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DargonZine Volume 13 Issue 02
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DargonZine Distributed: 2/18/2000
Volume 13, Number 2 Circulation: 711
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Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
A Matter of Honour 1 Nicholas Wansbutter Sy, 1003
Vows Victor M. Cardoso 15 Naia, 1016
Talisman Three 2 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Fall, 748 FE
========================================================================
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 13-2, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright February, 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>
DargonZine's purpose since day one has been to help amateur writers
improve. Back when the magazine began, I didn't really know what I was
looking for, but I knew that I wanted to be able to exchange ideas,
techniques, and works with other writers. I also knew that the Internet
was a tool with awesome potential for communication between people. What
I didn't know was that I was looking for the same things as other
aspiring writers: a community of like-minded writers and a place to
publish my works. Since there were no such things on the Internet at
that time, I started both a community and a publishing outlet, and
(fortunately) they flourished. But still I remember very clearly being a
solitary writer with no way to reach an audience and no one to turn to
for critiques, support, mentoring, or understanding.
Thanks to the Internet, DargonZine can provide those things to
writers who otherwise might not have a place to publish or other writers
to work with. That's why I always feel a lot of satisfaction and pride
when I can welcome new writers to the ranks of those who have had
stories published in DargonZine. Recruiting new writers not only helps
our magazine thrive and grow, but is an integral part of our mission to
support and encourage aspiring writers. Surprisingly, that's something
we lost sight of for a while. After a strong initial start, as
DargonZine matured we settled down with a core group of writers. As the
world of Dargon became more and more detailed and complex, we never made
much of an effort to find new writers or help those who joined get
ramped up on the environment. It took a long time for us to notice, but
we were floored when we finally looked back on the nine years from 1989
through 1997 and discovered that we had printed only thirteen new
writers -- barely one new writer per year!
We all knew that this was a serious problem. If we couldn't attract
and support new writers, the magazine would soon fold. After that
realization, the group made a huge effort to recruit, support, and
mentor new writers. We began asking for feedback about why new writers
left the project, and what would make things better for those who
stayed. We gave new writers more information about the milieu, better
reference tools, more story ideas to key off, better writing guidelines,
and mentors to support them. Everyone has helped, and those efforts have
paid off wonderfully. Since then we have printed thirteen new writers;
in just two years we've welcomed as many new writers as we'd printed in
the previous nine years combined!
And in this issue I am delighted to introduce you to two new
writers -- Nicholas Wansbutter and Victor Cardoso -- who joined us last
fall. Nick is a student in Winnipeg, and his debut is the first of a
three-part series that will run in the next couple issues. Victor is the
son of Portuguese expats and lives and works in Ann Arbor. Be sure to
congratulate them on getting their first stories through DargonZine's
lengthy peer-review process!
We're very pleased to welcome them, as well as all the other
writers who have joined our ranks in the past two years. The influx of
new blood has enlivened our discussions and rejuvenated the project, and
reinforced the importance of welcoming and supporting our new writers.
And that's something we should never lose sight of again.
========================================================================
A Matter of Honour
Part 1
by Nicholas Wansbutter
<ice_czar@hotmail.com>
Sy, 1003
A mixture of excitement and fear filled Aleksandr as he stood
before the family manor, on what was to be one of the proudest days of
his life. Today, he began the long journey towards becoming a knight: a
defender of the crown and protector of the people. He would bring honour
to his family, just as his father, Harbid Heahun, had before him.
Aleksandr could already picture in his boy's mind riding a great
stallion into battle, laying King Haralan's enemies low with a flashing
blade, travelling the width and breadth of the land righting wrongs,
avenging injustices and perhaps even slaying a flanduil one day. Such
was every young noble's fantasy. But, even as all of these adventurous
thoughts filled him, doubt crept into the back of his mind.
A boy of seven, he was just a little over ten hands tall. He had
pale white skin beneath a head of bright red hair and ice-blue eyes. A
fit little boy, he was known for his athleticism and strength for his
age.
As he looked around at the familiar thatched houses, the small
stone church and the deeply rutted dirt roads, Aleksandr felt anxiety
tighten his chest. He was about to travel to what seemed the end of the
world. He was, after all, being sent to Fennell Keep, in the baronial
seat of power. Aleksandr realised it was a great honour to serve in the
household of Baron Dorja Fennell himself, and that his father had made a
great many sacrifices to make it happen, but Aleksandr still wished he
could stay at home. The outside world seemed like an incredibly large
and frightening place to him. The town was all that he knew.
Though small and relatively insignificant according to his
well-travelled brothers, Heahun was to Aleksandr as beautiful a place as
any he could imagine. Nestled away comfortably in the forests southwest
of Dargon, it fell within the jurisdiction of the Barony of Fennell. It
was a somewhat humble barony, subsisting on agriculture for the most
part. Just fewer than two hundred families lived in Heahun itself. It
wasn't an especially wealthy town, either. Most of the villagers made a
life for themselves tilling the croplands to the north and east of town,
or harvesting wood for Aleksandr's father in the dense forests to the
south and west. Like all folk in the Barony of Fennell, they were a
hardy lot, enduring the warm summers and frigid winters with a quiet
determination that could only be found in the simple, silent forest. The
town was ruled by Aleksandr's family, the Heahuns, and had been for
decades. Stalwart knights that served the duke unquestioningly,
Aleksandr thought the town suited them.
He heard the familiar footfalls of his father coming up behind him.
Aleksandr looked up as the powerful figure stopped beside him, taking in
the town as well. Harbid Heahun was an impressive man, even though he
was now nearing his fiftieth year. His fiery red hair that Aleksandr
shared was streaked with silver, as were his flowing beard and
moustaches. He was tall and his powerful frame still carried much
muscle. Aleksandr was immensely proud of him.
Harbid placed a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder. "Ah, my son.
Today you take the first step in the family tradition. Your brothers
have done well, and I expect no less from you." Indeed, his father had
said many a time that Aleksandr was the most promising of his five sons,
which was why Harbid had gone to great lengths to have him taken in as a
page at Fennell Keep.
"I'm going to become a great knight like Sir Jarek Kelbhen,
father!" Aleksandr stood a little taller at speaking the name of his
hero.
Aleksandr's father looked down at him, his grey eyes warning. "He
is a robber knight. Not a noble like us!" Aleksandr's shoulders sagged
with the remark, and he could feel the heat of tears welling up in his
eyes. He idolised the dashing foreign mercenary. Harbid knelt beside the
boy and took hold of his shoulders, looking intently into his face. "He
did serve the baron well during the Shadow Wars, but Baron Fennell was
not present at the battle on the Coldwell as I was. I was witness when
your Sir Jarek took the lives of a group of surrendered Northfield
troops. Hardly conduct becoming of a Baranurian knight, even if his
prisoners were traitors to the crown. And if he is a true knight why is
he fled from his lands all the way to Dargon? Think on that, my son."
Aleksandr continued to look at the ground, refusing to accept his
father's condemnation of Sir Jarek. Finally, Harbid sighed and patted
his son on the shoulder. "I am sure you will have his courage, though."
Aleksandr brightened, and looked up with a smile at his father once
again. "Maybe I'll even be his squire one day! Tschel told me he's the
captain of the guards at Fennell Keep, you know!"
Harbid couldn't help but let out a soft chuckle at his son's zeal.
He remembered the days long past when he had been the same. He hadn't
been as well informed about the goings-on outside of Heahun, though.
Aleksandr *was* an inquisitive one. He ate up everything that his older
brother Tschel told him from his travels throughout the duchy. Perhaps
the most ambitious of the Heahuns, Tschel had strayed from the family
tradition and was the local clerk in the Court of the King's Bench. As a
result of his vocation, Aleksandr saw him at least once a month, which
was more often than could be said for others of his siblings that served
as squires or knights far away.
"Ah!" Harbid exclaimed. "Speak the names of wicked men and they
shall emerge!"
As he spoke, a dapple-grey horse emerged from the stables to the
rear of the house. Atop the horse sat Tschel, rather casually, wrapped
in his red robes that signified his position. Beneath his white linen
cap, curly golden hair protruded, and his bright blue eyes shone with
mirth. He was more scholarly than any of Aleksandr's other brothers, and
was a little pudgy, but not too much. To Aleksandr, his face seemed
perennially formed into a smile.
"And how's my little brother?" Tschel approached the boy and his
father. "Ready to leave already? Where's your friend Lev?"
"He'll be along." Aleksandr absently turned his gaze to the town,
hoping to see his friend. Aleksandr's father liked to do things early,
so it was no surprise that Lev and his father hadn't arrived yet.
