt on the other side of the woman. Cutting part of
his tunic, he delicately bandaged the wound.
"Our homes are a few bell's walk," Othra said, standing at her
feet. "Which is closer, your home or ours?"
"Bells?" she asked, letting go of the arrow. The tip fell upon her
leg as the notched end rolled from her fingers to strike the ground.
"Ah, well, um ..." Othra stood perplexed.
"A few hillsides that way," Harrell said.
"My home is farther than that," she answered. Her voice carried a
sweet, soft tone that hid the pain of her wound.
"Can you walk?" Kael asked. "We can help you stand."
"Please," she said, using her good arm to help her up. Kael and
Harrell aided as best they could, placing hands under her for support.
Once on her feet, she swayed a bit and placed a hand upon Harrell's
shoulder. "Ah," she cried in pain as she moved her wounded arm closer to
her body. "I can walk, I think."
"This way," Kael motioned, keeping by her side.
"Couldn't you shoot an ugly woman?" Raven asked, fuming. She stood
at the head of the bed, looking at her husband's back. He was at the
washbasin, cleaning his hands. "Couldn't you just not shoot a woman at
all?" Her voice started as a whisper but rose in increments.
"Shhhh," Kael said, drying his hands. "Don't make our guest
uncomfortable." He turned to face her.
"Heh," Raven snorted. "Why don't you go in there and tend to her
*again*? You seem more concerned about her well-being than mine. I don't
like her being here. She hasn't said who she is or where she's from or
what she was doing there."
"A person is entitled to their privacy," Kael countered, walking
towards his wife. "We are the strangers around here."
"Tonight, you are the stranger," she said, climbing into bed. She
got under the quilt on the far side of the bed and bundled the whole
thing around her, leaving nothing for her husband. He stood there and
stared before getting into bed beside her. Their backs were facing each
other and they lay there for long moments before she turned and tossed
part of the quilt over him. Reaching out, she placed her hand around his
waist and curled up next to him.
"I love you," she said.
"I love you more," he replied and smiled.
"Did you hear that?" Graham asked his older brother. "Did you hear
what father said?"
"Yes," Jerial yawned. "Go to sleep. It was an accident."
"Not that," Graham yawned. He curled up in his bed and his voice
was magically getting softer as sleep gathered about him. Jerial was
already asleep when Graham muttered his last sentence. "Do you think she
was the bird?"
========================================================================
The Snows of a New Year
by Charles F. Schweppe
<chschweppe@aol.com>
3-5 Deber 1016
It was a cold day in Dargon. The new year had brought with it winds
from across the frozen forests to the east. While those soon died, the
temperatures dropped steadily, clearing the streets as people fled to
the warmth of family hearths. Those who went outdoors, hurrying from
building to building, did so because of compelling need.
One of the few people on the streets was leading a roan mare. He
was a tall young man, just past his seventeenth birthday, his frame
hidden underneath a thick woolen cloak. On most days, he would take time
to admire the houses along Murson Street, their dark oak framing and
shutters contrasting with the white washed daub of the walls. He admired
the way they stood together in neat rows, so different from the
randomness of his home village. But today his head was bowed within his
fur-lined cloak, hurrying past.
His name was Reynaud, a son of Gautier Journai, a minor knight in
the foot hills of the Darst Mountains. Yet he was the youngest of three
sons and had always felt superfluous, rather like a spare wheel kept in
a barn. It was a feeling that was reinforced on his sixth birthday when
he learned that he was pledged to the Heart's Hope Monastery in Fennell.
His brothers had watched with sympathy as he rode off on a cart, only
accompanied over the paths and rough roads to Fennell by a wool merchant
the boy barely knew. It had been a sad day for him.
Despite his initial fear and loneliness, his stay at the monastery
had not been unpleasant. The monks had been generally kind when he first
arrived, especially Prior Yaroslav, allowing the young boy to become
accustomed to the place. Reynaud had been taught his lettering by the
master scrivener and the ways of the Cyruzhians by the novice master. He
was a quick learn with the pen, and only one partially paralyzed novice
was considered a better scribe. When not in the scriptorum, he had
worked in the fields that fed the monastery, weeding while younger, then
helping to plant and hoe. Despite the dull routine of farming, he had
enjoyed its physical exertion, and he had always slept long and hard. He
also enjoyed the outdoors, with the sun beaming down on him, and he
found that the winters were hard because his work was shifted indoors.
However, Reynaud was not content with being a monk, worshipping the
God of the Stevene in quiet contemplation. He found the teachings of the
Stevene distant and hard to grasp. Also, the first tome he was given to
copy solo was a history of the Great Houses War, and he found himself
enamored by the great deeds, especially of the knights at Balkura. While
he had enjoyed the work, both in the scriptorum and in the fields, he
found himself restless during the prayers. As the years went by, he had
found this restlessness and dissatisfaction growing, and he yearned to
perform great feats, which he could not do in the confines of a
monastery. Then he heard of his eldest brother's death, and his resolve
to leave Heart's Hope stiffened. He had approached the abbot, and, upon
denying the truth of the teachings of Stevene, he was released and
returned home.
However, Reynaud had found that life with his family was not much
better than with the Cyruzhians. Sir Gautier, who had never had much use
for his youngest son, had been crushed by the death of his heir, and had
taken refuge in the powerful local mead. Reynaud's mother spent her time
taking care of her husband, while Reynaud's other brother had taken over
the running of the fief. In addition, the lands of the Journais were
isolated, far from excitement or power. They were also poor, and the
scribe skills Reynaud had learned in Fennell were of little use. So,
after less than six months, Reynaud found himself leaving his home for
the second time in his life, this time by his own decision and heading
north, for the ducal seat.
The first few sennights in Dargon had not been pleasant. With the
little money he had been able to bring with him, he had only been able
to afford a cheap room off Layman Street, between Main and Travellers.
In a short time, he had realized that the only work he could find,
either as a longshoreman on the docks or as a minor clerk for a small
merchant, was unacceptable to his ambitions. Yet after only one
fortnight, his funds had become so alarmingly low that he had feared
that he would be forced into either distasteful work or returning to the
isolation of his home. Then he had come to the attention of Lord Harald
Mertien, castellan of Dessow.
Dessow was a small yet wealthy manor, nearly two bells travel east
of the town. It was part of the patrimony of Anabel Mertien, the
Baroness of Drugai, the head of one of Dargon's more powerful baronial
families. She kept the manor as a place to stay when she visited her
liege, and she had appointed her cousin Harald to see to its upkeep.
Since Reynaud had entered into Harald's service, he had become
accustomed to the opulent way in which the manor was kept, although he
was in awe of its elegance when he first visited.
Yet, somehow, there was something wrong in Reynaud's life. He had
been at Dessow for over a year, and he had found himself sinking into
luxury. His food was plentiful and filling, his bed was no longer a hard
wooden plank, and, more importantly, he had been introduced to some of
the important people in the duchy. He needed to do no physical work, not
even working out with Lord Harald's men at arms, and his normally thin
frame was starting to expand in the middle. He spent the last winter
safely ensconced within the warm confines of the manor. And, despite all
this, there was a sense of something missing. He often thought about it,
hoping that naming the problem would help him overcome it, but he had
not yet been successful.
Thus Reynaud found himself riding into town on a cold Deber
morning, picking up some supplies for Lord Harald. They were luxuries: a
silver necklace with rubies made by Nila the silversmith; two bottles of
wine from Lederia; tin boxes of cinnamon and mace from Farevlin; a sack
of melons from the south, which had been rather expensively and
carefully shipped to Dargon for Harald; a box filled with tiny grytol
eggs from near Mt. Voldronnai; and lastly a large number of sable pelts.
Lord Harald waited for these items at Dessow, for Baroness Anabel would
be arriving in a fortnight to meet with the duke and had ordered a feast
to be prepared. The necklace and a warm cloak made with the furs were to
be gifts to her from the lord.
After a year of rarely leaving the comfort of Dessow, he found that
he was very cold, and he still had over two bells of riding left to
reach Dessow. His brief time within the various shops to pick up his
items had done little to warm him, so he made for the Spirit's Haven,
the closest tavern. As he hurried along, he looked back at his mount,
wishing that he knew more about horses. Despite being born to a knight,
he lacked much of a noble's upbringing, knowing how to ride them but
little else when it came to the animals.
