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DargonZine Volume 15 Issue 09
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 9
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DargonZine Distributed: 10/27/2002
Volume 15, Number 9 Circulation: 644
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Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Heir to Castigale 2 P. Atchley and Firil 1, 1018
Dave Fallon
Talisman Nine 3 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Yuli 13-Sy 7, 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 15-9, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright October, 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>
Before the customary editorial speechmaking, let me get one bit of
business out of the way. If you're a Hotmail or MSN mail user, you
probably didn't receive our last issue: Volume 15 Number 8. That's
because on September 30th, when the issue was distributed, Microsoft was
experiencing a service problem that returned all DargonZine mail with
the error message "service unavailable". This is actually the third time
in the past year that we've experienced a widespread outage when
distributing issues to Hotmail users, and I'm hoping that this month's
mailing will go through properly. If you're a Hotmail or MSN user, be
warned that you're likely to occasionally miss DargonZine mailings due
to their system problems.
If you did miss 15-8, I urge you to fetch it from our Web or FTP
sites (listed in the masthead above), because the stories in this issue
are continuations of stories that we printed last month.
Of course, Dafydd's ongoing "Talisman" series continues with part
three of "Talisman Nine". The earlier parts appeared in our previous two
issues. I hope you're up to speed on the whole Talisman epic, because
we're making the final turn and heading for the home stretch.
And this issue contains the second half of P. Atchley and Dave
Fallon's "Heir to Castigale". This story began in our last issue, and is
something of a departure for us. Allow me to explain ...
One typically expects a well-written story to tie up all its loose
ends, leaving the reader with no unanswered questions. And, for the most
part, that's what DargonZine's writers value and try to provide in their
stories.
But "Heir to Castigale" is very different. Castigale is our newest
"communal event": something that will provide an interesting way for
several writers to collaborate, and also give Dargon a more unified feel
for our readers. As you read the story, you'll notice that instead of
having all its loose ends neatly tied up, "Heir to Castigale" leaves a
troublesome mess of unanswered questions. That's because the authors
wanted to provide plenty of "hooks" or "points of entry" that other
writers could pick up and run with. They've established a framework that
other writers will be building on in future works, which we'll bring you
just as soon as they're ready for publication.
So if you haven't read the first part of "Heir to Castigale", go
fetch yourself a copy of DargonZine 15-8 and get caught up! And as you
read the chapter that appears in this issue, consider what's been left
out, and what you'd like to see more of. I guarantee you'll see
additional stories that will flesh out the unspoken details of this
plot, and there'll be plenty of surprises along the way.
I hope you enjoy it!
========================================================================
Heir to Castigale
Part 2
by P. Atchley and Dave Fallon
<dpartha@surfindia.com> and <dfallon23@yahoo.com>
Firil 1, 1018
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 15-8
"And now, it is my great pleasure to introduce Lord Sagrie
Gribbane, my future son-in-law, husband-to-be of my beloved daughter,
Evelain!"
Lord Curran Castigale listened to the announcement made by his
half-brother, Baron Kelleman Castigale with suspicion in his heart and
pleasure on his face. Curran had accepted the invitation to the Firil
Firstday feast at Castigale Keep based on information from his spies.
The Castigale barony on the southwest border of the Asbridge duchy was
one that he intended to inherit -- nay, depended upon inheriting. Now,
this betrothal raised questions about the heirship, for there was
something about the stubborn set of Kelleman's jaw, the victorious smile
on Sagrie's face, and the displeased look in the eyes of his
half-sister, Dagny, that made him feel he lacked complete knowledge
about the situation.
Holding his complaisant expression, he turned and smiled at the
young bridegroom, Gribbane. Over the din of loud conversations around
them, he shouted, "Welcome to the family, Sagrie," raising his glass in
a toast.
"Thank you, Lord Curran," Sagrie answered with a smile. Curran
drank his toast and let his attention wander around the table at which
the immediate family sat. He swished his drink around his goblet as he
thought troubled thoughts. His father had named him heir presumptive to
the barony should the present baron, his older brother Kelleman, not
name an heir. As was Castigale tradition, Kelleman was expected to name
a male child of his line. Since the baron had no sons, Curran had
believed the barony would fall to his shoulders when his aged brother
died, but the betrothal had changed the situation.
Kelleman could break Castigale tradition which had lasted for
years; he could name either of his two daughters as his heir, though the
newly engaged Evelain was far too simple a maid while the older daughter
Pythia was insane. He could also name Sagrie his heir as well as
son-in-law. However, given the old feud between the two baronies of
Castigale and Gribbane, Curran felt it unlikely that Kelleman would give
his barony away to a scion of the Gribbane line. Still, Curran was more
than a little uneasy at the accord that seemed to exist between his
half-brother and Sagrie, despite the fact that heirship had not been
mentioned in the announcement.
The banquet continued, the cacophony of voices drowning the lively
tune that the musicians began to play. The far end of the huge room had
been cleared for dancing, and as people finished eating, several of them
moved to the dance floor. It was a rousing celebration, but Curran was
hard put to keep his face clear of his brooding animosity. His wife,
Nimieta, who sat next to him was well aware of his discomfiture.
"What bothers you, husband?" she whispered. In the surrounding
noise of guests chatting, glasses chinking, and the minstrels plucking
away, she could have shouted and he would have had trouble hearing her;
but he had shared so many secret communications with his wife over the
years that he had learned to read her lips.
"Something odd is happening, Nimieta," he replied. "My spy told me
that this marriage would probably occur, and that both Dagny and
Kelleman were against letting either Evelain or Sagrie inherit the
barony. Given that, why does Sagrie look so victorious? Why does Dagny
look so angry and defeated at the same time?" He took a sip of the fine
wine and watched his relatives with veiled suspicion.
Her full lips curving up in a perfect half-moon arch, Nimieta
smiled sweetly at someone seated across the table. "Why don't you ask
him?" she asked simply.
"I can't ask my spy here; it will look too suspicious and --"
Nimieta laughed, cutting off his statement. "Not your spy, Curran."
She gestured toward the head of the table with one slender arm, on which
twin bracelets jangled. "I meant your brother."
He glanced towards the baron and a slow smile spread across his
features. His fat half-brother was busy ignoring Dagny, who was trying
to break into his conversation with Sagrie. Curran knew that while Dagny
was always close-mouthed, and Sagrie would probably be little inclined
to share any information, Kelleman would readily spill the plot if only
to gloat.
Curran leaned over to kiss his wife, then rose and made his way
over to where Kelleman stood. Edging his way past the ring of vassals
trying to gain their lord's attention, Curran approached his brother. At
once, both Dagny and Kelleman wrinkled their noses at his approach, as
if some unbathed woodsman had sneaked into their midst, while Sagrie had
a peculiar smile on his face.
"Brother," Curran said jovially, "it's been so long since last I
saw you. Living in distant Dargon, I hardly ever hear news from my
family's seat." He turned to his sister, "And Dagny, how lovely you
look. You've organized quite a party. It's amazing what you have done in
so short a time!"
Dagny managed a nod before she said, "I appreciate your accepting
our invitation this time, Curran. But the baron and I were just having a
discussion --"
"No," Kelleman drawled. Curran could smell the fumes of strong
liquor on his breath. "No, actually our discussion was just ending." He
looked meaningfully at Dagny, who glared back. "Why don't you go check
on our guests, Dagny?" She hesitated a moment before casting a baleful
glance at all three men and striding away.
"If you would excuse me," Sagrie said to Kelleman. "I must look to
my betrothed." He bowed to both men and left them to their talk.
Wondering anew at Sagrie's smile, Curran said to his brother as
soon as the younger man was out of earshot, "Congratulations on your
daughter's engagement." Kelleman grunted and cast his bleary eyes around
the room, obviously uninterested in the conversation.
Curran continued, "Might I inquire, since this barony is to one day
be mine, what land you dowered to the young couple? I've heard you've
already put the call out for craftsmen to start building their house
..."
Kelleman glared at his younger brother menacingly. Then all at once
he chuckled and slurred, "Not that it's any of your business, but I gave
them the Pass of Amante and the Valley of the Thumb. And it's none of
your business because I *will* have an heir. I've told Sagrie that any
son he gets on Evelain will be the next to sit in Castigale." Smiling in
self-satisfaction, Kelleman hooked his thumbs in his belt and thrust his
belly out at Curran. In his inebriated state, the baron's voice had been
louder than was discreet, and so the ring of vassals behind them began
to talk excitedly amongst each other and scan the room for Sagrie so
that they could be the first to catch his ear.
Meanwhile, Curran was aghast. "You promised to name any boy she
bears as your heir? You've pledged our family's lands to a child who
hasn't even been born yet?" His control faltered and his voice rose in
anger as he turned the two statements into questions. He took a couple
of deep breaths to calm himself, for it wouldn't do to be seen arguing
in public with the baron over his decrees.
Kelleman's satisfied look had turned to one of extreme displeasure.
He frowned down at Curran and said vindictively, "I'm only telling you
so that you know enough to get comfortable in your lands in Dargon.
Those hundred acres are all the land you will ever rule, brother." With
a dismissive gesture, the baron brushed past Curran to accept obsequious
congratulations from his vassals.
