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DargonZine Volume 15 Issue 08
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 8
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DargonZine Distributed: 9/30/2002
Volume 15, Number 8 Circulation: 645
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Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Heir to Castigale 1 P. Atchley and Mertz 25, 1018
Dave Fallon
Talisman Nine 2 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Yuli 12-Sy 5, 1013
========================================================================
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@dargonzine.org> or visit
us on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/, or our FTP site
at ftp://users.primushost.com/members/d/a/dargon/. Issues and public
discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
DargonZine 15-8, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright September, 2002 by
the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@rcn.com>,
Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@covad.net>. 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@rcn.com>
This issue marks the first time in 18 months that DargonZine has
distributed two issues within a single calendar month. Great thanks go
out to all the people in our writing group who made this possible.
DargonZine 15-8 features the first installment in P. Atchley and
Dave Fallon's "Heir to Castigale" story, which is itself merely the
debut story in a brand new Dargon story arc, which you'll definitely see
more of in the future. It's been a long time coming, and we hope you
enjoy the results of our writers' hard work. Rounding out the issue is
the second chapter in "Talisman Nine", which is, of course, another
installment in Dafydd's very lengthy story arc. After three years and
thirty chapters, this storyline has begun catching up with Dargon's
"present-day", and as it does, it will reach its long-awaited climax.
Dafydd was one of our first ten contributors, having joined the
project back in 1986, and is also our most prolific author. One of the
reasons why veteran writers like Dafydd stay with the group is because
the Dargon Project continues to challenge them. Even after five, ten, or
fifteen years with the group, our members are encouraged to improve
their craft and grow as writers. Each new writer who joins our group
brings a fresh outlook and their own understanding of what "good
writing" is, ensuring that even a veteran who knows everything the
project has ever done can still learn more about both the art and craft
of writing, if they are open to it.
It might not seem intuitive, but being open to growth and learning
can be a very difficult and threatening thing, particularly in a group
setting. This was a very critical element at the consulting company I
used to work for. Left to themselves, employees would do adequate but
mediocre work; this was described as everyone's "comfort zone". However,
as consultants we held ourselves to a higher standard. We put ourselves
under intense pressure to do exceptional work in a shorter time frame,
even in unfamiliar roles. This was referred to as the "stretch zone".
And, of course, the key to success was keeping your team in that
fast-learning, hyper-productive "stretch zone" without pushing so hard
that they would snap or be unable to succeed.
Writing for DargonZine is similar. A first draft is usually written
from a writer's "comfort zone". He is doing something that's familiar,
based on what he already knows, and without taking too many risks.
However, when that draft is critiqued, even the best writer will hear
from a dozen people who have suggestions for how he could improve the
story. Our peer review process pushes the writer into his "stretch
zone", encouraging him to produce something better than he would if he
stayed in his complacent "comfort zone". With each successive draft, new
critiques will again challenge the writer to continue to improve his
work, until it's finally ready to give to our readers.
This recurring challenge is critical to learning and growth,
because the writer may indeed already be satisfied with his work after
the first draft and see no reason to strive for something greater.
Working outside your "comfort zone" is both scary ("what if I'm not good
enough?"), and arduous ("that's a lot of work!"). How the writer
responds to this challenge often determines his opinion of the group, as
well as how long he'll stay with us.
Ideally, the writer rises to the challenge, learns a lot about
"good writing", and produces a story that is indeed better than he would
have written without the group's support: a work that he will be
justifiably proud of. However, a writer who lets his fear or laziness to
overcome him will become frustrated and abandon his nascent story and
possibly leave the group having neither learned anything nor grown as a
writer.
The Dargon Project challenges our every one of our writers. Each of
us is forced to do the best work we possibly can, and the willingness to
be changed by one's fellow writers' ideas is what separates a hobbyist
from a successful DargonZine writer. Because of this, even sixteen-year
veterans like Dafydd still find the project a challenging and rewarding
opportunity for growth and learning.
========================================================================
Heir to Castigale
Part 1
by P. Atchley and Dave Fallon
<dpartha@surfindia.com> and <dfallon23@yahoo.com>
Mertz 25, 1018
"What a dismal place," Lord Sagrie Gribbane murmured under his
breath as he looked up at Castigale Keep high in the hills of Duchy
Asbridge. The long ride had been so cold that he had dallied at every
stop before arriving on the fourth night since he had set out from his
estate in his aunt's barony in Duchy Narragan.
"Castigale: my future barony," he mused aloud as he urged his horse
to climb the incline that led past simple farmlands and into the town
proper. He considered finding an inn to wait out the night before
presenting himself to Baron Kelleman, but dismissed the thought. He was
supposed to have arrived the previous night or this morning at the
latest, but here it was nearing the night's second bell, and he had yet
to appear. What would his future bride think? More importantly, what
would her father, the baron, think?
With a wave of his hand, he urged his group through the cobblestone
streets towards the main gate of Castigale Keep and peered up at the
battlements. He was about to have his page call out when a distant voice
saved him the trouble with the traditional hailing, "Who goes there?"
Sagrie nodded to his page, and the boy shouted back, "The Lord
Sagrie Gribbane --" He was about to go on, listing the titles he had
memorized for just such a challenge, but Sagrie stopped him with a
gesture.
The sound of activity echoed through the night air; the guards were
obviously expecting him. A few moments later, the gates swung open, and
grooms emerged to lead them into the courtyard. Beyond, Sagrie was
impressed with the quick efficiency of the servants; the cheery glow of
lanterns lined the steps leading to the great main door to the keep.
After the group dismounted, the grooms led the horses away as the
visitors walked past an honor guard standing at attention. Each soldier
wore a tabard displaying the blazing red sun on gray: the symbol of
Castigale. Despite the cold, the guards did not so much as shiver. With
such flawless presentation, Sagrie wondered drolly if they had stood
there for the past day and night waiting for him to arrive.
Nodding at the greeting, he walked towards the main door. At the
foot of the stairs stood a lithe figure in the garb of a common guard,
but with blue velveteen edging that gave the uniform a feminine look.
Approaching her, Sagrie assumed that the edging signified captain's
rank, although why she was standing there waiting for him was baffling.
He had expected a courtier or castellan to meet him, not a mere guard,
whatever her status.
Still, his upbringing prevented him from being less than polite.
When he reached her, he bowed and said, "Mistress, would you tell your
baron that Lord Sagrie Gribbane has arrived?"
"Welcome to Castigale Keep," the guard said, ignoring his request.
"We were expecting you yesterday."
Quick annoyance sprung through Sagrie because she did not bow; he
was, after all, the future baron while she was a mere guard. However, he
was not one to show his vexation, so he smiled and bowed again. "My
apologies, madam."
"Please follow me." Without waiting for his response, she turned on
her heel and marched back up the stairs.
Shrugging, Sagrie followed. The air was warm in the lobby, and he
threw back his cloak as he removed his gloves and studied his
surroundings. Well-dressed servants plucked the baggage from his men and
began leading them away. Sagrie handed over his outer raiment and made a
move to follow, when the guard stopped him.
"A moment, Lord Sagrie," she said. "With respect to the fact that
you are tired after such a long journey, I regret to request your
presence in the study, as Baron Kelleman would like to speak with you."
Sagrie nodded, unsurprised at the invitation, but taken aback that
it could not wait until the following morning. He had first visited
Castigale Keep eight months past at Kelleman's invitation, and the
latter's subsequent letters had made his intentions obvious: that the
aging baron sought a suitable husband to sit beside the future baroness,
his daughter Evelain. Sagrie assumed that Kelleman had requested the
meeting to conduct some final negotiations before the betrothal was
announced.
The guard led the way down a long corridor, her stiff gait the
mirror of his own. If she were a mere guard, Sagrie mused, she carried
herself like a noble. He went over the list of Castigale's retainers
that his informants had provided him with, trying to discern her
identity. But none of the names seemed even close, save perhaps the
baron's eldest daughter, known to be insane and confined in the castle.
The thought that he could have been met by a madwoman and was following
her through the castle to Ol knew where amused him, and he chuckled as
he followed his hostess.
As they passed a wall sconce, its light showed Sagrie that the
guard was also amused about something: a tight smile played upon her
lips. Curiosity getting the better of him, Sagrie stepped closer and
asked, "Do you find something amusing, mistress?"
She started and then regained her composure. "I was going over the
plans for the Firil Firstday feast, my lord. I was confirming that we
would have enough food for all the guests."
"I did not know you were the cook," Sagrie replied. He had no
qualms about angering her; after all, he was a nobleman and no mere
guard's ire could touch him.
She, however, stopped in her march and turned to face him. "I am
not the cook. I am Dagny Ludoran, Baron Kelleman's sister."
Sagrie was not chagrined even though he recognized the name; it
occurred to him that the illegitimate, widowed half-sister of the baron
no doubt hated him for what he represented and was powerless to do
anything about it. Fighting to keep a smile from his face, he replied,
"I stand corrected, Lady Dagny."
Dagny's hazel eyes turned from frigid to furious and it was several
moments before she spoke. "I hold no rank." Lifting her chin, she
continued, "I am not a legitimate daughter of the Castigale family."
Then she turned and marched down the hall.
Unable to hide his mirth any longer, Sagrie grinned at her back,
murmuring, "My apologies, mistress." His informants had told him of
Dagny's quick temper, and his blind arrow had found its mark. It took
all of his ingrained politeness to keep from laughing aloud at her
discomfiture. Pasting a casual expression on his face, he strode after
her.