As he walked the streets, he was of two minds about this
assignment. He had taken it partly as an excuse to leave the confines of
the manor, and mostly because he wanted to show Lord Harald that he was
worthy of trust. Harald had actually tried to talk the young man out of
going, saying that it could be done the next day and it was too cold,
but Reynaud insisted. Yet a part of him regretted that. Yes, he had been
born in the foothills of the Darst, but he had been so young when he was
sent to the monastery. There, while the life had been hard and spartan,
it was never terribly harsh, and winter's fierceness had always been
tempered by solid walls and plentiful braziers. Yet the thought of the
heroes about whom he had read, whom the elements never bothered,
inspired the young man. Thus he looked only for a brief warming.
He shortly reached the tavern. Rather than wait for someone to
emerge and see to his horse, he hitched it himself, then walked inside
and went up to the bar. The cold had even penetrated the haven of the
inn's walls, forcing the few patrons out of the padded booths and away
from the tables, into a knot of benches and chairs around the roaring
fire. May, the owner, was one of those by the fire, and she left the
group as Reynaud approached the bar, her greeting adding a hint of
warmth to the room. Reynaud ordered a hot spiced wine, and she gathered
a pewter flagon and gestured him over to the fire. She filled the flagon
from a cauldron placed next to the flames, then handed it to the young
man and took several copper coins in return. As the heat from the liquid
penetrated his gloves and the scent from the spiced wine rose to his
nose, Reynaud smiled.
As he began to sip at the wine, he saw May looking at him. He
looked back and she said, "I'm sorry, lad, but I can't remember yer
name. But ... les see. Yes. Yer the new man at Dessow, straight?"
Reynaud nodded. "Yes, mistress May," he began, but she interrupted
him.
"No need to for the fancy titles here, friend," she said with a
gentle smile. "Just call me May."
He returned her smile. "As you wish, May," he said. "My name is
Reynaud Journai and I do indeed work for Lord Harald. He sent me in to
town for some items. I just stopped in to warm up before returning."
She looked disturbed by this. "Back? Ya sure?" When Reynaud nodded,
May shook her head. "Don't do it, lad. Stay here tonight."
Reynaud gave a brief laugh. "It's only a couple of bells away. I'll
be fine," he said as he drank his wine.
Once again May shook her head and said, "There's a storm comin',
lad, and a biggun. Ya shouldn't be out tonight."
Still smiling, Reynaud finished his wine and got up. "I come from
the mountains, mist--, uh, May. I've dealt with snows before." He handed
the mug back to her and went to the door.
"Get indoors if a west wind rises, lad!" she called as Reynaud went
out the door.
Reynaud smiled as he flipped his hood over his head and mounted his
horse. He was humored by the concern of the innkeeper, despite its
misconception. He was confident in his ability to withstand any storm.
After all, he came from the mountains.
As he left confines of the town and ventured to the fields that
surrounded it, the wind began to pick up. It came from off the ocean,
from the west.
The storm started less than half a bell later, the snow appearing
from nowhere. He was shocked by its suddenness, having never known one
to rise so quickly. He continued onward, however, still confident that
the growing storm could not hinder him. Yet as he rode on, and his cloak
became saturated, and the sleet turned to snow, doubts began to enter
his mind.
The cold, he quickly determined, was the worst part, immense and
unending. His cloak hung heavily upon him, its dampness robbing him of
warmth. The wind, while stopped by the mass of the otherwise useless
cloak, whirled the snow as it howled through the trees, obscuring the
road and blowing the flakes under his hood. The sky of the aging day was
blocked by the thick clouds of the storm, bringing a twilight darkness
on the land bells early. His horse plodded along the track, its head
bowed, walking by rote along a well travelled path, the sound of its
hooffalls deadened by the snow and covered by the wind.
Eventually, the cold became numbing. His blood felt sluggish, as if
it were molasses. He lost track of time and distance. He even forgot why
he needed to go forward, just that it was necessary. With the wind
stinging his eyes and filling his ears, visions began to form.
He saw his father, tall, proud and indifferent, putting a six year
old boy on a cart to go to Fennell, while the boy's eldest brother,
tall, proud and sympathetic, watched. He saw himself, in the robes of a
Cyruzhian oblate, listening to the abbot tell of that same brother,
drowned off some far shore in defense of the kingdom. He saw his father
a few years later, slouching and vacant in his chair wearing a
mead-stained tunic, Reynaud's other brother by his side. He saw himself
standing in the streets of Dargon with a dagger bleeding in his hand,
one man laying by his feet, a fat man in fancy dress leaning against the
wall. He saw his first look at the main hall of Dessow, its dark wood
lit by high windows of colored glass and covered by embroidered
hangings. He saw himself riding on a cold day, laughing at the advice of
a kindly innkeeper.
Reynaud suddenly returned to reality, blinking at the snow that was
falling directly on his face, and he was confused as to why he was no
longer moving. Then he realized that he was lying on his back, which
hurt. He stood up and saw his horse, a darker form in the swirling
whiteness. As he approached it, he noticed that it was kneeling, which
his numbed mind knew was not right but could not understand why, and he
heard its whinnying over the wind. He tried to grip the bridle, but
found that he needed to use both hands to force his stiff fingers around
the leather straps. He turned around and started to walk, plodding his
way through the rapidly growing white cover. The hand which held the
bridle went backwards as he walked, then he felt a tug which caused him
to stumble slightly as his arm fell back to his side. He knew that the
tug was important, but not why, and he continued on. The thought that he
might never again be warm flashed briefly through his mind before it and
all others were driven away by the wind.
His daze was broken when he saw a line of light in the darkness. He
stood and stared at it for a moment, wondering how it made such a sharp
bend. Then he realized that he was looking at the edge of a door. The
sun must not have yet set, for as he looked, he could see the silhouette
of a hut or cabin by the side of the road. May's advice, to get indoors,
came back to him suddenly. He stumbled over to the hut and banged on the
door. There was no answer at first, and he banged harder, his knees
starting to give out. He was looking down, wondering where the strength
of his legs had gone, when it opened.
The door opened just enough for someone to peer out, and Reynaud
took a step back in alarm. A short female, her head apparently one with
her shoulders, looked at him. Her face seemed oddly distorted, one half
of her a flickering red, the other cloaked in darkness. Wild hair, dark
mostly but occasionally with the same reddish glow that covered her
face, was pushed back by the wind that entered through the opened door,
but otherwise she seemed unaffected. She looked at Reynaud, her one eye
flashing redly, before turning to look further inside.
"It's a boy," she called, her voice barely audible over the moaning
of the storm. He was relieved, for when she turned and spoke, he
realized that it was an old woman with a hunched back who stood inside.
An indistinct response could be heard from within. The woman turned back
and looked at Reynaud with an unfriendly grimace on her half-face. She
snorted then opened the door, gesturing him inside.
Reynaud stumbled in as the woman closed the door, and he reached up
to throw back his hood, only to find that it must have fallen back much
earlier. The room was dark but for a fire in the middle of the floor.
Beside it lay an old man, his legs stretched out to one side, bundled up
tightly against the wind that seeped through the walls, only his
wrinkled face showing, lit by the flickering flames. Reynaud turned and
looked at the woman as she walked to the man and stood behind him. Her
face no longer seemed distorted, just covered with wrinkles. The man
gestured to the fire.
"Sit, my friend," he said, his voice soft in the sound of the wind
as it whipped outside the walls. "There is a spare pallet by the door.
Please pull it to the fire, sit, and take our hospitality." The man
turned up and handed a wooden bowl to the woman. "Odilia, give the boy
some stew."
The woman snorted again, but lifted an iron pot off the edge of the
fire. She filled the bowl from it and handed the stew to Reynaud as he
pulled the pallet near to the fire. Sitting on the pallet, he placed the
bowl on the ground to remove his gloves. The heat from the bowl was a
welcome burning on his frozen fingers, and he leaned over to feel the
steam bathe his face. The bowl was filled with a thin gruel, occasional
lumps of soggy vegetables floating. He drank it quickly, scooping the
vegetables into his mouth with his fingers, relishing the taste that
brought memories of the warming room of the abbey and of his home. After
finishing his stew, he vaguely heard a voice asking him if he would like
some more. He nodded and a pot poured more of the gruel into the bowl.
