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DargonZine Volume 13 Issue 06
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 13
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 6
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DargonZine Distributed: 6/30/2000
Volume 13, Number 6 Circulation: 760
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Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Magestorm 1 Mark A. Murray Yuli 1017
Talisman Five 1 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Vibril 16, 1010
========================================================================
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 13-6, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright June, 2000 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>
If you've been with us for a while, you'll know that each year one
of our writers hosts our annual DargonZine Writers' Summit, where our
contributors get together to talk about writing, conduct project
business, get to know one another, and have fun. This year's Summit was
held a couple weeks ago in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and was hosted by
Dargon veteran Mark Murray.
This year, the working sessions were run by Jon Evans, and he did a
fabulous job moving us through a number of topics and activities, which
included discussion about how and why we write, incorporation, our
ongoing revision to the Dargon town map, our mentoring system for new
writers, a spontaneous writing exercise, and some great improvisational
storytelling.
Once the working sessions were over, the fun was only beginning.
Our weekend included excursions to the Andy Warhol Museum, Church Brew
Works (an old church which had been converted to a brewpub), the
Duquesne Incline (a scenic overlook of downtown Pittsburgh at night),
Frank Lloyd Wright's Fallingwater, Ohiopyle State Park (featuring an
amazing natural water slide), and an entertainment center where we
supplemented Summit traditions of go-karting and miniature golf with a
new activity: bumper boats.
Kudos go to Mark and Jon for putting together a very productive and
wonderfully enjoyable weekend. Photos and more detailed writeups of all
our Summits can be found on the Web at our Dargon Writers' Summit page,
<http://www.dargonzine.org/summit.shtml>.
In other news, people seem to be responding well to the ability to
"rate" each story, which we premiered in the Web version of our last
issue. We have included the rating sidebars in the stories in this issue
as well, and if the response continues to be favorable, we'll shortly be
adding those side bars to all our stories, both in our back issues as
well as future issues. Please try it out, and let us know what you
think!
In this issue Mark Murray, our recent Summit host and the owner of
DargonZine's mentoring program for new writers, begins a new series that
resumes his lengthy saga featuring Raphael and Megan. Similarly, our
one-time editor Dafydd begins another chapter in his extended Talisman
series, which has been slowly advancing from Dargon's ancient history to
the present. While the Talisman epic still has a ways to go, the events
of "Talisman Five" will start bringing the story together to its
eventual climax.
========================================================================
Magestorm
Part 1
by Mark A. Murray
<mashudo@netzero.net>
Yuli 1017
A thump in the night brought Merrif abruptly from his dream into
the cold reality of his Dargon home. "Illiena!" he screamed. Breathing
hard through his mouth, Merrif clutched the blankets and tried to relax.
"The same dream again?" Niatha asked from across the room.
Merrif sat up in his bed and wiped the sleep from his eyes. "Yes,"
he answered, breathing a little easier. "Was that you caused the thump?"
"It was me. I jumped through the window. I tried to be quiet, but
you piled the table with your books and scrolls again, and I slipped on
something. I think it was a scroll."
"It's too dark to see anything," Merrif complained. "I'll make us
some light."
"No!" Niatha said, but it was too late. Merrif had spoken and the
air turned crisp with energy. The fireplace roared to life. "Well,"
Niatha said, "at least you got the fire in the right place. But you
weren't trying for a fire, were you?" Niatha looked a lot like a large
black cat. Smooth, soft fur covered his body from his nose to the end of
his long tail. Two wings were folded back, and down, to blend with his
body.
"Oh hush and move so I can see the scroll you destroyed," Merrif
replied. "It was too cold in here anyway." He got out of the bed and
walked over to the table on the far side of the room. His home consisted
of one room that functioned as his working area, his kitchen, his
bedroom, and any other room he happened to need.
Merrif was an old man who didn't have a wife or children; his
one-room home suited him just fine -- until it got too cluttered. When
it got too messy, Niatha complained until things were organized and put
away.
Niatha hopped from the floor to the bed. His front two legs touched
the bed first and he used them as a balance until his stronger back legs
settled and supported him. He stretched out, turned around, and got
comfortable as he watched Merrif.
Merrif watched as Niatha settled on the bed. Merrif had given up
long ago on claiming sole ownership of the bed. He had fought with
Niatha on that point for months before he had given up. He didn't know
if the actual losing of the fight or the smug expression Niatha had worn
for days had been worse. Picking up the scroll on the floor, he realized
whichever had been worse was a moot point. He would rather have Niatha
around, even if that meant cleaning the room every once in a while.
"Are you going to watch me all night or see what that scroll is?"
Niatha asked. "If you would keep the table clear, I wouldn't knock
things off of it."
"You can jump over the table."
"I have to jump up to the window and through it. The table makes a
nice perch. You could put the bed over there. That would make a much
better landing place for me."
"I'd like to put the fireplace there," Merrif retorted.
"And burn up all your scrolls and books?" Niatha teased.
"To put a fire under your tail," Merrif chuckled. "That'd be
something to see. You hopping and flopping about, trying to put your fur
out. Wings a-flapping about," he laughed. Bracing a hand on the table,
Merrif bent down to pick up the scroll. His laugh turned to a groan as
he stood back up. "Maybe I should make myself younger."
"No!" Niatha replied, sitting up suddenly. His wings twitched
upwards and outwards slightly which gave his body a bigger appearance
while his tail flipped back and forth.
"Ah, keep your fur smooth," Merrif chuckled. "I was joking that
time. I know better than to try that. Who knows what would happen? I'd
probably end up as a woman. What would you do then?"
"Eat better," Niatha replied, laughing. The fur around his face
ruffled up and he shifted his weight onto one front paw while bringing
the other up to rub his fur back into place. Laughing as he was, his fur
just got ruffled more.
"Yer going to choke on your laughter if you keep going." Merrif
harumphed and opened the scroll. "It isn't ruined."
"Which one is it?"
"The history of Illiena," Merrif sighed. Niatha sucked in a gasp of
air and shifted backwards a step.
"I'm sorry," Niatha said. "I thought you kept that one in the
scroll tube?"
"I do, but I was reading it again earlier this eve."
"Do you think you dream of her because you're reading about her or
you're reading about her because you're dreaming of her?" Niatha asked.
"It's been so long, I can't recall which happened first. It doesn't
matter now. It's all that my dreams are about." Merrif pulled the chair
closer to him and slowly lowered his aged body onto it. His grey
straggly beard hung uncut from his face, though his hair was still the
dark color it used to be. His tall, thin frame sat awkwardly in the
chair and his back was bent forward as he stared into the scroll.
"How was your evening?" Niatha asked, trying to shift his thoughts
to other things. Merrif looked up and smiled, understanding shining from
his tired eyes.
"It was a disaster for me," Merrif said. "As usual, I didn't get
the magic I cast. I got something else. If it wasn't for me being
invited by one of my customers to perform, I wouldn't have gone. It's
hard to say 'no' to nobility, though."
"I know," Niatha replied. "I was there when you were asked,
remember? Duke Dargon didn't belittle you in front of everyone, did he?"
"No," Merrif replied. "I've come close to that several times,
though. No, this time was different. Even though everything I tried
didn't work the way I wanted it to, the audience loved it."
"You didn't catch anyone on fire? No one was hurt?"
"Not this time. Either I'm getting better or I'm getting luckier,"
Merrif laughed. "I'll label this evening's festivities as a grand
success. My casting was a disaster, but the outcome was a success."
"Magic isn't the easiest thing in the world to control," Niatha
replied.
"Aye, I've got you as a reminder of that."
"Yes, you never have told me how you conjured me. You weren't
purposefully trying to get me to come here, were you?"
"No. I told you," Merrif huffed. "None of the magic I've tried has
ever worked the way I wanted it to!" Merrif started to say more, but
stopped and paused for a moment. "Let me get back to the duke and his
festivities," he said.
Niatha bobbed his head. "What happened?" Niatha asked.
"Oh, it was quite the gathering. There was more finery there than
I've ever seen. Polished silverware and silk tapestries. There were not
as many in attendance as I had expected. Especially since it was being
held by the duke. The ladies were dressed quite beautifully and the men
tripped over themselves fighting for their attention.