Too stunned to speak, Curran hurried back to his wife's side. She
smiled at him expectantly, but as he related the situation to her, the
expression in her eyes changed even as she maintained a sweet smile on
her face for the benefit of the gossip-mongers. When at length it was
seemly for them to withdraw, they took swift advantage of the
opportunity and retired to the quarters allotted to them.
The moment the doors closed behind them, Nimieta spoke. "That was
unexpected."
Curran pulled at his neckcloth as he replied, "Yes, but the wedding
date is still some time away. Who knows? Many things can happen between
now and the first of Yuli."
"Well, I wouldn't be too sure of anything to do with the marriage,"
Nimieta said with a yawn. "We are not the only ones with designs on the
barony."
Curran threw his clothing on the floor and slid into bed. "Yes, I'm
certain the barony is the only reason Sagrie agreed to wed that
simpleton. Despite the trade implications, his aunt, Baroness Veronie
Gribbane, is far too proud to forget the feud between the two baronies,
and she wouldn't gratify Sagrie's ambitions to save his pompous life.
"But the barony isn't the worst of it," he continued, his tone
darkening. "Even should Evelain prove barren, she still keeps the land
Kelleman dowered to her." Grunting, Curran tossed and turned in the bed,
trying to get comfortable. "And we need it!"
"I didn't mean Sagrie or his aunt being the only ones who want the
barony," Nimieta said. She rose and began to remove the jewelry she was
wearing.
Curran punched the pillows into position and leaned back, watching
her graceful movements. "Who else? You can't seriously consider Dagny.
She's not a legal daughter of my father, and as far as the inheritance
is concerned, she doesn't enter into the picture at all."
Nimieta unhooked her dress and slowly slid it down her body to the
ground, bending slightly as she did so. "Dagny is a very ambitious
woman, and you should not underestimate her, my husband." She
straightened and stood still for a moment.
Curran sighed. Her sloping shoulders gave way to generous curves,
and as his eyes went down her body, he could see her reaction both to
his gaze and the chill air. He brought his eyes back up and pushed aside
the covers invitingly.
She smiled at him and moved forward, saying, "Dagny is a mother.
What she would not do even for herself, she would do for Slevin. I know;
I am a mother too." She slid into the bed, leaning against him, and
Curran lost interest in the conversation.
Wearing a dark cloak, Curran walked north on Commercial Street
heading towards the outskirts of the city of Dargon. It had been two
months since the banquet at Castigale when he had learned his
inheritance was in jeopardy. He had plotted ways of turning the tides of
politics in Castigale back to his favor, but even living in his faraway
estate in the duchy of Dargon, he had to be cautious. His brother
already suspected him of unsavory activities, and if too drastic an
event were to occur in Castigale, Curran feared Kelleman would be quick
to look his way for the culprit.
However, with Melrin, the summer festival, approaching in less than
a sennight, he had a convenient excuse to journey to Dargon. Feigning
tiredness from the journey, he had waited in his room at the Rogue and
Quiver Inn until the night's third bell and then slipped quietly out.
His brisk walk led him to his destination: the last cottage in the row
of decrepit buildings that lined the dirt street that led north of the
city proper. This one appeared to be slightly larger than its companions
and had a small shed beside it.
Curran strode to the cottage and rapped authoritatively on the
door. The sound carried through the night air, echoing within the
dwelling. For more than a mene there was no response save for the
distant yowling of dogs. He was about to leave when a cold hand patted
his arm.
Startled, he turned swiftly, arm outstretched. His instinctive
attack sliced through the air and did not find the obstruction he'd
expected. Two paces away stood a small woman, regarding him so intently
that her eyes seemed to glow like a cat's. In the dim light of the moon,
Nochturon, she seemed ethereal, and had she not spoken, Curran would
have sworn that he had encountered an apparition.
"This is an odd time to come a-calling," she said, breaking the
stillness. She had a very pretty voice, but the rest of her, aside from
her eyes, was unremarkable: short hair that appeared a middling brown, a
triangular face with a slightly pointed chin, and an ordinary nose. The
tunic and breeches she wore appeared to be of the same muddy color.
"Straight," he began, "I'm looking for Iolanthe. Are you her?"
"Is this about an animal?"
"Not really," Curran said. His diplomatic instincts prevented him
from saying anything that sounded negative. In this case, his errand was
delicate, and he struggled to find the right words. He settled for the
most innocuous ones he could find: "I need some help."
She stared at him for a very long time, and Curran had to
consciously stop himself from fidgeting. The distant town bell tolled
the time, four long and solemn bells, and she moved at last, nodding her
head toward the cottage. He followed her in and watched as she turned up
the wick in the lamp that hung from a hook on the ceiling. The room
appeared to be a sort of antechamber leading to the inside of the
cottage; what lay beyond the open doorway at the far end was shrouded in
darkness. There were no windows, but shelves on all walls were filled
with folded fabric squares, covered containers, pots both large and
small, and tiny bundles of what appeared to be roots. The room smelled
strongly of dried herbs, animals, and something less pleasant, like
sickness or death. Nochturon's pale light trickled in through a simple
skylight.
"You said you needed my help," Iolanthe prompted, sitting on one
side of the small table in the center of the room.
Curran looked around for another chair and found a stool in one
corner. He took a moment to drag it to the table and sat down gingerly
as he tried to think of the right words to say what he wanted. "Yes, I
need your help. There's a young woman who is getting married on the
first of Yuli," he said hesitantly. "It would be a good idea if she did
not."
Something changed in the young woman's face and bearing, and Curran
felt a thrill of fear. Until that moment, he had simply taken her to be
what she appeared to be: a healer. With that one statement of his, a
menace had crept into the room. He tried to identify it so that he could
demystify it. Was it that she had straightened in her seat? Was it that
she became instantly ready to field a physical threat from him? Or was
it simply that she had shed whatever it was that allowed her to
masquerade as a healer? He did not know, and even though he wanted to
discover what it was, he did not pursue the thought.
"Changing the course of events is not something to be undertaken
lightly," she said softly. "Are you sure you want this to be done?"
"Yes, I'm sure," he said strongly, allowing his rage at Kelleman to
spill into his voice.
The emotion seemed to convince her, for she nodded once. "The
change in the events will be permanent," she warned. "Second thoughts
will be ... useless."
Curran snorted. "I will not have them. I am determined on this
course of action. It is the only one left open to me."
She smiled. "There is also the matter of funds."
"I understand." Curran wondered how much she would charge. He had
originally thought it odd that this healer was reputed in darker
societies to be a killer who could make murder look like an accident. He
had been used to thinking of hired killers as uncouth and barbaric. He
remembered the man he had hired to ambush a merchant's wagon inbound to
Dargon. He had dressed in dirty clothes that were the same color as mud;
he had smelled like a rotting corpse, his hair and teeth had been
blackened with soot, and his language had been almost incomprehensible.
Curran had been surprised when one of his unofficial hirelings had
whispered to him, after a generous payment, that she was the best. It
was rumored that this woman had even killed Liriss, the most notorious
and feared criminal of Dargon, and made it look like a disappearance.
Looking at her now, he was still taken aback.
"This young woman who is getting married, tell me about her,"
Iolanthe invited. She leaned back and pulled something from the shelf
and brought it to the table.
Curran tensed and then relaxed as he realized that she was merely
working with a bunch of herbs, separating the leaves and the roots. "The
girl's name is Evelain Castigale, and she's going to marry Sagrie
Gribbane. Lord Sagrie, I should say."
Iolanthe's hands stilled momentarily. "They do not live in Dargon.
She is the daughter of the baron of Castigale, is she not?"
"Yes," Curran replied, surprised that she recognized the names. Few
people in the isolated city of Dargon could even count the rest of the
baronies in their own duchy, let alone know one small barony in the
Asbridge duchy that was a fortnight away.
"There will be travel involved," she murmured. "Therefore expenses.
You mentioned that the wedding is on the first of Yuli. Is there a
specific date which would be suitable?"
"No, I leave that to your convenience. If we can decide the matter
of recompense ..." he let his voice trail off, uncertain of how to
negotiate a price for a task such as this. It was not like haggling to
buy a horse or a piece of land, after all, nor was it as neat as paying
a pack of brigands to ambush a caravan. This was directly paying one
person to kill another, and his niece at that. While he had no moral
contention with the act, it still seemed dirtier than he was used to,
and he felt slightly out of his element.
"I need more supplies for my animals," the woman said, apparently
at random. Her voice held not even a nuance that there was more to her
statement.
Curran stared long and hard, waiting to discern her meaning. He
supposed that in her line of work, plain speaking could be as dangerous
as performing her paid tasks, but her conversation was so mercurial that
he was floundering in equivocations. Finally, he said, "Yes, your
animals." He pursed his lips and made his offer, "Do you think a
donation of ten Crowns would help them?"
"Oh yes, I could use such a donation," she smiled at him. "But
there's also the journey. Perhaps a horse."
"Done," he said. "I'll have a servant bring the 'donation' to you
tomorrow."
"That won't be necessary," Iolanthe said, "or prudent. Instead,
have your servant bring your ailing horse here tomorrow evening, with
payment for its treatment in silver, not gold."