Once again, he quickly ate it down, then fell into a peaceful, warm
sleep.
Reynaud awoke wondering why he was lying in chilly and damp clothes
upon a poorly made pallet of wool stuffed with straw. He sat up and
looked around at a room that was not the outer chamber of Lord Harald's
at Dessow. This was a simple hut made of wattle and daub over a crude
frame of wood, rather dark as there were no windows. The floor was bare
dirt, rather than the pine planks he was used to. A fire was burning low
in the center of the room, not too far from where he lay. Then it came
back him, the memory of the storm he had so foolishly tried to travel
through. He looked across the fire and saw another pallet and the old
man who sat upon it, one leg sticking out to the side, covered in a
blanket.
"Greetings, m'lord," said the man. "I see you are awake. Allow me
to introduce myself. I am Jon and my wife," he gestured to the form
lying behind him, "is called Odilia. Let me once again offer you the
comfort of our hut."
Reynaud looked around again. While he was warmer now, and his brain
was not filled with the numbness of the night before, he was still
sluggish with cold. Memories of the night began to return, seen as
through a fog. He had sat by the fire, a bowl of watery stew in his
hands. The old lady had opened the door to his banging. He remembered
walking through the storm, leading ...
"My horse," he said, suddenly. "Where is my horse?"
The old man looked confused. "Horse? Odilia said nothing about a
horse, m'lord."
Reynaud, his limbs still stiff, arose. "I need to find my horse,"
he said.
"M'lord," Jon said, shaking his head slightly, "the storm still
blows. If you left a horse out all night ... I'm afraid it will be too
late for it."
Reynaud stopped and thought about it, realizing that the old man
was probably right. The wind still blew outside, and he could feel the
occasional gust shake the walls, and the air outside the aura of the
fire was frigid. In addition, he remembered trying to lead the horse
after he fell, but that it did not follow him. It had been on its knees
when he last saw it. He cursed his own lack of consideration for the
beast, because he realized that it must have been lamed somehow, or its
leg broken in an unnoticed hole. No horse could survive a night in the
storm if it could not move.
He shook his head, trying to clear his mind from the fog of cold
and sleep. "You saved my life. Let me make you some breakfast," he said
slowly. But as he looked around, he could see no sign of grains or
roots. He turned to Jon and asked, "Where is your food?"
The old man looked uneasy. "You ate the last when you came," he
said. When Reynaud stared at him, not understanding, Jon pulled the
blanket from his leg, which although bound between two wooden splints
was still crooked. "It was crushed last Sy by a falling tree, and the
healer from the village doubts I will ever use it again. I was unable to
work the harvest, and although my neighbors helped, we were barely able
to bring in enough for the rent. My son-in-law was supposed to come
today with some food and to hew some wood for us, but with the storm
..."
Reynaud looked at Jon, who was sitting with his head bowed. He
understood what this couple had sacrificed for him. Silently, he turned
toward the door, lifting his hood over his head. He knew he should
speak, should explain to the old man what he was going to do, but he
could not think of the words. Instead, he opened the door and walked
out.
The blizzard still blew, although not so fiercely, filling the
landscape and air with white. While the wind howled, its ferocity was
lessened. It had also warmed slightly, and it was no longer the same
bitter cold that had so numbed his mind the night before.
The hut was on the side of the road, and he tried to orient
himself, forcing his mind to go over his stumbling to the door the night
before. He decided that Dargon was to the left, as was his horse. He
looked but could not see it, and he realized that he had only a limited
idea of where his horse might be. He took a look at the hut, then
ventured off to his left, dragging his feet through the snow which had
risen to the level of his upper calf.
The snow cover rose and fell gently, flattening out the landscape,
and he only found his horse when his foot slipped on its frozen hide.
After he picked himself out of the snow, he began digging, clearing the
snow from his fallen mount. It took quite a while until he saw the brown
of its hair. The time and effort it had taken to expose that little
patch made him stop and think.
He had originally planned to take the saddle bags off the carcass,
but he realized that the amount of work needed for that was prohibitive,
especially as the small patch he had cleared off was begining to be
filled in. Instead, he searched for the bags and, once having found
them, cleared them off. The horse lay on its side, and only one bag was
available to him, but he managed to undo its straps with his cold
fingers. He removed his cloak and lay it on the snow, then moved the
contents from the bag to the cloak. A small sack which covered two large
spheres was the first out and onto the middle of the cloak, followed by
several sable pelts. Then came a wooden box, which Reynaud handled
carefully, knowing it contained the grytol eggs. He realized that the
bottles of wine were unfortunately contained in the other bag and
probably had been smashed when the poor beast fell. The other bag also
contained the necklace and the spices, but their metal boxes might have
survived; determining that would have required uncovering and moving the
whole horse. With a relieved sigh, he picked up the bundle of his cloak
and trudged back to the hut.
The woman, Odilia, had woken up while he was out and had placed
some scraps of wood on the fire. Somewhere, she had found some grasses
and herbs and was busy boiling them. She said nothing, although she
looked suspiciously at him. He returned her silence as he walked over,
placing his bundle next to her. He unwrapped it and handed about half of
the furs to her and then tossed the rest to Jon. They looked surprised
and left them were they fell, although Odilia did reach out to feel the
fine fur. Reynaud lifted the wooden box, then opened it and removed six
small eggs, blue and mottled with greens and yellows. Although he was
disappointed to see the shells cracked as the eggs had frozen, he still
handed them to the startled woman. Her eyes widened as she saw them, and
she carefully laid them one by one on the furs that were on the floor.
Reynaud closed the box and set it aside, then raised the sack to remove
one of the melons. He handed it, with its light green rind, to the old
woman, who handled it just as delicately as she did the eggs. Finally,
he handed Odilia his dagger, saying, "In case you need something to cut
it with."
Then he turned to Jon, whose face was also amazed at the food he
had never before seen. "Good man, where is the wood?" Reynaud asked.
Jon continued to look at the eggs for a moment before responding.
"A tree fell a sennight ago, out beyond the field in back. I have been
told by the bailiff that the wood is mine." He smiled briefly and
gestured to his twisted leg, "As payment for the way it crushed my leg."
Then he pointed to a corner of the hut. "I have an ax over there."
Reynaud nodded and retrieved the ax. It was an old tool with a
cast-iron head crudely lashed into a split cleft of an old oak stick.
The handle was well worn and smooth, the balance slightly off. Reynaud
hefted it silently, nodded again, then went outside.
Even after only the brief time he had spent in the hut, the storm
was noticably lessened, with the wind reduced to a whisper from the
shrieking gale of the night before. Still, the snow fell heavily and had
risen above his knees. He found that he was unable to lift his legs
above the surface, and he didn't as much walk across the field as plow a
path through the snow. It was tiring work, and he found that he needed
to stop partway across so he could catch his breath. Standing there, the
intensity of the silence caused him to throw his hood back and look
around.
Reynaud had only seen snowstorms in their aftermath, mostly passing
them in the abbey's warming room with the monks and his fellow students.
He was shocked by the muted beauty that was within a storm while it
blew. The field was covered with a white blanket, which smoothed any
imperfections and was itself only broken by the path he had created from
the hut. Tree branches, which on his way to town only the day before had
been dark skeletons sticking out at odd angles from rough trunks, were
gracefully curved lines of brown, highlighting the thick swaths of snow
which bent toward the ground. The air itself was filled with white
flakes, as if he was looking through a layer of cotton gauze. Much to
his surprise, he saw a flicker of movement, and a small brown bird flew
from the sheltering branches of one tree to another.
One winter in Fennell, when he had emerged after a storm to the
sun's light glistening painfully on the clean snow, an older monk had
remarked that it was like the love God had for people, too beautiful to
look upon; that sort of remoteness was one reason Reynaud could not
fully believe in the teachings of the Stevene. However, being in the
midst of this storm felt right to him, as if he was surrounded by the
world. It was harsh, as the cold in his bones told him, but the beauty
was there if looked for.
