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DargonZine Volume 17 Issue 02
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 17
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 2
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DargonZine Distributed: 3/14/2004
Volume 17, Number 2 Circulation: 655
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Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Sweet Healing P. Atchley and Naia 12, 1018
Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Talisman Ten 2 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Ober 15-24, 1013
========================================================================
DargonZine is the publication vehicle of The Dargon Project, Inc.,
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 17-2, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright March, 2004 by
The Dargon Project, Inc. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@rcn.com>,
Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@cox.net>.
DargonZine is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs-
NonCommercial License. This license allows you to make and distribute
unaltered copies of DargonZine, complete with the original attributions
of authorship, so long as it is not used for commercial purposes.
Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
To view a detailed copy of this license, please visit
http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0 or send a letter to
Creative Commons, 559 Nathan Abbott Way, Stanford CA, 94305 USA.
========================================================================
Editorial
by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
<ornoth@rcn.com>
Last September, in the Editorial for DargonZine 16-3, I mentioned
that two of our veteran writers had taken temporary sabbaticals,
bequeathing several partially-completed stories to be finished up by
others. The first of those stories appeared in our most recent issue,
wherein Rich Niro completed Victor Cardoso's "Touching Ol".
We open this issue with the second such story, P. Atchley's "Sweet
Healing", which I had the pleasure of taking from first draft through
publication. This being only the second story I've had printed in
DargonZine in the past ten years, I haven't had much occasion to talk
about myself, so perhaps a little self-indulgence is forgivable.
You might well think that being editor as well as a contributing
writer would be an easily abused conflict of interest, and I'd have to
agree. During my initial four years as editor of FSFnet, DargonZine's
predecessor, I managed to author eight Dargon stories, four non-Dargon
stories, eight "featured author" columns, and seven other articles. That
was partly to ensure that we had enough material to keep the nascent
magazine in print, but I must admit that I probably took advantage of
the fact that I was also the editor. Like every writer, I look back at
my early works and cringe at the flaws I see.
In those early days, I proofread every submission and gave
suggestions and corrections to contributors, but there was no peer
review. Although I had founded FSFnet to get feedback from other writers
on my work, I rarely had anyone else look at my stories before I
distributed them in issues.
It wasn't until I turned the reins of DargonZine over to Dafydd
(whom I'll return to in just a moment) that he asked all Dargon Project
writers to participate in the review process, so that the effort of
critiquing forthcoming stories wasn't solely on the shoulders of the
editor. More importantly, writers began talking to and learning from one
another, whereas under my own leadership all communication had been
between each writer and the editor. With much more feedback and many
more viewpoints represented, the quality of DargonZine's stories rapidly
improved. Furthermore, the increased contact fostered a real sense of
community in the group, and many lasting friendships have been made at
our annual Writers' Summits.
Thus, when I returned to DargonZine after six years' absence,
things had changed quite a bit. Now, even my stories had to go through
several rounds of peer review, and that dramatically changed how I
approached my writing. I began concentrating on quality rather than
quantity, and I had much the same experience as every other Dargon
Project writer: it can be very difficult to consider everyone's
criticism, but in the end my stories have been far better for it, and
I've learned a lot. Unlike my prolific early days, "Sweet Healing" will
be only my fifth story to appear in DargonZine in eleven years, and just
my second story in the ten years since I resumed editing the zine. So
now, with the exception of these Editorials, DargonZine is no longer my
personal publishing house.
This issue concludes with the second chapter of Dafydd's "Talisman
Ten", which provides an interesting counterpoint. Dafydd was, as I
mentioned above, the editor of DargonZine for those six years when I was
away.
I can't say to what extent peer review contributed to this fact,
but during those six years as editor, Dafydd printed only one of his own
stories. That's simply astounding when you consider that he is by far
our most prolific author, having printed eleven stories in less than two
years before he became editor, plus an unbelievable forty-five stories
in the decade since he stopped putting out the zine.
The vast majority of those stories are, of course, the Talisman
novella, of which "Talisman Ten 2" is the penultimate chapter. When it
finally concludes in our next issue, Talisman will comprise thirty-eight
chapters and over 235,000 words; it will have taken us over five years
to print; and it will be an order of magnitude larger than any other
single work that DargonZine has ever produced.
Talisman is indeed a truly colossal achievement, and it all comes
to its exciting finale in our next DargonZine issue, due out around the
end of April.
========================================================================
Sweet Healing
by P. Atchley and Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Naia 12, 1018
"Lilike, tonight we'll brew a tisane of parsley. That's for
treating baldness, so you need to learn --" Rebecca sighed in
frustration as her apprentice set a book aside and went to the cupboard
to grab a piece of bread. "Will you please pay attention? And put that
book back in its box!"