"I only carry gold," Curran said indignantly. "To get it exchanged
will take time and may arise suspicion."
"Then imagine the suspicion it would bring should I try to get it
exchanged," came the response. "And having your servant bring the horse
later would be better anyway. Maybe even after you've left for your
journey home with a new mount. I'll keep the horse here under my care
until such time that you return to claim it."
Curran was aghast. "I'm not returning here!" he said louder than he
had intended, but then the sharp smile on Iolanthe's plain features told
him that she already knew that. Calming, Curran nodded hastily and
slipped off the stool. "Thank you, mistress."
"Utterly beautiful, don't you think?" a guest said.
Curran gritted his teeth and tried to smile. He was engaged in
polite conversation at the party to commemorate the opening of Evelain's
new house in the Valley of the Thumb. It had been three full months
since he had attended the Firil Firstday feast at Castigale Keep, but he
already felt that it was far too soon to find himself at another
Castigale party. Normally he would have refused the invitation, but his
worries over Iolanthe's task and the rumors he had heard about the
eccentricity of the house had been enough for him to make the eight-day
journey from his estate in Duchy Dargon.
"Oh, unique, my dear, 'unique' is the word you're looking for."
Yet another guest paid yet another fulsome compliment to Evelain's
talent and Curran grimaced as he looked around the courtyard. Although
the party had started inside the house, it had rapidly spiralled into
disaster as evening approached.
The first and most oppressive issue was the heat. While only five
days before the first of Yuli, the weather remained mortifyingly hot and
humid. To make matters worse, the windows in the ballroom had jammed
shut, rendering it so sweltering that four guests dressed in
constrictive finery had fainted. Finally, Dagny had encouraged everyone
to move the party to the courtyard.
Fresh air, however, did little to ease the insipid event. As bad at
polite conversation as Evelain was, she had either insulted or bored all
those in attendance within a bell of their arrival, and no one had dared
to object. Meanwhile his brother, Kelleman, was focused on the tables of
food that Dagny had arranged to have brought outside; he busied himself
gobbling dainty pastries and guzzling wine rather than paying attention
to either his guests or his vassals. Desperate for any redeeming
entertainment, most of the guests resorted to milling around the
courtyard, gossiping amongst and about each other.
Curran heard more snatches of conversation about the creativity of
the building's design.
"... very interesting definition."
"Yes, indeed. The stained glass is truly superb. I must say that
the artists here are very talented."
Due to an agreement over the dowry, Kelleman had ordered that the
architects consult Evelain on the plans of the building, and its
peculiar features displayed her erratic tastes. The perimeter was
surrounded by a low stone wall about five hands tall, and interspersed
along the wall were small statues, many of them of creatures that surely
had never walked Makdiar. The house itself was strangely oval-shaped,
with three towers. It had been constructed of pale-gray stone, and
stained-glass windows on the front glinted red and gray, the Castigale
colors.
The only flaw in the appearance of the building was the east wing,
which was still under active construction. Scaffolding surrounded the
east wall and tower, where wooden support beams showed through the
walls. A few windows gaped open where glass had yet to be set, while the
glass in others glinted the same red and gray. Curran allowed himself a
moment to speculate on how much the whole building had cost, and
mentally congratulated his half-sister, Dagny, for running such a
prosperous barony, one that he would eventually inherit.
Nimieta, his wife who was standing beside him, offered a lavish
compliment to one vassal. Smiling sweetly as the guest walked on to
prattle with someone else, she leaned closer to Curran to murmur, "Is
this going to be over soon?"
He stifled a laugh at his wife's bitter tone that was at complete
odds with the pleasant smile she still wore. "I hope it's all over soon,
dearest," he said quietly, emphasizing the word 'all' in such a way that
she could not help but understand what he meant. "Can you believe that
Kelleman actually held the party before the building was complete?"
His wife laughed. "You mean you can't understand why Dagny arranged
this party. If you think Kelleman or Evelain raised a finger for this,
you don't know them at all."
Curran joined in her laughter. Even though he bore no love for
either of his half-siblings, one thing he could admit to was Dagny's
efficiency.
"Kelleman and Evelain probably wanted the party, but it wouldn't
have happened without Dagny to make the arrangements. Why do you think
she did it?" he asked idly, sliding his arm around Nimieta's waist and
turning her away to avoid getting into a conversation with yet another
boring landholder.
"I'm not sure. Do you think it has something to do with Sagrie not
being here?" she asked with a wicked smile. The biggest and most
scandalous upset of party was that Sagrie, the guest of honor and the
future occupant of this house after he wed Evelain in less than a
sennight, had not yet arrived. Neither Kelleman nor Evelain seemed
concerned, though all of the guests talked about it outrageously. Only
Dagny seemed to take the situation seriously, stalking amongst the
guests and assuring them that Sagrie was on his way but had been
detained.
"Miserable wretch that he is," Curran whispered. While he didn't
share Dagny's anger at the pompous young lord's absence, he was annoyed
by it. He saw no reason why the whelp shouldn't suffer at the abysmal
party like the rest of them.
"Do you think your 'hand' has already taken effect?" Though Nimieta
was completely in her husband's confidence, he had refused to give her
details about the assassin's name or plan, not that he knew it himself.
So she had taken to referring to Iolanthe as Curran's 'hand', a rather
tactful name for the assassin. "What if it took Sagrie along the road
instead of your niece? Then Kelleman could just marry the mindless chit
off to some other wealthy fop and we'd be in the same predicament."
"My hand will strike true," he murmured. He had considered the same
problem himself, but concluded that Iolanthe would know the correct
target. The uncanny assassin had seemed to practically know what he was
thinking when he had visited her nearly five sennights past.
Nimieta seemed about to ask another question when a voice piped up
from behind them. "Here I am, Uncle Curran!"
Curran turned around and blinked. His niece, dressed in a gown with
bright red stripes, was wearing so many sashes that she resembled a
column of loose fabric rather than a well-dressed young woman.
Suppressing a groan, he forced a smile and muttered, "Hello,
niece."
"Don't I look nice?" She grinned at him and twirled.
Before his silence became too obvious, Nimieta said, "You look
beautiful, Evelain. What a pretty dress!"
"Oh, Aunt Nimieta, thank you! Aunt Dagny said that the dress didn't
become me, but I like the color."
Curran was about to make a curt reply when Nimieta elbowed him in
the ribs and said sweetly, "Evelain, would you like to show us the rest
of the house? The ballroom was quite beautiful, and I can't wait to see
everything."
"It isn't finished yet," Evelain protested.
Behind Curran, Dagny's voice abruptly chimed in, "That's a good
idea, Nimieta." She strode up to the trio casually, but her eyes shifted
constantly around the courtyard. At her approach, Curran gave a
meaningful nod to Nimieta, who took Evelain's arm and gently guided her
towards the building for the tour.
While the two of them moved away, Curran took the opportunity to
speak privately with Dagny. "Do you really think Sagrie was detained on
the way?" he asked by way of opening.
"I don't know." Dagny brought her hazel eyes back to meet Curran's
blue ones. "He should have been here by now." She was silent for an
instant as she surveyed the party, casting a denigrating look at the
guests' discomfort. "I can't understand why he's not here. I've had my
runners looking for him since yesterday morning."
"Do you think he's not coming?" Curran allowed a trace of surprise
and outrage to pepper his voice, and Dagny reacted to it.
"Not possible," she said firmly. "Kelleman would not stand for the
insult."
Curran chuckled a bit, causing Dagny's eyes to sharpen like honed
flint. "Do you mean that our fat brother would recognize this as an
insult?" he asked, quietly enough that none of the other guests could
hear, but loud enough to make sure she knew he meant it. "He would
realize it if the food didn't arrive, but would he notice if Sagrie
didn't?"
She met his eyes steadily, then glanced over to where Kelleman
stood, a leg of lamb in one fist, a goblet of wine in another, and
crumbs shooting from his mouth as he guffawed at something said by the
landholder who stood next to him. With a grimace, she turned back to
Curran. "If not," she said grimly, "I will ensure that he knows of it."
Dagny moved as if to go, and he followed, a step behind. She went
towards the main door of the building and away from the mass of guests
before turning back. "Was there something else you needed, Curran?" she
asked bluntly.
He stepped closer and spoke, his voice as soft as velvet yet as
strong as steel. "I know you, sister." She flinched at his words and
color came to her cheeks, though he could not understand why; she had
always been able to keep her face neutral, even if her eyes gave her
away to someone who knew her as well as he did. "I remember the day
Father brought you to our home after your mother died. I've known you as
long as I've lived and I know what you look like when you scheme."
"I do not scheme!" Even though her face still wore her normal,
indifferent expression, her voice had a hint of a snarl in it.
"Oh dear," he said with a wry smile, feigning alarm at her
response. "Did I insult my dear sister by insinuating that she does more
than just follow our noble brother around, obeying his regal whims?"
Dagny drew a breath to retort, but he held up a hand and said quickly,
"I truly didn't mean to insult you, Dagny. After all, we're family."