"It was amusing to watch. I caught the duke watching them, and he
seemed to be enjoying the sight, also. His wife and daughter were there.
All three were dressed nicely, but I expected more flair from them. You
know how some of the fashions are these days.
"The guard was dressed in colorful dress uniforms. I don't think
I've ever seen it before. Either something new or something not used
often. And the room was big. It had a nice tall --"
"The magic," Niatha hissed. "I don't care about them. What about
the magic?!"
"Quit swishing your tail! I'm gettin' to it! Now, the room was big
and had a tall ceiling. That was good because it provided the space for
what happened. I was called to perform and I walked to the center of the
room. They made a circle around me and gave me some space to work.
"I wanted to send out this colorful ball to weave its way between
the guests. Nothing large and nothing hard. I stretched out my arm and
opened my hand." Merrif laughed hard and rocked back in the chair,
almost tilting it over.
"The brightest lights I've ever seen blazed out of my fingers.
Every color imaginable streaked out among the people and showered them
all. The colors rolled and moved and streaked and blazed as if it was a
thing alive. Each color seemed like a living thing making up the entire
whole.
"At first, the guests shrieked and shouted, but once they saw there
was no harm, they settled down and made funny noises at the lights.
'Ooohing' and 'aaahing' at everything. Some of them forgot to close
their mouths and the lights would enter their mouths and come out their
eyes and ears. It was the funniest and grandest thing they had ever
seen."
"And no one got hurt?" Niatha asked.
"Hush," Merrif replied. "Just because of one instance, you ask that
every time."
"Well, it was my tail!"
"Good thing you don't burn easily. And I thought you wanted to hear
about the magic." When Niatha didn't reply, Merrif continued. "The
lights finally faded away and the guests cried out for more. I wasn't
sure if I could do anything more amazing than that.
"I tried for something small, again. No need to push things too
far. I wanted to swirl out a small breeze to blow through people's hair.
After my gestures and tossing out some powder, I got a swirl, right
enough. Wind gathered and formed in front of me in a milky human shape.
It flowed over to the nearest girl, grabbed her, and started dancing
with her. People were pushed aside by wind as the two danced through
them. The girl seemed to love the dancing. The wind picked them up and
they started floating above the floor, still dancing.
"There wasn't any music playing, but the girl acted as if she heard
some. She was smiling and her hair was swished back from the wind. Her
feet moved in time to some tune and the wind moved her effortlessly
throughout the room. They danced back down to the floor. The wind moved
closer and kissed her on the cheek, then stepped back from her, bowed
once and disappeared."
"And no one was hurt?"
"Will you stop asking that question?!" Merrif shouted. "Of course
no one was hurt!" Niatha's laughter rang out and interrupted any further
rebuke by Merrif. "One day, I'm going to try some magic your way again.
We'll see what catches fire."
Niatha's laughter stopped. "You wouldn't!" Niatha replied.
"No, but it made you stop laughing." Merrif laughed.
"What happened at the keep next?" Niatha asked.
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing. They asked for more magic and I feigned that I was tired.
I told them that working magic took a lot of energy and that I couldn't
do any more. I told them I had to rest. They didn't ask again. The duke
himself thanked me."
"He did? You must have made some impression."
"Not only did the duke thank me, but so did everyone else as I
left. Considering how my magic usually turns out, the evening went very
well."
Niatha moved his tail around to the front of him where he used his
front legs to grab it. He pushed his fur aside on his tail and looked
closely at his skin. "Yes, considering --"
"Hush! Now, move aside and let me get back to sleep."
Dawn's light crept upon the town, over the buildings, and through
the windows. On this particular morning, just like every other morning,
particular or not, the light flooded onto a bed. While the bed never
objected, one of its occupants did.
Soft, black, velvety fur shimmered and glistened in the light. The
once motionless form twitched and muscles rippled. Niatha's eyes closed
tighter in an effort to block the light, but failing in that, he flipped
his tail in annoyance.
"Merrrrrrifff," Niatha yawned. "Why can't we put something over the
window?" The other occupant of the bed snored in response. "Merrif,"
Niatha repeated a bit louder. Turning away from the sun, Niatha used his
powerful back legs to push against Merrif. Instead of moving Merrif as
planned, he only succeeded in pushing himself closer to the edge of the
bed and into more sunlight. "Merrif!" Niatha cried in annoyance.
"Huh?" Merrif snorted. Long, skinny arms stretched out from under
the blankets. His wrinkled, aged face appeared and blinked against the
sun. "Niatha, why do you have to wake me every morning?"
"Because the sun wakes me every morning," Niatha replied. He lifted
his feline body and arched his back, wings unfurling and reflecting the
light in a multi-hued fashion. Bending his neck, Niatha placed his head
under one wing and let the wing rest on top of it.
"Oh, no you don't," Merrif said. "I'm awake and you're going to
stay awake, too." Tossing blankets aside, Merrif rolled Niatha off the
bed. Niatha hissed as he rolled and turned, landing on the floor on back
legs, only to have his momentum push him further. He flopped over on his
back and lay there.
"That," Niatha said, "was cruel."
"You should have seen yourself," Merrif laughed. "Rolling and
twisting and turning, only to land on your back."
"You'd better hope I don't grow any bigger. It may be you rolling
and twisting, then," Niatha warned. Merrif laughed harder. "What's so
funny about that?" Niatha asked.
"Can ... see me ... arms and legs ... flailing?" Merrif managed
between short intakes of breath and his laughter. Niatha rolled over and
sat up, twisting his head as he tried to picture Merrif rolling off the
bed. As he glimpsed what Merrif had seen, he started laughing. "Those
long arms and legs of yours would really be a sight to see!" Both of
them laughed harder.
"It's good that you aren't larger," Merrif said as he got out of
bed. He placed his feet on the floor and then lifted them, saying,
"Another cold morning. You're lucky you have fur."
"I still get chilly," Niatha replied as he leaped back onto the
bed. "Are you going to start a fire this morning?"
"No, today is market day for us. Did you forget?"
"No, but I was hoping you did."
"Hmmph. My magic may not work as it should, but my memory does. Are
you going to sit there or are you going to help me pack?"
"I'll sit here," Niatha smiled. His smile showed some of his small
sharp teeth.
"That's what you do all day. When you aren't sleeping, that is."
"It's better than knocking your powders and herbs off the table,
isn't it? Besides, I don't exactly have hands to grab with."
"Tell that to all the rats. You grab them very well."
"That's different. I don't have to be gentle with them."
"No, I suppose not." Merrif walked over to the wall where a row of
herbs hung on twine. He grabbed a couple of dried leaves from several
different plants and walked back to the table. He used a mortar and
pestle to grind the individual leaves. After crushing all of the leaves,
he mixed a few of them together and put the mixture in a small cloth
bag, which he tied shut. He did this until he had filled all fifteen of
his bags. He gathered them up and put them in his pack. He grabbed a
couple of small vials filled with creams and salves and set them
carefully in the pack.
"Don't forget your wand," Niatha told him.
"Heh," Merrif snorted. "Don't want to forget my *magic* wand. It's
amazing what a little bit of a performance can do to sell something. You
know, sometime soon, someone is going to recognize that the wand isn't
magic." He placed the wand inside the pack.
"You'll have to do some real magic, then."
"Illiena help me. I just hope I don't burn the whole marketplace
down."
"Or no one gets hurt."
"Oh, hush! I haven't hurt anyone yet."
"Me!"
"You aren't anyone and your fur grew back fine. Are you ready to
go?"
"I am, but I don't have to get dressed. You, however, should change
before you leave," Niatha said. Merrif looked down at himself and
noticed that he was only wearing a pair of thin breeches. "You were
saying something about your memory?"
"It's fine!" Merrif replied. "I was going to change first." Merrif
walked over to the wall where his clothes hung. If hanging herbs off of
the wall was a good place to keep them, then hanging clothes on the
other wall should be a good place to keep them, too. Changing quickly,
he grabbed his pack again and started for the door. Niatha jumped down
and followed him.