"But I'm hungry," came the response. "And why can't I look at your
books? Aren't you curious about the recipes in this one? And I want to
figure out what the other one is. Don't you think 'Maran's Tome of
Curses' is an exciting title?" Lilike's face brightened as she spoke of
it. A pretty teenager, she had joined Rebecca as an apprentice a few
months before. With tawny hair and dark eyes the color of water
sapphires, she was cheerful and quick to learn, but easily bored.
"And what does a healer need with curses? I can't imagine why Cyon
would have kept such a book." Despite being unable to read, Rebecca had
inherited them along with a whole shop full of paraphernalia when her
mentor had died, many years before.
Regardless of Rebecca's sensible argument, her apprentice's
enthusiasm for the book wasn't so easily turned aside. "I bet it's full
of spells and magic potions ..."
"If you'd noticed, I'm tying to teach you how to make a potion ..."
Lilike's face twisted up. "But that's just herbs: herbs to keep old
men from going bald. That's not real magic!"
The two of them were working in the small first-floor shop where
Rebecca had lived since her arrival in Dargon. The single room was old
and shabby, with one bed, one table, and one chair. Light and air
streamed in through the doorway and open-shuttered window. One wall had
shelves containing the healing supplies that she kept on hand, and, on
the other side, many drying herb cuttings hung above the fireplace. The
healer crouched by the fire, stirring the decoction she was making.
Frowning, she said, "Sometimes I don't think you want to learn about
herbs and healing. I honestly wonder why you came to me."
"Well, I'm just so old," Lilike whined, making Rebecca smile while
the young woman continued. "When Cavendish dismissed me because I didn't
have the hand to be a scribe, my father said I needed another
apprenticeship or I'd have to join the town guard. I don't want to be a
guard ... though it might be more exciting than being a healer!" Lilike
finished her bread and picked up a sheaf of tansy weed from the table.
Sitting on the floor in the sunlight, she began to separate the roots,
leaves, and flowers into piles.
Rebecca shook her head and sighed. "Being a healer is not about
excitement, girl; it's about helping others, about healing." She thought
about why she had accepted the young woman as an apprentice. Her
reflection, the last time she had seen it in her washbasin, had shown
without equivocation her white hair, the wrinkles on her face, and the
blue eyes that were a pale imitation of the color of her youth. In order
to preserve the skills and knowledge Rebecca had learned from her
master, Cyon, she had needed to find an apprentice. That, however, had
not been the only reason she had chosen Lilike. The evening after
Lilike's father had presented her to Rebecca, the herbalist had dreamed
that the sandy-haired girl would someday become a well-known healer.
"I know it's about healing," Lilike said. "And I want to help
people, but nothing ever happens here. You've been to two birthings
since I came to you, and you didn't take me to either of them. It's been
nothing but colds and fevers. Maybe I should start making those recipes
for potions from your books. Even those look more interesting than
boiling parsley ..."
Rebecca sighed again. She still had faith in the vision she'd had
before accepting Lilike as her apprentice, but during conversations like
this, she wondered. The girl was indeed old to start learning a new
trade. In a lecturing tone, she said, "A healer is he who has not healed
a hundred people."
"-- a hundred people," Lilike chanted, a beat behind her. "That is
such an odd saying. It doesn't make sense at all, and every time I ask
you, you say that it's not time for you to explain it."
"It's not something to be explained, child; it's something to be
understood. Now I want you to promise me that you will concentrate on
learning to make a serum from those quince berries you gathered last
sennight. No more looking at those old books."
Lilike said thoughtfully, "I don't understand why you kept Cyon's
books if you can't read. Could he read? They're very interesting, but
they're hard to follow. There are pictures of animals, too. There's one
with a big knot of rats with --"
"Enough!" Rebecca interrupted forcefully. In all her years as a
healer, she had never needed to know how to read. Everything Cyon had
taught her had been passed down orally and committed to memory. She
could not understand Lilike's endless fascination with the two books.
Rebecca simply had never had the reason or inclination to do anything
with them since cleaning out Cyon's shop. They might be worth something
to someone, but Rebecca's long, hard days didn't leave her time or
energy to first have them appraised, then try to find a buyer. Instead,
they'd sat on a shelf, forgotten, for years -- decades, actually --
until her new apprentice had spotted them. Lilike's interest was
harmless, but also a distraction. Perhaps now it was time to look into
selling them.
However, that would have to wait for another time, because
Rebecca's day was already spoken for. "I need to go to the marketplace.
A ship from Kimmeron docked yesterday, and I'm sure their spices and
herbs are in the market by now. We're out of the cough syrup, so I want
you to make it. Do you remember what to do?"