Lev Roise was a peasant boy who had been Aleksandr's playmate for
as long as he could remember. He was a couple of years older, but
Aleksandr had the size advantage. Lev's father, a woodcutter by trade,
was taking him with Aleksandr to Fennell to train as a monk in Heart's
Hope Monastery. There, Lev would be a novice among the Stevenic sect of
Cyruzhian monks. Aleksandr's father had only converted to Stevenism
thirteen years ago, but it had taken deep root in Heahun under his
patronage. He had been zealous in bringing the town into the faith with
him. The year before Aleksandr had been born, construction of a stone
church had been completed. Aleksandr was the first of his family to be
named in that church. In honour of this, his father had not given
Aleksandr a familial name, but rather, the name of one of Cephas
Stevene's pupils.
"Regardless of whether Roise and his son are here," Harbid said,
"you won't be ready to leave until you've said goodbye to your mother!
Why don't you go and fetch her, son?"
"Yes, father!" Aleksandr turned and vaulted into the house.
He found his mother in the chapel, kneeling before the shrine that
dominated the small room.
"Mother?"
She stood, and turned to look at Aleksandr. Her eyes were misty,
and her face bore a sadness Aleksandr hadn't seen since her last child
was stillborn. "Hello, Aleksandr. I was just saying a little prayer for
you."
Like most boys his age, Aleksandr thought his mother was the most
beautiful creature in the barony. She was tall, but just the right size
for a hug as Aleksandr's arms just fit around her waist. Her chestnut
coloured hair was hidden beneath an elaborate hood, but Aleksandr knew
it had a little bit of grey in it nowadays. Her eyes were the colour of
iron, and smooth skin the colour of milk. She was definitely the most
pious of the Heahuns, but also the most strict. She had raised Aleksandr
to be a disciplined boy. She went to the Stevenic church almost every
day, and Aleksandr had often heard her fight with his father about
drinking and swearing. She was attentive to the teachings of Stevene's
Light however, and with her at his side, Harbid and his family were much
loved by the people of Heahun. Her name was Madeline, and Aleksandr
thought her the perfect example of Baranur gentility.
"When will I see you again, mother?" Some of Madeline's melancholy
was starting to seep into Aleksandr.
"I don't know, my son." She wrapped the boy into a tender embrace.
"Not for a long time I think."
"What's wrong, mother?" He could hear the unsteadiness in her
voice.
"Nothing ... It's just that you're my youngest son, and now you're
leaving." She sniffled a little, and continued to hold onto her son.
"Don't worry," Aleksandr said, feeling tears of his own beginning
to form. "I'll come back."
"Yes." Madeline smiled, and held Aleksandr at arm's length. "Yes,
and you will be a great knight just like your father, and your
grandfather Harabin."
Thoughts of the great family patriarch Harabin brightened
Aleksandr's spirits. If Aleksandr saw his father as a hero, his
grandfather was a *legend*. Though a pagan (and the last of the Heahuns
that was so), he had been a man of great deeds. He had fought side by
side with Duke Cabot Dargon in battle, and had ruled Heahun with
justice. Aleksandr was sure that he had slain several flanduils on his
many quests.
Aleksandr's thoughts were cut short by the entrance of his father.
He picked Aleksandr up and ruffled his son's red hair. "Well, my boy.
Are you ready?"
"Yes!"
The three emerged from the house to see Tschel still waiting on his
horse. A short distance away from him, Bel Roise and his son, Lev, sat
on an oxen-pulled cart. When Aleksandr saw his best friend, he broke
away from his parents and rushed to the wagon. The other boy
methodically dismounted the vehicle, and waited for Aleksandr to arrive.
"Lev!" Aleksandr enclosed the older boy in a bear hug.
"Straight, straight!" Lev squirmed free of Aleksandr's grasp, and
levelled his gaze on his friend. "It's good to see you Aleksandr. I'm
glad you'll be with me in Fennell."
Aleksandr patted his arm. "Me too."
Of the two boys, Lev was always much quieter and much more serious.
Although stoic and sometimes cold even, he was the best friend anyone
could ask for. Aleksandr had come to appreciate his intelligence and
kindness to others, but especially his honesty. Though he was only nine
years old, he often seemed to Aleksandr a miniature adult. The peasant
boy was small, at that. He was less than twelve hands tall and very
skinny. He had big brown eyes, and a mop of thick brown hair. When the
two boys played together, Aleksandr was always the faster and stronger,
but Lev's wit sometimes won the games.
"Well, lads," Bel Roise said from his perch on the wagon,
"Fennell's not going to come to us."
"Last one on is a scrud sucker!" Aleksandr shouted, and sprang up
onto the cart beside Lev's father.
"Aleksandr!" Madeline scolded.
"Let the boy be!" Harbid said. "He's off to be a warrior! He'll not
be quoting Cephas while he lops off heads now will he?"
Harbid's retort was met by steely silence from Madeline. Lev made
it onto the cart a heartbeat after Aleksandr had. Everything they needed
for the journey had already been packed.
Bel inclined his head to Harbid, "Good day, Sir Harbid. And thank
you again for allowing me to travel to Fennell with your son."
"Think nothing of it." Harbid said. "The boy's horsemanship is not
yet good enough to make a whole day's travel on his own. It is you who
is to be thanked."
"You are too kind, sir." Bel bowed again.
"But enough of this." Harbid gestured toward the road leading out
of town. "If you are to make Fennell before sundown, you must be off.
May God be with you."
With that, the small party began to make its way out of town.
Aleksandr watched his parents as long as they were within view, his
mother enveloped by a compassionate arm from his father. It finally
began to be real to him that he was leaving home. He could feel tears
wanting to well up in him, but he couldn't allow them to emerge in front
of Lev. Remembering what his mother had always told him to do when he
was nervous or scared, he said a prayer to Stevene and to his namesake.
It made him feel much better.
Quite rapidly, the thatched houses of Heahun gave way to the
croplands to the north of town. Several fields lay fallow, while crops
of wheat and flax could be seen growing around them. At the edge of the
fields, about three leagues beyond, the forests stood, deep and dark.
They were at their most dense in the barony of Fennell, and wood was a
major product of the town. The numerous fir trees in the Fennell forest
were excellent for building, as they were very straight and easy to cut.
The small group travelled northeast for several bells, through the
farmlands and into the forest. When the sun was near the midpoint of the
sky, they turned due east. The forest was a very pleasant place,
Aleksandr thought. Birds could be heard chirping all around him, and the
occasional hare could be seen along the edges of the road. He even saw a
deer, which he pointed out to Lev. That the beauty of creation
surrounded them seemed fitting to him, in that both he and Lev were on a
pilgrimage of sorts.
They stopped for lunch a little after midday beside a stream that
ran near the road at one spot. After eating, Tschel and Bel Roise seemed
content to sit and rest a while. Aleksandr and Lev, restless from many
bells sitting on the cart, decided to do a little exploring.
"Alright." Tschel agreed. "But not too far. We'll be leaving soon,
and we'll go without you if you're not back!"
So they set off into the woods at a bound. They chased each other
around for a bit, examined some strange looking fungi growing on trees,
and were about to head back when Lev came across a group of tall, thin
stones, the height of a man, sticking straight up from the ground. There
were two of them, standing on either side of a flat, round boulder that
to Lev resembled an altar. The rocks were a pure white like snow. He
called to Aleksandr, and the other boy hurried over.
"What is it Lev?"
"Look at those rocks, Aleksandr!" He pointed to the grouping of
stones.
"What are they, Lev?" Aleksandr asked.
"I don't know." The stones were covered in moss, and the area
looked well deserted. Nevertheless, the clearing had a strange and
ancient feel to it. Everything was so quiet, the air so still, that he
could hear his own heart beating. For no particular reason that he could
think of, he felt very content and happy. Though the air was cool, he
felt very warm, as if a stone heated in a fire had been placed in his
chest. There was also a feel that he and Aleksandr were not alone. As
when someone is watching you and the hairs on your neck begin to stand
up. A feeling that, though unexplainable, wasn't frightening at all. It
was akin to the way Lev felt when he worshipped at the church in Heahun.
"I think this is a holy place."
"Then this is a good place."
"Good place for what?" Lev asked.
"To become brothers." Aleksandr turned away from the rocks to look
at Lev. "My brother Pter told me that knights give each other solemn
oaths and become brothers. It is a sacred pledge of friendship that only
the best knights can keep. We are best friends, Lev. I think we should
be brothers, too."
"How is it done?" Lev's immediate reaction was one of scepticism.
Warfare was something he was far removed from, and happily so. However,
he did know that knightly virtues were good and pure.
"Hold out your hand." Aleksandr pulled his dagger out of his belt
and grasped the hilt tightly. "Now, put your hand over mine, so that you
are holding the sword, too."
Lev obeyed. He was not so ignorant as to think a dagger a sword,
but he also knew swords to be significant to knights. With their
diminutive size, the dagger almost was a sword. He also was beginning to
understand the pledge they were about to take. "We must pray to God that
our hearts and our souls may be cleansed, that they are pure to take
this sacred pledge."