Her hazel eyes remained narrowed on Curran's own. She didn't speak,
and he continued, "It would seem that schemes run in our family. For
instance, our older brother has schemed a way to give our family lands
to the nephew of our father's enemy. Oh, I know that the specifics of
the arrangement are that it should go to Evelain's son. When she does
have a son, you and I both know who will really be ruling the barony."
He paused, trying to infuse his silence with meaning. When Dagny made no
response, he continued, "Evelain has the mind of a child half her age,
and her son will likely be younger than that when old Kelleman dies,
leaving Sagrie the steward of an underage baron."
Dagny gazed at him with a calm face, but with glittering eyes. Then
she licked her lips slightly and asked, "Why tell me what I already
know, brother?"
He opened his mouth to continue this interesting conversation, when
a reverberating rumble came from the unfinished part of the building,
closely followed by loud shouts.
Dagny had run through the great double doors and down the hall
before Curran knew she had moved. He moved to follow, as did many of the
curious guests, servants, guards, and workers. Cursing, he fought his
way amongst them. The halls in the unfinished wing were littered with
debris, stacks of building materials, and occasional construction tools.
As Curran passed them, he saw that a fine layer of dust obscured these
impediments to their progress.
The rolling sound had completely died away by now, but the shouts
and moans continued. Curran turned a corner and saw a group of people
milling around near a large doorway. Dagny had already reached them and
was shouting inquiries.
As Curran neared the party, he choked on the thick, dusty air.
People stood like shocked statues in the hall, and past them Curran
could see the ruin of a room beyond. It had been a high room, with three
fluted columns holding a stone ceiling some twelve cubits above. One of
the three columns, the one nearest to the doorway, had apparently
collapsed, raining stone from the ceiling and the upper levels. Curran
looked up through the newly made hole and could see dust swirling down
from what he guessed were the upper floors of the unfinished eastern
tower. Shafts of red-tinged light from the setting sun filtered through
the tower's stained-glass windows at the top of the room, making the
unreal scene even more dreamlike. Stones and cracks dotted the marble
floor around a huge pile of destruction.
"Nimieta!" Curran shouted in alarm. In one corner of the room, a
few dazed people huddled, including his wife. "Are you hurt?" Curran
stepped over the rocks, shoving aside the dumbfounded guests in his
haste. He reached his wife and hugged her, his heart thumping as he eyed
the stones.
"I'm fine!" she snapped. "Dagny, get some servants! Do something!
Evelain is in there." Nimieta gestured at the rubble but Dagny was
already gone.
Curran dragged his wits together and sighed in relief as he
realized that Nimieta was fine. "What happened?" he asked.
Another guest standing next to them spoke. "Evelain was showing us
around, telling us what was supposed to be where. She just stepped under
that awning, and the next thing I knew --" He gestured helplessly, eyes
wide as he stared in disbelief at the scene around him. He kept absently
brushing at the dust that covered his silk tunic, but only managed to
smear it further into the fabric.
Curran turned to Nimieta and asked again, "Are you all right? What
happened?"
She hugged him and slowly wiped away her tears that glittered in
the twilight. "It happened just as he said," she murmured. "One instant
she was saying something about her art room and the next the roof
collapsed. Curran, I -- it was almost me." She drew in a deep breath and
swallowed, and Curran knew that she was trying not to cry.
Curran whispered soothingly as Dagny finally strode back into the
room with a group of guards. "You there! Get some workmen over here at
once. I want these stones moved. Right now! Don't just stand there!
Where's the supervisor? Get Joelrid here at once!" Dagny's voice grew
stronger as she began to shout instructions. Workers emerged from the
group of guests and began to move the stones as the guards muscled
Curran, Nimieta, and the rest of the room's occupants out of the way.
Most of the guests left quietly, while a few remained, despite the
guards trying to urge them out. Curran, however, was less shocked over
the tragedy. He had quickly realized that this accident must have been
the work of his 'hand'. As much as prudence said to be anywhere but near
the actual assassination, a morbid fascination kept him standing in the
hall outside the large room as he comforted his wife.
"Shhh," he whispered into her ear. "It was probably my 'hand'. I
don't think you were in any danger."
She stiffened in his arms, her tears stopping immediately. "No, it
was really an accident. It must have been."
Curran was about to reply when the floor beneath them seemed to
shudder. Alarmed, he glanced at the few other guests and guards in the
hall and they all returned his frightened look. Meanwhile the grunts and
shouts of the workers continued unabated. After a moment, most of the
remaining guests departed down the hall and two guards took up position
at the doorway.
"Dagny!" The shout came from the corridor and Curran turned to
watch Kelleman approach, his heavy face red and anxious. "What happened?
They said Evelain -- that Evelain ..." He looked on the verge of panic,
more so than the guests who had actually witnessed the event.
The guards glanced at Dagny uncomfortably as Kelleman tried to push
past. She nodded to them and they let their lord through.
"She must be alive!" he shouted. "Where are the workers? They have
to dig, pull away the stones. She must be in there. Have them search,
Dagny." Kelleman's voice was pleading, and Curran stared. He had seen
his older brother display every emotion from blind rage to inebriated
frivolity, but he had never seen him so utterly broken; it was pathetic
to see his desperation.
One of the laborers shouted, "Look, I found a body! It's got to be
the lady!" The other men gathered around him, and they all began to move
the rocks away.
A swarthy workman holding a lantern hurried in after a whispered
colloquy with the guards at the door.
Dagny glanced up and said sharply, "Where were you, Joelrid?"
Curran turned his attention back as the last stone was moved off
the body.
"It's one of the builders!" One of three guests who remained
exclaimed.
"It's not Evelain," muttered Kelleman.
Underneath the displaced rocks was the body of a laborer, face
down, dressed in the same dirty brown breeches and tunic as the rest of
them.
"Who's that?" Curran asked in surprise. "Was someone working?
Dagny, hadn't your men already stopped working for the day?"
"We did, milord," Joelrid replied. "Turn him over."
One of the workhands obliged, and then there was a moment of
silence. "Hold this lantern." Joelrid handed it to one of his people and
crouched.
"It's not Evelain; it's not Evelain," Kelleman muttered.
Curran glanced at him with pity; his older brother had lost what
little poise he had at the sight of the body.
"Can you identify this worker?" Dagny demanded.
The swarthy man grunted and gently turned the body's face to the
light. Curran noticed him murmuring something to Dagny; she stiffened,
although her expression did not change. Suddenly, the builder holding
the lantern gasped and Curran strained to see what had alarmed the man.
Despite the gathering darkness, he could vaguely make out another body
lying under the first, and though its torso was still covered by a huge
stone, the gaudy red sashes that lay shredded around the body were
unmistakable. All was still for a moment, then Dagny said, "Straight.
Now, get her uncovered."
"No, Dagny! It isn't Evelain. You have to search more! No!"
Kelleman screamed. "It can't be her."
Another shudder rumbled insistently through the floor, and everyone
fell silent. In the stillness, all of the workers looked up. Joelrid
turned urgently to Dagny. "It's the tower, mistress! With this column
gone the whole thing could collapse!" She arched an enquiring eyebrow at
him and he continued in a rush, "With that big block on the poor lady's
body it could take us bells to have her out. We need to stabilize the
tower with something first ..."
Dagny spit an imprecation through her clenched teeth. The rumble
subsided but the laborers still looked warily about them. "Straight,"
she snapped, and turned to her guards. "Take this worker's body outside
and have some servants clean it off. Joelrid, go with four of your
people and get something to brace the tower." The guards and builders,
looking only too relieved to be away from the room, jumped to obey her
commands, Joelrid leading the way.
"She must yet be alive. They have to dig, pull away the stones. Get
the workers, Dagny," Kelleman pleaded.
Dagny said gently, "Kelleman, it's too dangerous right now. They
can't dig until they've braced the ceiling."
"No! Get lanterns! I will not suffer my daughter to be buried --
no, stuck under all of this rock."
"You can all do whatever you want," Curran said loudly. His reason
had finally won over his grisly interest in the disaster. "Nimieta has
had a shock, and we are leaving. There's nothing more for us here."
"No one is leaving," Dagny said sharply. When Curran turned back to
glare at her, she met his gaze without flinching. "Whatever happened
here was no accident," she continued. "Joelrid here says that this body
was not one of our workmen. What's more, he swears that he saw him with
Sagrie when he came to Castigale the first time."
"What?" both Curran and Kelleman shouted at the same time.
"Yes," Dagny answered and turned back to Kelleman. "Think about it,
brother. That Gribbane cur must have wanted to get out of the marriage
as soon as he realized he wasn't going to inherit the whole barony
through Evelain. He must have hired someone to come here and stage this
accident while he found some excuse to be late and washed his hands of
the whole affair. That way, not only does he get out of a marriage he
can't benefit from, but he also hurts the most hated enemy of his
family. He is a Gribbane, and we should never have trusted him."
"A Gribbane," Kelleman growled painfully as he digested Dagny's
statement.
Curran was amazed at the way Dagny painted the events, but he
grasped the implications immediately and wasted no time siding with his
half-sister. "That is true, Dagny," he said in his most earnest voice.
"Sagrie is so power-hungry that he must have hated knowing he would
never inherit anything more than this house. I bet his aunt, the
Baroness Veronie offered him better land and status in Narragan for the
deed."