Lilike rolled her eyes as only an adolescent could. "Of course I
remember. Rebecca, I've made it every other day for two months! I
promise I won't let the fire die out, and I'll boil it for the time it
takes me to sort all the tansy weed."
"Good girl. And if anyone shows up for anything other than a fever
or cough, send word to me, straight?" Without waiting for a response,
Rebecca set off, trusting that Lilike would act responsibly. Even though
she was playful and did not appear interested in learning about herbs,
she was always gentle and caring with the patients. Rebecca would do her
best to help the young woman become a healer, but Lilike's dedication to
that goal needed to come from within.
When Rebecca returned from the marketplace, Lilike had one of the
books open again, but since she had faithfully made the cough syrup and
plucked all the flowers and leaves from the tansy weed gathered two days
prior, Rebecca refrained from scolding.
Lilike looked up and said excitedly, "Listen to this, Rebecca:
For cough is from lough
And pansy seeds are best,
But use naught save caulk for fest."
The young woman paused dramatically and then asked, "What do you
think it means?"
Rebecca paused in picking up the sorted herbs, her interest caught.
"It's true that a serum of pansy seed fortified by brandy is good for a
cough."
"What do they mean by 'caulk for fest'?" Lilike asked.
"Well, 'fest' means 'festival' ..." Rebecca's voice trailed off as
she turned her attention back to her task.
"Do you mean like Melrin?"
"Yes, like Melrin. There are usually only two sicknesses after any
festival: one is caused by too much to eat, and the other is caused by
too much to drink," Rebecca answered. "It makes sense that they talk
about caulk, since that is what --"
A face looked in at the door and both of them turned.
"Lilike! Hello!" The high voice belonged to Kerith, one of Sian
Allyn's young orphans. The child's unbridled enthusiasm made Kerith one
of Rebecca's favorites. Her guardian, looking haggard, followed her into
the little room.
Rebecca silently gauged the symptoms she could clearly read in the
child's appearance. Her long, golden hair hung like rats' tails around
her face. Her skin had lost its sheen and her body was emaciated, except
for a small, rounded belly. "Hello, Kerith," she said, letting the tale
of her malady come out in its own time.
Kerith turned and asked, "Lilike, can I have some water?"
Lilike brought a cup in silence, and as Kerith drank, the
apprentice touched the little girl's forehead and asked, "Is she not
eating properly?" There was a serious note in her voice, one that
Rebecca had not heard before. The healer realized that Lilike too sensed
Kerith's illness. She was encouraged that her apprentice had begun to
recognize the look of sickness, despite the fact that she had only been
with Rebecca for a few months.
Sian's hazel eyes, rimmed with red, were the only color in her pale
face, and her shoulders sagged as she replied to the apprentice's
question. "Yes, she is, but nothing stays in. And she's using the
chamber pot all the time."
"How long has this been the case?" asked Rebecca.
"I didn't really notice it coming on. Maybe a fortnight or more?"
Rebecca's eyes narrowed in suspicion as she examined the child. She
thought she recognized Kerith's illness, and dreaded being right.
"Can you help her, Rebecca? What's wrong with her?" Sian asked, her
voice stronger than before, looking at the healer.
When Rebecca looked into Sian's eyes, however, Sian instinctively
sensed the gravity of the sickness. The little hope that Rebecca had
seen in her face disappeared.
"Come with me. Lilike, talk to Kerith," Rebecca said, leading the
way toward the back door to the small garden and alleyway behind her
shop. As she stepped over the threshold, she turned back and added, "And
don't give her anything to eat." She knew that Lilike might give Kerith
the dried fruit and honey that they kept to persuade small children to
take bitter medicine, and that would probably not be good for the child.
When they were outside, Sian spoke, words tumbling out in a
torrent. "What's wrong, Rebecca? You know what's wrong, don't you? Tell
me."
Rebecca nodded. "I think it is the sweet sickness."
"The sweet sickness? What's that?"
"It is a rare disease, but if that is what is afflicting her, you
cannot let her eat anything save a bit of meat -- and not even fatty
meat -- and maybe lettuce, and those but once a day. Do not, on any
account, let her eat bread or honey. Do you understand me?" Rebecca put
every bit of authority she could into the last question and was rewarded
by Sian nodding with determination in her face.
"Good. Now, before I tell you more, I must be sure." There was no
sense alarming Sian further until she was certain.
"How will you do that?" Sian asked.
"We will do it right now," Rebecca said, going back inside.
"Kerith, come with me." She led the way out of the back door.
After Sian and Kerith left, Rebecca sat down and stared blankly at
the floor, searching her memory for everything she'd ever been told
about the sweet sickness. The silence was unbroken, as Lilike did not
speak for a long time. The apprentice sat on the floor, crushing dried
quince berries in a small mortar, eyes on her task. When the ninth bell
of the day tolled outside and dusk was fast approaching, Lilike finally
asked.