"While we walk to the marketplace," Niatha said. "This would be a
good time to tell me how I got here," Niatha said.
"We've been over this. I don't want to talk about it."
"You said you didn't deliberately call me, so what were you doing?"
"Nothing," Merrif answered, taking long strides down the alley.
"Nothing?" Niatha asked, trying to catch up.
"Yes, nothing."
"Then how did I get here?"
"Magic."
"Whose?" Niatha asked.
"It was mine, I think. But I don't want to talk about it," Merrif
replied, slowing a bit so that Niatha didn't have to run.
"I need to know."
"Why?"
"Because I do," Niatha replied.
"Tell me why you need to know."
"If I do, will you tell me how I got here?"
"No," Merrif replied.
"Were you trying some sort of spell?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
Niatha sighed and let the matter drop. The two walked in silence,
each in their own private world, until they reached the marketplace.
"What a beautiful cat," a young woman remarked upon seeing Niatha
sitting on the table. Her voice was shrill and piercing and her body was
short and slightly stocky. She started to reach out to pet Niatha.
"I'm not a cat," Niatha hissed. He knew she couldn't hear him, but
he thought maybe baring his fangs would work.
"Beautiful but mean," the woman replied, bringing her hand back
quickly. "I don't see many cats that are that black. Where did you find
her?"
"I'm not female," Niatha hissed louder. He got up and turned away
from the woman and jumped down to the ground behind Merrif.
"It's a he," Merrif responded, smiling. "And I just found him one
day. He followed me home and hasn't left since." Merrif could hear
another hiss behind him. His smile got bigger.
"Her fur looks so soft," the woman said. "But I doubt she'd let me
pet her, would she?"
"No, *she* is rather wild still."
"She?" Niatha asked, his voice going higher than normal. "*She*?"
"Do you have any potions for sickness at sea? My husband insists
he's fine, but all the other hands on the ship tease him about being
sick."
"I do indeed have a potion for curing that," Merrif told her. "It
is an old remedy and not only will it cure the sea sickness, but it will
also cure the head aches from drinking all night."
"Truly?" the woman asked. Her eyes opened largely and she leaned in
closer to Merrif. "How much?"
"There is one minor failing of the herb. It leaves the breath
smelling slightly bad."
"How bad and how much is it?"
"It smells almost like an onion and it is a mere Sterling."
"A Sterling! For something that will make the breath smell like an
onion? You jest?"
"Ah, but young lady, it will also give you a reason to turn down
his advances at night. Is it not worth a Sterling just for that?"
"Hmm ... There is that. Five Floren."
"Seven and no less."
"Six."
"You'd better take it," Niatha remarked from behind him. "She's
liable to suggest three."
"Just how long does my husband have to take this potion?" the woman
asked.
"For curing the sea sickness, just before he goes out to sea. For
the drinking, when he wakes up after drinking all night."
"Each time he goes out to sea? That's nigh every day!"
"Yes, but one bag will last several weeks. Unless his sickness is
strong, then you'll have to make the potion stronger."
"How does it work?"
"Just mix two pinches in a cup of some liquid. Have him drink all
of it. If you use tea, it masks the flavor somewhat."
"And you said six Floren?"
"Seven."
"Straight. Seven it is." She paid Merrif the Floren. He picked up
the bag in one hand and picked up his wand in the other. He moved the
wand in circles over the small bag and then snapped the wand down on the
table. Several loud cracklings exploded out from the wand. The woman
jumped back. Merrif opened his other hand and the bag was gone.
"The powder and the bag are now in the wand," Merrif explained.
"Watch the wand closely." He spun the wand several times and twirled the
end in a circular pattern. The tip of the wand left a glowing circle in
the air. Suddenly, Merrif moved the wand to his once empty hand. The bag
had magically reappeared. "Your powder," he said, handing the bag to the
woman. She reached out and with trembling hands, took the bag. She
turned and quickly left without a word.
"Why didn't you correct her when she called me a she again?" Niatha
asked.
"Never argue over something insignificant with someone who might
buy your potions," Merrif chuckled.
"Insignificant? *That* isn't insignificant. It's bad enough that
people see me as a cat, let alone get my gender wrong."
"I sold the powder, didn't I?"
"Yes, howev--"
"We have money to spend."
"Yes," Niatha sighed, knowing when to give up. "We have money."
Niatha turned his head sideways and used his front paw to scratch behind
his ear.
"Here," Merrif said, "let me help." He reached down without waiting
for a reply and rubbed behind Niatha's ear.
"Sometimes, I wish I had round soft fingers," Niatha replied.
"These paws are great for hunting, but not much else." Four curved,
sharp claws extended out from Niatha's paw. As he set his paw to the
ground, the claws retracted back, his velvety fur hiding them.
"That's an interesting creature," a man said.
"Eh?" Merrif rasped, looking up. "What was it you said?" Merrif saw
a man of medium size, albeit wider in the shoulders than most, short cut
brown hair, and a piercing gaze. Leaning on a cane, the man was looking
at Niatha.
"He said I was an interesting creature," Niatha replied.
"I said that is an interesting creature."
"It's a cat," Merrif said.
"That isn't like any cat I've seen," the man said.
"He can't really see me, can he?" Niatha asked.
"What do you mean?" Merrif asked.
"Lylle! Come over here," the man yelled.
"What is it Raphael?" Lylle responded, moving towards the table.
Lylle was a young teen, small framed, slightly skinny, and had long,
tangled brown hair. His face was dirty and his clothes were ragged.
"Come look at this creature," Raphael said.
"What do you mean 'creature'?" Merrif asked again.
"What?" Lylle asked. "I see a cat."
"He does see me," Niatha said.
"Oh, hush!" Merrif hissed.
"Who are you telling to hush?" Lylle asked, his eyes narrowing.
"You just see a cat?" Raphael asked.
"It's just a cat," Merrif responded.
"That is not a cat," Raphael replied.
"Looks like a cat to me," Lylle said.
"Meow," Niatha replied.
"Like that is going to help," Merrif said, rolling his eyes.
"What is going to help?" Lylle asked.
"What is it?" Raphael asked.
"Yes, what am I?" Niatha asked.
"Ah!" Merrif yelled. "You never quit, do you?"
"No," Niatha and Raphael replied at the same time.
"Straight!" Lylle said. "I'm going to go look around some more.
I'll be across the street. Come get me when you're done, Raphael." Lylle
shook his head and started to leave.
"Stay for a mene," Raphael said. Lylle stayed.
"Can you hear anyone else talking besides me?" Merrif asked.
"No, why?" Raphael answered.
"At least he can't hear me," Niatha said.
"Unfold your wings," Merrif said.
"What?" Raphael asked. Niatha opened his wings. Raphael's eyes
opened wide for a brief moment. "Definitely not a cat."
"No," Merrif responded. "He isn't."
"What is he? He talks to you, doesn't he? Why can I see him and not
hear him, then?"
"He's a magical creature," Merrif answered.
"And I came from where?" Niatha asked. Merrif ignored him.
"I've never seen anything like him and I've walked half of 'diar."
"That narrows things down by half," Niatha quipped. "Some help he
is."
"Hush," Merrif snapped.
"What is he saying?" Raphael asked.
"Nothing important."
"Why is it I never say anything important?" Niatha whined. "One of
these days, you'll listen to me and it will be important."
"It is a beautiful creature. What kind of magical creature is it?
What's its name? Can it hear me?" Raphael asked.
"I like him," Niatha said. "He's more curious than I am."
"I don't know what kind of creature he is. His name is Niatha and
yes he can hear you."
"Why can I see him while everyone else sees a cat?"
"A good question," Merrif answered. "A good question, indeed."
"Just what am I?" Niatha asked.
"It's a cat," Lylle said, unaware of what Niatha had asked.
Agitation was beginning to show in his face. He shifted around almost as
much as Niatha.
"No, it isn't," Raphael replied. His one hand rested on top of a
straight wooden cane, but he wasn't leaning on it. His body was relaxed
and there was a smile in his eyes.
"You called me back over here to argue about a cat? Or whatever it
is?" Lylle asked.