"Let it be so." Aleksandr said in the tradition of the Cyruzhians,
but faltered. "I don't remember all of the words Pter told me ..."
"What you remember will be enough." Lev assured him. God would know
the words that he missed.
"In the eyes of God and his most holy prophet Cephas Stevene, we
make this sacred pledge to be true to one another. Brothers, not through
blood, but through Stevene's Light. Eternal comrades, never to betray.
Let these be the final blows between us." Aleksandr smacked Lev in the
face.
"What was that?" Lev drew back a little.
"Hit me." Aleksandr said. "Let these be the final blows between
us."
Lev complied. "Let there never again be conflict between us."
"Brothers."
"Brothers. It is done." Lev agreed.
When the boys returned to the road, Lev's father and Aleksandr's
brother were ready to go. "Did you get lost?" Tschel asked. "I was
wondering if you were coming back."
"Of course we were coming back, Tschel," Aleksandr said. "I
wouldn't be late for Lord Fennell!"
They set out once again, and made good time the rest of the way to
Fennell. The sun was starting to hang low in the sky, casting a reddish
light, when the party came into view of the city. It was an impressive
place indeed.
"It's nothing compared to Magnus," Tschel noted, "but it has its
own unique power, I suppose."
Aleksandr and Lev were in thrall. Rising up from the forest like
some mythical giant, the city perched atop a steep hill. In the centre,
at the highest point of the hill, rested Fennell Keep, its stone
ramparts glowing like garnets in the late evening sun. Atop the towers
the baronial banners fluttered in the breeze, only the red and white
background of Baron Dorja Fennell visible from this distance. Beneath
it, they could see well-beaten dirt roads winding between a mixture of
wood and stone buildings. They were quite different from the simple
thatched huts in Heahun. Roofs made of wood shingles covered many of
them. Some were more than one storey high, while others were made of
several interlocking sections. And the sheer number of them -- Lev had
never seen so many buildings crowded together. The most prominent
buildings were churches and temples dedicated to various deities that
dotted the city. The simple, square buildings of grey rock were easy to
distinguish from the others, given their pointed spires at each corner
and in the centre. Another temple Lev recognised as one belonging to the
Olean pantheon, as it was very similar to the one in Heahun, its domed
copper roof shining brightly in the diminishing light. There were a
couple of other large buildings of styles he didn't recognise, among
them a white-washed arch supported by eight pillars and a cube made of
red brick. Heart's Hope Monastery sprouted from amidst the smaller
buildings not far from the keep. It was the second largest building
besides the keep, and its belltower was the tallest thing in view. It
was of similar construction to the other Stevenic houses of worship, but
was much larger and had several wings jutting out from the main
structure. At the base of the hill, croplands spread outwards until they
met with the forest.
As they emerged from the forest and neared the entrance to Fennell,
Aleksandr knew that the first step towards knighthood had been taken, as
had Lev's first step toward spiritual completeness.
========================================================================
Vows
by Victor M. Cardoso
<victorcardoso@earthlink.net>
15 Naia, 1016
A brass bell's clangs echoed slowly and loudly through the forest
of poplar and birch. In shaded hollow and knitted copse the sound
carried, drifting down gentle slopes covered in prickly-bush to where
the Coldwell ran. Snow-flecked and rising to meet the crystal sky, the
Darst mountains and their molehill cousins pondered the ringing in their
granite way, then replied with a stoic, muffled imitation.
The eighth bell, Rianna noted. She sat calmly on an uncomfortable
wooden bench within Coldwell Abbey's atrium. The sun had started its
descent to the horizon, not quite throwing the monastery's shadow over
her, but further etching the mortar lines in the surrounding buildings
and walls. They were simple structures made of stone around a central
yard, and a few straggling monks hurried in their leather sandals and
colored frocks towards the refectory on the side farthest from her.
Robes of blues and grays dominated the population, each hue representing
a different order.
For the priests and monks of this place, it was time for supper and
prayers. She, dressed in a simple, ivory robe, fasted and waited. Three
years of sporadic visits had taught her the abbey's routine.
Weather-wise, this middle-time between spring and summer was the most
enjoyable for her, when leaves hung fresh in the surrounding forest and
the Coldwell's waters tickled the wind with brisk fingers.
"M'lady."
Rianna broke from her thoughts to find the sea-priest, Breinert,
standing just behind her. The sun caught on the blue robe of his patron
god, Cirrangill, and played along its folds brightly. He bowed low in a
show of respect, causing her to smile.
"Priest," she greeted, being equally as formal.
Deep-set eyes twinkled at her, hazel beneath modest brows. Brown
hair, freshly combed, topped the priest's head, flowing back from a
square face. In silence he offered her his arm, which she accepted, and
led the way out of the atrium. A multitude of worn and rutted paths grew
at their feet, bordered by bright sprouts of hill grass.
"I am extremely sorry for not meeting you sooner," he apologized.
"One of the visiting Cyruzhian brothers had difficulty with a manuscript
and asked me to assist. How was the ride down?"
"Good, but long," she sighed. They passed between two low walls
fencing the brothers' fields and vineyards. To one side lay upturned
rows of dark soil, recently tilled, on the other a congregation of
twisted limbs and posts covered with clingy vines. Rianna admired the
view as they walked. "Clara, my usual handmaiden, is ill, so I debated
not coming at all. I scarcely feel now is the time for me to be dallying
about Kenna at little girl's parties."
Breinert tsked at her, his usual form of reprimand. "Ahh," he
replied, "but was it not another, similar event that brought you to the
monastery in the first place? I would like to think you've benefited
from my counsel."
Rianna blushed. "I have," she confessed quietly. She did not want
to admit that solace was the last thing she had expected to find at
Coldwell Abbey, especially from a sea-priest who had settled there
temporarily. The thought that Breinert's "temporary" sabbatical had
lasted three years pleased her on a selfish level. At least hers were
not the only plans that could be waylaid.
A constant wind frolicked along the hills of the Coldwell, at this
point stirring a row of daffodils thriving along the side of the path.
The white flowers bloomed enormously among rocks and shoots of grass.
Rianna marveled that a day's ride away, just beyond the shoulder of the
Darst, the same blossoms were few and wrinkled. On her land, the last
few seasons had been severely dry.
"Perhaps there are other things in store for you on this visit," he
continued, his thick hair stirring in the breeze. "Besides, m'lady,
you've shied away from these festivities for quite some time. You have
responsibilities, yes? What would the other nobles say to your continued
absence?"
She took a moment to conjure up images of her social peers,
unsettling as it was. "The same things they say now," she thought
bitterly. "My presence will only confirm their gossip."
But she didn't answer his question aloud. Instead, she moved her
gaze to the sky and noticed a line of voluminous clouds gathering in the
west, teasing her with the possibility of rain.
The priest noticed her evasion. "You do realize there's little to
worry about at this reception, don't you?" he pressed.
"And why would I worry about a girl's coming-of-age ball?"
"Because Tremmel may be there," he answered.
She winced inwardly at the name. True enough. Tremmel was the same
lord that had been trying to court her for the past year. On some level
she had expected to see him tonight. She was obliged to attend these
events as much as he and there was little doubt he'd intend on meeting
her there. But, all awkward flirting aside, it wasn't Tremmel who really
concerned her. In fact, she worried more about the other nobles -- the
ones who would recognize her dress from receptions past, who would ask
about the state of her drought-stricken lands.
Nervously, she rubbed the silver band on her ring finger until she
became conscious of it. Sighing, she stopped.
"If Lord Tremmel attends, it will be nice to see him again," she
lied. "Oh, is that a pig I see rutting in the underbrush, brother? I do
think the monastery should be more careful with its stores."
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Breinert's grin.
"Rianna," he chuckled, patting her arm, "No matter the reason, I
and the other monks are always pleased when you stay with us."
"And I am always pleased to come," she wanted to reply, but
refrained.
The river Coldwell coursed within shouting distance of the abbey's
door. Rianna caught a glimpse of it as they traveled alongside a bluff.
The waterway's deep bed provided sustenance as well as easy trade for
the brothers, and travelers going to and coming from the city of Dargon
appreciated the respite. With the nearby town of Kenna continuing to
grow, this area of the river saw increased traffic.
The bluff softened ahead of the couple and provided footing for a
forest, the trees growing along the steep slopes down to the water's
edge. Nestled among the primary rows of birch, a set of square,
roughly-hewn steps descended the hill. Breinert cautioned her as they
traversed it. A small clearing at the bottom lay not far from the
river's bank, a thicket of trunks dividing the two. Breinert had set up
several lines of rope in this area, strung among branches, each line
supporting a rough cloth. The overall effect was a somewhat private den
with a water-filled pool at its center. Rianna had seen dozens of
similar depressions in the rocky foothills leading up to the mountains;
this particular one had once been a washing yard, but was abandoned when
the order had tapped the Coldwell from a well on the highland. The abbey
had given leave to Breinert to use this area for his counsel with
visitors. After all, what was a water-priest without water?