Then he remembered his task. Not far in the distance he saw a long
ridge in the snow, at the edge of the field, with branches poking
through the snow cover. Replacing his hood and bending his head, he
trudged his way toward it, his legs plowing through the slowly rising
snow. At the ridge, he began kicking at it, shaking the snow off of the
branches of the fallen tree. He worked his way up and down the tree
until the entire length was exposed. Then he took the ax and began to
hack the branches off, tossing them to one side in a pile.
When he had a nice pile built up, he gathered a large armful and
trudged his way to the hut. He entered and dropped them to one side of
the fire. Odilia said nothing but nodded, bringing some closer to the
small flames to dry them out slightly before adding them. Jon offered a
large slice of the melon, but Reynaud politely declined and went back
outside.
He spent the rest of the day at the tree. After finishing clearing
off the branches, he used the ax on the trunk, starting with the top and
working his way down, hacking large chunks out. He worked his way
through the day, not paying attention to what might have been the
tolling of bells from the town, muffled by the falling snow. It was hard
work, raising the heavy iron head up then bringing it down on the frozen
wood. He felt his shoulders and arms, unaccustomed to work by a year at
Dessow, burn. Occasionally, he would reach down and fill his mouth with
snow, allowing it to melt and flow down his throat. Every so often, he
stopped and hauled another armful of wood to the cottage, placing them
in the corner which Jon indicated before returning to the tree.
As he worked, he felt a certain peace settle upon him. He felt
himself fall into a rhythm, chopping then splitting the wood. The burn
in his arms began to fade into the background. When he dropped off his
third pile, Jon again offered him some of the meager food, but Reynaud
again silently declined. It took him a while to understand why he
declined, especially when he realized that he had not eaten anything
since the night before. As the ax came down on the frozen wood, he
realized that despite the cold, the hard work, the hunger, he was
feeling good. Or maybe it was because of the work that he felt that way.
It brought him back to the days in the monastery, and how he felt after
a long day of working in the fields, or after one of the fasts. And he
understood what he had been missing since coming to Dargon.
Reynaud kept on working until it became too dark for him to see.
Then he gathered one last armload and walked to the hut. When he reached
it, he heard the Dargon bell toll ten times in the distance, and he
realized that the snow had stopped. He smiled and went through the door,
depositing the wood on the small pile. The old man once again offered
Reynaud what seemed to be the last slice of the melon, but again he
shook his head, too tired to speak. Smiling, he lay down on the pallet
and watched the fire until he fell asleep.
He awoke the next morning to the sounds of pounding on the door. He
rolled over to see Odilia walking over to open it. Bright light poured
through the door as she squinted to see who was outside.
"Good woman," came a familiar voice, "I am looking for one of my
men. He went to the city before the storm, and probably stayed there
during the blizzard. But he is little more than a boy, and he might have
foolishly decided to brave the storm. I wonder if you have seen him."
Odilia glanced at Reynaud, but said nothing. The young man nodded
and arose.
"My Lord Harald," Reynaud called as he went to the door, "I am
here."
When he reached it, he needed to blink, as the morning sunlight
gleamed brightly off the snow. He saw the silhouette of his lord, a
portly man whose build was covered by a cloak that draped around him.
The man stepped inside, showing that his black hair was tinged with grey
and his cloak was a dark crimson wool, lined with white fur, with a
woolen tunic of red, trimmed in gold thread underneath. Lord Harald
Mertien removed his leather riding gloves and laid a hand on the younger
man's shoulder.
"My boy, why did you not stay in town when the snow came down?"
"I'm sorry, m'lord. It had not yet started when I left. I found
myself caught in the middle of the storm, and I think the cold was
beginning to affect me. I was not thinking clearly. When my horse
stumbled, I left it there, and started walking. I was lucky in that I
found this hut and that these two, Jon and his wife Odilia, took me in."
"Where is she, Reynaud? Where is your horse?"
"Not far down the road," he said, pointing down the road toward
town. "I'm afraid it's dead, lord."
Harald looked at the young man thoughtfully, his meaty fingers
stroking his ample chin. "Why did you not return yesterday? The storm
stopped shortly after midday. Even with the heavy snow, it should have
taken no more than two bells to reach the manor."
"I couldn't, my lord. These people," Reynaud said, gesturing to the
couple sitting on their pallet, holding each other and staring at the
lord who was visiting their hut, "saved my life, but they were running
out of food and fuel. I stayed to cut some wood for their fire."
Harald's eyes narrowed. "And food?"
"I, I gave them some of the provisions I picked up for you, my
lord," Reynaud said, bowing his head. "I gave them the eggs and one of
the melons. I also gave them some of the furs." When Harald stayed
silent, he continued, "My lord, Jon, the old man, his leg is broken and
..."
Harald still said nothing, but looked around the dark cottage. His
eyes passed over the small fire, the two old peasants who sat in awe of
their new visitor, and before returning to Reynaud. He looked at the
young man for a long time.
"Grytol eggs are quite a delicacy, young Reynaud," he said slowly.
"Did you enjoy them?"
Reynaud looked slightly confused, then shook his head. "No, my
lord. I ... well, I have not eaten since the night before last. As I
said, I gave the food to the peasants. I have had plenty to eat before
and will have more later. But they ...?"
Harald nodded, then turned and looked at Jon and Odilia. "Do you
know who I am?"
Jon nodded, saying, "Yes, m'lord. You are Lord Harald of Dessow. We
live on your estate."
Again the castellan nodded. He backed up and gestured outside.
Another man entered, large and solid, wearing a cloak of similar color
to Harald's, beneath which protruded the tip of a leather scabbard. "You
will need to return the furs," Harald said to Jon. Then he turned to the
new man. "Albin, Reynaud's horse is laying in the road, towards the
city. When we arrive at the manor, gather some men and return here. I
want the saddle bags returned, as well as the furs that these two have
been given. More importantly, I want the carcass butchered and the meat
taken to the nearest smoke house. The meat is to be given to this
couple." As Albin started to leave, Harald said, "Oh, and make sure that
when you return today that you bring a ten pound cask of wheat. Come,
friend Reynaud. Let us go home."
As the couple called out their thanks and blessings to their lord,
Reynaud ran back to his pallet and picked up the bag which held the
other melon then followed his lord outside, slightly confused. A sleigh
pulled by two large horses was in the road, with a third man sitting on
the driver's bench. He had seen it in Dessow's carriage house before,
but never outside it, for it was only used when sufficient snow lay on
the ground. Albin climbed into the back, as did Harald and Reynaud. As
the driver began to shout orders at the horses, turning the sleigh
around, Reynaud leaned over and spoke.
"My lord, I only gave one of the melons. Here is the other. Also,
the spices and the necklace are in the saddle bags under the horse. I am
afraid that the wines were in the same bag, and are probably broken. I
am sorry that I gave your other delicacies to the peasants. They were
not mine to give."
Harald took the bag, hefting the melon's weight, then gave him a
smile and patted his knee. "Ah, young Reynaud, there is no need to
worry. When you first came into my attention, you told me that you
wished to be a great man, and I saw then that you have the seed of one
within you, although it has lain dormant since your arrival. By giving
those eggs and that melon to the ones who saved your life, and by
staying a day longer than necessary to cut their wood, you showed both
generosity and gratitude. Both are the signs of great men. You must
never forget that."
"But, my lord," Reynaud said as the sleigh started to pick up speed
on the road to Dessow. "They were but peasants. Those items cost you
much to buy."
Harald nodded. "Yes, they did, but you will be remembered by the
farmers around as a man who gave expensive gifts to those who served you
well. If I were to punish you, it would affect my reputation adversely.
However, I am disappointed at the way you referred to the mare you rode
into town on. It shows a remarkable lack of knowledge for a young
noble."
"M'lord?"
"You referred to your horse as an 'it.' She was a mare. I think I
must make sure you are better schooled. Albin!"
The big man turned his head to Harald. "Yes, m'lord?"
"When you return from your errand at that hut, you will begin to
teach our young man here how to care for horses. And, since he seems to
have remembered that physical labor is important to life, perhaps you
can make sure that he can swing something other than an ax."