"I can't believe Kerith looks like that. What's wrong with her,
Rebecca?"
Rebecca looked at the youthful figure before her and sighed. "It is
the sweet sickness. People get it when they offend the Olean goddess
Shilsara, she who stands for joy and desire. I have seen it manifested
in older people and rich ones a sennight or more after a great
celebration. They overeat, then they become fat, and then they get the
sweet sickness. They suffer from an unquenchable thirst, and all their
flesh and limbs dissolve into urine. They waste away to nothing, and by
the time --" Rebecca stopped abruptly, unwilling to complete that
thought.
There was horror on Lilike's face, and her hands paused in their
action. "By the time what?"
Rebecca stared grimly at Lilike and then looked out the window,
letting the silence be her reply.
"Is that what's going to happen to Kerith?" Lilike asked, as if
needing an explicit answer.
"I'm not certain. I have never seen a child so afflicted."
Lilike asked, "Then how are you sure it is the sweet sickness?"
"My teacher, Cyon, used to use the taste test," Rebecca said,
leaning back in her chair, "and there are ants out back."
"You took her out back to pass water?" Lilike asked, awareness
dawning.
"Yes. The ants were attracted to her water because it was sugary.
That's why it's called the sweet sickness," Rebecca said, unable to stop
the pedantic note that crept into her voice. "It's unmistakable. The
thirst is the first indication, followed by the wasting away of limbs,
then the urine is the final proof."
"What is the cure?" The tone of Lilike's question was hesitant.
Rebecca did not answer, keeping her eyes trained on the window.
After a moment or two, Lilike got up, replaced the mortar on the
shelf, and turned to implore, "Rebecca, is there a cure?"
"For the older people who get it, it can be controlled for a while
by avoiding many foods and eating only certain foods: lean meats,
lettuce, spinach. Bread and sweets must be avoided, and no spirits of
any kind. One small meal a day only. If they follow this, they can live
for another year or two. Still, once you have offended Shilsara in this
manner, there is no way to lift her curse."
Lilike glared her denial at her mentor. "That's not true. I don't
believe it. I refuse to believe it! How can you say that? There must be
a cure. If we beseech Shilsara and give Kerith herbs, she will get
better. We just have to know which ones to give her."
Rebecca sighed. Lilike's blind optimism was both valuable and
dangerous. As a healer, she would see many patients survive because of
her efforts, but perhaps as many would die despite them. She would need
her optimism to endure all that and persevere as a healer, yet it was a
painful burden to bear in cases like this, when the affliction was both
irrevocable and fatal.
"Fine, be that way. I will do it myself," Lilike muttered. "I'm
going to the Olean temple to talk to the priests."
Rebecca opened her mouth to say something, but the young woman was
already across the threshold. It might do Lilike good to meet something
she couldn't conquer, but the thought of that being Kerith's sweet
sickness was painful, even for Rebecca.
The following afternoon, Rebecca watched Lilike's angry face and
sighed. Her visit with the Olean priests the previous evening had
apparently yielded nothing of value, and when Lilike had returned to
speak to the master priest a second time, he had been unavailable. Not
that Rebecca had expected anything else.
Sian had visited earlier in the day, and Rebecca had told her the
truth: the only way to prolong Kerith's life was by controlling what she
ate, and that would but delay the end. Sian had left, bravely overcoming
her tears, but since then Lilike had sulked. Rebecca turned away to
continue her tasks, deciding to avoid the subject for the time being.
There was a knock on the door and both women looked up.
"Come in. How can I help you?" Rebecca invited, glad of the
interruption. It was a young man whom she did not recognize, but a
healer's home was open to all who needed help.
Lilike rose, smiling, one hand extended in invitation. "Come in.
Rebecca, this is Cereid, one of the acolytes I met at the Olean temple.
Cereid, this is Rebecca, my teacher."
Rebecca nodded. "Have you come to visit with Lilike?"
Standing next to Lilike, Cereid looked only a little older than she
did. His dark hair was shorn close to his scalp, leaving little more
than a trace of stubble, and he wore plain breeches made of homespun.
His tunic, though worn, was of good material. Dark eyes glittered in a
pleasant face that looked as if he smiled often.
"Milady, when Mistress Lilike came to the temple, she asked to see
our books of healing. She related her need to treat a child with 'the
sweet sickness', which is unknown to our healers. Since we have only
three healers, none could be spared to look into her request, and no one
is allowed into our library but initiates."