Eight unlit candles of various heights sat in fissures along the
edges of the pool. As usual, by mixture or magic, the priest had laced
the inland air with a faint smell of the sea.
Breinert left her side to light the wicks. Rianna knew the ritual.
She undid her robe, revealing a long, white shift underneath.
She walked over to the pool's side and dipped her toes. The priest
had warmed it with the help of a kettle and a fire-pit not too far
removed. The tepid water felt comfortable and was amazingly clear. She
could see down to the bowl-like center, various underwater ledges and
outcroppings providing places to sit. She lowered herself to the closest
one, swishing her feet as her gown slowly billowed about her.
Breinert still busied himself with the candles.
"How do you feel?" he asked, eyes set on the wick before him.
She watched his calm, deliberate motions, the way his wiry arms
moved under the coarse blue robe. The sun was obscured by overhead
branches and surrounding hills, filling the den with a low, mossy light
which somewhat eased her anxiety.
Even so, worries lingered. "Anxious," she answered.
The priest nodded in seriousness. "You know what we're looking for
today?"
She nodded in turn, closing her eyes. She didn't have to state
their purpose aloud. She didn't want to. There had been enough
discussion of it on her last visit.
Breinert's sandals scraped the ground gently as he came to kneel
behind her. There was a sound of a small flask being uncorked, and then
liquid being poured near her. A stronger, sage-like scent mingled with
the salt. Warm, soft hands touched upon her temples. His fingers glided
along the nape of her neck, massaging her.
"Ease your breathing," his voice instructed. The scent of sage also
lay on his palms. Muscles hidden deep within her unclenched. She inhaled
greedily.
"Not too quickly," he warned, adding the habitual tsk. "Let your
mind clear. Think not about what lies ahead. Reflect on what has passed
and allow the water to calm you."
She directed her focus on the contents of the pool lapping about
her skin, the repeated warmth and coolness along her shoulders. The
priest's voice was low and deep -- comforting -- as it guided her
through the beginning exercises of the release ritual. As the
instructions became prayers, and the prayers murmurs, Rianna no longer
controlled her breath; her chest rose and fell of its own accord. She
vaguely felt the priest's hands as he slid her deeper into the water,
anchoring her by her shoulders.
"In the name of Cirrangill," he murmured, his voice distant, "we
ask that the ways of the mind are opened like the paths of the ocean. We
seek the shores of the pain, the shoals of the hurt. Allow the waters to
cleanse this woman as it cleanses all it touches."
He paused, and the wind rose in his silence.
"I will submerge you now. Just for a moment. When you rise, we will
begin to explore more of the pain which haunts you."
She felt his fingers leave her skin and allow her to float freely.
Out into the pool. The sound of the river brushing its banks vanished.
The wind in the trees disappeared. She heard only her breath: shallow,
even and barely existent. Breinert was still behind her; she felt his
presence. The priest's hand covered her forehead and pushed down
lightly. A cool tingle washed over her face and Cirrangill released her
...
White tapestries. White flagstones. Rianna squinted in the
brightness. It was as if the world had become a reflecting pool for the
sun. As the shards of light sharpened, images came into focus. A stone
archway stood at her side, just through it the blue of a cloudless sky.
She felt weightless.
"Rianna."
Breinert's voice whispered around her. It flitted left and right,
came from the solidifying walls and floor. From her skin.
"I hear you," she replied, disoriented. Her voice sounded feeble
and ghostlike in comparison.
The whisper grew in strength. "Where are you?"
"In my keep."
Her keep. She stood on the smooth, cool flagstones of her grand
hall, bathed in an unnaturally bright light. The ceiling vaulted above,
its normal shadows chased away in this netherland. She remembered the
landscape from other sessions with the priest. Even without him, in
dreams on cold nights, she walked in this place. Dozens of familiar
objects sat beside walls and on tables: goblets, portraits, heirlooms.
There were items she had not seen for years, things she had sold in
secret to ease the growing debt from her stricken lands. She stooped to
pick up the white rose she plucked ages ago, the one whose dry husk now
hung in her bedroom. The flower's petals were full and tender here; its
sweet bouquet filled her nose.
The whisper interrupted. "Do you see the altar?" it asked.
Rianna paused. Thoughts formed with difficulty here. Lifting her
gaze, she looked out beyond the images of memories and relics.
At the far end of the hall sat a gilded dais, behind it a great
wall adorned with family heraldry and a tapestry depicting a battle from
the Shadow Wars. Atop the platform, a shrouded altar stood.
Rianna nodded, a lump developing in her throat.
"Go to it," the whisper urged.
Her legs refused to move at once. Memories trickled into her
sluggish form. The altar. She remembered. This was what the priest
wanted her to find. She willed herself to move forward, dropping the
rose in her wake. The altar. The object that had always been there, in
all her visitations.
There had been a time when she believed it to be nothing more than
a table, off at the far end of the hall. But as she had explored the
chalices and chests in this place, some vanishing or moving as their
contents were revealed, the altar's unchanging stature gained more
prominence. Another voice, one deep inside her, told her to avoid it.
The altar intimidated her, caused her to want to shy away. Only recently
had she even mentioned the object to Breinert.
"This is what we want," he had told her after a previous session,
the beautiful, hazel eyes firm. He was trying to help her.
Trying to help. She clenched her fists and moved forward, the
stones growing noticeably cooler beneath her feet. The rectangular shape
grew as she approached. Her stomach shrank.
But there would be no more interruptions, no more avoidances on her
part. Breinert knew about the thing and was convinced that it was
important. In all her years visiting him, he had never gotten as excited
over any of her dream objects as this one. The time had come for her to
investigate.
It was several times her girth, with clawed feet anchoring a marble
hulk to several shallow steps. Fluted corners decorated the edges,
disappearing under a gauzy shroud. Several long, uneasy moments passed
as she stopped before it, continuing to stare.
Around her, she heard the whisper: "Fear withers us, courage
strengthens us."
She looked hard at the altar, unmoving. A light breeze stirred the
shroud's fringe.
"Fear withers us ..."
Hesitantly, she reached out and grabbed a corner of the cloth,
pulling it from its perch. The material felt rough and serrated,
something related to silk, but much stiffer.
A marble coverstone as thick as her wrist came into view. Delicate,
etched vines adorned the top, circling a plaque inscribed with letters.
She stepped closer to read them, her hands coming to rest on the
frigid surface of the tomb. Her fear retreated as she comprehended the
word. Gingerly, she reached out to trace the symbols with her fingers,
one by one.
"What does it say?" the whisper asked.
"Callid," she breathed.
Her husband.
Her eyes filled with blazing light. She was in the air, giggling,
looking down into her husband's face on a summer afternoon. They were
behind the keep, in a field unsuitable for farming. Her hair was loose
and about her shoulders, his firm grasp at her waist. It was before the
dry spell, when the field held hundreds of blooming flowers, their
yellow and white petals blinding in the sun. Callid looked up at her in
adoration and mirth, honey-brown eyes smiling as sure as his bearded
mouth.
And just as quickly as they came, the flowers withered. The field
vanished. She lay in bed. A crisp, cold touch of snow-filled air brushed
her cheek. The only light came from the darkening bed of coals in the
hearth. Beside her she felt the warm comfort of Callid's form sleeping
soundly. He was there, lying against her back, his gentle breathing
whispering through the room.
The chill thickened. Rain. She stood in the door to the stables.
The heavy, wet smell of animals and hay filled her nostrils. Callid
dismounted from his horse and approached her, cloak, tunic, and leggings
sodden with rainwater. He embraced her and she now smelled the scent of
his body beneath the clothes, pushing out everything else in the world.
It was something that lingered on bedclothes and his old cloaks,
something whose source she longed for dearly.
The sound of showers ebbed into silence, and she realized she was
back in the grand hall, on the dais. A man still stood in her grasp. She
looked up and saw Callid's kind face, with golden eyes somewhat sadder
now, peering deeply into her own. Gently, he released one of her hands
from his and lifted it.
The silver ring shone hotly on her finger. It burned in the white
surroundings of the hall, a cold, noiseless flame.
He stepped back, out of her arms.
"Callid," she started, tears forming. "Please. Just a little
longer?"
He took another step back, shaking his head. Rianna felt the warmth
of his embrace disappearing; cool air filled the space where she had
once held him. She became aware of a sound coming from the distance: a
heavy, rushing sigh that grew in volume. Around her, the walls
shimmered.
"Please," she pleaded, louder, taking a halting step towards him.
The hall crumbled.
"Callid!"
Rianna sat up violently in the small pool, screaming her dead
husband's name. Breinert was instantly by her, thigh-deep in the water.