She led him to a large door and opened it, holding it for him and
following behind to close it. The room had an air of opulence. A plush
gray animal skin lay on the floor before the desk and Sagrie wondered
what it was; he had never seen an animal with fur of quite that color.
Shelves against one wall displayed a multitude of ornate trinkets:
pink-tinged crystals of different shapes, wooden dolls painted and
dressed in what looked like real velvet, and some ancient tomes, whose
leather binding had turned wine-colored with age. Next to the shelves,
an abstract sculpture in dark red wood rose in twisting tendrils
reminiscent of flames rising; the carving, as high as Sagrie's
shoulders, had a hypnotic allure that invited more than just a second
look. Small tapestries dotted the farther wall, one of a seascape, one
of a sorcerous battle, and one that was a depiction of Ol with the sun
and moon on either side, whilst a large portrait of Dagny faced the
desk. As she stood next to the painting, Sagrie was struck at the
artistic talent that had captured the ambitious look in her eyes.
Now, her face was expressionless. Sagrie wondered if she was still
angry over his "accidental" reminder that she could neither inherit the
barony nor pass it on to her son. Without meeting his eyes, she said in
a bland tone, "Thank you for coming, Lord Sagrie. May I present to you
my brother, Kelleman Castigale." She turned the question into a
statement, making her seeming disinterest all the more obvious.
Sagrie turned to face the baron who sat behind a desk littered with
papers and maps. The man had not looked up at their entrance, and if he
was insulted by the conspicuous lack of title in Dagny's introduction,
he did not show it. "Have you summoned my daughter?" he asked, bushy
eyebrows arching to peer at them without having to raise his head.
"I sent a servant to fetch her as soon as Lord Sagrie arrived," she
responded. "But she is in her painting room." Her impatient tone made
Sagrie wonder about the relationship between aunt and niece: it sounded
as though she would rather clean chamber pots than deal with her
brother's younger daughter.
The baron grunted acknowledgment but still did not address Sagrie.
Unembarrassed by the uncomfortable silence, Sagrie took the opportunity
to study his future father-in-law. The lord of Castigale Keep seemed his
sister's utter opposite. His plump features, including a large belly and
round, bearded cheeks, contrasted sharply with Dagny's rather angular,
gaunt face. Even Kelleman's age, which appeared to be past fifty, was
far removed from Dagny's, which appeared in the vicinity of thirty.
However, both siblings shared the auburn locks and hazel eyes that were
Castigale features, though his hair was wavy while hers was curly.
Kelleman appeared to be studying a map of his barony on the desk.
Even upside-down Sagrie could make out the border of Nulain, north of
Castigale Keep, which showed that the map was recent. The barony
stretched the entire length of Duchy Asbridge's border with Duchy
Narragan, which contained the Gribbane barony.
The map made Sagrie think of his aunt, Baroness Veronie Gribbane,
who was the cause of the old feud between the baronies of Castigale and
Gribbane. She had raised no objection to Sagrie pursuing this marriage
and he had reached his own conclusions about the reason. A singular
trade route ran through Castigale, and if there was no feud, merchant
wagons would arrive in Gribbane often, and with as wide a variety of
goods as anyone could want.
The feud had started when the present baron's father, Tilber
Castigale, had courted Sagrie's aunt, Veronie. Of course, everyone knew
that the borders of Castigale and Gribbane marched together; an alliance
marriage would have consolidated the lands. His aunt, however, had
refused to accept Tilber's suit; she had also gotten herself with child
and refused to name the father, much to the consternation of the older
members of the family. To this day, Sagrie remembered the huge furor
that had erupted when she had announced that she was with child. Gossip
had it that Tilber had taken her pregnancy as a personal insult; he had
gone on to close the trade route that ran through his barony, with
disastrous implications for the then-prosperous Gribbane barony.
A soft knock on the door interrupted Sagrie's musings and he turned
to look back where Dagny stood. Something tightened around her eyes, but
she opened the door without comment to admit a beautiful young woman.
Blushing, the girl smiled and soft dimples appeared beneath her
graceful cheekbones. She appeared to be about nineteen years of age, and
her hazel eyes sparkled between long lashes as she looked around the
room. She wore a formal dress that was gaudy: it had broad, green
stripes running from bodice to hemline, and the skirt was decorated with
far too many frills and furlebows of various hues from purple to yellow.
The effect was striking, and as vulgar a display of wealth as Sagrie had
ever seen. Lifting the skirt that fell to the ground in folds, she
floated across the room to her father.
"Ah, my dear Evelain," Kelleman said, his voice softening as if he
were speaking to a child, "I am glad you came. I would not want you
absent while I discussed your future. This is Lord Sagrie Gribbane."
With his most charming smile, Sagrie stepped forward to take and
kiss the girl's hand. Evelain giggled and blushed all the more, averting
her eyes from his.
"Please, both of you, be seated," Kelleman said.
Sagrie was aware of how completely the baron's mood had changed
when his daughter had entered the room. He watched Kelleman regard them
both, the baron's expression full of pride. Then Kelleman's eyes turned
serious again and he looked at Sagrie. "In five days we celebrate Firil
Firstday with our traditional feast. At that time I would like to
announce the betrothal of my daughter to you."
Evelain simpered while Sagrie blinked in surprise. Though he knew
that this was the intention behind his invitation here, he had not
expected the lord to come to the point at once.
The baron, however, seemed to misinterpret his expression, for he
continued, "This should not be such a surprise to you, Lord Sagrie.
There are many reasons I want this marriage. As nephew to Baroness
Veronie Gribbane, you will help heal the old wounds between our lands,
and it is my hope that it heralds a new peace in which both baronies can
prosper. As a nobleman with both grace and manners, you will be a
suitable husband for my daughter and will care and provide for her. And
as a young man of good breeding, you will provide me with some
grandchildren ... before I am gone." The pause before the last few words
made them resound in the otherwise quiet room.
"My lord is both logical and wise," Sagrie complimented. He had
expected the baron to ease into the discussion; at the abrupt and
tactless statement, Sagrie had to remind himself that Kelleman lacked
many of the social graces, a fact that had become obvious during their
earlier meetings. So he smiled and paid an elegant compliment to father
and daughter. "I am overjoyed that you should find me an acceptable
husband for your beloved daughter."
Kelleman waved his hand in disinterest. "Yes, yes," he said. "The
wedding is all but planned. As for the bride-gift, now, let's see here."
With a fat finger, he traced out a section of the land on the map before
him. "The Valley of the Thumb," passing his finger across two mountains
to a slender river running north and east, "all the way across to the
Pass of Amante past Myridon." The baron nodded and folded his heavy arms
across his chest.
"Bride-gift?" Sagrie said, confused.
Dagny spoke from the back of the room, "It is a Castigale tradition
that the father of the bride offers a gift to the married couple,
something that will help them start their new life together."
There was a moment of silence while Sagrie digested this, then he
said, "This is a fine proposal, my lord." He studied the map with
exaggerated interest. "But I had thought you would be naming Evelain as
your heir, in light of her sister's ... condition. Since she will
inherit all of this land, might not a bride-gift of gold be more
appropriate?"
The baron's expression darkened, but he waved such irritation away
and said, "Heirship to the barony of Castigale stands, as before, with
my brother Curran, who resides now on his mother's lands in Duchy
Dargon. Castigale tradition is that the title is passed to male heirs.
That is how it has been done for countless generations before me, and
that is how it will be done now."
Shocked, Sagrie's fingers tightened into a fist as he fought to
keep his face from showing his emotion. He had realized, of course, that
Curran would be Kelleman's successor if an heir was not named, but
everyone knew that Kelleman regarded his younger half-brother as little
more than a wealthy criminal. Sagrie had thought the aging baron would
welcome any opportunity to deny Curran the barony.
Kelleman continued, "Besides, Evelain has no desire to rule the
entire barony. Isn't that right, dear?" His voice softened when he spoke
to his daughter.
She blushed and smiled. "Yes, Father. My lord, I'm not interested
in this responsibility."
Sagrie mentally threw out one argument after another to regain the
power he had thought within his grasp. "Certainly," he flailed, while
Kelleman's brows darkened and his jaw set in a stubborn look. "I'm sure
fair Evelain would feel overwhelmed ruling this whole barony by
herself." He patted Evelain's hand in a false gesture of affection and
she smiled back at him. "But I believe that with the two of us ruling
together --"
Kelleman threw his head back as deep rolls of laughter spilled from
his throat.
"M-my lord ...?" Sagrie said in confusion and barely-contained
frustration.
The baron waved him to silence as he calmed from his paroxym.
"Boy," he said, "do you think I'm as senile as that? I may be old, but
I'll not hand over my entire barony to the nephew of my family's enemy.
I chose you because you will help end that silly feud, and because you
are a known gentleman who will care for my daughter and provide her with
a comfortable home. But I won't choose you to run this barony after I am
gone." He smirked at Sagrie in self-satisfaction.
"Then why give us anything at all?" Sagrie bit off before he could
stop himself. "Why cut your daughter from any inheritance but give us a
worthless chunk of land?" Anger now flooded his features as he faced
Kelleman. His hands shook in his lap but he struggled to keep his lack
of control from the other man's eyes. Sagrie had underestimated the fat
lord, assuming that he little realized and less cared what would happen
after his death. But it seemed now that the baron had concocted a scheme
that would cut off both Sagrie and his own daughter from inheriting his
title and his lands. Or had he?
Sagrie spared a quick glance behind him at where Dagny still stood
between the door and painting, and found her smiling like a cat at him.