None of this was news to Rebecca, although Cereid's apologetic tone
was an improvement on his elders' earlier dismissal of Lilike. The young
man continued, "So I took it upon myself to borrow a couple books from
the temple, which I can share with Mistress Lilike in the hopes that
this child can be cured with something we learn from them." From a
shoulder sack, the priest brought forth two small but thick books, which
he handed to Lilike.
"Oh, thank you, Cereid! Thank you!" Lilike's praise was
enthusiastic, but brief, as she grabbed the first book and opened it,
exposing pages and pages of closely-written lines, occasional drawings
of leaves, knives, and other, unrecognizable things. Cereid looked over
her shoulder, and helped decipher the script.
Rebecca was pleased, but she felt divided. Was there a cure to be
found? While she wanted to cure Kerith, she also did not want to foster
a treacherous and likely false hope in herself or her protege.
As the healer watched, the two of them pored over the tome. Several
of the pages they dismissed immediately because the writing was
apparently about wounds or childbirth. One page looked interesting, and
the two of them spent quite some time discussing it until Rebecca
realized that it sounded much like leprosy, a disease of the skin.
Skipping it, they moved on to another page with a drawing of a ewe. The
volume seemed endless, and Rebecca became depressed by the sheer number
of maladies and misfortunes that mankind was subject to.
"It's almost nightfall," Rebecca observed. "Cereid, don't you have
tenth bell prayers to attend at the temple?"
Cereid rose and rapidly packed away the books. "I didn't even hear
the ninth bell. Yes, I must go."
Rebecca chuckled. "That's because the two of you were so engrossed
in that last rhyme. What was it about? Sounded a lot like sour stomach
to me."
Lilike stretched. "Oh, something about worms in the stomach. I
wonder if people get real worms in their stomachs."
"That page said they cut up a thief who was hung for banditry and
they saw worms in the stomach," Cereid said as he walked to the door.
"So they must, no? Do you want me to return tomorrow to go through the
books some more, Lilike?"
"Actually, why don't I meet you at the temple? I think I'll go see
Kerith and then come there."
The days progressed in much the same way, with Cereid bringing
books for Lilike to look at when he could. While his visits became less
frequent, he would sometimes leave a book for Lilike to read overnight,
although he made it clear to her that he could get in trouble if anyone
at the temple found out. In this manner, a fortnight passed, and then
another, while Lilike grew ever more somber. Sian had not returned, but
Rebecca knew that Lilike saw her in order to visit Kerith. The healer
knew that her apprentice would lose a part of herself when the end came,
but she could not bring herself to stop the young woman.
One afternoon, a month after Kerith's initial visit, the two of
them were seated in their customary positions, Rebecca in her chair
facing the window and Lilike on the ground near the door, for once
without any herbs to work on or a decoction on the fire. It had been a
busy day for the two of them, and Rebecca had decided that they both
needed to sit quietly for a while. In the silence, she watched Lilike,
who had one of Cereid's books open before her. The young woman had lost
most of her optimism about finding the right herbs to give Kerith. She
hadn't even touched the book that Cereid had left two days before until
Rebecca had asked her why.
Rebecca sighed, realizing the irony in that. After all her
impatience whenever her apprentice had talked about Cyon's books, today
she herself had encouraged Lilike to continue looking for a solution in
Cereid's Olean tomes. Not that it had helped; the book lay open before
her, while she stared out of the door. It was late afternoon, and there
was barely enough light to read by, although Lilike had yet to notice.
Outside, the town bell tolled nine times.
"Lilike, what are you doing?" Rebecca felt sorry for her but could
not allow her to become morose over one patient.
She sat up, meeting the older woman's gaze. "Nothing. I was just
thinking. I went to see Kerith this morning."
Rebecca sighed. "I think you need to stop going to see her." When
Rebecca had run into Sian at the marketplace two days prior, they had
discussed Kerith's condition. Rebecca knew that the end was near.
Lilike's distress came out in a rush. "Her stomach is like a
pregnant woman's, but she's like thin sticks held together by the
clothes she wears. She can't get out of bed. And Sian has decided to let
her eat anything she wants!"
Rebecca shook her head. "If the child is starved, she may survive
for a year or so, but if Sian lets her eat whatever she wants, a
fortnight, maybe two."
"We're close to finding something, Rebecca. I know it!" Lilike said
earnestly, "I went to ask her to feed Kerith no more than once a day
again."
Rebecca shook her head, already knowing the answer. "She didn't
listen, did she?"
Lilike grimaced and recounted the argument they'd had, and the
unexpected anger in Sian's voice. Lilike was afraid that not only would
Sian let Kerith eat as she pleased, but she would also prevent Lilike
from seeing the child again.
Rebecca sighed. "Lilike, dear, sometimes when someone is about to
die, the people who love that person lose hope and become angry. As
healers, we have to accept that."