"Have you heard it make any sound?" Raphael asked. Merrif stood
silently while the two talked. He was curious as to where Raphael was
taking the conversation.
"No," Lylle replied. "I haven't." Lylle reached down to touch
Niatha and Niatha hissed.
"I don't like to be touched," Niatha said.
"That isn't a hiss from any cat I've heard," Raphael said.
"No," Lylle agreed. "But cats make all kinds of noises." He
shrugged.
"Can he pet him?" Raphael asked.
"No!" Niatha hissed again.
"Hush, Niatha," Merrif said. "I want to see what happens. Let him
pet you." Niatha gave a low growl but didn't say anything else. "Go
ahead, he'll let you." Lylle slowly lowered his hand to Niatha and then
ran it lightly over his head, neck and back. Niatha's wings were folded
down and Lylle ran his hand over them.
"I don't feel anything different," Lylle said.
"Unfold your wings, Niatha," Merrif said. Niatha stretched his
wings out. Lylle ran his hand down Niatha's neck and up part of his
wings and down to his back again.
"Nothing out of the ordinary," Lylle said. "Just a cat."
"Your hand went up the wings and down to his back," Raphael said.
"No, there wasn't anything there. I just ran my hand over his
back," Lylle disagreed.
"You're the only one who can see him as he is," Merrif said to
Raphael. "I don't know why." Niatha moved out of Lylle's reach and
turned to smooth his wings back down. He used his front paw to brush his
fur.
Raphael stood mesmerized as he watched Niatha. Lylle looked at
Raphael and then looked at Niatha before looking up to Merrif.
"Will someone explain what's going on?" Lylle asked.
"Yes, what is going on?" a man asked behind them. "Is this Merrif's
table? Someone told me to come here for, um, potions." The man squirmed
his way between Raphael and Lylle. He bent over the table and whispered
something to Merrif.
"Ah," Merrif said, "a love potion!" The man started to run, but
Raphael and Lylle blocked his way.
"No need to be ashamed," Merrif stated. He reached out and motioned
for Raphael to move to one side. Raphael and Lylle stepped to the side.
"I am Merrif and I just happen to have enough powder for one more love
potion." Raphael continued to watch Niatha.
"Make him quit staring," Niatha testily spoke. "Why is he staring
at me?"
"Make it strong," the man said, his voice cracking just a bit. He
was a tall, muscular man with a mustache that grew down around his mouth
to hang below his chin. His clothes looked to be made of fine silk and
smooth leather. "She ignores me and I want to capture her love."
"Strong?" Merrif queried. "I make it only one way and it works. I
wouldn't want to mix something different. It might get so strong, she'll
end up hating you instead."
"Oh!" the man replied, a startled look on his face. "Then make it
so that it works."
"What is that?" Lylle asked the man, pointing at Niatha.
"What?" the man asked, his eyebrows raised.
"What is that?" Lylle asked again, his finger still pointing at
Niatha. The man looked over at the feline creature.
"I should bite his finger," Niatha said, smiling.
"It's a cat," the man replied, turning to look at Lylle as though
he was a child. "What do you think it is?"
"Your powder," Merrif quickly said, holding out a small bag. "Mix
it all in a mug of water."
"Thank you," the man said, reaching for the bag. Merrif pulled the
bag back out of reach.
"A Sterling," Merrif said.
"Sterling!" the man yelped. "That's five Floren more than I'm
willing to pay."
"You would put such a small, small price on love?" Merrif asked in
a soft flowing voice. "To have your love returned by the woman you seek,
is a Sterling such a high price?"
"Uh ... well ..."
"Should she not notice you and give you a chance to be together, I
will give you half the money back," Merrif said. "But hear me, you must
have her full attention for two bells after she drinks the potion. If
not, the potion will not work."
"A Sterling, it is," the man agreed, handing over the silver coin
and taking the bag. Raphael and Lylle watched the man go.
"If I could do that, I wouldn't have to steal," Lylle remarked,
enviously.
"Do what?" Merrif asked, confused.
"Get a Sterling out of someone who doesn't want to pay it," Lylle
answered. "You really are a mage. Does that powder work?"
"I just sell them what they want. Yes, I am a mage. And yes, it
will work if he uses it the way I instructed."
"Straight!" Lylle spurted. "You have to show me what that powder
is."
"If I did that," Merrif laughed, "I wouldn't be the only one
selling it, would I? And I don't doubt that many of the young ladies in
the town would suddenly find themselves in your arms."
"Yes, mage," Raphael laughed. "I would agree. Much too powerful for
someone so young."
"He won't even let me try it," Niatha said. Then realizing that the
other two couldn't hear him, he flipped his tail angrily and said, "I
*hate* not being heard."
"I heard you," Merrif said.
"What did he say?" Raphael asked.
"He's complaining that I don't let him try any of my powders."
"You're not going to let me have some of that powder, are you?"
Lylle asked.
"Only if you can get me an audience with Illiena," Merrif chuckled.
"Ugh," Niatha groaned. He turned around and started grooming his
fur. "Not her again."
"Illiena?" Lylle asked.
"Goddess of the Manifest," Raphael replied. "She's normally
pictured as a young, beautiful woman holding a wooden staff. Then again,
most goddesses are pictured as young and beautiful. I've heard her
described as being loving and caring until angered and then she has a
rather nasty, fiery temper."
"Are you a follower of Illiena?" Merrif asked. His eyes were wide
and his mouth was slightly open. He stroked his long beard with one of
his hands while the other pushed down on the table, holding him up. He
leaned towards Raphael waiting for an answer, an intense look in his
eyes.
"No, I'm not," Raphael replied. The light behind Merrif's eyes
dulled and he blinked, long and hard. He gave a small imperceptive sigh
as he stepped back.
"There aren't very many true believers," Merrif stated.
"You are one," Raphael stated.
"How do you know so much about Illiena?" Merrif asked.
"He's cursed them all," Lylle answered and laughed, not caring that
the subject had turned serious.
"You've cursed Illiena?" Merrif spurted, stepping back away from
Raphael. His hand had grabbed the wand from the table and clenched it
tight.
"No," Niatha warned. "Even if he cursed her all night, it doesn't
mean anything. People curse gods and goddesses all the time." Niatha
leaned back, muscles taut. His tail swished behind him. His front claws
were out and digging into the ground. Niatha knew that Merrif would use
magic to defend Illiena, no matter how unstable the magic was.
"Not Illiena," Merrif replied.
"No, not Illiena, Raphael stated. "I've cursed a good many gods,
but Illiena wasn't one of them."
"I think I like Ol the best," Lylle said. "His have been the best.
Ol's piss, Ol's blood, Ol's --"
"Enough," Raphael snapped. There was a tightness to his voice that
hinted at anger.
"It's true," Lylle defended himself. "You've cursed the whole lot
of them. And all for a woman --"
"Enough!" Raphael warned.
"Not Illiena," Merrif restated. He had relaxed and had let the wand
settle onto the table.
"No mage, not Illiena. I spent time learning about a good many of
the gods just to find one to heal a wound that wouldn't heal. When they
didn't heal it, I cursed them. When I finally came across Illiena, I was
all cursed out."
"Not all," Lylle said. "I seem to recall an incident with some
Stevenics." Raphael grunted in response.
"No loss there," Niatha replied.
"Blasphemous lot," Merrif agreed. "Heathens, all of them."
"I'm glad I'm not Stevenic," Lylle said, looking at Merrif.
"Did they say something bad about Illiena?" Raphael asked.
"They tried," Niatha laughed. "They tried and tried and tried!" He
rolled onto his side and kicked his feet out.
"What's he doing?" Lylle asked.
"Nothing," Merrif replied, quickly.
"Oh no!" Niatha said. "You have to tell them!"
"What is it?" Raphael asked, watching Niatha roll on the ground.
"He isn't hurt, is he?"
"He wants me to tell you about my encounter with the Stevenic
priests."
"What happened?" Lylle asked.
"I used magic on them," Merrif huffed. "And they deserved it!"
"Tell them all," Niatha urged. "Aaa-all oo-of --" Niatha stuttered.
At that point, his laughter returned in force.