"Yes, m'lord," said Albin.
Reynaud thought about Harald's words and nodded.
========================================================================
A Woman's Prayer
by P. Atchley
<dpartha@usa.net>
Melrin 1017
Oriel shivered and opened her eyes. The door at the far corner of
the warehouse swung open gently in the wind. She sat up, pressing
herself against the wall, searching for the person who had opened the
door. There was no sound except the creaking. The door swung shut in the
wind, darkening the entire area. She moved away from the small hayroll
she had slept in, crept towards the derelict part of the warehouse,
crawled under some rafters to the other side, and banged into someone.
Twin screams rent the air.
"Aah!"
"Aaaaah!"
"Let me go, let me go, lemme gooo!"
"That's my hand!"
"Oww! My head!"
Oriel slipped underneath the rafters at once and crawled back out
to the main part of the warehouse. Since she had been living there for
about four days, she knew every little corner. She was poised to run,
but the person had followed her and now caught hold of her arm.
"Let me go, let me go ..."
The door swung open again, letting sunlight filter through and the
stocky brown-haired boy standing behind her exclaimed, "Oriel!" He
walked around to face her and asked, "Where have you been? I haven't
seen you in ages. What are you doing here?"
"Briam, you saw me only last sennight. But what are you doing here?
Are the others here too?" Briam and three other children, Finn, Kerith
and Aren lived with a young woman named Sian who owned a house on Murson
Street. Oriel played with them occasionally.
"Yes," he replied promptly, looking around the room they were in.
"We finished our chores early and Sian let us go out on account of
Melrin. We're playing find-the-rat. But --" his gaze stopped at the
hayroll that was her bed. "You slept here!" He turned and stared at her.
"Why did you sleep here? Why aren't you at your house? How come your
mother let you sleep here?"
The blonde ten year-old's eyes filled with tears and she sniffed
and turned away. A sennight previously, her mother Rasine had told her
to wait in the warehouse for a few menes, but had never returned.
"What happened? Why are you crying?" Briam asked, alarmed.
"Nothing, nothing, nothing. Go away, go away --"
"I know, go away," Briam interrupted. "I can't just go away when
you're crying. That's wrong, I think."
Oriel sniffed again in a futile attempt to stop the tears and
hiccupped.
"You have to stop crying. Sian says crying makes you sick," Briam
said. "Stop crying, do. But tell me, why are you sleeping here?"
"Because I live here. This is my house," Oriel retorted, wiping her
tears with a dirty hand.
"You live here?" he asked in surprise. "Who else lives here?"
"No one," she said defiantly. "Why don't you just go away?"
The sound of a shout from outside interrupted them.
"I have to go. They're looking for me. Why don't you come and play
with us? Kerith was asking about you yesterday."
"Don't tell them I live here," she admonished, walking with him out
the door. "Is Finn here?" She smiled at the mention of his name. "Does
he have any new jokes?"
Briam groaned. "I don't know how you can laugh at them. They're
terrible, really, really baaaaad."
They both stepped out into the sunshine. A sandy-haired girl, both
younger and shorter than Oriel, came running up to them. She exclaimed,
"Oriel, where have you been? We haven't seen you forever." She turned
away and called, "Finn, look who's here. Come out, come out."
A redheaded boy rushed up, grinning. "Oriel, do I ever have some
new jokes for you!"
Oriel giggled at that. "I can't wait to hear them. Tell me, tell
me."
"See, I told you she'd want to hear them," Finn said with a
superior air. His voice cracked on the last word and Kerith giggled,
earning herself a frown from him.
"Ha, she laughs at all your jokes, even if she hears them for the
second time or the third or the tenth," Briam retorted. "Just because
she laughs at them doesn't mean they're any good."
"Well, Sian laughs too, so there! Oriel, I have some riddles for
you."
"No," groaned Briam.
"Yes, yes, they're funny," Kerith giggled.
"If a rooster laid a brown egg and a white egg, what kind of
chickens would hatch?"
"I know, I know," Kerith piped up.
"I don't know," Oriel said. "Tell me."
"Roosters don't lay eggs!" Finn crowed. "Another one?" He grinned
at Oriel, who was laughing. She nodded.
"What did the farmer do when he finished milking the first cow?"
"I don't know. What?"
"He milked the udder one. Get it?" When Oriel still looked puzzled,
he explained patiently, "See, when they milk the cow, that's how they
milk them, using the udders."
"Oh. Ohh. That's funny." Oriel giggled, finding it funnier as she
thought about it.
"Me next, me next," Kerith interrupted. "What runs but has no
legs?"
"Oh, that old one," Finn derided.
"I know: a nose." Oriel grinned.
"Oh, everyone knows the answer to my riddles," Kerith pouted.
"Never mind, Kerry, I'll teach you a riddle that no one knows the
answer to except me," Oriel comforted, putting an arm around the younger
girl's shoulders.
"Look," Finn said gleefully. He was standing upside down, while
Briam held his feet up. "Let go, Briam."
Briam let go at once, and Finn managed to stay upright for barely a
moment before his feet came crashing down. Oriel giggled.
"I'm hungry, let's eat," Finn suggested.
"We'll have to share," Kerith said. "Here." She handed the other
girl a slice of bread. They settled down companionably, concentrating on
the food.
"This is good," Oriel murmured, munching.
"Sian bakes it herself," Kerith said proudly. "She's nice."
There seemed to be general agreement on this point, even by the
boys. After they had finished eating, they decided to go to the
marketplace. Briam raced away, and Oriel scrambled after him. Kerith
looked from their retreating backs to Finn before following. They raced
each other all the way to the marketplace, and Finn won even though he
had started the last.
"You're taller than we are. That's why you won," Briam insisted.
"Aren's taller than you are, Finn, and he would have won if he were
here," Kerith said loyally. Aren was the oldest of them all, and
Kerith's brother. He worked as a pot-boy at the Golden Lion, an inn in
the city.
The four children wandered around the marketplace, laughing and
talking. Oriel bought them all sweetmeats with some money she had taken
from her mother's bag earlier in the day. "Here, have a sweetmeat." The
sweetmeats were dried cherries stuck on the end of a small wooden stick.
"Thank you," Kerith and Briam chorused.
"Thanks, Oriel," said Finn, laughing as he ran around her.
"What are you doing, Finn?"
"See, it's payment for the sweetmeat. Eight, nine, ten. There, I
ran around you ten times." Finn grinned down at her.
"That's silly," Briam said.
"No, it's not. It's funny."
"Is not."
"Is too."
"Oh, do stop it. Come on, Oriel, these two will do that all day,
and I want to see the festival. Ooh, what a lovely smell. Where's it
coming from?" Kerith slipped her arm through Oriel's and dragged her
away. The boys followed, still arguing.
"Oh, I think it's cannell," Oriel
replied.
"What's cannell?"
"It's an herb that you use to make spice powder."
"How do you know that?"
"My mother taught me."
"You have a mother? Mine died. Aren and I lived on the streets,
until we went to live with Sian. I like her."
"My mother's dead too." Oriel gulped. "She left me in the warehouse
and never came back. That means she's dead."
"She could have gone away somewhere," Kerith pointed out. "Just
because she didn't come back doesn't mean she's dead."
"My mother told me that my father went away and never came back and
she said he's dead. When people go away and never come back, that means
they're dead." Hot tears scalded Oriel's cheeks and she brushed them
away with her knuckles.
"Why are you crying? I didn't cry when mine died."
"You don't even remember her, do you? So how would you remember if
you cried or not when she died?"
"Are you sad? Here, let me give you a hug. Sian always hugs me when
I cry, and it makes me feel nice and warm inside."
The two girls hugged for a moment before Kerith pointed to another
stall where there were ribbons for sale. Oriel's tears disappeared as
the two girls browsed through the wares on display. The stall-owner, a
plump old woman, smiled benignly at the girls.
"Kerith, come play catch with me," Finn called.
Kerith and Finn began to play catch, running into people, getting
yelled at by some and laughed at by others. Briam and Oriel laughed as
Finn bumped into a tall man and got his ears severely boxed.