"Rianna!" he shouted, trying to grab her flailing arms. "M'lady!
Awaken!" He crouched down beside her, concern etched on his face.
She almost didn't recognize him. She stumbled back from his grasp
like an animal cornered, hand clenched to her mouth. She looked
bewilderedly about her. The pool. The ritual. Her shift had slid down
off one shoulder. Self-consciously, she covered her breast and tried to
regain composure.
Breinert stood motionless, his sleeves and elbows dripping,
watching her.
"Please," she choked, then cleared her throat. "Please, priest, get
me my robe. I think we're finished for the day."
Rianna refused to speak with him about the vision afterwards. For
the first time in her memory, she didn't care to hear Breinert's advice
or counsel. There was no time for it. She had obligations. Despite his
protests, she changed at the abbey and immediately took her carriage to
Kenna, instructing her driver to take his time in arriving. There was
nothing else for her to do but attend this ball. There was nothing for
her to think about.
Evening had fallen by the time they reached the gates. All the
ramparts were alight with torches, the guards dressed in their finery.
Inside, she found the expected crowds of nobles and merchants of the
region, many of whom feigned delight at seeing her.
"It's been so long!"
"The lack of rain's been dreadful for you, hasn't it?"
"Have you still not remarried, my dear?"
Rianna made her rounds early, pretending to ignore the hushed
conversations that blossomed as she left each group. In less than a
bell, she retired to a quiet corner, away from much of the commotion.
Before her dark gaze, couples danced to the strings and lute, seemingly
oblivious and gay. She fidgeted with the ring on her finger, turning it
obsessively. The band weighed unusually heavy.
Her new handmaiden, silent on the ride and arrival, meekly stepped
forward. "Would my lady care for a drink?"
"Wine," Rianna muttered, not shifting her gaze from the spectacle
on the floor.
Relieved at having some purpose, the girl fled.
"I would be glad to offer you something stronger, m'lady."
Rianna started at the voice. She found Tremmel standing beside her
proudly, decked in his family's livery of crimson and silver. The black
embroidery of a flanduil's head adorned the breast. The lord's dark
beard was neatly trimmed around a pointed jaw, and his pock-marked cheek
was less noticeable in the hall's dim light.
She sighed inwardly. "I don't think that would be a wise choice, my
lord." She mustered a smile and offered him a hand out of courtesy. He
accepted, brushing her fingers ever so lightly with his lips.
"Just as well," he replied, straightening. "I think they water the
stuff down."
He lifted an earthen mug to his mouth and took a long draught.
"There's speculation that it may rain this evening."
Rianna only hoped the storm would continue eastward, over the
mountains. She thought of the withered daffodils on the other side of
the Darst. "Then it's a good thing the feast is indoors," she said
dryly.
"Pah," he grumbled. "This is nothing but a parent's show of pride."
She didn't answer. She didn't have the heart. Rianna prayed that
this one time Tremmel could feel the awkwardness between them. To her
best effort, she offered him nothing in the way of outward affection. He
spoke and she replied aloofly, not meeting his gaze. He stepped closer
to her and she tensed, wishing to all the gods he would just get away
from her.
Conversation fell silent between them, the sounds of the reception
filling the void. Tremmel took another swig from his mug, draining the
contents.
"My lady, a dance?"
She prepared to decline gracefully, but Tremmel's hand was on hers,
pulling her onto the floor. The mug he carried must not have been his
first. Rianna gasped as the lord's left arm clamped about her waist,
bringing him uncomfortably close.
The music started. Tremmel had her circle the floor as the
musicians played festively. Couples wove intricate patterns around them;
gowns ballooned in response to twirls. In the blur of motion, she saw
the arms of gentlemen about their ladies, smiles on their countenances.
She politely resisted other attempts by Tremmel to pull her close,
pushing away in a side step if his arm grabbed her again.
Try as he might, the lord's movements were not part of the dance.
He broke the pattern regularly, drawing attention to them. Rianna
flushed hotly with each disjointed round. Tremmel managed to pull her
close one more time as she misstepped. Big teeth smiled from under his
wiry beard, the stink of ale rank upon his breath.
Rianna's feet faltered. Tremmel laughed and attempted to drag her
back into his own rhythm. Gentility fled from her; she pushed away from
him at last, fleeing to the outskirts of the floor, clutching her middle
as if out of breath.
The lord followed in haste. "I've pushed you too hard, my lady?"
"Yes," she replied, too fiercely. Faces turned in the crowd
surrounding them.
The music continued to play, couples danced, but Tremmel's face
hardened. "Perhaps we should take a walk in the garden to refresh
ourselves?"
Before she could reply, his thick fingers locked on to her and led
her through the groups of revelers.
A garden was situated just beyond the hall, set within the castle's
protective bailey. They brushed several nobles on their exit, some
glancing back as they walked by. The lord made no apologies or excuses.
Outside, the wind was up, tinged with moisture.
Tremmel released her once they were on the tailored path, but he
did not look at her directly. Instead, he marched stiffly ahead, hands
clasped behind his back.
"You are not your pleasant self tonight," he called back.
"Neither are you," she almost retorted, but Tremmel was never
exactly pleasant.
When he noticed she did not follow, the lord stopped. "Will you
deny me this walk as well?" he demanded.
There was little light out beyond the entrance. Torches placed
along the path burned foully, their heavy smoke filling the air.
Uneasily, she came forward, following him on around the edges of the
garden, pointed spires of shrubs their only eavesdroppers.
"The day has been difficult," she did say, not knowing how to
reply. There was ale in Tremmel's blood, and she began to worry.
"It has been a difficult year," he countered, halting. They stood
under the lanky branches of a weeping cherry, his face cast in shadow.
"It is no secret that I have affections for you, m'lady."
Rianna flushed at the confession. She felt embarrassed for him.
"Your lands haven't enough water, nor your people enough food," he
continued. "My wealth can help change that. Why do you resist?"
Her embarrassment flared to anger. "Your concern is appreciated but
unwarranted, sir. My lands are my own business!"
"Your lands are the kingdom's business," Tremmel growled, his hands
animatedly pointing to the land around them. "You, m'lady, have been
shown too much leniency in your refusal to remarry!"
A rustling emerged from along the path. There were others in the
garden.
"Rianna," Tremmel started again, lowering his voice. He looked away
for a moment and then back, as if gathering his thoughts. "I would
rather you gave yourself willingly than otherwise." He reached out and
caught her hand, his fingers closing on the ring.
She pulled back from his touch and slapped him.
The lord did not recoil from her blow. "That ring," he hissed,
raising his fist. "You still wear that infernal ring!"
Strong fingers dug into her arms and her dress, crushing her.
Fabric ripped. Rianna struggled with him, trying to push his bulk away.
>From the darkness, a shape emerged, calling out to the guards.
Tremmel released her, turning to face the intruder.
Breinert stood by a torch, unflinching against the other man's
wrath. Tremmel was upon him in an instant, grabbing the priest's collar
and hoisting him off the ground. But the lord stopped short of assault,
catching the sound of feet running quickly towards them. Throwing the
priest down, Tremmel snarled and fled.
When hands reached for her again, Rianna batted them away
frantically.
"Easy, Rianna, easy," Breinert whispered, his voice filled with
concern. The priest's arms embraced her, an awkwardness in their touch.
"You left the monastery so abruptly," he tried to explain. "I followed
... I felt it important to attend. And then I saw you and the brute
dancing ..."
She clung to him, realizing this was the first time she had ever
held him. The scent of sage filled her nostrils -- that curious scent
which always accompanied calm and serenity, floating freely. It was
Breinert's peace. Breinert's love.
Rianna tore away, shaking her head.
The priest looked confused. "M'lady?" he asked.
She stood up in her ruined dress and ran into the dark of the
garden, away from that pillar that touched off a wild craving in her
heart.
Rianna abandoned her handmaiden at the reception and had her
carriage take her back to the monastery. Refusing an escort, she fled
the abbey and stumbled her way down the paths to the sound of the river,
out on the bluff near the priest's pool. For how long she stood on the
rocky plateau, high above the Coldwell, she could not tell. Instead, she
focused on trying to discern the course of the river running invisibly
in the night beyond. There was no moon to illuminate the landscape.
Clouds blanketed the sky.
Rianna stood motionless in that darkness. She listened to the
rushing waters, feeling nothing inside or out, trying to push out the
arguments in her head.
How many suitors had courted her? How many had been too loud? Too
fat? How many of her subjects had gone hungry this winter?
She swallowed heavily and clasped her hands over her ears,
whispering over and over, "Please. Please stop."
But she couldn't stop the reprimands and accusations in her mind.
The questions. Tremmel's words. Breinert's voice.
"Have you still not remarried?"
"Your lands haven't enough water ..."
She saw Callid as he stood in the grand hall, eyes infinitely sad.