He saw in her eyes a flash of victory and, behind that, the steely
resolve of an ambitious woman. She was apparently more of a competitor
in this race for the barony than he had thought. Narrowing his eyes at
her, he turned back to the baron.
Kelleman had yet to answer Sagrie's question. He seemed thoughtful,
as if trying to make up his mind about something. Inwardly, Sagrie
cursed his quick tongue, fearing that he had doomed himself from any
dowry at all. After another moment of hesitation, the baron answered,
this time in a soft voce, "I have another plan for my heir." His faraway
gaze focused on Sagrie and his voice resumed its deep pitch. "Give my
daughter a son before I die, Lord Sagrie, have him raised here on
Castigale land, and I will name him heir to my name, my house, and my
title."
Sagrie's confidence returned; this was an opportunity he could live
with, for children were easy enough to beget. Behind him, however, he
heard a gasp.
"Kelleman," Dagny said from the back of the room. When the baron
didn't acknowledge her veiled warning, she continued, "Kelleman, we
never spoke of this ..."
Kelleman sneered up at his half-sister. "And who are you that I,
the baron of this land, should share my designs with?"
Dagny's voice was sharp as she replied, "There are other options,
my lord." Her biting tone emphasized the word "lord" in such a manner
that it sounded more an insult than a title.
"Enough!" Kelleman erupted, baring his teeth across the room at his
sister like a rabid wolf. "I", he shouted, "am Baron of Castigale! I
make the decisions! Especially when it concerns decisions of such import
as the passage of my barony! On the day of my death this land and title
will pass to my brother Curran, as was dictated by my father on the day
of his death --"
"Our father," Dagny retorted, her own voice rising so that her
anger matched her brother's.
Kelleman waved the interruption away. "The path of the inheritance
is set, sister. The only way I will interrupt it is if I have a male
heir of my own lineage before I die. Should that not happen, and should
Curran inherit this barony, at least my innocent daughter will have a
noble estate and be well cared for on the lands of her birth."
The baron had calmed from his momentary rage, but Sagrie could
still see a fire in his eyes that threatened to explode should Dagny
push him further. She seemed to recognize this as well for she kept
herself tightly leashed.
"Well, my lord, is it agreed?" Kelleman asked, looking at him.
His thoughts whirling over the possibilities of the heirship,
Sagrie smiled. If the old baron died after naming Sagrie's son heir,
then he would serve as steward until the boy grew up. And as father of
the underage baron, Sagrie would have true power and status. "Very
well," he agreed, "I will accept the offer of this land, but I'm afraid
I won't be able to provide your daughter with the life she deserves.
It's barren and wild. What will I do with a couple of mountains and a
river?"
Kelleman's face purpled as he jabbed his finger on the map. "Fool!
Wild lands beg to be tamed! I am giving you at least a hundred more
acres than that petty estate you run in Narragan. All you have to do is
move your painted arse and fix it up!"
Sagrie shook his head, forcing himself to ignore the baron's
uncouth language, reminding himself of the stakes involved. It wouldn't
do for him to lose his temper over an ill-chosen word. "At least I have
an estate on my lands. What you offer doesn't even have that. Would you
have your daughter live in a peasant's shack until I've tempered the
land?"
Kelleman slammed his clenched fist down on the table. "I will build
my daughter a noble mansion on these lands! A house to dwarf yours and
any other in your aunt's lands!" He stood and began to pace behind the
table, his words coming in a rush. "It will have a horseyard and three
stables, a pond, a magnificent banquet hall, and a huge room for her to
fill with her art."
At the mention of her paintings, Evelain's face lit up. Kelleman
noticed that and said to her, "Would you like that, dear? Would such a
dwelling make you happy?"
Evelain nodded to her father's question, and Kelleman turned back
to Sagrie. "See, I want my daughter to be happy. Accept my offer for
this land and the house, and I will begin building it tomorrow. By Ol's
grace, it will be at least habitable by the wedding and finished in full
by winter." Narrowing his eyes again, he leaned across the table to say,
"No one will say Baron Kelleman Castigale's daughter had to live on her
husband's land because her father didn't provide for her."
Sagrie took a deep breath, staring at Kelleman. Then, with a quick
glance at Evelain, he inclined his head and said, "How can I refuse what
will make my bride happy?"
Evelain beamed as he raised her hand to his lips. Glancing from her
to her father, Sagrie said, "I accept the bride-gift with pleasure,
Baron Castigale. I only ask that Evelain be consulted with the building
of the house so that it is exactly what she needs to live in happiness
with her husband."
Kelleman looked suspicious at the compromise, but said, "Done." He
looked Sagrie and Evelain over one time then nodded and smiled as if all
the anger had disappeared. "Well, then," he said merrily. "It's time for
dinner. You will join us in my dining hall, won't you, Lord Sagrie?" At
Sagrie's nod, the baron heaved his girth from behind the desk and moved
to the door, not waiting for anyone else. Before leaving, he paused and
said, "We will announce the betrothal at the Firil Firstday feast, five
days hence."
Despite being unnerved by the baron's rapid mood swings, Sagrie
felt that the meeting had gone well, considering the plot that had
nearly cut him from any inheritance but for a couple of wooded peaks.
One quick glance at Dagny as he stood to leave the room, however, showed
that the baron's sister did not share his feelings. She glared at her
brother like a she-bear about to attack, her eyes never leaving him as
he brushed past her.
Dagny sighed as she leaned against the couch in her quarters later
that night. Throughout dinner she had spoken to her brother, trying to
make her displeasure known without openly shouting at him across the
table. He had all but ignored her, changing the subject whenever she
tried to steer the conversation to her son. After dinner, she had
followed him to his room, but he had closed the door, telling his guards
that he had a headache and did not wish to be disturbed. Admitting
defeat at least for this day, Dagny checked the guard patrols one last
time, ensured that the butler had no problems or situations to discuss
with her, and then retreated to her room.
"He gave Evelain the barony, did he?" Gleuder, Dagny's maid, stood
across the room from her.
Dagny glanced up. "No," she replied. "But he did agree to name any
male child she bears as his heir as long as the child is born before his
death."
The older woman crossed the bare floor and put a comforting hand on
Dagny's shoulder. "Well, there's time still to convince him to adopt
Slevin."
The mention of her son made Dagny frown. She set her jaw and stared
at the floor, though she didn't shrug off the older woman's hand. "I
know," she murmured. "I just have to find a way to make him see." She
tapped her booted foot for a moment, then looked up at Gleuder. "I
thought Kelleman was starting to give way when he agreed not to name
Sagrie heir. Between Curran and my son ..."
"Yes, and he hates Curran," Gleuder agreed. "Slevin is the next
logical choice. Anyone would be better than Curran, who is no better
than a rat fink."
Dagny ignored the insult, for although she disdained the words, she
agreed with the sentiment: Curran was a betrayer by nature. She
remembered being punished by her tutors for various pranks throughout
her childhood due to Curran's talebearing. She dismissed that train of
thought and returned to the topic uppermost on her mind. "I don't
understand why now Kelleman has all but thrown his land away by agreeing
to name Evelain's son heir. What will happen after Evelain births a son?
Sagrie will be the ruler, in spirit if not in name, for Evelain is too
simple a maid to do aught but paint her silly little pictures."
Gleuder made a clucking sound with her tongue and said, "Dagny,
Evelain isn't even married yet. She may not have a son at all."
"That isn't the point," Dagny objected. "After arguing with
Kelleman for months, I finally manage to make him understand that
Evelain as heir would be disastrous for the barony, and now!" She fumed
for a moment before continuing, "Now he goes and promises to name her
son heir. He's making any sort of proclamation just to prevent Slevin or
Curran from inheriting." She looked away from Gleuder to her bare walls
and plain bed. As castellan, she had the right to a more comfortable bed
and could afford decorations on her walls, but as the captain of the
keep guards, she preferred her room to resemble the barracks where she
had quartered while training to be a soldier. The only concession she
allowed herself was rooming in the family wing of the keep.
"Of the two," Gleuder said dryly, "Curran has the more legitimate
claim to the seat."
Dagny looked back at her maid with absolute fury on her face.
"Gleuder!" Then the truth of that statement hit her and she hung her
head between her shoulders. It was true that her own illegitimacy
prevented Slevin from being in the line of inheritance, no matter that
her father had accepted her and raised her in the keep as his own
daughter.
"Dagny, girl, look," Gleuder said. "You know that I want Slevin to
rule this barony as much as -- if not more than -- you do." She cupped
Dagny's chin in one aged hand and brought her face up. "But Kelleman
stands between your son and his title like a jealous bull. That's a
formidable wall even for you, and Slevin is just six years old. This is
a battle you have to fight for him."
Dagny sighed and leaned back on the couch. "I know; Gleuder, I
know. What am I going to do?"
Gleuder smiled, a crafty look coming to her eyes. "Do you remember
the day your father brought you here?" At Dagny's noncommittal shrug,
the older woman continued, "I remember that we all thought he had done
it because he loved your mother. He had no love for the illegitimate
daughter who had sullied his name. I thought he would keep you hidden
away for a few months then ship you off to some distant duchy to be
forgotten. But within a year you had proven yourself far wiser than
Kelleman and more righteous than Curran, and you secured a place for
yourself here. And so you stayed; in spite of your father's shame, you
stayed."
Dagny smiled a little as past memories surfaced. "But my father was
stubborn too. When he discovered I had an affinity for numbers where
Kelleman had none, he had the best tutors teach me; when he found out
that I was more disciplined than Curran, he had his best warriors train
me. He even encouraged Sir Poulson Ludoran to court me and saw that I
was married before he died. But he never acknowledged me as his legal
daughter." She shook her head.