"Hey, no fair. You both have to run too," Kerith said breathlessly.
"You run, Oriel, I'll catch," Briam offered.
Oriel laughed and ran away without replying and Kerith ran after
her. Oriel outpaced the younger girl easily and ducked behind a stall. A
huge arm slipped under her arms and lifted her; a palm clamped over her
mouth.
"Well, well, well, look what I found in the marketplace," said a
soft voice. Oriel looked up into a pair of beautiful, silver eyes. But
there was no smile on the face. Her hair was blue-black, and slicked
back with oil that gleamed in the bright sunlight. She wore a scarlet
embroidered tunic, and yellow-colored chains glittered at her neck. It
was Jahlena. Oriel remembered meeting her one day at the marketplace.
Her mother had warned her to stay away from the big woman, and now
Jahlena had caught Oriel. The little girl squirmed and struggled in the
woman's grasp and tried to bite down on the palm covering her mouth.
However, the woman wore rings on every finger connected by a chain and
all Oriel got was a mouthful of metal.
"This isn't find-the-rat, Oriel. We're playing catch. Come out,"
Kerith called. There was no answer. "Briam, I can't find her."
"Oriel, where are you?" Briam yelled.
"Look!" Finn pointed, almost bouncing in excitement.
Kerith stared down the small alley he pointed towards and saw a big
woman carrying something that seemed to be moving, and one end of which
gleamed in the sunlight. As they all watched, she turned into a street
at the other end.
"Where is she?" Kerith asked in puzzlement. "I don't see her. I
only see the big woman carrying something."
"It's Oriel. She's in trouble. Someone's carrying her away. Come
on, let's go after her." Finn ran off down the alley.
Briam followed, and then Kerith. They ran and ran. After a few
turns, Kerith could not see Finn at all. Since he was the tallest of
them all, he was far and away in front. She was following Briam, and he
was following Finn. Kerith wanted to stop running, but she was scared of
being left behind, and so she ran even though her legs started to ache
and she was huffing and puffing. When they finally stopped, however,
Finn was nowhere to be seen.
"Where are we? I want to go home," Kerith cried. "I'm tired, and I
don't like this place. Where's Finn?" She sniffed, tears close to the
surface.
They looked around the narrow street. Piles of rubbish graced the
edges. The walls of the buildings on either side rose dark and tall
without windows. A man lay on the far side, ominously still. The street
was otherwise empty and quiet, but the silence was heavy and they had a
strange feeling of being watched. Kerith shivered. "Where are all the
people?" she whispered.
"They must be at the Melrin fair," Briam responded.
She shivered again and Briam edged closer to her, putting his arm
around her shoulder. "Straight, Kerith, we'll go home, just as soon as
we find Oriel."
"But how are we going to find her?" she wailed softly, two tears
creeping out.
Finn suddenly appeared from around a corner. He frowned and put a
finger to his lips. "Shh. I think Oriel's here, somewhere. I saw that
huge woman carrying her through that door." He pointed behind him to a
door with a faded sign hanging above it.
"How do you know it was Oriel?" Kerith objected, her fear
dissipating at the sight of Finn.
"Her hair, silly. It's so bright and yellow, nobody could miss it,"
Finn scoffed. "Come on, let's go." He crept quietly to the door, turned
and beckoned to them. When they approached, he whispered, "See, it must
be the Inn of the Shattered Spear," pointing to the sign that bore a
painting of a spear broken in several pieces. He tugged at the door
handle and it creaked open. Sunlight streamed in from behind them,
exposing a short corridor at the end of which was obviously the kitchen;
from what they could see, there was a counter set against the wall and
it was stacked with pots. "It's probably the back door," Finn said in a
low voice.
Footsteps sounded inside the kitchen.
"Hide, quick!"
The area near the doorway was bare and offered no shelter. They ran
around the nearest street corner and watched. A big woman came out and
walked toward them. She had enormous arms and legs, and was even taller
than Lieutenant Darklen, who came sometimes to visit Sian.
"She's coming here." Kerith panicked.
"There's nowhere to hide here, Finn. She'll see us for sure. We
have to leave, now!" Briam snapped.
"Straight, c'mon. Run, Kerith."
They ran down the Street of Travellers, and Kerith began to puff as
they passed Atelier Street. The little girl fell behind and the boys far
outpaced her.
"Come on, Kerith," Briam urged, sparing a glance behind him. There
was no sign of the big woman.
Kerith took a quick look behind her and then stopped dead, weeping.
"I'm tired, and I'm scared, and I want to go home!"
Both boys stopped and turned around. People were beginning to
notice the little girl crying in the middle of the street. Briam
hurriedly went to her and put his arm around her, pulling her forward.
"Straight, Kerith, don't be scared. See, the woman isn't behind us any
more. Come on, if we keep walking, we'll be home soon."
"I thought you wanted to go help Oriel," said Finn, walking next to
them.
"Yes, I do, but we can't go in there with ..." Briam frowned at
Finn, wiggling his eyebrows in Kerith's direction. She sniffed, trying
to decipher his gestures.
Finn nodded in comprehension. "Ah. Hey, Kerith, why don't you go
home, and we'll go back and --"
"No!" she interrupted. "I won't go home alone. What if the big
woman comes and takes me away like she took Oriel away?"
"Finn!" Briam exclaimed in exasperation. He waggled his eyebrows
and made exaggerated faces at the other boy over Kerith's head.
"What are you saying?" she asked suspiciously.
"Nothing," Briam said at once. "Look, Finn, take her back home.
I've got to go back and rescue Oriel. She's my friend." He disentangled
his hand from Kerith's and took off like an arrow down the street.
When Briam took off, Finn was poised to run behind him but Kerith
grabbed his hand. "No, stop!"
"Aw, come on, Kerith, let's go with him. You can't expect me to
take you back home," he begged.
"I'm scared!"
"Look, the woman took Oriel, and she's brave, isn't she?" It
occurred to Finn that this wasn't logical at all, but he wanted to go
after Briam very badly. "Listen, how about this: I promise I won't let
go of your hand. Will you go with me now?"
"Promise? Prophet promise?"
He nodded, and gravely sketched a semi-circle at the base of his
neck, symbolizing the death of the prophet Cephas Stevene. "Noose on my
neck and hope to live, I promise."
"You won't leave me alone, even for one mene?"
"Not even. Come on." He dragged her and began running toward Layman
Street. After running back the way they had come past several alleys,
they reached the area where Finn thought he had seen Oriel. He began to
search for the door he had seen her being carried through. They ran
around two streets before he found it. He looked to see if they could
enter without being seen, but there were people at the far corner of the
street.
"I think they're guards, Finn," Kerith whispered.
"Hmm, what?" Finn stepped up to the door and glanced toward the
people on the street. They were headed in the opposite direction and
getting farther away every moment. He ignored them and turned his
attention to the door, opening it with his free hand, since Kerith was
hanging on to the other with every intention of ensuring he kept his
promise. He listened almost breathlessly for any sound from the other
side of the door, but it was quiet. Then he slipped inside, dragging
Kerith with him.
"Well, well, well, what have we here?" It was the woman. Finn
stared up at her, swallowing. He wasn't really scared, but the woman was
very big. From this close, her arms looked like the branches of the tree
in their yard; her teeth were crooked, and her smile wasn't nice at all.
She smelled weird too. Her hair was bluish-purple, like the color their
mouths turned when they ate too many blueberries.
"You let Oriel go," Kerith said bravely. "She's our friend."
"Be quiet, Kerith," Finn hissed, and pushed her behind him.
"So, my little orphan has friends, eh?" The woman's smile widened,
and her voice softened. "What shall I do about you? Young man, how would
you like to cut firewood for a sennight? No? You can just work here
then, at the inn. A pot-boy, or even a stable-boy. But I think I should
cane you, just so that you understand not to poke your noses where they
don't belong. What do you think?" She grinned down at them. "No? Well
then, I shall simply have to teach you to cut purses. Yes, that's what I
think I'll do. You can be my cutpurse, boy." Her voice rose just a
little bit on the last word.