Kelleman looked up and Curran could see rage burning behind his
tear-streaked, red-rimmed eyes. "When I'm finished with that Gribbane,"
he started in a low voice, "Saren himself will wince at his agony! I'll
strip his skull of flesh and feed his eyes to my horses! I'll burn his
house to the ground and spit in the ashes!" Kelleman was standing now,
flailing his fists in the air and gnashing his teeth like a wild animal.
"I'll turn this feud into a war, the like of which his bitch-baroness
aunt will wake screaming from at night!" He wiped the last of the tears
from his face, and his eyes suddenly took on a look of maddened
calmness. "Their family will die and their land will burn!"
========================================================================
Talisman Nine
Part 3
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
<John.White@Drexel.Edu>
Yuli 13 - Sy 7, 1013
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 15-7
Yawrab had never been so lost in her life. Oh, she knew where she
was: walking along the Renev River. She knew where she was going as
well: the Denva estate, where she was employed as chatelaine. In a
different sense, however, she was foundering in a sea of disaster and
change. She only had one thing to cling to, and that was revenge.
News of her sister had set Yawrab adrift in the first place. Tillna
had worked in an inn in Beeikar, and Yawrab had intended to visit her.
Instead, she had learned of Tillna's death. No one at the inn had known
anything more than the fact that Lord Aldan had arrived the previous
night, announced that Tillna was dead, and left again.
Yawrab had gone to Bindrmon Keep in search of more information. She
knew that Tillna had planned on marrying Lord Aldan, the son of Baron
Bindrmon. Yawrab hadn't believed it would ever happen, but the baron's
heir had obviously known something about her sister. However, when
Yawrab arrived, she had learned that Lord Aldan had ridden out before
dawn after asking about Dargon, the duchy in the north of Baranur.
As Yawrab returned along her morning's path, she tried to make
sense of her vow to chase after the young lord all the way to Dargon
itself. Nothing that she had been told linked Lord Aldan with the death
of Tillna, and yet somehow she knew that she had to follow him across
half the kingdom. Revenge spurred her on, allowing her to contemplate
leaving everything she knew behind, but she still didn't know why she
was so sure that Lord Aldan was her target.
She walked into a patch of sunlight that made her blink, seeing
strange shapes behind her eyelids as she did so. Interwoven lines were
formed by the shadows of the leaves above her, and strange animal shapes
as well. She thought she saw a raven, a cat, and a fox in those shadows.
The leaves closed in above her and the odd patterns vanished, taking
with them her reservations about why she needed to follow Tillna's
murderer.
Yawrab checked the position of the sun in the next clearing she
entered, and estimated that it was about seventh bell. Her mind went
automatically to what she would normally be doing at that time: checking
the stores for tomorrow's meals while she began to prepare for today's
dinner. So set was she in her daily rounds that she seldom had to check
the timing of her tasks. Yawrab had heard her staff of servants at the
estate joke that she was more reliable than the sun for marking out the
path of the day.
Her reminiscence only served to make her more nervous. How could
she contemplate striking off into the complete unknown like this? Riding
alone across untold leagues of unfamiliar territory, without the
slightest inkling of how to protect herself, or survive in the
wilderness, was sheerest folly. Nevertheless, Yawrab found herself
unable to grasp any other course of action. Her need for revenge burned
away all of her fear, for a little while at least.
She turned her thoughts to safer matters. She needed transportation
for her journey, and she had no choice but to take one of the estate's
steeds. She tried to decide which horse was docile enough for her to
control, but the stables were not part of her duties and she knew little
about her employers' stock.
Hoofbeats behind her startled Yawrab out of her thoughts. A rush of
fear went through her as she abruptly recalled her near-rape that
morning, and she backed up against a tree hurriedly before turning to
face the noise. The tightness in her chest eased when she saw the trio
of horses turning onto the river path; it loosened completely when the
wagon they pulled came into view.
Yawrab recognized Ganba and Hiranw sitting on the drivers' bench;
these were two of the three gypsies who had rescued her that morning.
She also recognized that they were intent on the trail in front of them.
Something about their gazes told her that they were both mournful and
angry about something.
Once the wagon had completed its turn, the driver, Hiranw, flicked
the reins and called to the team. The horses picked up their pace,
drawing the wagon rapidly toward Yawrab. She lifted her hand in
greeting, but neither gypsy seemed to notice her until the last moment.
Ganba glanced her way as the wagon began to pass her, and as the wooden
side with the stylized fox painted on it slid by, she heard Hiranw
calling to the team of horses. The wagon rolled to a stop, and Yawrab
started toward it. She saw Hiranw climb down from the bench and walk
back, smiling broadly. Ganba appeared around the far side, also smiling,
though not as brightly. There was still a hint of upset in her eyes.
"Well met, Yawrab," said Hiranw, genuine warmth in his voice. "How
went your visit? Would you like a ride back to your estate?"
Yawrab saw Ganba glance at Hiranw and frown, but before she could
answer Hiranw, a voice called out from in front of the wagon. Presently,
the other gypsy, Shaiff, appeared behind Ganba. He seemed to be asking a
question of his sister, but Yawrab couldn't understand their tongue.
Ganba answered him in the language they all shared: Baranurian.
"We've stopped to offer our morning's passenger another ride, Shaiff,"
she said, looking darkly at Hiranw as she did so.
"But --" began Shaiff, but Ganba interrupted him.
"Even though it was Hiranw that made the offer, I think we can
spare the time to help our fellow traveler. This estate she hails from
is no great divergence." Turning toward Yawrab, the gypsy said, "That
is, if she wishes our help."
Yawrab considered the advantages of taking the ride, and decided
that an extra bell of riding after Lord Aldan would be a fine thing to
have. She said, "I would be grateful for the aid. Thank you for the
generous offer, again."
Hiranw led her around to the front of the wagon, and Yawrab tried
hard not to flinch at his touch when he helped her up into the seat. As
before, Ganba climbed up next, sitting between Hiranw, who mounted last,
and herself. Yawrab didn't know whether Ganba had noticed how nervous
she was around both brothers, but was glad of the seating arrangements.
The wagon was soon moving again, Shaiff scouting ahead on his
horse. Silence stretched, broken only by the creak of the wheels and the
jingling of the harness. Yawrab noticed that Hiranw was staring fixedly
at the road ahead, and sadness showed along Ganba's profile again. She
wondered what mission they rode on.
After a while, Hiranw let out an exasperated sigh, which startled
Yawrab from her continuous contemplation about the horse she would
steal. The young gypsy twitched the reins idly, and finally said, "So,
Yawrab, you never answered my first question. How went your visit with
your sister?"
For a moment, Yawrab had no idea of how to respond. Should she just
tell these strangers her personal tragedy, or should she lie? No, lying
wasn't in her, and if they were strangers, they were kind and caring and
deserved an honest answer.
"My sister ... T-tillna is dead."
"What?" cried Hiranw. "How?"
Yawrab gulped past the choking grief, and said, "I don't know. No
one seems to." She paused, and Ganba squeezed her shoulder. Yawrab
turned to her and saw the sympathy in her face. Hiranw reached across
his sister to pat Yawrab's knee; she saw the sympathy there too, but
that didn't stop her from shifting her knee away from his touch after
the first pat. She saw Ganba nudge her brother, who settled back into
his driving with a hurt look on his face. Yawrab continued, "I heard the
news at the inn, and went to the keep to try to learn more. I only
learned that Lord Aldan rode out in secret just before dawn today,
headed for Dargon."
Hiranw drew a breath, but Yawrab saw Ganba nudge him again.
Instead, the gypsy woman said, "And who is Lord Aldan?"
"Aldan is the son and heir of Baron Chak Bindrmon, the ruler of
this area of Welspeare. Tillna was aiming to marry him." Yawrab paused
again, and then pressed on. "I believe that Lord Aldan killed Tillna,
and has fled to Dargon. I ... I intend to follow him there. Tillna must
be avenged."
Ganba's hand squeezed her shoulder again, and the wagon continued
on its way. Yawrab stared straight ahead, neither leaning into Ganba's
support, nor pulling away from it.
Hiranw again broke the silence, but he spoke in the gypsy language.
Ganba answered in kind. Their exchange continued, and Ganba removed her
hand from the chatelaine's shoulder. Yawrab turned to watch the two
speak. Hiranw seemed to be arguing, his voice forceful, his handsome
face turned forward, intent on the road before them. Ganba's voice was
softer, and Yawrab thought she heard the tones of someone trying to be
reasonable about something. The woman gestured at her brother, though
with all of Hiranw's attention focused outward, Yawrab wasn't sure that
the driver saw any of that.
The debate drew to a close, but Yawrab couldn't tell which
participant had won. Hiranw continued to stare at the road; Ganba
dropped her gaze to the floor of the wagon. When nothing further
happened, Yawrab opened her mouth to ask what that had been all about.
Ganba interrupted her before she could say a word.
"How do you expect to get to Dargon?" asked Ganba, still staring at
the floorboards.
"I ... well," Yawrab began hesitantly. She debated with herself
once more, and decided that it wasn't going to be a bunch of gypsies who
turned her in for stealing. "My thought was to take a horse and
provisions from the estate, and ride north."