The wall inside of her, the one that struggled to portray a strong
noble, crumbled like so many battlements neglected over the ages. She
shook her head, sobbing, her lower lip trembling. Hot tears streaked
down her cheeks, and this time she let them fall.
Fiercely, she grasped the wedding band on her finger and jerked on
it. The metal clung tightly to her flesh, scraped against it. Rianna
grew more desperate as she yanked.
"My vow," she gritted, pulling the ring free and raising it.
Lightning flashed in the distance. "I honored you, Callid. I loved and
followed you. I supported and strengthened you. I was your wife!" she
cried to the river. "Why did you leave me? Why did the gods take you
from me?"
Her fingers closed into a fist about the ring, as if she could
crush or deform the band, break the circle. She cocked her arm to throw
its burden into the darkness, trembling with the effort.
But her arm refused to complete its motion. She remained that way
for moments: clenched and ready to finish the action. What was it that
stopped her? What prevented her from being rid of this agony?
"Callid," she breathed, shuddering.
Her knees buckled and she fell onto them, letting the ring drop
from her fingers. The band uttered its own high-pitched cry as it struck
the stone.
She dropped onto her back, lifting her hands to her face, weeping.
Rain began to fall swiftly about her, striking her arms with cold,
stinging drops. Rianna opened her eyes to the wet night, the water
mixing with her own salty tears.
Rolling over, she made out the ring just beyond her reach at the
edge of the drop.
"No," she whimpered. It was wrong, regardless of what the vision
told her. Callid was her husband. His memory was her life. His honor was
in her care. It was all that was left for her. She reached out for the
band, her fingers brushing it, nudging it closer to the fall.
From deep within, the whisper of her dreams spoke: "Fear withers
us. Courage strengthens us."
She paused, her fingers about to light upon the metal, to grasp it
or fling it from the cliff. In her mind a thousand thoughts sparked.
Fear or courage? Flowers blossomed. The unknown or the painfully
familiar? She smelled the sea.
Her fingers descended.
========================================================================
Talisman Three
Part 2
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
<John.White@Drexel.Edu>
Fall, 748 FE
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 13-1
Virrila, who had been Kersh's sponsor, stood in the doorway of the
large room where Kersh had been accepted as a student just a few days
before. She said, "He's here, Tchad."
Zarilt, the Tchad -- teacher -- of the students of his Way, was
alone in the room, standing in front of the stone table that bore the
five objects that made up the contents of the Treasury of Farevlin. He
sighed, paused, and then nodded and gestured.
Virrila stepped to the side, out of sight, and Fessim, a short,
swarthy man, took her place in the doorway and then started walking
across the empty floor. Fessim, who had been summoned alone into the
vault of the Treasury. Fessim, who had done the one thing that was
forbidden here.
When Zarilt had become Treasurer upon the death of his Uncle
Taddis, he'd had no regrets about leaving his former life behind. That
life had consisted of him being a cooper, and a good one too. His
barrels had been sought out by merchants and shop keepers who needed to
keep their wares, from water to flour, safe. He had taken pride in his
work, and had always striven to make the best barrels he possibly could.
Unfortunately, Zarilt's home had been in a large city in one of the
larger states of Farevlin, which had meant that he had not been the only
cooper plying his trade. And some of his competition had preferred to
make and sell their barrels shoddy and cheap, rather than of the highest
quality. When Zarilt had complained to the masters of his guild, they
had simply indicated that they had no interest in regulating the
materials their members used, or the prices they charged. When Zarilt
had pressed his complaint, he had been threatened with expulsion if he
didn't let the matter drop. He had returned home decidedly the worse for
his trip; he had been firmly in the bad graces of his guild masters.
It had become harder and harder to make a living at his chosen
craft. What with guild dues and state taxes and the increasingly
frequent city fund levies, Zarilt had been forced to lower his standards
and produce cheaper barrels, since he couldn't afford to sell his better
barrels at a loss.
And then there were the other trials of his former life, like
slackard apprentices who'd had no love, or even aptitude, for coopering.
They had only been apprenticing with him because they had been assigned
to him by the guild. Some of them had been friends with the apprentices
of other coopers who didn't work their students nearly as hard as Zarilt
did, which had earned him complaints and even more assiduously shirked
duties. Only the guild could release an apprentice, but because of his
reputation with the guild, Zarilt had been unable to get his
troublemaking apprentices released or traded to another master.
All of that trouble had vanished when he had become Treasurer of
Farevlin. Furthermore, since he had discovered his philosophy, his Way,
and decided to spread that philosophy to others, his shoulders had
stayed free of the weight of responsibility. Except for one thing, the
thing that brought Fessim to him today. For Fessim was going to be
expelled today, and he would gladly have gone back to his old life to
avoid that task, as necessary as it was to the health of his informal
philosophical school.
Fessim halted his walk across the floor several paces in front of
Zarilt, and at a gesture from him, knelt. Zarilt grabbed the chair next
to him and sat -- he wasn't young enough any more to kneel for any long
period of time, but he didn't want to tower over the other man.
He looked at Fessim for a short while. Of course, Fessim knew why
he was here. There were only a handful of reasons to be summoned alone
in front of the Tchad, and Fessim didn't qualify for any of them but
one. Fessim's brows were drawn together in a petulantly angry look, and
his mouth was compressed into a thin line.
"Fessim," Zarilt finally began, "you know why you are here. It is
my duty, my only duty beyond educating my students, to keep them safe.
To provide an environment here where they can contemplate my message,
and find their way to the Way. You have disrupted that environment,
disturbed the calm of the student body, interrupted the learning of my
students.
"Here at the Treasury, all are equal. Everyone takes turns doing
just enough to keep us all alive and healthy. Everyone takes turns
working in the fields, or shepherding the animals, cleaning the rooms,
cooking, making repairs as required, all the little things that must be
done on a daily basis. With so many hands, the work goes quickly, and
all of my students have plenty of free time, time to themselves, time to
study the words of my Way if that is what they wish.
"But not you. You wanted to change things, to make yourself more
than equal, which meant making others less than equal. You started by
trading food for not having to do your share of the work. Then you began
to make deals of favors between people, making yourself important to
people who wanted some things that are not normally available here. And
eventually, you ended up collecting favors instead of trading them,
making people beholden to you, willing to do things to keep you happy
with them.
"Which is exactly the kind of complication that my students come
here to get away from. Masters and servants, haves and have-nots, always
a situation where there is someone else to give you worth, to assign to
you a status. Of all the things that you could have done wrong here,
storing up power was the worst.
"You leave me no choice. You were warned several times early on,
but every time you started again. You do not yet belong here, Fessim.
You have not let go of the outside world enough to hear my words, to
understand the Way. You must go.
"You will be given an escort to Bluebell Rock if you wish. You will
leave here with only what you brought with you -- nothing you gained
here can be taken from here. It would be best if you were gone by
evening. If at some time in the future you decide that you wish to try
to learn my Way again, you will be welcomed back, but if you do return,
you will have to earn our trust instead of being granted it
automatically."
Zarilt paused, pondering Fessim's crime. He wasn't the first to
have fallen back into the ways of the outside world, of course. Zarilt
remembered one of his early students, a man named Adamik, who had done
much the same as Fessim. But, because Zarilt had just been learning what
he needed to do to keep his school functioning, Adamik had been able to
carry on longer, so that he formed a second tier of 'haves'; people who
were owed favors, but who in turn owed Adamik favors, further
perpetuating false and destructive hierarchies. Adamik had been
expelled, but that second tier had simply been chastised. And even
though each of them had eventually left, they had at least been granted
the chance to evaluate the Way without distractions once Adamik was
gone.
However, Zarilt still didn't understand what motivated these kinds
of people to rebuild the feudal system in whatever environment they
found themselves. Why had they left the real world in the first place,
if that was the kind of thing they wanted?
He knew that asking his final question was futile, but he decided
to do it
anyway. Taking a deep breath, he said, "I have one last
question for you, Fessim. Why?"
Fessim had been looking at the floor in front of his knees for the
whole time Zarilt had been speaking, and he continued staring for quite
a long time after Zarilt's final question. So long, in fact, that Zarilt
was just opening his mouth to dismiss his former student when Fessim's
head jerked up, eyes burning, mouth now frowning.
"You want to know why, Zarilt?" asked Fessim in a harsh voice. "You
want to know why someone would try to usurp your position at the top of
this collection of spineless sheep? The answer is, because I could.
That's why."
Fessim rose quickly to his feet, and continued, "Your little
pacifist army is weak, Zarilt. Your philosophy is worthless, your
leadership is flawed, and your Way is an impossible dream. It is only a
matter of time, Zarilt, until someone comes in here and takes all of
your sheep-students away from you for slaves. You've collected the
worthless, the dregs of society, the malcontents here in one convenient
place for the slavers to come and take them. It will happen, Zarilt,
someone will come and end your demented dream, and I'm glad I won't be
here when it does!"