"Nor did he offer a bride-gift to your husband," Gleuder said with
a sniff. "If Poulson had taken land like a normal knight you and Slevin
would have had a place to go after he died."
Dagny sighed and then chuckled. "He wouldn't have taken a dowry
even if my father had offered. He was a true knight, and a true warrior,
honorable in every sense of the word. Not money, land, or status meant
anything to him. It was just like that when the war with Beinison broke
out. He was so quick to wield his sword for Baranur."
"And look where it got you," Gleuder retorted. "But even then, when
we came back again to Castigale Keep and you pregnant and your father's
health failing, I expected Kelleman to toss us all out by our ears as
soon as your father died."
Dagny laughed at the thought of her fat brother trying to pull her
by the ear.
The maid finished, "Instead, you made yourself first useful, and
then indispensable, to him. Now he can't get rid of you unless he wants
his keep and his guards to fall apart in disarray."
"Forget the past!" Dagny made her voice harsh, for she wanted none
of the weakness that sweet memories brought; indeed, the crisis of the
moment was such that she could afford none. "What is the point to all of
this, Gleuder?"
"My point, dear child, is that to best a baron, you don't try to
convince him through argument to see things your way. Instead, you take
away his alternatives until yours is the only choice he has left. Like
you did with Kelleman before Slevin was born. You made yourself the only
choice for castellan and only choice for master of the guard."
Dagny stared at her in amazement. "You want me to take a sword to
Sagrie so that there's no one to marry Evelain? Gleuder, a duel won't
solve anything."
The maid smiled slyly. "You have other weapons you will not use;
there are other kinds of duels that can be fought."
"I don't understand," Dagny said, wondering what the older woman
meant.
Gleuder persisted. "Come with me," she said with a wink. She stood,
took Dagny's hand, and led her to the back of the chamber, where on the
bed lay a garment that appeared to be nothing but lace and cords.
"What is it?" Dagny asked, staring.
"That is the weapon you will need," Gleuder said. "Sit down,
Dagny."
Dagny allowed herself to be pushed to sit on the bed. "Gleuder --"
"No. Listen to me. You've always chosen not to use the weapons Ol
gave every woman. If Sagrie cries off from this wedding, you can still
persuade Kelleman to accept Slevin as his heir. All you have to do is
listen to me, Dagny, and do what I say. I promise it will all work out
the right way."
Dagny began shaking her head as she realized what Gleuder wanted
her to do. "No. It's wrong, and I can't do it. I won't do it! It's
dishonorable!"
"Honor!" Gleuder sniffed. "That's something that men made up so
that they could get out of doing things they didn't want to do. You need
to learn the womanly arts, and no man can teach you that. I've tried to
teach you that men think with what is between their legs. And you can
control that, if you choose to. Now, strip." Gleuder started to undo the
buttons and ties on Dagny's tunic. When her charge was down to nothing
but skin, Gleuder picked up the garment and handed it to her.
Dagny screeched, "Nothing underneath! Gleuder, you can see
everything!"
Gleuder laughed. "And you the mother of a child, Ol help me. Put
this on, girl." Pulling down the night rail over Dagny's head, she
tugged it into place. Taking the single cord that secured the garment,
Gleuder tied it so tightly that it was difficult to breathe. When Dagny
looked down at herself, she understood why. The tie was positioned under
her breasts and pushed them upwards. The neckline gaped, and she feared
a deep breath would make her fall out of the bodice. As for the skirt,
it appeared to cover her completely, but when she took an experimental
step forward, it split open all the way along the length of her right
leg to the hip joint.
"Gleuder! What -- where on 'diar did you get such a garment? This
is vulgar, obscene!" Until that moment, Dagny had never thought that her
body, which appeared muscular in the guard's uniform, also had such
plush curves. She had never played on her femininity; that was a part of
her that seldom came out in her daily life. She was the castellan and
the guard master well before she was a woman, and she was always far too
conscious that someone in a position of leadership needed to maintain a
certain decorum.
The older woman chuckled. "If only you could see -- well, you look
beautiful, girl, absolutely beautiful. If he can resist you in this, I
-- never mind that. Sit down." Gleuder pushed Dagny down and brushed out
her hair. The arrangement made it fall forward at her neck, curling
around her face like a halo. "It's a good thing you haven't cut it yet,"
the maid said. "Now, go to Gribbane and take him to bed. I'll come in
there in about two bells with the page -- no, with Quiggin! That butler
is such a prig that you would not believe." Gleuder paused. "That should
be enough to stop the marriage. Kelleman will never allow an amorist to
wed his precious daughter."
"But Gleuder, I can't do that!" Fear swept through her as she
thought of Sagrie seeing her dressed like this. It had been many years
since her husband had died, and even though she lived and worked with
soldiers every day, Dagny never spent any time thinking of men like
that. The thought of someone, especially one whom she considered an
enemy, seeing her clad in close to nothing was enough to make her reach
for her sword.
Meanwhile Gleuder was adjusting at the fabric in Dagny's bodice.
"Yes, you can. Think of Slevin. It's all for him," she emphasized.
Dagny hesitated, feeling torn at the mention of inheritance. Was
the cost too high, she wondered? It occurred to her that she had a place
in the keep now as long as she was useful, and Kelleman knew of her
efficiency; but what of Slevin? Would Curran or Sagrie suffer her own
presence, much less her son's? The question resounded in her mind and
the hesitation blossomed into fear. Slevin had no father, and it
behooved her to secure a good future for him. For her son, she had to do
this. She swallowed, thinking of Sagrie's knowing eyes, nervousness
dancing in her stomach like a small craft in a stormy sea. Wishing
futilely for an easier way to settle Slevin's future, she met Gleuder's
eyes and nodded.
"Well then," Gleuder said, "this is for Slevin. Go and do your duty
as a mother. Here," Gleuder fetched a brown, ankle-length robe, "put
this on over that. You can take it off once you're inside his room.
'Twon't do for the castellan to run around the keep in a little bit of
nothing."
"Come," Sagrie called while he continued to read from the parchment
on his desk. He looked up just in time to see a woman closing the door
behind her. Out of her uniform he didn't recognize her for a moment. As
she slipped off the robe and walked forward, he was surprised at seeing
the cold castellan in such revealing clothes. Temptation beckoned and he
felt it would be easy indeed to forget their positions.
"I was not expecting you," he said, his eyes roving over her body.
When Dagny smiled, he knew that he had allowed his feelings to
show. He composed his face into a neutral expression and watched as she
stepped into the room. The light of the sconces danced over what skin
she bared, and played in the shadows of what little she did not.
"You weren't expecting Evelain, were you?" she purred.
He laughed. "No! Evelain is a child. And you ... are not."
As she stepped perilously close to him, his eyes were level with
her breasts, which were encased in some sort of lacy confection and tied
with a velveteen cord. Then she leaned in and his face was just a breath
away. He stared straight without flinching or shying his gaze, unwilling
to show weakness.
"This is a surprise," he said. With effort, he turned his face away
and picked up a paper from the desk, feigning disinterest.
Dagny hesitated a step and Sagrie smiled. For all her seductive
words, she seemed unsure of what she was doing. He wondered if she had
been with a man since her husband had died. He knew this woman's
strengths were in the way she maintained three things, the accuracy of
her accounts, the efficiency of her servants, and the battle-ready state
of her keep guards, not in using charm, allure, or seduction for her
ends. Also, his reports said that she was an honorable woman. Sagrie was
a little surprised that she would try so blatant a trick.
He surmised that she must be desperate to stoop to such a tactic;
but he had to admit she was ably equipped for it. Then he realized the
parchment he held was upside down and he hoped that she would not
notice, for as keep castellan, she would know how to read and write.
After a moment of awkward silence, Sagrie spoke in an attempt to
distract her. "I did know that you were Kelleman's illegitimate sister
when I addressed you as 'lady' in the hall."
She blinked at the sudden change of topic, then frowned. "You
deliberately insulted me?"
"The measure of a man, or a woman, can be taken when he is angry,"
he said. "But I had no idea provoking you could be so ... provocative."
A small smile played about his lips as he watched a flush of
embarrassment color her features, confirming his guess that she was
uncomfortable with her present strategy. His amusement grew until he was
laughing aloud.
The blush disappeared from her face, and her eyes brightened with
anger. "Sagrie, you have no idea who I am."
He was shaking his head as she spoke. "No, Dagny, I do know who you
are." He lifted the paper, unobtrusively turning it right side up and
began to read. "Dagny Ludoran, castellan and master of the guards.
Illegitimate daughter of the late Baron Tilber Castigale, widow of Sir
Poulson Ludoran. Has a young son, Slevin. A tricky swordswoman," he
recited.
"Spies!" she exclaimed.
Sagrie nodded. "Well, you know how these things are played out. As
pretty a chit as Evelain is, I wouldn't be marrying her if I didn't hope
to get something out of it, apart from a biddable wife."
Dagny laughed, and it was a short, brittle sound. "Biddable, oh
yes, that she is. But --" she paused, as if looking for a new topic.
Sagrie spoke first, his eyes roving over her body once again, "What
are you doing in my bedroom?"
"If I have to explain, then I must not be doing it right," Dagny
said tartly. "Mayhap I should take lessons."
He threw back his head and laughed. After a moment, he looked at
her and allowed his appreciation to show. "Oh no, Dagny, you are doing
it right. So right that --" he paused for a moment. "But I am too old a
hand to be caught by this tactic."