Ganba looked up and stared into Yawrab's eyes. "Do you know where
Dargon is?"
Yawrab looked back, and said, "North."
Hiranw joined Ganba in laughing at the answer. The woman continued
her questioning. "And how long will the journey take? Will you be able
to make a camp and trap and cook your own game when it becomes
necessary?"
Yawrab shook her head Ganba's queries. She knew she was woefully
unprepared to undertake her journey, but she had to go. She wanted to
break down and cry, but that wasn't how a chatelaine acted. Instead, she
held on to her resolve, to her need for revenge, and straightened in her
seat. She narrowed her eyes and folded her arms across her chest, and
when the questions stopped, she said, "I will make do. I must. I am
going to Dargon after Lord Aldan, and I will do whatever is required to
get there." Her voice never wavered despite the churning fear in her
gut.
"Of course you will," said Ganba. "So, let me offer you aid once
again. The three of us are also headed for Dargon, chasing our own
obligations. Come with us, Yawrab. With our help you will complete your
journey. Without it, you quite frankly don't stand a chance."
Yawrab said, "I accept," so swiftly that she realized she had been
expecting the question, and had somehow made up her mind about it long
since, perhaps as long ago as when Ganba had first uttered the word
'help' behind her wagon.
Yawrab turned and smiled at Ganba, and reiterated, "I accept." She
looked past Ganba and saw that they were driving by Shaiff, who was
sitting on his horse by the trail that led to the Denva estate. The
young man wore a very puzzled expression as the wagon passed without
turning, carrying Yawrab away from her home and everything she still had
in the world now that her sister was gone. She was amazed that she
wasn't more afraid, but she knew somehow that she needed to be exactly
where she was.
The fear didn't stay away, but Yawrab now had a new weapon to
combat it: the gypsies and their wagon. As the Denva estate disappeared
behind them, Yawrab asked where they were headed, since she had enough
woodcraft to know that they were traveling east, and not north. She was
told that they journeyed to rejoin the bantor, or wagon group, that
Ganba belonged to, before heading to Dargon.
Silence returned, and Yawrab was content to let it remain. She had
questions still, but she also had caution. She didn't want to bother her
new companions enough to make them reconsider their offer, not while
they were close enough to the Denva estate to return her there without
significant delay.
Night fell, and Yawrab marveled at how swiftly and easily the three
gypsies set up a camp beside the pathway they were on. Soon, a campfire
drove back the darkness and the smell of roasting meat made her mouth
water. Three tents were draped from the sides of the wagon, and Yawrab
wondered which was to be hers. She assumed that she would share with
Ganba, since she certainly was not prepared to share with one of the
brothers.
After the meal had been shared out, Yawrab decided to ask her
questions. She started with, "How long before we reach your bantor?"
Ganba replied, "Another day's travel. We will arrive by nightfall
tomorrow."
"So, we will head north the day after?"
Ganba shook her head. "We will not be able to begin so swiftly.
First I must present the news. We must inform the bantor of the danger,
and solicit whatever help we can."
Yawrab stiffened in alarm. "News? Danger?"
Hiranw said, "Not immediate
danger, Yawrab. There is no need to
fear."
Ganba continued, "My brother is right. The danger is only to my
people, the Rhydd Pobl, and it does not directly threaten us yet. But it
is real, and we need to warn everyone as soon as possible."
Yawrab saw that all three gypsies were agitated, and she wondered
whether she had the right to pry. She had told them of her tragedy;
perhaps it would help them to share their news in turn.
She asked again, in a calmer voice, "What news do you bring? What
danger lies in wait for your people?"
"Rhonwn is missing!" Hiranw blurted out. "Bobere's dead. The Bloody
Hand --"
Ganba stood up and barked some commands. "Hiranw, go gather more
firewood. Shaiff, check on the horses, and then bring some more water.
Let me answer Yawrab's questions without frightening her even more."
Yawrab calmed herself after Hiranw's outburst. Another dead person
in Beeikar. She wondered how much bad luck one town could have.
The brothers set about their tasks. Ganba started to come closer to
Yawrab, but seemed to reconsider and took a seat directly across the
fire from her. "Let me try to explain," she said.
"My uncle Bobere was killed this morning by a leader of a band of
troublemakers called the Bloody Hand of Sageeza. This man, Lacsil,
learned of the maps that Bobere had made of the secret paths of our
people; we never make maps as a rule, but Bobere had a bad memory. His
son, Rhonwn, a good friend of Hiranw, was missing from the camp when we
arrived, along with the map."
She fell silent, and Yawrab said, "I'm so sorry, Ganba." The
silence continued, and finally Yawrab had to ask, "What is this Bloody
Hand thing, and how can they use the maps against your people?"
Ganba sighed and said, "We Rhydd Pobl, we gypsies, are not well
favored by most."
Yawrab nodded and said, "I know of your reputation." She looked at
Ganba across the fire and continued, "Truth told, had you or another of
your people come to the door of my estate before today, and I would have
had you turned away." At Ganba's nod of acceptance, she continued, "I
know better, now."
Ganba said, "Few get the chance to know us better, by choice on
both sides for the most part. Most, like your former self, simply shun
us. Others feel that theirs would be a better world without us entirely.
The Bloody Hand of Sageeza is a group of such people."
"Are they many? How do you cope?"
The brothers had finished their tasks by this time and returned to
the fireside. Shaiff sat beside his sister, while Hiranw took the stump
near Yawrab that Ganba had decided not to sit in. Yawrab saw Ganba frown
at Hiranw, but the brother didn't catch any message that frown might
have conveyed.
Ganba said, "They are not many, and are not well organized. They
bother us when they have the chance, and we do our best to avoid them.
They have no sanction from your crown, and even if a local constable or
magistrate turns a blind eye to their activities, there is still a limit
to what they can do.
"Under normal circumstances, even having Bobere's maps would not
give the Bloody Hand any real advantage over us. We are as scattered as
they, and knowing how we travel wouldn't make them any more dangerous."
"Except for the marriage," said Hiranw. "And the annual gathering."
"Yes, brother, except for those."
Feeling stupid, and slightly annoyed at always having to ask the
obvious questions, Yawrab said, "Marriage? Gathering?"
This time it was Ganba who drew breath to reply, and Hiranw who
interrupted. Leaning closer to her, he said, "We gather annually to
celebrate the passage of time and conduct such business as requires a
large number of us to complete. Usually, we do so at the turning of the
year from spring to summer, but this year we had to rearrange the plans.
And that is because it took so long to negotiate the marriage of Maks,
one of us, to Syusahn, an outsider. She belongs to another nomadic
people called the Gwynt Gyrun, the Wind Riders in your language. This is
a rare interlocking of our cultures, and the event will be well attended
by both our peoples."
Ganba took up the tale. "Near the beginning of fall, in what you
term Seber, this year's gathering will take place at Eariaddas Hwl in
the northern woods of Dargon. Somehow Lacsil knows of this gathering,
and because of the maps, he knows how to get there. He intends to gather
together as many of the Bloody Hand as he can and attack the gathering.
Should he succeed, he will deal a harsh blow to our people. That's why
he needs to be stopped."
The usually quiet Shaiff added, "That's why we're going to Dargon."
Hiranw smiled, and leaned even closer. Yawrab jumped to her feet
and away from the young gypsy. She said, "Thank you for explaining. So,
what are the sleeping arrangements?"
Rhonwn of the Rhydd Pobl was jolted awake when the wagon he was
lying in rolled over a bump in the road. A momentary confusion was
swiftly dispelled by the reality he was suffering; he was lying on the
bed of the wagon with only a blanket between him and the wood, unlike
his father's ban where he slept on a thick mattress in a box-bed. Also,
the interior was too bright; this flatbed wagon was covered by a canvas
tent, while Bobere's was enclosed by wood. Then there was the manner in
which he was tied hand and foot, his bonds secured to heavy loops
fastened to the side of the wagon.
There was another jolt, and suddenly there was a rougher surface
than the road under the wheels. Rhonwn knew by the light coming through
the canvas that it wasn't yet time to camp for the night, which meant
that this must be the midday meal break. He knew the routine well by
now; he had been captive of the madman Lacsil for a dozen days, more or
less.
Rhonwn felt the wagon slow to a stop and heard the familiar sounds
of horses gathering and men dismounting. The flap at the head of the
wagon opened briefly; Rhonwn knew that Lacsil, who always drove the
wagon, was checking on his prisoner. Rhonwn resisted looking, and soon
he felt the wagon rocking as Lacsil dismounted.
The next expected action was for the flap at the other end of the
wagon to be opened as one of the four other men riding with Lacsil took
up his position as guard. Then, just before everyone was ready for the
trail again, Lacsil would come and sit next to Rhonwn and show him how
much progress they had made that morning on the maps that had been
stolen from his father.
Rhonwn waited, but the flap never opened. The sounds of his captors
faded slightly, and the canvas at the end of the wagon was uniformly
lit, showing no guard's shadow. He counted slowly to one hundred, and
then scrambled into action.