Fessim turned and stormed to the doors. Without a backward glance,
he slammed through them and vanished.
Zarilt looked after the former student for a while. He hadn't
expected that outburst, but it hadn't bothered him either. Fessim simply
hadn't grasped the meaning of the Way, or why his students had sought
him out. He hoped that Fessim would find whatever it was he was looking
for.
With a shake of his head and a sigh, Zarilt stood from his chair
and walked out of the room.
A sennight had passed since that first afternoon in the market
square of Tilting Falls, and Torenda's Troupe was on the move again, had
been for three days. Three wagons pulled by two horses each carried all
of their belongings, from the clothes of the players to the stage
itself, broken down into pieces for convenience of transport. Each wagon
could carry four people, but usually carried only two on the driver's
bench. The rest of the troupe walked, which was why they hadn't yet
reached Roebsach, their intended destination, normally only two days'
ride from Tilting Falls.
Thanj, the Troupe's illusionist, and Naka, the master musician and
one of the four leaders of the Troupe, rode in the front wagon, though
that wagon wasn't in the lead. That duty fell at that moment to Elin,
the Troupe's stage manager, and three of the other players who were
walking in front of the wagon. It was a pleasant day in early fall, and
the two on the driver's bench had been passing the time in companionable
silence, enjoying the trees and fields on either side of the trade road
that lead west and somewhat south through that portion of Farevlin.
Eventually, Thanj broke the silence by turning to Naka and asking,
"So, why are you still with the Troupe?"
Naka looked at Thanj with a surprised expression on her face, and
responded with an incredulous, "What?"
Thanj hastily explained himself. "I ... I mean, you could have
settled down by now, couldn't you? I remember last spring, how Duke
Gazinnel offered you the position of her court musician, after saying
how sorry she was that she couldn't afford to sponsor the whole troupe.
And I've heard that her offer wasn't the first. So, for true, why didn't
you take it?"
"The obvious answer is right here," Naka said, touching her hanging
blue-disk earring. "You know what these mean, and what's more," she
continued, touching her opposite hip, "what these mean."
Thanj got a faraway look in his eye momentarily, and nodded
thoughtfully.
"I couldn't leave the troupe, if it would mean leaving my
bond-mates. But ... but, they aren't the only reason."
Silence passed between them for a while, and Thanj, thinking he
wasn't going to get any further answer, was about to apologize for being
so tactless when Naka continued.
"It's ... for as long as I can remember, I've wanted to travel,
Thanj. Almost needed to travel. Once I passed my apprenticeship at
instrument making, the urge became almost unbearable. It wasn't the
romance of the road, the adventure of seeing new places and new people,
though. Nothing like that. It was like there was something ... some part
of me, perhaps ... out there, waiting for me to find it.
"When I found Torenda's Troupe, and met Orla, Elin, and Kend for
the first time, I thought I had found it, found that missing piece. And,
to some extent, I had. I fit into their relationship so easily that it
seemed a foregone conclusion -- it was like we were destined to be
together, we belonged together.
"But the wanderlust, the need to be on the move, to continue
searching, only abated, it didn't vanish. There is still something out
there waiting to be found, Thanj. Something that draws me onward. Even
if, by some horrible turn of bad luck, the bonding was broken ..." Naka
pinched her blue disk earring and muttered a word of propitiation to
ward off that very same bad luck, then continued, "I would still need to
be out traveling, looking for that something ..."
Silence stretched again, and eventually, Thanj said, in a soft
voice, "Oh."
In the middle of Naka's revelation, a few paces away at the front
of the caravan, Elin had come to a fork in the road. A sign-post stood
at the junction with an arrow pointing down each branch. Elin glanced at
it, just to confirm that the road to Roebsach continued on before them,
but she was surprised to find that the sign pointing to the southward
branch was the one that bore the lettering for Roebsach.
She glanced over her shoulder, and debated halting the caravan
while she made sure. She had thought that there weren't supposed to be
any turns off of the main trade road between Tilting Falls and Roebsach,
but she could have been mistaken. She looked at the signpost again, and
it was the lower sign, pointing south, that said Roebsach.
Shrugging, trusting the sign, she started out along the southward
branch. The players followed, trusting Elin to lead them properly. Naka
was still talking, and Thanj listening, when the lead wagon turned down
the south path, the horses following the people in front of them in the
absence of any instructions to the contrary.
The two players in the middle wagon looked at the signpost and
wondered why the caravan had turned south. It was clear to them that the
upper sign indicated Roebsach and pointed along the way they had been
going all along. They knew, however, that Elin was leading just then, so
she must have had a reason to deviate from the proper path.
Kend was driving the last wagon, with Orla sitting beside him. He
had one hand on the reigns and one hand on her thigh, and they had been
riding for a long time in companionable silence. But for most of that
time, Kend had been working up to something. Just about the time that
Elin steered the caravan south, Kend decided that the time had come.
"You recovered from your illness back in Tilting Falls quickly," he
said as evenly as he could.
Orla responded, after a beat, "Oh, it wasn't anything serious ...
just a, just ... nothing serious."
"I see," Kend said. He waited for a few moments, and then said, "I
was talking to Janile a few days ago. She was telling me about the rest
of that party in the inn's common room, about some of the jokes that
went around, about how Naka's playing was, as usual, very well received.
She even commented on how long after Elin and I went upstairs it was
before Naka gave up playing, and then how much longer it was before you
and she went upstairs ... arm in arm."
"I ... I," Orla stammered.
As Kend made to reply, the horses pulling the wagon took the turn
south, following the people walking in front of them. Kend paused,
looked over at the signpost, saw that the bottom, south-pointing sign
said Roebsach, shrugged, and turned back to Orla.
"I'm not angry, Orla. I have no reason to be. I am, however,
slightly disappointed. We're all bonded, Orla, one unit, but we're still
separate people. I take it that you just wanted Naka that night, even
though it was your turn in my bed, right?"
Orla nodded, and Kend continued, "Then all you had to do was ask.
Obviously, you talked to the others about it, since they already knew
what was going on. But you didn't talk to me, and that hurts me, Orla.
Why wasn't I informed about your desire to switch? Did you think that I
wouldn't understand?"
Orla was silent, thinking about what had happened. She said, "When
I was backstage that day, I mentioned to Elin that Naka had been
over-tired the night before, and that I was a little sorry that it would
be two days before she and I could be together again. Elin suggested a
solution -- that she and I switch turns. We discussed it with Naka, and
she agreed. We ... we didn't think to ask you, since all of the other
parties had agreed.
"That was rude of us, Kend, and I apologize. We simply weren't
thinking properly. What can we ... I ... do to make it up to you?"
"Don't worry about it, Orla. Just remember, next time, that I
wouldn't mind being part of your discussions about who gets to sleep
with me when. All right?"
"Absolutely, Kend. We'll never leave you out again. I'll make sure
the others know. Maybe tonight we can set up two of the tents together,
and all share the blankets together, eh?"
She took his smile for an assent, and slid closer to him on the
bench, placing a hand on his thigh as well.
The wagon continued on at the rear of the caravan, traveling along
a road that was getting narrower by the league. Trees closed in on both
sides of the road, and a grassy hump appeared in the middle, indicating
that the road wasn't a well traveled one.
Eventually, Kend roused from his contemplation of the comparative
ease with which problems in his current relationship got solved --
certainly not his experience in his previous few relationships -- and
thought to wonder why the only trade road between Tilting Falls and
Roebsach should be showing such signs of disuse.
He called a halt forward, and gradually the whole caravan slowed to
a stop. Giving the wagon to two players, he and Orla worked their way
forward along the very narrow road, picking up Naka and Thanj at the
first wagon and stopping at the front of the caravan.
"What's wrong?" asked Elin when the other three leaders arrived at
the front.
"Are you sure we are going the right way?" asked Kend.
"It doesn't make sense that the road to Roebsach should be this
overgrown," added Orla.
"Well," said Elin, "the sign said that we should go south to
Roebsach, and we did."
One of the players standing behind them said, "Your pardon,
Elianijit, but it did not. The top sign pointed the way we were going
before, and said Roebsach on it. We thought that you knew a short cut,
or had some other reason to take this branch."
The four leaders of the Troupe looked at each other. Kend confirmed
that he had seen the bottom sign pointing to Roebsach, but the other two
leaders hadn't seen the signpost, and of the players that had, all
indicated that the top sign had indicated their intended destination.
Orla finally said, "Something odd happened back there, and we may
never know what. But one thing is sure: we can't turn the wagons around
on this narrow road. We will just have to continue on until we find a
wider portion, or someone who can tell us where this pathway leads."
The caravan slowly started moving forward again, with the four
leaders plus Thanj walking in front. The path didn't get any worse, but
it didn't get any better either, and they came across no clearings until
the light was fading as the sun set at the end of the day.