"Strange cat," Lylle said, watching Niatha roll over and over on
the ground.
"As you asked," Merrif began. "The Stevenics blasphemed and called
Illiena a false goddess. They called Cephas Stevene the one true prophet
of the one true god. I'm a bit quick to lose my temper when it comes to
Illiena and I cast a spell at the priest. I wanted to burn his tongue
for saying those things."
"Ouch," Lylle said. "Burn the tongue? That would hurt."
"Yes," Merrif agreed. "I regained control over my temper in time to
just cause the priest to stutter rather than permanently harm his
mouth."
"Control?" Niatha asked, his laughter gone. "I recall you did want
to burn his mouth. Stuttering was what you got, though." Merrif ignored
him.
"Stutter?" Raphael asked.
"Yes, the priest couldn't say anything about Illiena or false gods
without stuttering horridly," Merrif explained.
"I would have paid to see that," Lylle chuckled.
"Yes, it would have been a sight to see, or rather hear," Raphael
replied, grinning. Niatha had regained his sitting posture.
"I wouldn't tell them the truth about your magic, either," Niatha
told Merrif as he finally understood why Merrif had changed the story.
"You'd probably not sell any more potions after that spread through
town."
"As nice as this talk has been ..." Lylle began as he watched a
cute, young woman walk by him. "I see that there are other things in
this marketplace that need some attention."
"Later," Raphael replied. "It's near mid of day and I could use
some food. What about you, mage?"
"Merrif," the mage replied.
"Merrif," Raphael stated, deliberate and curt, "are you hungry?"
"I am," Niatha quickly answered. "All this talking has gotten me
hungry."
"You haven't been talking," Merrif said, looking down at Niatha.
Raphael waited for his answer. Merrif looked up and said, "Yes, I could
use some food."
"Lylle and I will go for food, if you'll enlighten us with
knowledge of Illiena," Raphael proposed.
"What is the word all these youngsters use? Straight?"
"Straight," Lylle agreed. "That's the word. Now, quick before that
lovely young woman gets out of sight." Raphael turned to leave, a small
limp evident in his walk. His cane clicked on the ground at every other
step. Lylle followed him in their search for food. Looking ahead, Lylle
noticed they were headed in the same direction as the young woman.
Smiling, Lylle picked up his pace and moved ahead of Raphael.
"Raphael is someone to watch," Niatha said once they were gone, a
serious tone in his voice.
"Yes," Merrif agreed. He lowered himself into a chair and stretched
out a hand to scratch behind Niatha's ears. "Finding us, seeing you and
knowing of Illiena is too much a coincidence. There is something here."
"What do you mean?" Niatha asked. His head was tilted to the side
to allow Merrif's hand better access to scratch. A low rumbling growl
could be heard coming from Niatha as he enjoyed the attention.
"Something is starting. I can feel the magic gathering around us.
It's like a storm brewing on the horizon. A large storm full of wrath
and destruction. I can feel that energy building."
"Where is it centered?"
"On all of us, dear friend. On all of us."
Raphael and Lylle returned shortly with their hands full of food.
Raphael placed all of his food on Merrif's table. Pointing to part of
the food, he said, "This is what I got for Niatha." Merrif set the food
down in front of Niatha.
"It's cooked!" Niatha whined. "And it smells burnt." There were
several slices of fried lamb amidst various vegetables on a thick slice
of bread. He moved to the left of the pile of food and tentatively
sniffed it. "They think I'm going to eat this?" he asked.
"What's wrong?" Raphael asked. He watched as Niatha moved to the
left and then to the right of the food. Smiling, Raphael shook his head
and said, "I got meat and vegetables for him because I didn't know what
kind of food he ate. I didn't think about the meat being cooked. Does he
likes to hunt for his food?"
"Yes and he is complaining that it's cooked," Merrif replied.
"He'll eat it, though."
"Where's the fun in that?" Niatha complained. He reached out with a
paw and moved the pile of food. "It isn't like a rat. No fight, no
squealing, no warm blood. All the good things have been taken out of it.
What did you say this was?" He sniffed at the meat again. "Lamb, I'm
guessing."
"Yes, it's lamb," Merrif answered.
"I wonder what a lamb would be like before it's cooked? They get
kind of big, don't they?" Niatha smiled as he contemplated the hunt and
kill. His fangs showed through as his smile grew wider.
"Those are some teeth," Lylle remarked. "Still looks like a cat,
though."
"Tell me about Illiena," Raphael interrupted. "Does she really use
magic?"
"Ah, Illiena ..." Merrif said, running his long fingers through his
scraggly beard. "Why, she's the brightest, most beautiful goddess ever.
She ..." and so Merrif continued.
========================================================================
Talisman Five
Part 1
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
<John.White@Drexel.Edu>
Vibril 16, 1010
Author's Note: Just over two thousand years have passed since
three lovers and a meddling outsider created a Talisman that
was more than any of them knew. An accident destroyed it, and
started those four individuals on a round of reincarnations to
attempt to piece the artifact back together. The six pieces
have become three over the centuries, but one of the original
fragments remains hidden, having not been exposed to the open
air since that lightning-riven winter solstice so long ago.
That last part must be found before those four souls can find
peace.
This part of the Talisman saga moves the story into the
present day, as forces are set in motion to secure the release
of that last fragment. This story and those that follow will
focus on the four reincarnates as they are drawn toward the
city of Dargon and the resolution of their millennia-long
task. (This portion of the Talisman Saga goes over events
previously written about. To gain a more complete
understanding of them, please refer to the story "The
Treasure", Parts 1 through 4, which appeared in FSFnet 7-5,
FSFnet 8-2, FSFnet 9-2, and FSFnet 10-2. That story also
recaps events that appeared in even earlier stories, most
notably "A New Life", in FSFnet 5-3.)
In a room deep underground, two lamps flared to life of their own
accord. Moments later, a tracery of lines on one wall began to glow. In
the center of those lines, the image of a door vanished, replaced with
swirling and roiling mist. The mist then parted sharply as it was pushed
aside by a figure stepping slowly through the new opening in the wall.
Roharvardenul stepped into the room deep below the city of Magnus
with a smile on his narrow face. He took pleasure in the feat he had
just accomplished so easily: traveling from his hidden fortress
Aahashtra to Magnus, more than a hundred leagues, in only a single
stride.
Vard was a tall man with long, dark hair that hung past his
shoulders. His somewhat dissipated face had deep-set eyes, a large nose,
and a moustache and goatee framing his slightly pouty, full lips that
sneered as naturally as they smiled. He wore a simple tunic and trousers
over his slender body, but the cut and the fabric indicated that he was
no peasant or simple laborer. The cloak he wore hinted more at his
actual status with its elaborately jeweled embroidery at throat and hem.
Vard was a sorcerer, extremely skilled and most powerful.
He glanced around the small room. It had once been just a cellar
below the basement of a nondescript house in the Fifth Quarter of
Magnus, the Crown City of Baranur. Now, it was much more. One wall bore
a complex pattern of geometric shapes formed by a single continuous line
that began in one palm-sized golden circle and ended in another. That
pattern surrounded a depiction of a door, each plank detailed down to
the grain of the wood, that had been drawn into the tiles of the wall in
the same fashion as had the pattern of shapes, the single line beginning
and ending in the same terminal circles.
On the floor lay a soft rug. Against one wall rested an ornate
chair, and against the opposite wall was a medium-sized chest. Across
the room from the magical pattern was a curtained doorway, the only
ordinary way out.
Vard turned around just as the power that had filled the pattern on
the wall, linking it and its twin beneath Aahashtra, faded, and the
image of the doorway returned. Now the passage was sealed, until he
applied his magic and opened the portal once more.
He strode purposefully over to the curtained doorway and slipped
through. The curtain dropped behind him, enclosing him in complete
darkness. He paused briefly, composing himself. The corridor that linked
his underground ante-chamber with the streets of the Fifth Quarter of
Magnus was lined with tests and traps to protect it from unwanted
intruders. In order to pass safely through his own traps, he needed to
fill his mind with a shifting set of patterns that each magical snare
recognized.