Kerith hiccupped in fear. The big woman must have heard her,
because she turned to Kerith right away. "Come here, let me see." She
shoved Finn aside and stared at Kerith. "As for you, my young beauty, I
have plans for you." She touched Kerith's forehead with one finger and
let it slide down the side of her face.
Kerith shivered, and Finn stepped closer, knocking away the woman's
hand. "You leave her alone." He put out a hand toward Kerith and the
little girl held it tightly.
"Come with me, both of you." The woman grabbed Kerith by the ear,
and Finn by his arm, and dragged them up some stairs. The stairs gave
onto a corridor with doors on either side, most of which were shut.
Jahlena dragged her captives into the corridor. She released Kerith and
used her free hand to unlock the first door. Suddenly, a short girl with
curly blond hair came running from the opposite end of the corridor
calling, "Jahlena."
"What is it, Tira?" The big woman turned.
The girl gasped, "Jahlena, the cook is fighting with Jamis. You
better come quick!"
"You two, in here." Jahlena pushed Finn through an open door and
kicked his backside. He fell forward into the room, breaking his fall on
his palms. "Ow!"
She gave Kerith a shove, and the little girl tripped across the
doorway into the room.
They heard a key click in the lock and twin footsteps receding.
"Are you all right?" A soft voice asked. Someone else was in the
room! The two looked up, both rubbing their knees.
"Oriel! Did the fat woman bring you here?" Kerith scrambled up with
the other girl's help.
"Yes, she did. Where's Briam?" Oriel asked.
"We have to get out of here," Finn murmured, ignoring the girls. He
was busy pulling at the door handle. He tugged and pushed, shoved and
pulled. Nothing worked. His eyes went to the skylight, a tiny opening
high up on the wall. He measured its height from the floor with a
glance.
"I can't get up there," he murmured, almost to himself.
Oriel who had been watching him gaze at the skylight, responded,
"No, but you can lift Kerith up."
They both turned to look at Kerith. When she understood what they
wanted her to do, she retreated, shaking her head. "No, I can't. It's
too high. I'll fall."
"How about you?" Finn turned to Oriel. He knew she would do
anything he suggested; also, she was not as much of a scared rat as
Kerith was.
"No, Finn. I'm too heavy for you to lift," Oriel said. "Besides
which, I'm not sure if I'd fit through that. Come on, Kerith, you've got
to do it. Let Finn lift you. All you have to do is jump out of the
window."
"Finn will let me fall," Kerith sniffed.
"No, he won't. I promise. Noose on my neck and hope to live, I
promise. Now, come on."
Finn boosted Kerith up, but she still couldn't reach the window. He
said, "Listen. I'm going to kneel. Oriel, get on my back and lift
Kerith." He went down on all fours, and Oriel stood on his back, palms
against the wall for balance.
"Climb, Kerith," Finn ordered. "Pretend it's the tree at home."
Kerith frowned, but nodded. She stood on Finn's back, placed one
foot on Oriel's palm and stepped upwards until she stood on Oriel's
shoulders. The window was within easy reach now, and with one heave, she
pulled herself up and out through the window. She stopped just short of
sliding outside.
"Wait! What do I do after I get out?" she wailed.
"Find a guard. Get Lieutenant Darklen here if you can. Or that
sergeant who comes by the house, Sergeant Cepero," Finn said urgently.
"Go, Kerith, now! I can hear footsteps."
Kerith slipped out the window and found herself on the sloping
roof. She began to slide down, gathering speed as she went. She grabbed
at some of the shingles to slow her descent, with minimal success. The
skin on her hands abraded, and two fingernails broke. Her hands began to
bleed, and then abruptly she was falling.
"Ohhhhh!"
She landed with a thud. She was winded, and rolled over to lie
staring at the sky for a mene, catching her breath. Then she stood up
and brushed herself off before running toward the Street of Travellers
and Murson Street. She ran as fast as she could, past alleys and
side-alleys, squeezing in between trouser-clad knees and dress-clad
legs, her breath coming in quick spurts. In fact she was running so
blindly that she ran smack into someone; someone who stopped her, and
knelt on the ground to talk to her. Kerith recognized him with a sigh of
relief. It was Sergeant Cepero, a guard who sometimes came to visit
Briam and Sian.
"Kerith, what's the matter?" he asked. "Why are you running like
this? Is someone chasing you?" He glanced down the street behind her,
standing up abruptly, his hand going to his sword.
"No, it's Finn, and Briam and Oriel," Kerith wailed, the tears that
had threatened earlier cascading down her cheeks. "Jahlena locked them
in a room, and we have to get the guards and save them!"
"Slow down, Kerith, and tell me what happened from the beginning."
Meanwhile Briam was busy trying to remain hidden while in plain
sight. After leaving Finn and Kerith, he had reached the same door that
they had found earlier. As he walked toward it, it opened to let out a
small boy carrying trash. He dropped it carelessly to the side and then,
with a quick look behind him, he took off. Briam crept toward the open
door, but all was silent inside, so he continued inside toward the
kitchen.
"Boy, get over here at once." The voice was deep and gruff. When
Briam looked up, he realized it must be the cook; the man had on a dirty
white apron, and was chopping something. He was fat, and had the biggest
stomach that Briam had ever seen. He was also almost bald, and what
little hair he had was wilting.
"Don't just stand there, boy. They never get me any help, and when
they do, it's a lazy boy who can't do a lick of work." He was chopping a
very big fish, and as he spoke, his hands went faster and faster until
Briam couldn't distinguish the individual chops. "Get over here, and
bring me those potatoes from the store room. Through that door there."
The man nodded toward a door on the opposite side of the kitchen.
Briam rushed into the pantry. After all, he didn't want to attract
any unwanted attention by denying that he was the help the cook seemed
to think he was. The door from the kitchen into the pantry wasn't in the
kitchen itself; it was across a small corridor. He stared down the
corridor, but it curved away to one side, and he couldn't see any
farther. The pantry was a small dark room filled with sacks and more
sacks, some of them open and lying on the ground, while others were tied
shut and stacked high to the ceiling. Then Briam heard a shout from the
kitchen. Guessing that the cook wanted his potatoes, he grabbed a large
sack lying open on the floor, about half-full of potatoes, and dashed
back to the kitchen.
"There you are. How long does it take to get a sack of potatoes
from the store? Never mind, I'll take a switch to you when I'm done.
Now, I need you to go scrub those pots over there." This time the cook
nodded to the dirty pots and pans stacked knee high in a corner of the
kitchen.
Voices wafted in from the corridor, and two people entered the
kitchen, a man and a chubby blond girl. The cook turned toward the door
and began another diatribe as soon as he saw who the visitors were.
"Jamis, I need another helper. You can't let Jahlena chase all the
young 'uns away like this. I told you I wanted at least three helpers.
Did you talk to her? Well, did you?" He stood with one arm akimbo,
waving the other still holding the knife.
"Of course I did, Varwedian. I told her you needed three helpers,
so you'll get at least two. What happened to the one who's been here for
the past sennight?" Jamis asked.
"It takes him a bell to bring me a sack of potatoes from the store.
Where you do find these boys, I'll never know. They're all lazy, anyway,
and by Nehru's pointy nose, I'll take a switch to this young 'un, I
will. As for you, Jamis, you're pond scum if you think I'll take this
from that trollop, and --"
"You shut your mouth, Varwedian. Don't talk like that in front of
my daughter. Anyway, I need you to make some more stew for tonight.
We're expecting a large group this evening on account of the minstrel
--"
"What? No helper and --" the cook threw his chopping knife across
the kitchen.
Briam, who had been watching the entire exchange spellbound, moved
and ducked. The knife touched his left arm and fell straight down to the
ground. "Ow!" He examined his arm. There was a small cut, and it began
to bleed. He pressed his hand to it, but looked up at the two men when
Jamis roared, "Don't you be throwing knives around in my inn!" He closed
with the cook.
The girl who had followed Jamis inside the kitchen hurried out.
Briam followed, peering after her, and watched her rush up some stairs.
He moved closer to the pantry door and turned his attention back to the
combatants. The two men were not evenly matched, since the cook was much
fatter than Jamis, besides being a good six fingers shorter. Jamis, on
the other hand, looked old and tired. He punched the cook in the
stomach, but the cook moved his left hand in a blocking motion,
preventing the punch from connecting. Varwedian looked here and there,
and then his eyes widened. He reached out and grabbed a ladle from the
counter, and began to hit the innkeeper with it.