The clearing they found was to the side of a way-cabin that was
designed to provide shelter for winter or storm-caught travelers. The
wooden shack was small and had a crude stone chimney that leaned as if
against a stiff wind. Since it was time to stop for the night anyway,
Orla gave the command for the wagons to be parked in the clearing, the
horses to be seen to, and camp to be set up. Meanwhile, the leading
group took a look in the way-cabin.
The cabin was typical of its kind. It had a fireplace covering one
wall, equipped for both heating and cooking, with a bread oven and all.
One wall had shelves containing provisions and a door leading to a
storeroom. Naka peeked into the storeroom to find more provisions and
good sized stack of firewood. The opposite wall had six bunks, three
over three, and one of them was occupied.
Kend went over to the occupied bunk, knelt, and found a dead body.
It had obviously been lying there for a while. No large animals had been
able to breach the cabin, but small animals, rodents and the like, had
been able to get at the body. It was not a pretty sight.
There wasn't anything identifiable about the corpse, including its
sex. Picked apart clothes and blankets, bones and desiccated flesh were
all that was left, except for a satchel hanging on a peg on the last
wall.
Thanj took the satchel down and spilled its contents onto a table
in one corner. Odds and ends were revealed: travel provisions, personal
gear, some small coins, and a soft-cloth bag embroidered all over with
silver and gold thread in a strange, blocky and angular script.
Elin opened the bag and pulled out a strange-looking piece of
stone. Everyone gathered around to stare at it. It was wedge-shaped,
about a foot from almost-point to arced base. It looked like it was an
eighth, or maybe a sixth, of something large and circular that was
thicker in the middle. One of the two large surfaces was perfectly
smooth, while the other bore a carving of a falcon and inlaid silver,
glass, and gold bands crisscrossing and interlacing in the area above
the carving. The design was incomplete, as the bands were broken across
the jagged wedge-edges. One band of glass seemed to originate from a
large mass of glass in the center of the falcon image.
Thanj looked at the stone, commented, "How pretty ... sort of," and
left to join the rest of the Troupe setting up the camp.
The remaining four just stared at the stone. All of them reached
for it at the same moment, but three just touched it delicately with
their fingers. Elin first touched the carved falcon, tracing its outline
for several moments. Then she grasped the stone, held it, and lifted it,
holding it up and staring at it. Kend, Orla and Naka gathered close
around her, looking at it with her. Orla said, "What is it?"
"Important," was the only answer that Elin could come up with, but
everyone knew that she was right. She picked up the bag and returned the
fragment to it. No one objected to her claiming the object -- that was
as right as the previous answer.
Elin slipped the bag onto her belt, and went to kneel by the side
of the occupied bunk. "Thank you, fellow traveler, for bringing this
object to us," she said.
Kend said, "We will need to bury this one, so that the animals
don't defile the remains any further. And then, this way-cabin needs to
be cleaned up somewhat. I wonder how long it has been since anyone has
been this way? And I still wonder how we happened to be passing this way
ourselves."
A few days after the dismissal of Fessim, the vault room was full
of students and silence. Zarilt sat by the stone altar and watched as
most of his student body meditated. Attendance was not mandatory, yet
all but a double handful of his students were here. Those who were not
were attending to duties that could not be put off.
Some of his students claimed that it was easier to meditate when
everyone else was doing it too. Zarilt thought that was probably true
for them, but he hoped that someday, if their meditation bore the fruit
it was intended to, they would find meditating alone just as rewarding
as that done during the common meditation time.
Zarilt, who was able to meditate in the middle of the most crowded
and noisy room, or even while holding a conversation with several
people, found it restful to meditate with his students. There was
something about the rhythm of the breathing of so many people, that
started out sounding like the rumbling of an animal but which slowly
changed to become a series of rises and falls as groups of people began
to breathe in rhythm. It had only happened a few times that the entire
room managed to get into synchronization, but those few times Zarilt had
been almost overwhelmed by the energy of that union, the oneness of
everyone being together. He never tried to direct his students into that
state, knowing that it was better if they found it naturally.
Suddenly, the silence full of rhythmic breathing was shattered by
the door of the vault slamming open. A student named Millip ran into the
room, shouting, "Tchad! Tchad! He's coming! He's coming!"
The formerly-meditating students sat or stood up and started
jabbering in confusion as Millip continued shouting his message as he
ran right up to Zarilt and stopped, panting, fear plain on his face.
Zarilt said, "Silence, everyone, please!" His students quieted
after a few repetitions of his command, and he continued, "Now tell me,
Millip, why have you interrupted our meditation? Take your time, tell it
slowly."
Millip nodded, and took a deep breath. Then, he said, "I ... I was
waiting for the delivery from 'Rock, and finally Lirkal shows up with
the wagon but more important, he's got news. He says a troubadour who
was traveling through 'Rock from the south gave it them direct. Bad
news, real bad.
"Lirkal says that there's an army growing in Drigalit, working to
unite Farevlin by conquest. They've had some success with some small
border states to the west, and now they're coming here. Their leader,
Warlord Adamik, wants something from here and intends to get it."
A chaos of noise erupted again as students started shouting
questions and comments, letting their fear out and calling on their
teacher to help them, save them.
When Zarilt finally quieted them again, he said, "Please, my
students, please control yourselves. You have nothing to fear. This
warlord has no reason to hurt any of us. It is not for you or I to
surrender the treasures stored here, and he knows that. No one need fear
a thing."
Noise erupted again, but Zarilt's raised hand quieted them quickly.
Instead of calling out, several students came to the front of the crowd
and stood with their hands clasped in front of them, looking to their
Tchad. Zarilt gestured to one, and that one bowed his head and spoke.
"Tchad, do you know this Warlord Adamik? Do you know what he seeks
here?"
"Adamik was once one of my students, like you. And like you, he
knows what is sheltered here in the Treasury. If his aim is, as Millip
has relayed to us, the unifying of Farevlin by conquest, then I surmise
that he wishes to take possession of Hekorivas, the Scepter of Unity."
The student nodded, a thoughtful look in his eye, and then faded
back into the crowd. Zarilt gestured to another of the front-standing
students. She inclined her head in a bow and lifted it again, then said,
"Should we not seek to prevent this warlord's entry to the Treasury? Is
that not your duty? There are many of us, and this place is, by accident
or design, like a fortress."
Zarilt shook his head sadly, and replied, "I do not doubt the
resolve, nor the possible prowess of you my students, nor do I lightly
refuse your help in the upholding of my duty. But, my students, combat
is not part of the simplicity of the Way. You cannot achieve serenity by
destroying others. The position of Treasurer is almost wholly
ceremonial, else why entrust the job to only one? The treasures are
protected, never fear."
Zarilt's calm, steady voice and confident demeanor served to
communicate the same to his students. Several of the front-standing
students melted back into the crowd without asking any questions,
relieved by what they had heard. Zarilt nodded to one who remained. That
one, Virrila, responded as had the other two, and spoke.
"Tchad, your pardon, but if the treasures are protected, would it
not be better to leave? To find refuge for a time in Bluebell Rock,
until Warlord Adamik has time to realize that his plans here are
futile?"
Zarilt was silent for a moment, pondering his reply. Finally, he
said, "Flight is also not of the Way. You cannot find serenity while
fleeing every possible danger, nor do you need to flee once you have
found that serenity.
"However, if any of you, my students, feel that Bluebell Rock would
be safer than the Treasury during the incursion of the Warlord Adamik,
you must act on that feeling. Go, if you wish, and return when you feel
the danger is past. I shall understand."
Virrila nodded, and retreated a few steps into the crowd. Zarilt
gestured for another student to speak, while Virrila faded farther and
farther back. She looked around as she moved, and saw that every single
one of the other students was staring raptly at the Tchad, caught up in
his confidence and serenity.
She reached the back of the crowd, and listened for a short while
longer as Tchad Zarilt soothed his students' fears and bolstered their
resolve. Virrila wasn't convinced. She remembered Adamik from his time
as a student. He knew the Treasury, and he knew the treasures were
protected. He had to have a plan, one that the Tchad's 'serenity' wasn't
going to stop. She knew that Tchad Zarilt needed help; they *all* needed
help. Since no one else thought so, she decided to be the one to fetch
it.
She noticed Millip near the back of the crowd, and sidled over to
him. "Millip, how long did Lirkal say it might be until the warlord
arrives?"
Millip took a moment to register Virrila's question, then turned
distractedly, tearing himself away from his former concentration on the
Tchad. "Ah ... what? Oh, yes ... The warlord was ... um, only a few days
away. Maybe half a sennight. Why?"
"No reason, no reason," Virrila said, but Millip didn't even hear
her. She shook her head, then turned and walked out of the vault. She
didn't know where she was going to get help from that fast, but she was
going to try.
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