There was another way, of course. He could have simply carried an
amulet like the one his servant, Qrun, bore. But he enjoyed the trial of
threading his own gauntlet each time he made the trip to Magnus; he was
testing himself, honing his own faculties while going about his daily
business. He would have it no other way.
Vard took several deep breaths and, stretching his hand out to the
side to touch the wall, started forward with the proper key-patterns in
his mind. As he walked, both his own inner sense of timing and certain
subtle clues in the texture of the wall told him when to alter the
patterns. He took his time as he carefully negotiated the passage and
came, as he always did, safely to the end.
He paused again in the short section at the street-end of the
corridor that was free of traps and tests. He spent several moments
relaxing the tension that always built up as he walked through that
slightly curving, slightly upward-sloped passage. But he didn't
immediately open the door and step out into the alley once the faint
tension in his shoulders and neck had been soothed away. He had another
task to complete before he essayed the streets of Magnus.
In the still completely lightless corridor, Vard began to
concentrate again. Slowly, the mage's features fleshed out. His face
became squarer, with a prominent jaw and a strong mouth forming before
the goatee grew and covered the lower half of his face. His eyes thinned
as his nose expanded, and his hair shortened into a close-cropped
bristle of brown. A hat formed over that hair, tight yet still somewhat
squarish, trimmed with a long tassel at the top and beading around the
lower edge.
His spare body got taller and filled out, getting stocky and square
as well. His tunic, trousers, and cloak became the multiple layers of
robes of a Beinison merchant, longest and plainest robe at the bottom,
with each successive robe becoming shorter and more ornamented with
embroidery, then beads, then plaques of precious metals. The fifth and
final robe was little more than a vest that was so weighted down with
decoration that not a single thread of its underlying fabric was
visible. The toes of embroidered boots poked out from beneath the
longest underrobe.
Vard was the master of many talents, and one of those talents was
illusion. He was always thorough, which was why each robe had formed
separately. Vard was extremely cautious, and possibly even paranoid
about it, but he had never set foot in Magnus appearing as himself.
Within the walls of his fortress home, he felt completely safe, prepared
for anything. Venturing into the chaos that was a city like Magnus,
where anything could happen and anyone might see him, he preferred to
take what precautions he could to protect himself. The easiest and most
elemental precaution was not to be himself, but it wasn't the only step
he took.
Vard still didn't move, even once the illusion of the merchant was
fully in place. Instead, he continued to concentrate. Over the first
illusion, another one formed. A heavy cloth tunic coalesced over the
merchant's robes, reaching to his knees. Over that appeared a leather
apron, and under the tunic heavy trousers formed. Beat up boots replaced
the embroidered ones. The face of the merchant became thinner, more
care-worn and lined with age as well. His hair changed color, to a
red-highlighted chestnut, and grew out to jaw-length. The features
shifted, lips thinning further, nose becoming pointier, ears getting
somewhat larger. The beard vanished, leaving only a thin moustache more
red than brown. Vard needed no mirror or light to be sure of his
illusion; he had practiced diligently until he knew that what his mind's
eye saw, his craft created. The hands of the laborer became rough and
calloused, and a scar appeared on his neck. And soon this second
illusion was complete.
Another of Vard's precautions was to be sure that no one could
trace his path through the city. The easiest way to throw off a trailer
was not to be the person being followed. Thus, the layers of illusion.
Vard's purpose in the city was to shop, and he would do that in the
guise of the Beinison merchant. In moving between the fringes of the
Fifth Quarter and the precincts of the markets, he would appear as the
laborer he had just created. Which left one more illusion, the one that
would carry him through the lawless warrens of the Fifth Quarter in
anonymity and safety.
Further concentration layered one more illusion over the laborer.
Slowly, his features fleshed out. His face widened into a circle as his
nose shrank. His eyes seemed to get larger and the thin moustache
vanished, along with most of the hair on his head. His thick body
plumped up further, and he seemed to lose some more height. His tunic,
trousers, and apron became a Cyruzhian monk's habit, complete with
raised hood that covered the now straw-colored sparse hair and his
newly-rotund face.
Finally prepared, Vard stepped forward. To the side of the corridor
was a short set of steps, which the mage climbed. He slid open a small
spy-hole set high in the wall and surveyed the alley beyond the end of
the corridor. Vard assured himself that the dead-end alley, perpetually
maintained in shadow by a purpose-built overhang, was empty. Climbing
back down to the floor, he engaged the simple latch, and the wall
swiveled on a pivot at its center. Vard-the-Cyruzhian-monk strode into
the deserted alley, and the wall pivoted closed behind him with a
satisfying thunk.
He strode quickly down the length of the alley. At its end he
paused to scan the adjoining street, then continued walking, adjusting
his gait to a more purposeful and moderate stride befitting his outward
appearance. His choice for the illusion cloaking him during his passage
through the narrow, winding, dangerous streets of the Fifth Quarter had
not been random. There was a Cyruzhian mission house on the other side
of the quarter, where the poor and disadvantaged came to have their
bodies ministered to -- food, shelter, healing -- for the meager price
of putting up with having their souls ministered to as well. Monks were
therefore tolerated by the denizens of the Fifth Quarter.
Most large villages, towns and cities had places like the Fifth
Quarter: places where the disadvantaged congregated. Whether this
amounted to a row of shacks outside the town walls or an entire section
of a city, like Magnus' Fifth Quarter, it was a place where poor and
criminal alike lived and died. Citizens of the less shadowy areas of the
city looked at the Fifth Quarter with dread. Law seldom set foot within
its boundaries, and the normal order of such a place was utterly foreign
to them. But even if life tended to be at risk more in the Fifth Quarter
than, say, the Merchant's Quarter, it was still a home to those who had
no place else to be.
Vard continued winding his circuitous way toward the boundaries of
the Fifth Quarter. He remained alert, being sure that no one was
following him. Once he had reached the fringes of the Fifth Quarter, an
area of run down inns and suspect businesses, he sought and found a
shadowed alley and slipped into it.
After making sure that he was unobserved, he began to concentrate
on his layered illusions. The Cyruzhian monk illusion began to fade,
allowing the laborer to become visible. But the monk illusion was not
dispelled; Vard knew that at the end of the day, he would need to return
to the dead-end alley in the Fifth Quarter. So instead of allowing the
monk illusion to dissipate, he submerged that illusion beneath the
merchant illusion, where it would be ready to use again when he needed
it.
This bit of intricate magery delighted Vard. He was sure that none
of his former associates had ever been able to manipulate magic to the
extent he did. His mastery of magic, accomplished all on his own after
being expelled from their company, was all the sweeter for their
rejection and condemnation of him.
Once again checking that he was not being spied upon,
Vard-the-laborer left the shadows and continued on his way. His first
destination would be the Syloris Market in the Merchant's Quarter, which
was half-way around the city.
Vard once again took a circular, winding route, but one that was
only partly chosen to confuse any who tried to follow him: there were
very few streets in the city that were straight for any distance. His
journey took more than twice as long as it would have had he given
himself wings and simply flown directly there, but that was the nature
of travel in Magnus.
When he had come within a few streets of the Syloris Market, Vard
found another pocket of shadow to hide himself in. This time, he shifted
the laborer illusion so that it rested between the Beinison merchant and
the monk. He spent several menes checking his spells, making sure they
were all intact and all contained properly. Then he stepped out of the
shadow and strode jauntily toward the market.
Noise and bustling activity filled the Syloris Market as Vard
walked through one of the many arches in the wall around it. Few current
residents of Magnus remembered where its name came from, but Vard knew.
He was a student of history, among many other things, and he had
encountered the name of General Syloris in his reading. Syloris had been
a general in name only; he had never swung a sword against a living foe,
and had never commanded as much as a single person in battle. But he had
come from a line of warriors in a time between uprisings and strife, and
had turned his honorary rank into political power.
Vard glanced to the south, taking in the sight of the former palace
that General Syloris had commissioned. The shell of that building
remained, only a ghost of its former opulence gilding the brick
structure that had been added onto and taken away from many times in the
three hundred or more years since its construction. The plaza that had
once fronted the palace of the general now served to contain the huge
Syloris Market, one of several that the large and busy city of Magnus
maintained.