"Tactic?" Dagny said, her voice breaking.
"Beautiful one, do you think that I don't understand your
situation?" Sagrie asked. "You want Kelleman to adopt your son and make
him heir. You want to discredit me so that Kelleman will not permit me
to marry Evelain."
Dagny's mouth fell open as he stated her position. "Spies," she
murmured again, closing her mouth to grit her teeth together.
Sagrie smiled at the dawning awareness in her expression. Despite
the resolve he had seen in her before, he now realized that Dagny was
little competition in this race. She had spent far too much time
concentrating on soldierly duties and keeping a castellan's book to
manage the intrigues she was attempting.
Meanwhile, Dagny's anger seemed to have worked through to the
forefront. "You can't do this to me," she growled.
Sagrie laughed. "What can't I do?" he mocked. "I can do whatever I
want, so long as I agree to marry Evelain. The only thing I can't do is
bed you ... for now." Despite his best efforts, a trace of regret crept
into his voice.
"No!" The word seemed to be torn from her throat, and then she
conquered her anger. "Sagrie, choose your enemies well."
"Enemy? You? You have no power to hurt me," he dismissed.
"Look around you," she replied. "This is a prosperous barony. Where
do you think the money goes? To the soldiers, who are loyal to me."
"Are you threatening me, Dagny?" Sagrie was incredulous. Then he
sighed, rose, and crossed the room to the door. He bent and picked up
her robe and held it out for her. "This is all pointless. You're
powerless and I ... I have to marry Evelain for the sake of a treaty.
Leave, Dagny, before your actions dishonor both of us."
When she did not move, he came towards her and draped the robe
around her shoulders. Then he returned to his seat. "Put it on," he
growled, and then clapped his hands. "Bertrid!"
Dagny pulled the robe into place and secured the cord with shaking
hands. "It may have been a mistake on my part to have come here
tonight," she admitted. Her voice strengthened as the brown robe covered
her skin and less was bared to his eyes. "But beware, Sagrie. I will not
stop because one tactic failed. I suggest you watch your back."
Just then, Sagrie's page entered the room through the connecting
door, knuckling his eyes. He yawned, one hand covering his mouth as he
rubbed his eyes with the other, and said, "Yes, lord?"
"Escort mistress Dagny out, will you? She's scared of the dark."
Sagrie could not resist adding the last comment; Dagny's reactions were
so illuminating.
He was not disappointed; her eyes narrowed and her lips thinned and
he recognized her ineffectual rage. But as he straightened in his chair
and met her gaze, his smile disappeared; he understood that he had made
a lifelong enemy with that one comment.
========================================================================
Talisman Nine
Part 2
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
<John.White@Drexel.Edu>
Yuli 12 - Sy 5, 1013
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 15-7
Lord Aldan Bindrmon, son and heir of Baron Chak Bindrmon, galloped
through Beeikar on the back of Firesocks as the sky lightened in the
east. He had only one thought on his mind: revenge. He intended to ride
north to the city of Dargon to find the blackguards who had killed his
bride-to-be, Tillna.
It had been only a few bells since Aldan had stood over the dying
young man, Weasel, and heard from his lips that the rest of the
Menagerie had fled to Dargon. The Menagerie was a group of the offspring
of some of the lords in the barony, and Aldan had been a member until
his father had forbidden him to associate with them. Animosity had
developed between the group and Aldan since that time, which had
culminated in the gruesome murder of Tillna.
She had been a barmaid, and perhaps Aldan would never have proposed
to her if his father hadn't objected to her so strenuously. Not that
Aldan was any less serious about avenging her. He wondered why she had
been killed. Had it only been the cruelty of his former friends? Or had
his father simply wanted the obstacle to an arranged marriage removed?
Perhaps he would find the answer in Dargon. Even if the Menagerie
answered every one of his questions, they would gain no mercy from him.
Aldan intended to deal to them what they had dealt to Tillna: death.
He rode as fast as he could through the last bell of the twelfth of
Yuli, and soon the dawn of the thirteenth rose on his right. Beeikar was
falling ever farther behind him. As the leagues passed, he realized that
he would soon be riding beyond the bounds of Welspeare, and he would
eventually be going as far north as it was possible to go. Though his
mission was grim, it was providing a way for him to travel to places
that were just names on a map to him. He had always wanted to travel,
but the duty he had been born to, the bonds of the heir to the baron,
had always eclipsed his wanderlust. He had no desire to thank the
Menagerie for this chance to see the kingdom, but he intended to make
the most of the necessity he had been forced into.
He also realized that he should have taken the time to get a map
before leaving. He had stopped in the keep while Ricce had readied
Firesocks, picking up food, clothes, and money. A trip to the library
for a map would have increased his chances of being discovered, but it
might have been worth it. Then again, he could always just buy one
somewhere, surely.
Part of Aldan's upbringing had been learning how to ride and to
care for horses, so he soon reined in Firesocks; not even his father's
charger could gallop all the way to Dargon. He wanted to enact his
revenge as swiftly as possible, but he needed Firesocks to last the
journey.
Aldan directed Firesocks up to the inn and slid stiffly from his
back. It was early evening on his first day out, and he couldn't ride
another pace. He had been in the saddle all day, making the best speed
he could, as he knew that his father would send people out after him,
but Aldan had never ridden for such a long period of time and he was
sore all over.
He groaned as he touched the ground. His legs protested by
buckling, making him grab for his saddle to keep from falling. When he
was steady, he looked across the back of his horse and worried about how
much it would hurt to walk the few paces to the door of the inn.
He checked above the door for the name of the inn, but the square
of wood suspended there was so weathered that it was blank. Before he
could spend too much time wondering at the disparity between the
well-maintained front of the inn and the blank sign, he heard a wheezing
chuckle.
A thin old man stood in the open door of the nameless inn. He had
white hair, a wrinkled up face, and fingers that seemed too long for his
palms. The man laughed his rustling-paper laugh again and pointed an
overly long finger at Aldan. "I know that look, I do," he said in a
creaky voice to match the laugh. "C'mon in, son, I know what'll fix you
up."
Aldan hesitated, but not because he didn't trust the man; he just
wanted to make sure his legs were cooperating again before he left
Firesocks' side. When he was able, Aldan shuffled around his horse in
preparation of striking out for the door.
The old man laughed one more time, his eyes twinkling, and then
said, "I'll just call the boy to take care of your horse." He drew in a
breath, but broke off in a fit of coughing, doubling over until he got
himself under control. With a deep scowl, he stomped his foot, then
turned and went into the inn.
When the old man returned, he had a piece of metal in one hand and
a mallet in the other. He proceeded to hit the former with the latter,
setting up a din that startled Firesocks and almost caused Aldan to
fall.
By the time Aldan had steadied himself and calmed Firesocks, the
summoned boy rounded the corner of the inn. This 'boy' was a big man
with a bald head and wide girth who looked old enough to be Aldan's
father.
The blacksmith-looking stable boy led Firesocks away, leaving Aldan
swaying slightly without his support. The old man went inside again, and
Aldan followed, turning his shuffles into short steps by the time he
reached the threshold.
The common room of the nameless inn held three tables and a
fireplace, but no bar. The old man set the metal and mallet on a shelf
next to the front door and crossed the room, saying, "Just stay there
for a moment, young man. I'll get the liniment."
Aldan started to sit, but changed his mind quickly. He stood next
to a table until the man returned with a small clay pot. "Here you go,
son," the innkeeper said. "This will fix you right back up. Nothing
better for saddle burns and sore muscles. This must be your first long
ride, huh?"
Aldan nodded, staring at the pot. Instead of handing it over, the
man continued, "Don't worry, young man, it happens to everyone 'lessn
they're real careful. Drop your breeches, and I'll fix you right up."
Aldan didn't quite know how to react, but he wasn't about to let
this stranger rub his legs, much less his seat. Falling back on his
upbringing, he straightened himself up and, ignoring his protesting
back, said cooly, "I think I can manage." He held out his hand, even
though he wanted to grab the pot and run out of the room.
The innkeeper shrugged and said, "If you're sure. It would be no
trouble ..."
Aldan shook his head, and gestured with his open hand again. The
man gave him the clay pot, and then just stood there.
After a moment, Aldan prompted, "Might I have a room for the
night?"
"Of course, for sure," said the old man. "Let me help you back
there ..."
Aldan flinched away from the helping hand that reached for his arm,
and said, "I can do it myself, thank you."
"Fine, fine. Through that door, take any one you want. You're my
only custom tonight." The innkeeper turned away, and as Aldan
shuffle-stepped across the room he heard the old man mutter, "Ungrateful
pup. Well, it's probably just the pain."
The salve worked wonders. In just a few bells, Aldan felt so much
better that he had his dinner sitting in the common room. He thanked the
old man profusely and paid him generously for the room, the meal, and
two more small clay pots of the salve. Taking the old man's advice,
Aldan applied the rest of the first pot before retiring, and the next
morning he swung his leg over Firesocks' back and faced the road ahead
without apprehension.
Aldan had to make the first big decision of his journey three days
later. He had reached the outskirts of Fremlow City, the ducal seat of
Welspeare. He had dreamed of visiting the city once the duty of
delivering the baronial taxes became his own, knowing that it was likely
to be as far as he would ever travel from his home. That was certainly
no longer the case; he was going much farther on this trip. Still, the
city sat before him, enticing him to visit.