Rhonwn had the long-practiced skill of slipping free of ropes
knotted around his wrists. He had learned this skill at a young age, and
had found it useful in many circumstances. Soon he was kneeling at the
back of the wagon and listening very intently. He thought he could
account for all five men by the sounds he heard, and none seemed near
the wagon. Seizing the opportunity, he burst through the flap and out of
the wagon and started running.
He stumbled within his first few steps, but caught himself before
he actually fell. Gathering his feet beneath him again, ignoring the
weakness he felt in his legs from almost a fortnight of inactivity, he
dashed toward the nearest trees.
A shout went up behind him as his escape was spotted, which spurred
Rhonwn to greater speed. He concentrated on the forest, planning on how
to evade his pursuers as quickly as possible, not sparing a glance
behind him. It came as a surprise when he felt a body slam into him from
behind and he just had time to bring up his hands to cushion his fall.
The trees were still a good ten paces away.
A second weight pressed him harder into the ground, and then both
men swiftly grabbed at his arms and wrenched them behind him painfully.
They kept him pressed into the grass, muttering curses at him, until
Rhonwn heard Lacsil's hanged-man voice behind him. "Still got spirit,
doesn't he, men? Most times, that would be, well and well, a good thing.
Something to be admired, straight? Not now, though, not now. Can't have
our map reading gypsy scum running away and leaving us lost in the
middle of nowhere, now can we?
"Right men, here's what you do. Tie him harder, and wrap the rope
around his arms, not just his wrists. Maybe a noose around his neck to
keep him from moving around too much. That should keep our pet gypsy
well and well in his place.
"Oh, and men? One more thing. He needs to read and talk, not walk.
Break his leg."
Ganba steered her wagon last into the clearing. The decision to
stop had not been made happily; the sun wasn't as near its rest as she
would have liked, but the next closest clearing large enough for the
wagons was too far along the trail to continue their journey today.
There were times when her desire to catch up with Lacsil warred with her
trail-sense, but her gypsy upbringing always won.
She scarcely needed to draw back on the reins to stop her wagon;
her horses didn't want to run into the wagon in front of them any more
than she did. Ganba hopped down from the driver's bench and started
unhitching her horses from the yokes while keeping an eye on how the
camp was beginning to shape up. With a bantor of only four wagons, each
was positioned at the edges of the clearing with their long sides rather
than their ends toward the center. That way they could still form
something of a protective half-circle despite their numbers.
Buckles rattled and straps came free as Ganba worked. Meanwhile,
the horses were led away from the yoke of the wagon in front of hers.
Once the horses were clear of the wagon, Ganba watched its owner raise
the yoke and, helped by his brother, begin to push their wagon into
place.
Turning her back on them, she got her three horses free in time to
turn them over to Shaiff and another young gypsy to be led to the
makeshift corral. She locked her own yokes up against the front of her
wagon and turned around again to wait for the brothers from the other
wagon, who had been helping her move her wagon over the past four hands
of days that the journey had lasted. They seemed almost ready with their
own wagon as Anmor, the heavier-set brother, was setting the chocks in
place, but Ganba saw that there was a good four-pace gap between that
wagon and the one in front of it. That wasn't the way a bantor was
usually set for the night.
"Leedlan!" Ganba called out. "Close that gap up!"
Leedlan, the driver of the wagon, turned, and began, "But Ruthodd
..." Suddenly, Ruthodd was there beside Ganba, waving Leedlan back to
his tasks.
Ruthodd was the oldest person traveling with the bantor and Ganba
had selected him for his experience, both on the trails and in tracking.
He was a squat man, as dark and ruddy as most Rhydd Pobl, with a thick
beard and bushy hair that left the skin around his piercing blue eyes
the only visible part of his face.
He put a companionable arm around Ganba's shoulders and rumbled, "I
told the lad to leave some space there, dear. This clearing has a stream
just back in the woods from there, and it will be easier to get to it
directly than by going around the end wagon." He gave her a squeeze as
he continued, "And you did leave camp-setting to me, lass."
"You've got the right of it, Ruthodd," said Ganba. She patted his
arm, and then slipped out from under it. "It is your duty, and I should
leave you to it. I'll apologize to Leedlan for questioning his actions."
"It's no rain inside either of our bans, I'm sure, but you do as
you need to, dear." Ruthodd smiled at her fondly, and strode off to
resume his duties.
Ganba chuckled to herself as she usually did when Ruthodd acted the
kindly amdan, or uncle, to her. She didn't take offense at his
condescending references to her; he treated everyone just the same,
including those who were his elders. He was a good man who worked hard
and had a vast store of knowledge; his foibles could therefore be
tolerated.
When Leedlan and his brother came to help Ganba position and secure
her wagon, she did apologize to him. Leedlan shrugged it off, but smiled
just the same, and Ganba knew that it had been something she had needed
to do.
As soon as Ganba's wagon was positioned and secured in place,
Yawrab descended from it and took up her accustomed place on the back
step. Ganba asked, "Do you need anything?" of the only passenger in the
group, and Yawrab shook her head, following the routine they had fallen
into. After the first few nights of trying and, for the most part
failing, to instruct Yawrab in how to take part in the camp-setting, it
had been decided that the outsider would not be required to participate
as an equal part of the bantor. Ganba had worried that this would upset
the woman, but Yawrab had settled into the role of passenger without
complaint.
It wasn't long before the camp was well established. All of the
wagons were in place and the horses were all on their picket. The fire
pit was dug and lined, and a hearty blaze had been kindled to create
coals for cooking over. When the coals were ready, they were raked into
an offshoot of the pit where a cast iron grill was set up over them.
Soon, the evening meal was roasting into readiness, and the main portion
of the fire was built up again, but shallowly, for the comfort of its
light rather than warmth.
There was still work to be done, however. As the meal was cooked,
Ganba and Ruthodd took the time to inspect each wagon for damage, a
precaution that found flaws in good time to fix them at leisure, instead
of in the middle of the path. The water barrels were filled at the
stream, the horses were attended to, and deadfall wood was gathered to
supplement that which had been gathered along the way. Of the ten people
scattered among the four wagons she had been given, all nine gypsies
were busy. Only Yawrab was completely idle, sitting in a folding chair
not too close to the fire on this warm summer evening, staring into the
flames as the sun finally went down.
Ganba thought back to the meeting where she had presented the
danger posed by Lacsil to her full bantor. She had communicated the need
to chase him down, preferably before he reached any other groups of the
Bloody Hand of Sageeza. The leaders of the bantor had conferred, and had
given her control of a group of four wagons and as many people as she
felt were necessary to chase the man. They had also assigned other
groups to spread the word about the danger, so that the gathering at
Eariaddas Hwl would not be caught unawares. Ganba had no intention of
failing, though. Lacsil would not lead the Hand against her people with
her uncle's maps because Ganba was going to stop him.
When the evening meal was ready, everyone gathered together, seated
around unfolded tables between the fire and the wagons. As they ate,
dish-washing water heated up in a large pot over the cooking coals. Soon
even that task was accomplished and, with the tables folded up and
stowed back in their wagons, there were finally no more tasks left to
occupy Ganba's group of travelers aside from the prospect of a good
night's sleep.
No one was ready for that yet. Chairs were drawn up around the
fire. Everyone found a place and settled in for some companionable
conversation, except for the four who decided to play.
Hiranw, Shaiff, Drost, and Lewro, the youngest of the group,
gathered themselves in the now open space between fire and wagons. The
three boys had stripped down to breeches, though Hiranw's were briefer
than the others', and while he had braided his hair to keep it out of
his eyes, Ganba knew that the elaborate pattern of the braid had no such
utilitarian purpose. Lewro remained dressed much as she had during the
day, in deference to the modesty of Yawrab. In other circumstances, she
would have been as stripped down as the men.
All four were armed with stiffened leather-bladed knives, and at a
signal, they began to fight. Leaping and darting, slashing and dashing,
they snarled in mock anger, laughed with glee, shouted in triumph when
striking and in pretend pain when struck. The heat of their exertions in
the warmth of the night soon had all four glistening with sweat, and
they sparkled in the firelight.
Ganba grinned as she watched them play, remembering her own joy at
the game that was also a form of training. She would have liked to join
in herself, but the worries of being the leader of the group were
surprisingly tiring, for all that she mostly just sat and steered her
wagon all day. She looked away from the game, her gaze going right for
Yawrab across the fire. Ganba had spent the last three sennights trying
to fathom the woman, who was as unlike any other of her own kind that
Ganba had met as she was from the gypsies themselves. Evidence of that
was how she leaned to the side in her chair. It looked as if she was
simply trying to get a better view of the game, which she watched
avidly, letting Ganba know that her brother's efforts at grooming were
not going to waste. Ganba had learned, from watching and asking, that
Yawrab found the older, patronizing Ruthodd, sitting on the side she
leaned away from, frightening even after having come to terms with the
other strangers she traveled with. Yawrab was still wary around the
other men, excepting Hiranw, but she didn't flinch when they spoke to
her, and she no longer reacted adversely when they stood or sat next to
her. Yawrab had complained to Ganba early on about being addressed as
'lass' or 'dear' by Ruthodd. Ganba had explained that it was just how he
presented himself to the world, and as it was as natural as sunlight or
rain, she would just have to come to terms with it. Yawrab hadn't yet
done so.