"Umph." Jamis let out a pain-filled grunt and then grabbed the
ladle. He yanked it, and the cook let go. Jamis went staggering back,
almost losing his balance. The cook took the opportunity to stretch out
a hand behind him, pick something up and throw it in the innkeeper's
eyes. Then he leaned against the counter and waited, a slight smile on
his face.
Jamis immediately began to rub his eyes, and growled, "Oh! You
scumbag, misbegotten son of a weasel --"
"What's going on here?" Another voice interrupted. It was Jahlena,
who had entered the kitchen followed by the blond girl. Briam swallowed,
recalled from his fascination with the fight. He scrambled from his
vantage post and retreated into the corridor, which curved away to his
left, and had doors on either side, all closed. He hesitated, unwilling
to try to open them in case someone caught him, but at the same time,
unsure what to do.
He thought about it for a moment. He knew that Jahlena had Oriel
somewhere in this inn. If the blond girl had gone up a staircase and
brought Jahlena to the kitchen, then didn't that mean that Oriel was
upstairs? Before he could think about it any more, he heard voices
approaching from the kitchen, and his decision was made for him. He
rushed down the passageway, uncaring of where it led. There was a wide
open door at the far end and the din of loud conversations floated
through. That must be the common room of the inn. He couldn't go in
there! What if someone caught him and handed him over to Jahlena? No, he
had to find the others first.
Briam turned, cornered, sure that Jahlena would catch him. He
returned the way he came, opening each door on the way looking for
escape. The first door opened to an empty room. The second door was
locked. The third door opened to a small room with a staircase! Briam
entered, shut the door behind him and hurried up the staircase. He found
himself in another long corridor with doors on either side. He tried to
open the doors, and most of them gave onto rooms with nothing but
furniture. Two were locked. There was no sound when he tried one door
handle, so he twisted the other to see if that one, at least, would
open.
The door rattled. Oriel shivered and moved closer to Finn. He
straightened, waiting for it to open. Then they heard voices outside.
Both the remaining children pressed one ear each to the door, trying
their hardest to listen to what was going on.
"Ow! Don't hit me!" The howl was loud enough for them to
distinguish the individual words, the cadence and tone of the voice.
Finn murmured, "That's Briam."
"So, I have one more boy, eh? Well, this is good. More cutpurses."
The woman laughed loudly. "Oh, you want to open the door? Well, let me.
Hmm, I need a couple of hands in the kitchen right now, so we'll put you
and the other boy to work helping Varwedian."
They heard the key click in the lock, and then a flurry of
footsteps again. Another voice spoke, sounding breathless, as if its
owner had run up the stairs. "Jahlena, the guard is here. They want to
search the inn and Father wants you down there to talk to them."
"Watch this little devil. I'll be right back." Jahlena left, her
heavy footsteps receding quickly.
The door rattled again, and then someone kicked it open.
"Aaaaaah!"
Finn took in the situation at a glance. A plump, blond girl was on
the ground screaming, and Briam was making urgent gestures to him. "Come
on, Finn, get the girls and let's go!"
The three children scrambled pell-mell down the stairs, and ran
smack into two men and a little girl at the bottom stair: Sergeant
Cepero, another guard and Kerith.
"Roman, what happened? The children?" Sian's voice rose as she saw
the bedraggled group following Sergeant Cepero into her house.
"Everyone's fine, Sian. It's a long story. It seems that Jahlena
nabbed this little girl here, and these boys of yours decided to rescue
her. Good thing they sent Kerith to find me!" He turned to the girls.
"Oriel, this is Sian."
A small girl, a few inches taller than Kerith, stepped forward. She
curtseyed quite prettily, notwithstanding the fact that her beautiful
hair hung lankly around a face streaked with tears, dust and grime. As
for her dress, Sian didn't know if it could possibly get any dirtier.
"Hello, Oriel, it's very nice to meet you," she said gently.
The girl gave her a small smile and stepped back behind Briam.
"What in the world? Briam, you're hurt." Sian moved close to Briam
and examined the bandage on his upper arm.
"Don't worry. It was just a small cut, nothing serious. We bandaged
him," Cepero said. When she looked up at him questioningly, he motioned
her away from the children with a nod and said softly, "Jahlena had
locked the children in a room but she swears it was just to give them a
scare because they walked into the inn through the back door. She said
she'd sent Tira upstairs to turn 'em loose. And then Tira came running
down with the keys in her hand, so there wasn't much I could do about
it. But I am going to be watching Jahlena and I've made sure she knows
it."
Sian smiled at the grim way in which he spoke. "So long as the
children are safe, that's fine. But what about this little girl?"
"Well, that's an interesting story. About a sennight ago we had a
small fire northeast of the city -- we found the bodies of a woman and a
small child. The owner of the cottage, a man named Coragen, identified
the bodies as his tenant Rasine and her child. He also told us that the
dead woman used to work at the Shattered Spear.
"Now your girl Kerith tells me that Oriel's mother's name is Rasine
and that she went away somewhere leaving Oriel all alone. I'd wager a
Round to a rat that Jahlena asked Coragen to tell us the kid died
because she wanted to take this child to work at the inn. But see, the
odd thing is that the kid that died was a boy. I need to find out who
the child was. I'll be paying Coragen another visit."
Sian sighed, sorrow engulfing her at the thought of the death of a
child. She looked up at Cepero who had a determined expression on his
face. She knew he was still wondering who the dead child was. For
herself, she would grieve for the dead child, but it was the child alive
who needed her. "What about Oriel?" she prodded Cepero for more
information.
He continued, "Oriel's terrified of Jahlena, and knowing her, it
won't be long before she gets the child to entertain the guests at the
Spear. It's wrong, Sian; Oriel's just a child. I couldn't leave her
there with Jahlena, knowing what she was planning. I don't know what to
do with the child and I thought you might take her in."
"But Roman, what about her father?"
"She won't talk to me but Briam says she doesn't have one. I can
ask around, but until we find out if she has any family, what am I to do
with her? Couldn't you keep her?"
Sian nodded. "Indeed I can. But be sure to ask around because I
don't know if I can afford to keep another child. What about her though?
Will she be willing to stay here?"
"Why don't you ask her?"
She smiled at the sergeant and turned to the waiting children. She
looked into the girl's eyes and said, "Oriel, I know you're scared of
Jahlena. But you're safe now and no one will hurt you. Would you like to
stay here with us?"
The girl's response was immediate. "But I have my own house to live
in."
"What?" Sian couldn't understand where that had come from, and
looked up at Cepero. He shook his head, a puzzled expression on his
face. She continued, "I thought your mother died in a fire. Are you
living with a friend?"
"Oh, no," Briam replied. "She's living by herself at a warehouse
near the river."
Sian frowned momentarily, shocked. She composed herself at once,
and looked at Oriel. "You can't live in a warehouse by yourself. What if
Jahlena finds out?"
"Stay with us, Oriel," Kerith piped.
Finn said, "Sian makes the best bread in all of Dargon, you know."
"Why, thank you, Finn," Sian said, smiling at the redheaded boy.
The little girl looked from Briam back to Sian and then said, "Does
Briam live here too?"
"Yes, I do," he answered. "You should come and live with us."
"Aren't you going to say yes?" Kerith asked. "Sian will brush your
hair. It's nice. Your hair needs to be brushed." She stared critically
at Oriel's bedraggled locks, and Sian swallowed a smile.
"We'll have fun. You can laugh at all my jokes," Finn offered with
a smile. "Like this one: what do you call a soldier who was born in
Beinison, fought in Magnus, and died in Dargon?"
"That's a new one," said Briam. "I don't know; what?"
"Dead!" Finn crowed.
Everyone laughed, while Briam groaned and made a face. Then he
turned to Oriel. "So are you staying?"
She nodded. "Straight, I'll stay."
"You know what else? You can have rabbit stew every day," Finn
said, grinning slyly at Sian, who raised her hand in mock threat, upon
which Finn retreated behind Kerith, laughing uproariously.
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