Lilike wiped her tears and said, "It's not that, Rebecca. I
understand that, and I'm angry too! But I'm so close to finding
something, and I couldn't make her agree to limit Kerith's food. Sian
simply won't give me more time."
"No, Lilike. She's just afraid that you may not be able to find a
cure, and she can't bear to see Kerith starve," Rebecca comforted. "You
have to accept --"
"I think I understand what it means," Lilike said, seemingly at
random. A tear traced a line down her cheek. "A healer is he who has not
healed a hundred beings."
"Oh, girl ..." Rebecca felt her throat catch. She hadn't wanted
Lilike to have such a harsh route to that understanding.
Another tear crept out of Lilike's eye and she brushed it away,
meeting Rebecca's gaze. "She's going to die, isn't she? No, don't answer
that; I know that Kerith is going to die." There was silence for a long
moment. Finally, she said in a small voice, "What do I do now, Rebecca?"
The healer looked into the blue eyes gazing trustfully into hers.
Rebecca thought she herself had accepted that death was an integral part
of a healer's life. Watching Lilike deal with her failure to save Kerith
led Rebecca to ask whether that acceptance was only a veneer. Maybe she
had needed this reminder as much as Lilike had needed the lesson. "We go
on. There's always another patient, another wound, another cough. There
are always people who need --"
By the time Rebecca turned to see who had knocked at the door, the
young priest Cereid was already inside the room. "Lilike, I found
something. It's not the answer, but it might be a clue!"
He turned to face Lilike, who had yet to move. "You know that I've
been trying to help you ever since you first visited the temple. Because
of my duties there, I couldn't come visit you every day, but I've spent
as much time in our library as I could, with more than just the books I
brought here. And this morning I found something that might help us."
Lilike asked hesitantly, "Are you saying that you found a potion or
something to cure it?"
"No, not really, but in some notes written about eighty years ago,
one of our healers wrote about the sweet sickness and mentioned that
there was a cure. I spent all day in our library, looking for the actual
cure, and I just can't find it in any of the tomes in the Olean temple."
The disappointment on his face was reflected in Lilike's.
As she thought it through, she ventured, "If there was a cure,
might one of the other temples in Dargon have recorded it? I can go to
each one and ask if their healers knew anything about the sweet disease
..."
"Oh, and one other thing." Cereid touched Lilike's sleeve to get
her attention. "It wasn't called the 'sweet disease' in the notes, but
the 'sweet curse'. Not that -- What?" Cereid interrupted himself as a
huge grin spread across Lilike's face.
"I know it!" she squealed. "Rebecca, it's your book."
"What?" Rebecca watched in amazement as Lilike, with scant regard
for the conversation they had been having, turned toward the shelves and
pulled one of her master's old books out of a box, wiping her tears off
carelessly with the back of one hand. "Of course! Cyon wouldn't have a
book about magical curses; he'd have a book about diseases!" She opened
the heavy tome, then suddenly stopped and muttered, "How are we going to
find it?"
Cereid looked from her to the book, openmouthed.
Rebecca said sharply, "You have to first know what you're looking
for."
"How is it that you have the book?" Cereid's astonishment still
played on his face.
"We do know what we're looking for," Lilike responded to Rebecca.
"It's called the sweet sickness. You said so yourself. Or the sweet
curse ..." She turned to Cereid, grinning. "Rebecca's teacher gave this
to her. She's had it forever." Lilike sat down near the door and set the
open book before her.
"But how do you know that it will work?" Rebecca thought her voice
had acquired a shrill note, so she consciously lowered it and continued,
"Lilike, how do you know that's what it's called in there?" Lilike's
enthusiasm worried Rebecca. It was bad enough that she was visiting
Kerith, but if the apprentice's hopes were renewed, she would be doubly
devastated when the end came, as it inevitably would.
Cereid was still unable to get past his amazement. "I just found
out the name of the disease, and you already have the book? Is that not
a miracle of Ol?"
Lilike frowned as she turned the pages, and Rebecca could see that
most of the young woman's concentration was on the book rather than the
conversation. The healer waited in silence, watching the two younger
people.
"Oh Cereid, the miracle isn't that we have a book of curses; the
miracle is if we can find the answer in this huge book!" Lilike paused
and hefted it to show the other two how big it was, "And the real
miracle is going to be when the cure actually works. Rebecca, how can I
not try? Don't you think it's worth it?" She looked up at the older
woman, her expression pleading. "Not just for Kerith, but there must be
other people who are accursed with it. You recognized the symptoms
immediately, which means you must have seen many people with it. Even if
I can't help Kerith," she stopped and swallowed before finishing, "it
will still help others."