He had ridden as fast as he could without harming Firesocks, but he
was still too close to Beeikar and his father's men. No one could know
that he was traveling to Dargon, but Fremlow City was an obvious
possibility to those who must be following him. It wasn't hard to make
the choice to skirt the city and leave it behind unvisited, but he
wished he hadn't had to.
As Aldan took to the roads that ringed the city and linked the
surrounding farms, he realized that there was going to be more to his
journey than just a short ride and the satisfaction of revenge. After
only two nights, he could tell that staying in a well-maintained inn
couldn't hold a candle to his own bed, and the food was similar from
night to night. When he had set out from home, fired with the passion of
his mission, he hadn't considered just what he was taking on. He had no
qualms about meting out justice to the Menagerie. What was beginning to
worry him was the journey itself.
After detouring around Fremlow City and leaving the uneven tracks
and tiny paths around that city's outskirts, he realized how much help
the broad, well-maintained Royal Road that ran through Welspeare was to
any traveler. Some of the tax money his father delivered to the duchess
every year went to upkeep of this road. He recalled that his father was
pleased that the Welspeare Royal Road ran through Bindrmon; in exchange
for a lighter tax burden, the baron maintained it within his borders.
Aldan knew the cost of the Royal Roads was high, and he understood
why Welspeare followed the example of most of the other duchies in
having only the royally-decreed minimum of one such road. He hoped he
wouldn't have to give up the ease of riding along one before he reached
Dargon.
Aldan traveled north-west on the Royal Road and in due course
passed from Welspeare into the Duchy of Kiliaen, a change marked only by
two short posts
blazoned with the colors of each duchy on the
appropriate side. It was a momentous event in Aldan's life, finally
setting foot outside of Welspeare, but he almost didn't notice the
passage until he was even with the posts. He did drink a toast that
night to Kiliaen, but didn't pay the occasion any further notice. He had
been on the road for five days, and it seemed to him that he had hardly
begun his journey.
Two days later Aldan entered a small village named Henglewood. It
was time to stop for the evening, especially as the new moon gave no
light for night travel, and he took a room at the Purple Duck. He
settled in, and came back down into the common room for dinner,
selecting the stew over the roast meat after failing to identify the
charred object on the spit over the fire.
Halfway through the meal, the innkeeper came over to Aldan's table.
"How is your meal, milord?" he asked.
Aldan said, "Fine, fine," though only for politeness' sake. Before
the man could turn away, he continued, "I was wondering where in this
town I might find laundry services."
"The Purple Duck offers that service, milord, for a modest fee. I
can have your clothes cleaned for you by the middle of tomorrow if you
wish. Just bring them down after dinner. Do you need anything else?"
Aldan was about to shake his head no, but then he remembered
something. "Maps," he said. "I need maps."
The innkeeper said, "We have n--" but seemed to interrupt himself.
Aldan watched as the man looked at him for several moments, frowning.
After glancing across his clothes and down to his shoes under the table,
the man said, "You're not from ... no, of course you aren't." The man's
manner changed from strangely suspicious to completely helpful, and he
continued, "Of course, good sir, of course there are maps for sale in
our fine village. Tomorrow, just cross the square and find the sign of
the quill. All of the arts of the pen in Henglewood are down that
street, from books to drawings and everything in between. I'm sure that
you will find maps among the wares sold there."
Aldan watched as the innkeeper scurried away, and wondered what the
man had been worried about, and why he had left so quickly. Then a whiff
of his stew caught his attention, and he dismissed the balding man's
behavior from his mind.
He finished his dinner, fetched his clothes for the laundry, and
then spent a restful night in his room. Early the next morning, he rose
and set out to buy a map.
Aldan's destination was not hard to spot: on the other side of the
fountain in the center of the square was a wooden quill hanging from a
pole that spanned the width of a narrow street. Passing under that
quill, he entered the first shop on the right.
Aldan stepped through the narrow door and found himself in a small,
cramped space. He stood for a moment in the gloom, surrounded by the
scent of glue and ink and parchment. It reminded him of the workroom of
Sestik, Beeikar's only scribe. He and the Menagerie had studied there as
children, learning their letters.
When he could see, he looked around the tiny store. Between the
door and the counter was hardly room enough for more than a single
customer. The same amount of floor was on the other side of the counter,
only the shelves on either side of the curtained door further reduced
the space. Filling the shelves were bottles of ink, quills, rolls of
parchment, a single stack of paper, and, behind a door made of bars that
was ornately padlocked, three books. Aldan couldn't see anything that
might be a map, but he wanted to be sure before leaving.
"Hello the shop," he called.
The curtains at the back of the room parted, and a short man with
big eyes who looked like he had dressed in the dark came through.
The man smiled and said, "How may I help you, good sir?" He had to
crane his neck back to look up at his customer.
Aldan felt like he was being stared at by an owl: a rumpled,
mismatched, smooth-voiced owl. "I hoped you might have a map for sale."
The smile widened into a grin, and the man said, "So you are the
young lord from the Purple Duck. Yes yes yes, I have a map or two in
stock. Not many, hard to come by after all, but let me check." He bent
down, vanishing behind the waist-high counter for a moment. He popped
back up with a scroll in his hand and snapped it down onto the counter.
With a practiced motion, he unrolled it, revealing an ornately-bordered
and decorated map labeled 'Northern Baranur'.
Aldan bent down to get a better look at it in the dim light. He saw
that it showed Baranur from Magnus northward, but when he bent further
to see how much detail it displayed, it rolled shut under his nose.
Straightening up, Aldan looked at the owl, who was now holding the
map down at his side. The shopkeeper asked, "Will this one do?"
Aldan nodded, and said, "How much?"
The little man looked up at the ceiling and began muttering. After
a moment, the shopkeeper looked up, squinted at Aldan for a moment, and
then grinned again. "This was made by the famous cartographer Fingatish
forty years ago. Guaranteed accurate down to the last detail. How much,
you ask? A Sovereign, and worth every penny."
"What!?" Aldan was shocked. That was an outrageous price, much more
than he had expected. He might have been a baron's son, but his father
had taught him how to haggle. The secret was knowing the honest value of
the item. A piece of paper with marks on being worth a Sovereign? Aldan
couldn't imagine it. Not even the pen of a mapmaker that he had never
heard of could make ink worth that much. "Th-th-three Nobles ..." he
stammered, which was what he had expected to start the bargaining at
rather than an actual offer.
The shopkeeper took it as one anyway and, after blinking up at
Aldan for a moment from under beetled brows, finally said, "You're a
shrewd one, young sir. I can see that I misjudged your ... business
sense. I think I can still make a profit at ... five Nobles."
This made Aldan blink in turn, confused. Half the value of a Royal
was acceptable, when twenty Royals made a Sovereign? Worried that he was
missing something, he accepted the deal. He fished the tiny coins from
his pouch.
The shopkeeper took a close look at them in Aldan's palm, then
snatched them up and slapped the scroll down in their place. He started
making shooing motions at Aldan, saying "If that's all, I've got things
to be doing. Thank you, and good day."
Aldan backed up two steps, and bumped into the door. The
shopkeeper's stare unnerved him so much that he fumbled at the latch,
and almost fell out of the shop. He was surprised at being run off so
quickly, as he needed another map or two. Shrugging, he turned and
continued up the quill-signed street to find some.
Aldan entered every shop on the street. He had never seen so much
parchment and ink in one place before, but found no more maps for sale.
He returned to the Purple Duck and spread out his purchase in his room.
The map was a shambles. The errors Aldan could pick out without
effort included a single line of mountains crossing the map almost
horizontally and labeled "Dersth Mountains", Quinnat didn't even have a
border on the coast, and Welspeare cupped the eastern edge of Magnus all
the way to Arvalia, interposed between both Kiliaen and Quinnat.
Aldan fought down the urge to shred the parchment into scrap.
Recovering, he examined the map further. Error after error piled up,
until he knew that it was worthless. As he went over the map, he noticed
certain patterns in the fading of the ink and the age-browning of the
parchment. He recalled Sestik's lessons about fakery on scrolls and
realized that this map wasn't forty years old at all, it had simply been
made to look that way.
He had been swindled! His father would never have stood for that,
and would be sorely disappointed with him as well.
Aldan felt despair well up inside him. He knew that he would never
be able to enact his revenge if he wasn't even able to outwit a
commoner. He needed wits and skill to succeed.
Before he could give up entirely, he remembered the last time he
had seen Tillna in the taproom of the Boar-Ring Inn. Then he remembered
the box in her room with its grisly contents, and the note. He realized
that his failure was simply a lesson to be learned, and he wouldn't be
fooled like that again. He had vengeance to deliver, and he wasn't going
to let a greedy merchant get in his way.
There was one consolation: he hadn't paid a full Round for the
forgery. That comfort didn't balance the disappointment of still not
knowing how to get where he was going.
Aldan tried to collect on the guarantee of the shopkeeper, but the
store was closed when he returned. After a restless night, Aldan tried
the shop again to find it still closed. He made the choice to move on
without satisfaction rather than waste more time in Henglewood.
The lack of a reliable map became important just a day later. Aldan
had been told by the innkeeper of the Purple Duck that the Royal Road
that came out of Welspeare connected to the ducal seat of Kiliaen.
Noltor-on-Sea was, of course, on the western coast of the duchy and it
was actually south of Fremlow City. The Royal Road began to curve even
further away from Aldan's route northward by heading due west during
that day. Eventually it would have to bend more, ending up heading
south-west and farther away from Aldan's destination. He had no choice
but to leave the easy route behind.
He waited for just the right northward branching path, hoping to
find a well-traveled trading route instead of having to settle for a cow
path. He found one before the Royal Road had shifted too far to the
south, and struck off along it.