The large decorative fountain still flowed in the center of the
plaza, but the small garden plots that had once graced the corners of
the square had been bricked over long ago. The many arches that
penetrated the wall around the plaza helped define the major routes
through the chaos of the marketplace, but many of the aisles and paths
through it shifted daily, if not bell by bell, depending on how the
wares were arranged. Where once whole units of cavalry had been able to
drill and parade, now there wasn't room for even a single horse -- and
sometimes no room for a person -- among the stalls, blankets, tables,
and wagon-backs from which vendors hawked their merchandise.
Vard dove into the throng filling the marketplace, his eyes taking
in the items for sale all around him, while ignoring the cries of the
merchants extolling the virtues of their wares. The vendors who occupied
the Syloris tended to deal in crafted items, from clothing to carpentry,
from weaving to weaponry. Because of the nature of the marketplace, many
of these items tended to be second-hand, which suited Vard's needs
perfectly. He collected personal items, preferring those that had a
strong attachment to their former owners. The stronger the attachment,
the better use they served him in the practice of a very particular
magical art that he had developed.
Vard strode further into the marketplace, cataloging items of
likely interest. Newly crafted items were ignored; they had no previous
owners, no history connected to them, and so were useless to him. But
there was no lack of second-hand merchandise for him to choose from.
Near the center of the former plaza, Vard came upon a makeshift
table behind which stood a man in the bright, patchwork cloths of one of
the Rhydd Pobl, the self-styled Free People. Most people distrusted and
even feared these always-travelling folk, these gypsies. Vard understood
that this was more because they were strangers wherever they went than
anything else. The gypsies had an undeserved reputation for being
untrustworthy, for being thieves and killers, for bringing curses and
ill-luck to the homes of simple, honest folk. Vard had always found them
honest and worthy of trust as long as they were dealt with fairly, and
according to the dictates of their own culture.
They rewarded ill-treatment with ill-treatment, naturally, which
did not help their reputation. But they also traveled extensively,
trading with small hamlets and out of the way villages. The types of
wares such places had to trade were as often personal items as products
of their crafters, and Vard had found many a treasure on the selling
table of a gypsy.
Vard ran his eyes over the man's wares. A diverse collection of
items covered the trestle-table, from clothing at one end -- homespun,
subdued, practical, and nothing a gypsy would ever wear -- to an
assortment of gaudy and surely useless weapons at the other. Vard's eyes
traveled over an assortment of carved-wood figurines, all of an
excellent quality, and then moved on to a grouping of shaped stones. The
stones exhibited a wide variety of subjects and carving styles, and some
were obviously worn by use over time. The wooden pieces, contrastingly,
were of a uniform style, all of animals both real and fanciful, and
looked fresh-carved.
Vard concentrated and held out his hand over the wooden figurines.
As he had expected, he felt very little of the essence of attachment he
was looking for, just the interest and care the artist had put into
creating each piece. There hadn't been enough contact between artist and
creation for his purposes. He picked one up to be sure. The rat,
standing on two legs, wearing a cape and an eye-concealing mask,
wielding a sword, was very fanciful and expertly executed. Still, his
initial assessment had been correct: these carvings were of no arcane
use to him.
He switched his attention to one of the more worn-looking stone
carvings and felt more of that kind of connection he was looking for,
but still not enough to be interesting. This figurine had been owned by
too many people to be attached to any one, and that attachment had never
been very great. He lifted this one, too -- a horse-like figure, very
worn and somewhat stylized on top of that, perhaps a game-piece -- but
still couldn't find enough of interest within it.
The gypsy, noticing the interest of a potential customer, said,
"Those wood-carvings are something, what? A cousin does them, Ganba by
name. Her tribe doesn't track to the cities much, so her wares get
traded to those of us who do. She's a real artist, yeh? We never have
trouble selling her stuff, oh no. Real glad to have some on my table
today, I am!"
Vard absently noted the gypsy's speech. The Rhydd Pobl called
members of their own tribe family regardless of blood relationships;
everyone was mother or father, brother or sister. In keeping with that
practice, they called the folk of all other tribes cousins, even if they
were more closely related. He also noticed that the vendor didn't
mention anything at all about the stone carvings. He set the horse-piece
back down, glanced up at the seller to vaguely acknowledge the
information, then continued his scan across the wares.
Vard found his eyes next caught by another piece of stone, but one
that was very different from the small figurines next to it. This
sculptu
re was much larger, several feet across its longest dimension. It
was also broken; it was only half of what had probably been a fully
circular piece, like a large, thick plate or shield. Covering the upper
flat side of the sculpture were designs inlaid in three different
materials: a golden metal, a silvery metal, and what seemed to be glass.
These materials formed a basket-weave of ribbons in the middle
two-thirds, and around the outside were three figures, a stylized cat
and then two birds, raptors of some kind, identical in shape but facing
away from each other.
But it wasn't the peculiar subject matter or craftsmanship of the
object that riveted Vard's attention. Instead, it was the powerful sense
of attachment about it. In all of his searches, Vard had never found
anything that had the kind of a feel of attachment that this sculpture
had. Standing in front of it, he could feel the essence radiating from
the stone and glass and metal, without even extending his senses. It was
as if the life -- no, *lives* -- it was bound to were a part of it.
Vard stretched out his hand toward the sculpture. He had to touch
it, to feel the quality of the attachment. He needed to determine the
nature of the bond, the number of lives attached to it, the nature and
method of that attachment. He was sure that the level of command he
would be able to exert over the people bound to this sculpture would
surpass any of his previous experiments.
Just as his fingers were about to come to rest on one of the silver
ribbons, he thought he saw something move out of the corner of his eye.
His head swiveled to the right to track it, and his eyes came to rest on
a box just a little ways down the table. It was a nondescript box,
weatherbeaten and worn. It had no distinguishing marks: no carving, no
painting, no lettering. The lock plate on the front was just a mass of
rust. But there was still something compelling about it.
Vard stepped sideways and stood in front of the box. It was about
three feet long, and two feet in both width and depth. It was surrounded
by those flashy and cheap weapons meant for display rather than mayhem,
but he didn't see any of them. He touched the box, tracing the curve of
the lid, brushing his fingers along the line between lid and body. He
could feel nothing in terms of an essence of attachment associated with
the box, but he still knew that he had to own it, he had to take it back
to his home and explore it and its contents.
Vard straightened up and, fastening a look of disinterest onto his
illusory face, he scanned the entire table once more. He said, in
battered Baranurian with a heavy Beinison accent, "You have large
selection of goods, friend! I see better every day in homeland,
naturally, but far away I am today. I believe I want carvings -- the
masked rat amusing my grandchild, I think -- and this two knifes, also
gifts." He selected two ornate, but flimsy, knives from the confusion of
weaponry on the table. "Oh, and maybe this bad chest will work up good.
You be happy five Rounds for all, yes?"
The gypsy was properly indignant at Vard's offer, and countered
with one that could have purchased everything on the table, and the
table with it. They haggled good-naturedly, insulting each other
casually and without rancor along the way, until finally a price was
settled on. Vard walked away with his purchases, well pleased by the
expenditure.
Vard had originally intended to spend more time shopping, but his
plans had to change. He needed to investigate the box as quickly as
possible. To that end, he set his footsteps on a path toward the seedier
sections of the city. He didn't notice that he had completely forgotten
about the broken stone sculpture.
Vard's trek back across the city and into the Fifth Quarter was
accomplished without any mishaps. The Beinison merchant slid into a
convenient shadow, and Vard let that illusion drop away completely, not
needing it any further. Vard made a slight adjustment to the next
illusion, and the laborer walked out of that shadow carrying a much
finer chest, of darker wood, highly polished, with brass fittings at the
corners and an ornate lockplate. Nearing the fringe of the Fifth
Quarter, the laborer and his chest found a deserted alley and again the
illusion faded away. The Cyruzhian monk, carrying a canvas-wrapped,
well-tied bundle, exited the alley and trundled into the Fifth Quarter.