Rebecca sighed, reading Lilike's grief easily. How could she
refuse, even if it probably meant more disappointment later? However,
Rebecca did not want her own hope rekindled. She knew that a master
healer needed to have hope, but it was also a very treacherous emotion
to nurture. "Straight. As long as we don't have too many patients, or
anyone with serious wounds, you can pursue this."
Lilike smiled and said, "Thank you! Don't mind her, Cereid. Come
over here. You never answered me: was there anything in your healer's
notes that would help us find the right curse in this book?"
"All the notes said was that the cure required a young pig."
Lilike hesitated, incredulous. "A pig?"
"Yes. Every Olean knows that pigs are special. My mentor told me
that's because the great Ol gave a pig to each of the gods to show them
what life is. That's why Oleans eat pork on days special to our gods. If
there's a ritual to cure Shilsara's sweet curse, it makes sense that it
involves a pig."
Rebecca frowned, knowing that pork was holy for Oleans, but at a
loss as to what that had to do with curing the sweet sickness. It all
sounded very specious.
Lilike began flipping pages while answering the priest, "I don't
know, Cereid. It certainly sounds believable, but -- Look, here's a page
with a pig ..."
The two of them read it aloud together.
"For mawkish rain when the flesh is water,
The curse is of the body and all goes out,
Naught but skin and bone is left without doubt,
To set all right bring a lobed gland to barter.
Swill a swine, lose the guts
A sennight's prayer, skin to skin.
Repentance distances the sin.
To set all right, drink of the pot
All is well. Hail Shilsara!"
There was silence as the two youths tried to work through the
verse. Rebecca examined the drawing next to the poem. She didn't think
that they had found the cure, but Cereid appeared to be certain. It was
obvious that Lilike wanted to believe badly, and Rebecca could not find
it in her heart to deny that hope. Despite Lilike's arguments that the
search for the cure would help other people, Rebecca knew that the
impetus was the need to help Kerith. Other patients were in a distant
future; Kerith was dying slowly before their eyes. It would be difficult
for Lilike's first death of a patient to be a child whom she knew and
had played with. It was a daunting loss for an old and experienced
healer, much less an idealistic apprentice.
"Straight," Lilike said, her brisk voice and bright eyes revealing
her interest. "Tell me how this is what we're looking for. It doesn't
say anything about a sweet curse, but it does talk about a pig. You were
right about that."
Cereid answered, "Listen. The 'sweet sickness' is a name that
Rebecca uses. It doesn't mean that that's what it was originally called.
You said that there was sugar in her urine, correct?"
Lilike nodded at that, and so did Rebecca. He continued, "Straight.
The first line says 'mawkish rain' which could mean 'sweet water'. The
next two lines describe the curse. It says that the body expels water
until there's nothing left but skin and bone."
The description of the indications seemed to fit. Rebecca shrugged,
not ready to believe, even though it was apparent from the way Lilike
nodded that she was.
"Then it says to swill the swine and lose the guts. I think that
would mean to soak the pig in water, drink the water, and throw the guts
out. I'm not sure what 'lobed gland' means, though." Cereid looked
thoughtful. "It says a sennight's prayer to Shilsara. I can do that."
"No, no. Look!" Lilike pointed to the picture, words tumbling out.
"See how they show the pig tied to the stomach in that picture? We cut
the gland out and place the rest of the pig on the stomach of the
person. Then we boil the gland in water for a sennight and have Kerith
drink it."
Cereid was shaking his head before she finished. "No. You don't
boil something for a sennight, do you?"
"I don't see why not. Are you sure 'mawkish' means sweet?
Everything hinges on that one word." After her initial confidence,
Lilike seemed to be growing doubtful once again.
"Yes. Don't you believe me?" Cereid was looking aggrieved. "You can
ask my mentor if you don't trust me."
"I trust you," Rebecca interjected. The two younger people looked
up in surprise as if they had forgotten her presence. "As for the
sennight, they don't mean boil the gland for seven days, they mean that
the patient is fed nothing but the gland's liquid for seven days. And
you can see what the gland looks like in the picture."
The two of them looked up at her as she spoke, and meeting their
anxious gazes, her own doubts began to crowd in. Could this work? Had
they indeed found it? If so, Kerith could be cured. On the other hand,
what if it didn't work? Did she, Rebecca, have the right to subject
Kerith, not to mention Sian, to a treatment that two youngsters had
discovered from some notes that had been buried and forgotten for eighty
years?
Rebecca turned away from the two sets of expectant eyes to stare
out the window. As if they knew she was pondering, Lilike and Cereid
remained silent. She prayed, staring up at the clouds in an evening sky
that glowed a deep azure, and she saw Kerith's smile.
A sennight later, Rebecca and her apprentice waited anxiously
around Kerith's bed. Sian had stepped out of the room to fetch a light.