Aldan encountered another obstacle almost immediately. His
newly-chosen path veered eastward almost as soon as he turned onto it,
and after that it seldom held a single direction for more than a league.
The only compass point it never took was south.
He switched roads four more times that day, and had to continue to
ride for a full bell after dark before he located an inn. Aldan walked
into the low-ceilinged front room with its minimal lighting and pallets
already laid out in place of tables for the few half-Penny guests, and
realized that he had left behind the assurance of well-maintained
lodgings with the easily followed Royal Road.
He had to show his Penny to hire one of the two rooms the inn
boasted, and he took his bowl of thin stew with him. The mattress was as
thin as the stew, and supplied just as much satisfaction. He was glad to
leave that inn behind as early as he was able.
But the quality of lodgings did not improve as he got further from
the Royal Road, and once he slept under a tree when he couldn't find any
better accommodation. Aldan didn't so much get used to the deprivation
as become resigned to it. After a few nights spent in seedy inns,
sleeping on rough straw covered by blankets stiff with someone else's
grime, eating food that a Beeikar rat would have turned up its
bewhiskered nose at, he simply wished for the journey to be over.
Aldan didn't give up, though. He only had to remember holding the
box with Tillna's heart in it, and he was spurred on again. He tried to
choose roads that took him at least a little northward, often with less
success than he wanted. He managed to progress, though not nearly as
swiftly as he had hoped. When he rode into Thoragil and discovered it
was located close to the northern border of Duchy Kiliaen but
considerably west of the center of that line, he became thoroughly
frustrated with the pace of his mission.
He quickly learned that Thoragil was very different from Beeikar.
For one, it was totally landlocked: no river flowed next to it or
through it to provide convenient transport for goods. And yet, majority
of its businesses were oriented toward travel and trade. Unlike
Henglewood, it wasn't simply situated along a well-traveled road; it was
a center of commerce. Seven major trade routes radiated from Thoragil
like the spokes of a wheel, and situated astride each road as it passed
through the town's walls was a traders' enclave, where caravans as well
as individual travelers gathered, supplied themselves, and set forth.
Aldan thought he might try again to purchase a map, but he decided
to get some information first. He went to the desk of the man who
managed the rooms of the Lark and Pig where he was staying, and
addressed the brown-eyed man with severely pulled back blond hair seated
there. "Do you know of any map sellers in town?" he asked.
"Sure, half-a-dozen without thinking," said the man. "I can give
you directions, or have one of the runners guide you."
Aldan hesitated, and then asked, "Can you tell me which ones have
good maps? You know, accurate ones?"
The blond man said, "They're all proper maps, sir. The guild
wouldn't let a bad map be sold."
"Guild?"
"Cartographer's guild, of course. You wouldn't want to buy a map
from anyone else, would you?"
"Oh, that guild. No, no, I don't know what I was thinking. So
where's the nearest shop?"
"Treefid Enclave's a good place to start. Out the door, go left,
third right to the radial, and take that to the wall. Beyond the wall is
Treefid."
Aldan thanked the man and left. He had no problem finding the
traders' enclave. The first shop he found with a quill and parchment on
the door turned out to be a large triangular space with maps covering
every inch of the walls. He looked each one over, and they were
certainly of better accuracy than the one he had already purchased, with
all of the duchies that he knew about in their proper places. There were
maps of every duchy in Baranur individually, and the Welspeare map
agreed with his own knowledge of it. He checked for the major landmarks
he knew about, and found that the Darst Range was correctly labeled and
oriented.
Satisfied with their accuracy, he next examined the maps for the
features he needed. Unfortunately, the only maps that had any roads at
all on them were the ones depicting the cities of Thoragil and Magnus.
Most of the maps had towns and villages marked, but not even the Royal
Roads were marked out. He did notice, though, that every single one bore
the seal of the Cartographer's Guild on the upper left corner.
Aldan purchased a map of northern Baranur that would at least give
him some idea of his general location, if not how he had gotten there.
Looking at the distance between Kiliaen and Dargon, he wondered if he
would ever be able to cross that vast expanse of parchment by himself.
He took the time to scour the town for a more complete map without
finding one. Finally, in a narrow shop that was full of parchment but
lacked the accompanying scent completely because of the way the walls at
either end were folded back to let air flow through, Aldan asked the
matronly proprietor, "Do you have any maps with roads on them?"
The woman said, "I'm sorry, but I don't. It's very rare to find a
map with roads or trade routes marked. The cartographers have a deal
with the traders: the map-makers get information from the travelers in
exchange for not making it easier for just anyone to cross Quinnat, for
example, on their own."
"And if someone needed to do just that?" Aldan asked.
"Why, hire a guide or, better yet, join a caravan."
That evening, Aldan sat at the bar of the Lark and Pig drinking
steadily. He had confirmed the woman's comments at other shops, and it
appeared that the caravan masters guarded their trails jealously. He
wasn't going to find a map that would be more than general help in
getting him north.
During a lull in business, the bartender, a rugged-looking
individual with a square, jutting chin, stopped in front of Aldan and
said, "You've been fairly serious about getting on the outside of our
best ale for a couple of bells now, friend. You have a problem you're
trying to drown?"
"No," Aldan replied. "Not really." He paused for a moment, and then
continued, "Well, 'cept for needing to go north and not knowin' how."
"Well, you're in the right place then, friend. Check out the
enclaves. Your best option would be to find a caravan to travel with;
they're safer in general, and your comfort will be greater since you can
take along a larger load. You might travel faster with a guide, but it
would cost a great deal more and you wouldn't gain all that much in
terms of comfort or safety. But caravans are leaving Thoragil every day
in this season. Surely you can find one going where you want to go."
Aldan nodded and said, "Good advice, I'm sure, but I'll manage on
my own somehow." He lifted his mug and said, "Could I have another?"
The bartender shrugged, refilled the mug, and moved on to another
customer. Aldan continued drinking the flavorful, but not very strong,
ale, and continued to worry about the amount of parchment between
Kiliaen and Dargon.
Aldan happened to glance up as three men walked into the bar
together. There wasn't anything remarkable about them and when they left
his field of vision, he didn't bother to turn his head to follow them.
He heard benches scraping behind him, and a conversation began that
sounded like it had started elsewhere.
"So my brother, he drags himself home a sennight after he was
supposed to get there. Said he and his friend got ambushed right off a
Royal Road north of the Laraka, and he was lucky to have gotten away
with only his arm crippled."
A different voice, deeper than the first, said, "That's nothin'. I
knew this guy once, 'e was a trapper. He told me one time about going
out to check his lines, and finding a dead man. He said the guy looked
fit, and had armor and a sword on, but he was tore up like a bear or a
forest cat got him. Guess anyone can have bad luck, huh?"
A third voice, the deepest one yet, said, "Aw, you're just trying
to scare me outa going down to Noltor-on-Sea by myself."
"No, no," chorused the others.
The deepest voice continued, "And it won't work. I'm not staying."
The others protested, and then the voice continued, "Instead, you're
coming with me."
Aldan ignored the rest of the conversation and went back to his
drinking. Only now, the possible dangers he might encounter as he
crossed all of that parchment figured into his worrying. That night, he
dreamed about wild animals and bandits and wandering for months and
months and never even making it as far as the Laraka River.
It might have been the advice, it might have been the nightmares,
or it might have even been too much ale, but the next day, Aldan went
back to the enclaves to find a caravan heading north. He couldn't find
one going directly to Dargon, so he settled for passage to Valdasly, in
the Duchy of Arvalia. That city was definitely on his way, and he had
been assured that he would be able to find another caravan there to take
him further north. He idled for two more days in Thoragil, and left with
Chenzo's 'Van.
The train of horses and carts and people moved no faster than a
moderate walk, and stopped four times, not counting their final stop of
the early evening. By the end of the first day they hadn't covered more
ground than Aldan could have alone even taking as many wrong turns as he
ever had. The bartender had been right about the comfort, as his tent
that night was almost as comfortable as the inn he had just left. And
the safety aspect was obvious, since there were enough men and women in
the caravan that only an army of bandits would have attacked it. But no
one had mentioned the snail's pace that a large caravan set.
Aldan thought that maybe the pace would be better on the second
day, but if anything, it was worse as their route deviated onto narrow,
winding paths briefly in the middle of the day. On the third, when the
distance they had ventured by fifth bell wasn't even as far as the
previous day, Aldan sought out Chenzo himself.
Chenzo was a very round man who rode in a wagon along with a
driver. Aldan rode up beside the wagon and said, "Greetings, Chenzo. I
was wondering whether your excellent caravan was going to maintain this
rather leisurely pace, or if it might travel somewhat faster in the
coming days?"
Chenzo looked over at Aldan and said, "No, Lord Aldan, I can't
really coax much more speed out of my caravan than this, barring road
conditions of course. That's the price of a well-stocked and staffed
caravan. We're big and thus safe, but slow."
Aldan realized that Chenzo was right, and considered his options.
He could remain with the caravan and only get as far as Valdasly in two
months or more, by which time the Menagerie could be well hidden in
Dargon, or he could brave the dangers of the road and actually make
decent, if circuitous, progress on his own.
In the end, there was only one decision he could make. He was the
son of a baron, and he should be able to brave the dangers of the wild
on his own. He said, "I think that we should part company, Chenzo. My
business won't wait forever, and I must press on ahead."
"If that is your decision then I wish you well, Lord Aldan. You may
leave at your own convenience."