Finally, the monk entered a particular narrow alley and came to a
halt before a blank, wooden wall at its end, setting his bundle between
his feet. Unobserved, hidden by the shadow of the purposely-built
overhang, Vard reached out and, with practiced ease, found the hidden
catches. Entering the hidden corridor was not as easy as leaving it had
been; he had to operate the two catches at the same time, but soon the
wall swiveled open. Vard picked up the disguised bundle between his feet
and slipped into the darkness behind the wall, which slammed shut after
him.
Pausing only for a moment to drop the last illusions -- he needed
to be himself to make the return through the traps and tests to his
ante-chamber -- he set the chest under one arm, stretched out the other,
prepared his concentration, and started off.
An invigorating several menes later, Vard slipped through the
curtain and into his ante-chamber. Everything was as he had left it, and
he strode swiftly across the rug to the other side of the room. Placing
the chest on the floor beside him, he reached up and placed his hands
within the terminal circles at the inner edge of the pattern of shapes
on the wall, just next to the drawing of the door. He called up the
necessary energies from deep within himself, priming the pattern and
readying it for the activation spells.
The powering of the portal was not a swift process. Slowly, the
incantations that Vard made sparked along the special tiles that formed
the pattern of shapes. Slowly, the lines began to glow, but not a
regular, steady glow -- they seemed to pulse regularly in a slightly
syncopated rhythm. Slowly, the image of the door began to sparkle, then
shimmer, and then it faded into a billowing, roiling smoky rectangle.
The portal was open.
Vard picked up the chest and walked purposefully forward into the
fog. Between one step and the next, he vanished from Magnus. As soon as
he was gone, the fog disappeared and the pattern ceased to glow. The
lamps extinguished themselves. The portal was once again closed.
In the room in the cellars of Aahashtra that mirrored the one under
Magnus, the lines of the pattern on the wall had been glowing for a
short while and fog billowed within the doorway at their center.
Suddenly, the fog churned, and out stepped Vard, home again. Just as
swiftly as had their counterparts, the glow faded from the pattern and
the fog vanished, revealing a stylized representation of a door.
Vard hurriedly left the room through the curtained doorway and went
down the hallway it led to, turning aside at the first door on the
right. He climbed the stairs behind the door to his study.
Three of the four walls of the room were lined with shelves filled
with scrolls and books. The other wall contained a fireplace to one side
and a desk and chair to the other. Vard walked across the room and
placed the chest onto the desk. He fished in the pockets on the inside
of his cloak, and retrieved the rat statue and the two knives, then hung
the cloak on a hook next to the door. Placing the knives on a nearby
shelf, he carried the rat back over to the fireplace and set the
figurine on the mantel, where it joined a very small collection of
similar objects. Sparing the masked rat a brief, distracted look, he
returned to the desk and the chest.
Containing his rising excitement, Vard examined the chest closely
and carefully, something he had not yet been able to do. It was very
heavily damaged but, for all of that, appeared to be largely intact.
None of the wood of the shell appeared to have rotted through, and
though the lock plate was more rust than metal it seemed to be holding
the lid firmly closed.
Knowing that whatever was within this very old chest was probably
reasonably intact, Vard undertook to open it. He first considered
cutting the leather hinges but found that he wouldn't need to when, as a
result of probing idly into the keyhole with a metal instrument, he
managed to crumble the interior locking mechanism completely. Once the
lock was rendered useless, all it took was a firm tug to pry the chest
open, the final resistance being the tar that had been used to seal the
join between lid and base and make it watertight. Vard took that as
evidence that it might have last belonged to a sailor.
The sight that greeted Vard's eyes as he looked into the open chest
was not encouraging. All he saw was clothing. He reached into the chest
to see if there was anything under the clothes, and as he touched the
fabric it simply fell apart, parts turning to dust before his eyes. He
wondered how old this chest must be for cloth to be that timeworn, but
he didn't stop his search. Beneath the remaining shreds of tunics and
leggings and other garments, he finally encountered something that was
more solid, more intact: books.
Vard carefully removed the four books from the bottom of the chest.
The vellum that had been used in the books' construction had more
strength than mere cloth, but the centuries that must have passed since
the chest had been opened last could still have damaged them. He
painstakingly opened the dried and cracked leather bindings in turn,
determining what each one was.
Vard recognized the language of the first book he opened as
Fretheodan, the tongue of the ancient world-spanning Fretheod Empire.
His studies of history had often encompassed the Fretheod, and he
considered himself an expert on their empire and culture. He briefly
wondered what insights this book could bring to his understanding of
them, and then eagerly continued on to the other.
The second book was in the same language as the first, as was the
third. Vard's excitement level rose again; these three books had to be
ancient! Whatever their contents, these were primary sources of
information about the Fretheod Empire, unfiltered and unaltered by
subsequent translation. And to think that he had not had to pay much of
anything for this treasure! How fortunate that he had stumbled across it
on that gypsy's table ... Vard shook his head in confusion. He had
encountered no gypsies in the Syloris. He had found the chest among the
rags and scraps of a scavenger, a hoarder, who had not had any idea of
the value of the box she had sold. Why would he have thought he had
gotten it from a gypsy?
Shrugging, he turned his attention to the last book. His eyes
widened when he opened that book and saw that it was in Fretheodan, but
not written in the neat, small, even hand of a scribe as the other two
had been: the lettering was larger and much more varied, as if it was a
personal log. And then he translated the page to the best of his
ability, and gasped out loud. If the title page was not lying, then this
was the diary of the Royal Bard Tarhela, who had served the rulers of
Fretheod during that empire's only civil war. What was his diary doing
in a sea chest?
Vard jumped up from his chair and hurried over to one of the
bookcases. Pulling down several volumes, he returned to the desk. Then
he carefully turned in the diary to the last few written pages and began
to translate with the help of the volumes he had fetched.
The sun crossed the sky and began to descend into the west as Vard
laboriously translated not only the ancient language, but the
handwriting of the skaldric, as the Fretheod called their bards. He
worked out that the bard had been on an important journey for his king.
The very last entry, describing a brewing storm and how the bard feared
for his safety in the already storm-battered ship, was not the one that
stirred Vard's blood. It was the one he managed to translate into:
... I fear that I have failed my king. The storm that blew us
off our course has only just died away, leaving the ship a
near wreck, and us utterly lost. I watch now as the captain
stands at the wheel, cursing the gods, the sea, the wind, even
the king, as he brandishes one of the now useless Son Staffs
upon which he used to depend. Such a storm would never have
caught a ship of Fretheod unawares before Osgeofu's treachery.
I have in my possession the Tome of the Yrmenweald,
passed down from skaldric to skaldric since the beginning of
the Time of the Master Staff. It was the only hope my king had
of regaining the power of the Master Staff and saving our
people. But we know not where we are, and so the chances of
happening on the citadel that holds the secrets are almost
none. Wudamund might as well be on the larger moon for all we
can get to it now. Only by the will of Keinald will Tilgeofu
and Fretheod now be saved ...
The Yrmenweald, Vard knew, had been the reason for the Fretheod
Empire's superiority. The Master Staff, the Yrmenweald, had been held by
the ruler of the empire, and the son staffs had been carried by persons
of importance throughout the lands ruled by the empire. The son staffs
drew their power of foresight and planning from the Master Staff.
According to the histories Vard knew, Osgeofu had destroyed the
Yrmenweald during the civil war upon being confronted by his twin
brother Tilgeofu and realizing that he was about to be deposed.
But none of the histories that Vard had read had ever mentioned the
Tome of the Yrmenweald. His interest centered around the mention that
this tome recorded the means for Tilgeofu to regain the power of the
Master Staff. He also knew that Dargon Keep had been built on the ruins
of Wudamund, once a watch-post for the Fretheod Empire. Tarhela's sea
chest had survived for something like two thousand years, since the
destruction of the Yrmenweald, so Vard had hopes that the tome had
survived as well. He had already checked, but the skaldric had
apparently kept the much more valuable tome somewhere other than his sea
chest. If Vard could locate that tome, if it had actually survived, and
if the secrets that Wudamund had guarded still existed, then he stood a
good chance of being able to claim the power of the Master Staff for his
own!
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