Two more things troubled Ganba about her passenger. Hiranw seemed
to have taken a fancy to Yawrab as far back as the rescue on the
riverbank. Yawrab also seemed to fancy Hiranw, if her staring tonight
was any sign. Ganba understood Yawrab's attraction; her brother was,
after all, a handsome, strong young man. What she didn't understand was
why all Yawrab did was look. The woman seldom spoke to Hiranw, and
although she seemed more at ease in his presence than in anyone else's,
her words were never more than pleasantries, at least as far as Ganba
had overheard. Ganba couldn't understand what would keep those two
apart. She wondered if it had something to do with the near-rape the
woman had suffered at the riverbank. Maybe it was some deeper, older
injury, something that led her to not only be nervous around all men,
but to deeply distrust a man such as Ruthodd who treated her with
condescending familiarity.
The second troubling thing involved her own developing attraction
to the woman. There was something about Yawrab that enticed Ganba, that
made her want to get to know the woman with one brown eye and one green
eye better, even intimately. Ganba had lain with women before, and had
physically enjoyed the experience. She seldom sought it out herself, but
she had never been attracted to a woman the way she found herself
attracted to Yawrab. She knew that it had nothing to do with mere
physical sensation. It was a deeper attraction: almost like they
belonged together.
The oddest part of the attraction, however, was the deep conviction
Ganba had that Yawrab wasn't the way she was supposed to be. It just
wasn't right, the way she seemed closed off from everyone and everything
around her. There was something wrong, and Ganba longed to set it right.
Even if Yawrab never came to be in her bed, it would satisfy her to see
Yawrab finally happy.
She thought about the way Yawrab acted around the men of the group,
and wondered whether that was a key to her problem. Perhaps if Yawrab
bedded Hiranw, if she could consummate her natural desire, she would be
on the path to healing.
That thought occupied her mind long after the players had wiped the
sweat from their limbs and joined the others around the fire for
conversation and tale-telling, and everyone had eventually gone to their
beds.
It was still on Ganba's mind well into the next day. The midday
break had been called, and all four wagons were lined up. The horses had
been given their feedbags, and Lewro was grilling some sausages over
charcoal. Ganba sat on the driver's bench of her wagon in the shade of
the trees by the side of the road, and decided to do some carving. She
hadn't been moved to work on anything since the day she had watched
Bobere die, but today she wanted to feel wood in her hands, to work with
chisel and awl, to create something that had never existed before.
She turned in her seat and pushed aside the curtain that led into
her wagon. A familiar ticking sound came to her, and she looked inside
to see Yawrab sitting in a sling chair knitting by the light of the
opened windows. Ever practical, Yawrab had been looking for something to
occupy her days during the journey even before they had set out. Ganba
had suggested knitting, and had managed to get Entheesa to instruct the
woman. Yawrab had put her new skills to good use; she had already begun
her second blanket.
"Yawrab," Ganba called out. "Could you push that chest over here?
Thank you."
Yawrab set aside her work and slipped out of the chair. The chest
was small, and Yawrab had no trouble moving it to the doorway. Ganba had
tied back the curtain-door in the meantime.
Yawrab asked, "What's in here?"
Ganba replied, "My carving tools, and some of my finished work.
See?" She opened the lid and revealed a shallow tray filled with her
tools and several interestingly shaped and colored pieces of wood. She
started picking up the bits of wood one after the other, looking for one
that inspired her.
Yawrab, who was still standing behind the chest, said softly, "Did
you carve those? What are they supposed to be?"
Ganba laughed and said, "No, no, I didn't carve these! These are my
raw materials; I carve things from these."
Yawrab chuckled in return, and said, "Good, because they didn't
look like much. So, what kind of things do you make?"
Ganba chose a short length of blonde wood with a streak of red
heartwood running through it at an angle. She replied, "I carve
figurines mostly. Little statues of people and animals and sometimes
animals that look like people. Once in a while, I carve more useful
objects, like plates or bowls, mugs or spoons. Depends on what I get
asked to do, and at times it depends on what the wood wants to be."
"How can wood want to be something?" Yawrab asked.
"Well," Ganba said, "mayhap it's just a fantasy in an artist's
mind, and mayhap not. But I know how it feels to me. One time, I'll pick
up a block of wood and carve something into it or out of it because
that's what I want to carve. The next time, I'll mull and ponder, touch
and feel until a block or stick calls out to become a bowl with a line
of ducks walking around the rim, or a tiny statuette of a bird on a
branch.
"Take this one now," she said, holding up the wood she had chosen.
"I can see just what this wants to be." Ganba saw Yawrab stare intently
at the wood, and then shake her head. "Look, see this red streak? The
way it flows through the wood makes me think of hair, deep auburn hair
flowing down a back. And here, where the grain swirls just a bit, that's
a woman's hip, rounded just right. And there, legs. Here, an arm
extended. See?"
Yawrab squinted at the piece of wood again, tilting her head to the
side. Her features settled into a disbelieving frown, and she said,
"It's just wood to me."
Even if Yawrab couldn't see it, Ganba really could. She knew
exactly how this piece would turn out even before she set her first
chisel to it. She just smiled knowingly and said, "You'll see. She's in
there, and I'm going to let her out. A couple of days and you'll be able
to tell. You'll see."
As Ganba reached for a chisel, Yawrab asked, "Is there something
under this tray?"
Ganba laughed at herself. She had been so intent on carving
something that she hadn't even thought to show Yawrab her finished work.
She said, "Yes, that's storage. Here, let me." She lifted the tool tray
out of the chest and set it on the driver's bench. She picked up her
tools and began to cut shallow curls of wood away while Yawrab examined
the contents of the bottom of the chest.
"These are amazing, Ganba!" Yawrab exclaimed. Ganba looked up to
see her holding a tiny carving of a squirrel holding an acorn, and in
her other hand was one of Ganba's more fanciful creations, a rabbit with
deer antlers. Yawrab was examining each one very closely, and she looked
up to say, "These look so real, I would swear they couldn't possibly be
wooden! You ... you have so much talent ..."
For the first time, Ganba saw real admiration in Yawrab's eyes.
Admiration and perhaps something more. Ganba stared back just as
frankly, trying to reveal some of her deeper feelings as she did so.
Perhaps she succeeded, since Yawrab's cheeks reddened slightly and she
looked back into the chest.
"What's this?" Yawrab asked. She set the figurines down and reached
into the chest with both hands to lift out the sculpted stone fragment
that Ganba had taken possession of in Bobere's ruined campsite. "Did you
carve this as well?"
Ganba shook her head. "No, I didn't make that. It used to belong to
Uncle Bobere; it was one of his favorites. I took it to remember him."
She looked at the carving. It was a fragment of a larger sculpture,
about a foot and a half across and consisting of about a third of what
had once been a circular, plate-like carving. It had a series of glass,
gold, and silver bands interwoven across the inner two thirds of it,
while the outer third had a stylized fox facing a stylized cat carved as
if they were sitting on the curved outer rim. She reached toward the
fox, which had special meaning for her. It looked just like the one
painted on the side of her wagon even though she hadn't seen the
sculpture until years after she had chosen that symbol.
Touching the fox this time was unlike any other time Ganba had
touched the stone. It seemed to be vibrating, like a gong that had just
been struck. That vibration swiftly shot out of the stone and up her arm
into her body, but at the same time she could somehow feel that the
vibration was also moving into Yawrab, and she was more aware of that
than the buzzing in her own body. She looked up at Yawrab's startled
expression and into her wide eyes, knowing her own eyes were just as
wide and startled. Ganba felt the vibration move through Yawrab's body,
down her legs and out her feet, and she was aware of the same thing
happening in her own body.
They stared at each other in silence, unmoving except to breathe.
The stone was still touching both of them, but now it felt normal to
Ganba. She wondered, as she stared into Yawrab's odd-colored eyes, where
the fear was. She knew she should be frightened of such a strange
happening, and she was sure that Yawrab should have been scared
spineless given what she knew of the woman. Wonder was all Ganba saw in
the green and brown eyes, and wonder was all she herself felt. She
couldn't explain it, but she knew that it felt right. It felt better
than good and it made her feel more whole than she had been before, even
though she had never consciously felt a lack within herself. Yawrab and
this sculpture were now a part of her. Even as she acknowledged her new
completeness, she also understood that the process was not finished.
There was more to do, more to gain, even though she had no idea of what
or how.
"What was that?" Yawrab asked. "Was that supposed to happen?"
"I think it so, don't you? But I don't know what it was either.
That's never happened to me before. I know I've touched that fragment
before when Bobere or maybe even Rhonwn was touching it without anything
strange going on. Do you feel ... more ...?"
"Finished?" suggested Yawrab. "Perfect? Whole?"
"Yes, but not totally, hey?"
"Not totally, no. But ... what do we do now?"
Ganba took the stone and set it beside her. Then she set her tool
tray back in the chest and set her latest carving and tools back where
they belonged. "We wait. What more is there to do? Waiting brings
tomorrow and tomorrow's tomorrow. Without knowing more, all we can do is
let waiting bring us the rest.
"Come, I think that lunch is ready. And I would like to talk to you
about Hiranw ..."
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