"There is the matter of a refund, good Chenzo," said Aldan.
"On what grounds?"
"I am leaving your caravan well before Valdasly, after all."
"And why should that matter, Lord Aldan?" asked Chenzo. "Your fee
allowed you to join the 'van. I never agreed to get you to Valdasly.
Fare well, Lord Aldan."
The caravan master turned away, leaving Aldan gaping in
astonishment. It was unthinkable that a commoner would treat him so
badly! He took a deep breath and calmed himself. His rank meant nothing
out here in the middle of the road, surrounded by people loyal to, or at
least employed by, Chenzo.
Then he remembered the map seller in Henglewood and his vow not to
be cheated again. He tried to puzzle out a way to get his own back, and
in an instant he had an inspiration. If Aldan couldn't use his nobility
directly, there was still a way he could use his rank and influence.
"Merchant Chenzo," he said.
The caravan master turned, and said, "Have you not left yet, Lord
Aldan?"
"Not just yet, merchant Chenzo. I was thinking ..."
Silence stretched for a few moments, and finally Chenzo answered,
"Yes?" with a look that told Aldan that the merchant was aware of the
trick and had only answered to move the conversation along.
"We had a deal, merchant Chenzo. You had your understanding of it,
and I had mine, but a decent merchant wouldn't let someone's honest
naivete lead them into an unfortunate situation like this." Aldan paused
and watched a frown form on Chenzo's round face. "A bad merchant,
concerned only with profit and not reputation, might do such a thing. A
thief might perpetrate such a fraud, since reputation means nothing to
such. But I cannot believe that a prosperous merchant, like yourself for
example, would ever let such a situation arise."
Chenzo's frown had vanished, but the expression that replaced it
was not welcoming. Aldan continued, "I am not challenging your decision
here and now, merchant Chenzo; this is your domain and you rule within
it. But I feel that my story would find receptive ears among my own
peers, and I'm sure they would pass it on. After all, how could they
resist a tale of the son of a baron being cheated by merchant Chenzo?"
Aldan feigned turning Firesocks away, and was rewarded by the
barked, "Wait!" from the caravan master. Aldan released the reins and,
putting on his most neutral expression, he said, "Yes?"
"Perhaps we can reach a new accommodation, my Lord Aldan," said the
frowning Chenzo. Aldan let himself show a small smile, and the haggling
began.
Aldan left the caravan with some of his money once again in his
purse, and some of the equipment he had been using tied up behind his
saddle. He worked his way north again, taking as many east-bearing paths
as he could. He made slow progress, but he was still faster than
Chenzo's 'Van.
Three sennights after riding away from his home in Beeikar, Aldan
rode into Pyinalt's Crossroads. He was in the Duchy of Quinnat, and he
was headed for Port Sevlyn as the easiest way he could see to cross the
mighty Laraka River. Blindly following the roads and paths he came
across, adjusting his heading by finding villages on his map, he had
ridden into this town, which was too small to show on his map.
Dismounting in front of the Buzzard's Roost Inn, Aldan noticed
Firesocks favoring a hind leg. He stroked the horse's haunch and
carefully lifted the leg to examine the bottom of the foot. The stone he
found was easily removed and he didn't see any blood, so it couldn't
have been lodged in there for very long. He looked at the condition of
the shoe and realized that Firesocks hadn't been shod for this kind of
travel. Lifting his head, he saw a large wooden horseshoe hanging from a
gatepost across the square from the inn. He knew where he would be going
tomorrow.
The Buzzard's Roost was small, plain, and clean. The meal he ate
was simple yet hearty, the straw in his mattress was fresh, and the
blanket soft if threadbare. His room even boasted a window through which
he could clearly see the full moon. He didn't begrudge the three Bits it
cost.
The next morning, Aldan led Firesocks across the square to the
Eldirhan Blacksmithy. The moment he crossed beneath the gate into the
walled-in courtyard, he felt strange. The large, open space seemed
familiar, especially the bench beneath the tall chestnut trees at the
back, near the door into what he was sure were the living spaces of the
building. In the other back corner was a wide door, and that was where
he led his horse, knowing it was the forge.
The room beyond the door was bigger than Aldan expected. A
half-dozen forge fires burned in the back half of the room, and four
young men and women worked bellows and heated metal at two of them. As
he stood on the threshold, he was approached by a thickly-built woman
with ruddy skin and short, brown hair. Her bare arms bulged with the
muscle that came from swinging heavy hammers down on hot iron, and she
extended a hand that was rough and already dirty from the work she had
done that morning.
"Hail, stranger, and fair day to you. I'm Marigey, and this is my
blacksmithy. What can my apprentices and I do for you and your steed
this day?" Her voice matched the rest of her: deep, rich, and filled
with contented assurance. Her hand enfolded his own and Aldan felt the
strength in her fingers.
"My horse needs shoes fit for long traveling, Mistress Marigey. How
much for a full set?"
The blacksmith glanced at Firesocks' feet, and expertly lifted a
forefoot onto her thigh. She tapped the shoe, and ran her finger along
its edge, before releasing the leg again. "You're right, young man.
Those are common shoes, fit for exercising and the occasional hunt. I
can have him shod in thicker, harder metal before fourth bell for only a
Round."
Aldan honestly had no idea of the value of long road shoes or the
time of a blacksmith to shape and fit them; his father employed a
blacksmith at the keep and paid him a wage. He did know a little about
people, though, and he thought that Marigey was testing him by the way
her eyes narrowed slightly while her left eyebrow went up slightly.
A Round wouldn't significantly deplete his purse, but he didn't
want to pay more than the job was worth. Taking a deep breath and hoping
he wasn't going to insult the woman, he said, "I was hoping I wouldn't
have to let go of more than ten Bits for this chore."
Marigey's face relaxed, and she nodded. "Ten Bits, yeh? Ten Bits
might get you the lot where you're from, but it won't get you more'n the
shoes here. I have to set a fair value on my own time, after all." She
wasn't frowning, and there was no heat in her voice, so Aldan knew that
he had ventured the right counteroffer. "But I'll tell you what. My time
might be worth a premium, but that of my apprentices is not. They have
all studied long, and shod many a horse, so the work will be worthy of
my own hands. That being the case, I can offer you a discount at
seventeen."
Entering into the spirit of the moment, Aldan paused and pretended
to consider. Then he said, "On second thought, perhaps I could spend as
much as thirteen under the circumstances."
Marigey laughed, nodded, and said, "Fifteen?"
"Fine, and thank you." Aldan shook her hand again, and counted out
the copper coins. She thanked him and said that he could wait in the
courtyard. As she led Firesocks into the shoeing stall to one side of
the wide door, she was already calling out to her apprentices to fetch
the medium blanks and the deshoeing claw.
Aldan turned and walked slowly over to the bench under the chestnut
trees. The strangeness he had felt when he first arrived, forgotten
during the negotiations, was returning. As he settled into one of the
worn sections of the bench, fitting his spine to the curve that had been
hollowed out of the back, he felt it all around him. There was a
pressure in his ears that reminded him of the time in his youth when he
had been dared by Fox, his closest friend and fellow Menagerie member,
to lift every hammer in the blacksmithy in town. He had started to
struggle after the middle-sized hammer, but he hadn't been more than
twelve summers old at the time, either. Determined to beat Fox's dare,
showing off to all of his friends, he had managed to hoist every one but
the last a double-hand off the ground. But the blacksmith's largest
hammer, that seemed to his recollection to have a head as large as his
own, had defeated his mightiest efforts. It had been then, as he
struggled against the unbeatable weight, that he had felt a similar
sense of pressure at his ears, which had eased when he stopped
attempting the impossible.
That memory led him to think about Fox. He remembered how close he
and Fox had become over the years. Fox, or Lord Wannek to call him by
his proper name, had reacted the worst when the baron had ordered Aldan
to cease associating with the Menagerie. Aldan had never been totally
sure whether his father had made that demand only for the reasons he had
stated. Could he have learned of what had been blossoming between
himself and Fox? Those deep feelings ... but, no. It was useless to
think on that, given that he was chasing Fox -- and Bear and Owl -- to
Dargon to avenge Tillna's murder.
Aldan's attention was drawn to the gate by the sound of hooves. He
looked up just as someone walked a horse through the gate. The figure
stopped just within the courtyard, and something about the whole setting
seemed strangely familiar to Aldan. The pressure in his ears increased,
holding him down against the bench, and he felt like he had seen this --
no, done this before. The shade, the seat, the horse, the person ... It
had all happened before, long before. Locked in place by the pressure
still building around him, Aldan felt his lips beginning to move even
though he had no idea what he was going to say ... and then the moment
broke as the stranger started walking toward him again.
The pressure vanished, and Aldan started to breathe normally again.
At first he thought the figure was a woman for some reason, but it
didn't take long for him to realize his error. The man was tall and
pale-skinned, with ash-blond hair and an amazingly large nose, which
didn't affect how handsome he was. As he got closer, Aldan noticed that
his eyes were a bright grass green which went well with his coloring. He
also noticed the bardic harps and stars on the man's belt, which seemed
somehow appropriate.
But he wasn't comfortable sitting in the shade any longer.
Something about that strange pressure -- something about this bard --
unsettled him profoundly. So he stood up and took a few steps toward the
forge entrance. He called out, "Marigey, you've another customer. I'll
be back in a few bells for Firesocks." As the stout blacksmith appeared
in the doorway, Aldan turned and left. He gave the bard a brief nod as
he passed, but the blond-haired, green-eyed man stayed in Aldan's
thoughts for a long time after.
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