Lilike stood silently, while Rebecca sat on a chair next to her,
reflecting on the frenzied pace of the past few days. Cereid had managed
to buy a piglet, although he'd had to take a loan of a few Rounds from
the butcher. She would have to remember to ask Sian for the money,
although she was sure the foster mother would be hard-pressed to find
it. Perhaps Kerith's older brother, Aren, who had also been adopted by
Sian, would be able to help, now that he had begun working for Derill
Carpenter.
Rebecca had extracted the gland, and, to Lilike's vocal surprise,
it had protruding lobes that looked like miniature ears. Rebecca had
placed the piglet on Kerith's stomach, with the animal's torn body
against the little girl's skin. The gland had been soaked in water, and
every day Rebecca had made a fresh broth. Because Kerith had lost
consciousness, Rebecca had shown Lilike how use a reed to drip the
liquid into the little girl's mouth. As each day passed, the piglet
seemed to deflate, while Kerith's bloated stomach became less distended.
Yet it happened so gradually that, despite being at Kerith's bedside for
most of the sennight, none of them, including Rebecca herself, had
noticed it happening.
This was the seventh and final day. They had fed the last two
cupfuls of the gland fluid to Kerith, who looked much improved. The
child still looked ill, but her stomach was no longer bloated, and her
hair, while still looking ratty, had lost its brittle quality.
Outside, the last bell of day tolled, and Sian entered with a small
taper in her hand to light the single sconce in the bedroom. Completing
her task, she approached the bed to stand across from the two healers.
The last rays of the sun that entered the room through the single window
dimmed.
"Rebecca?" Lilike's voice quavered, and Rebecca smiled at her,
knowing the cause for her apprentice's worry. Even though Kerith looked
much improved, she had yet to awaken.
Rebecca said, "Be patient, girl. Sian, why don't you bring up a
slice of bread and some water?"
Sian looked startled. "For Kerith?"
"Yes, for Kerith." Rebecca touched the little girl's hand. "She
will wake up soon."
Sian left and Lilike muttered, "Wake up, Kerith. Please wake up."
As if she had heard the command, Kerith opened her eyes. Her gaze
fell on Lilike, and the little girl smiled. "Hello, Lilike. How long
have you been here?"
Lilike whispered, "Oh, Kerith!" Her knees buckled, and Rebecca
caught her elbow to steady her.
Turning her attention to her patient, Rebecca asked gently, "How
are you feeling, Kerith? Are you thirsty?"
Kerith thought for a moment. "Not really. I'm hungry, though.
What's this on my stomach? Ewww! Get it off!"
"Hush! Wait!" Rebecca held the thin hands tightly, away from the
remains on her belly.
"Kerith!" Sian was at the door, and as Rebecca watched, the
expression on Sian's face turned to pure joy, leavened only by passing
disbelief. She came toward them, absently setting the plate in Rebecca's
waiting hands.
Kerith smiled at her, and the two of them hugged.
"I'm hungry. Can I eat?" Kerith looked at Sian, who looked at
Rebecca, who nodded as she passed the plate back.
"It's fine. Little meals, slowly. Come to see me in three days, but
send word if you notice or if she feels anything is wrong."
Sian nodded, smiling, and handed the plate to Kerith. The three
women watched the little girl eat.
Rebecca said, "We should go." She reached out and untied the grisly
skin and bones from the child's stomach and rolled it up in the fabric
she had brought for the purpose. The moment it came away from Kerith's
skin, it began to stink.
"Ewww!" Kerith's dismay was closely followed by Lilike's. Rebecca
could not help laughing at the identical expression on both their faces.
"Kerith!" Into the crowded room burst her older brother Aren.
Still smiling, Rebecca said, "Come, Lilike." The two of them left
quietly, leaving the family to their joy. Outside, twilight had passed
into a night filled with stars and the slight presence of the moon,
Nochturon. Rebecca inhaled deeply, accepting the peace inherent in the
heavens.
"She's going to be completely well now?" Lilike asked.
Rebecca nodded. "Yes. You did good, Lilike. You did good."
Lilike gave a little skip as if the happiness within needed
physical expression. "Is it always like this, Rebecca? I mean when
someone is really ill and then they get better because of what you did,
does it feel like this?"
Rebecca laughed. "Yes, always. It's part of being a healer."
Kerith's cure had been a truly amazing thing, but what most
satisfied Rebecca was that her vision of Lilike as a healer had been
true. The young woman had that quality in her soul, and Rebecca would
never doubt it again. In addition, such an emotional first triumph would
kindle Lilike's confidence and dedication to her work.
Lilike said in wonder, "That saying isn't complete is it? 'A healer
is he who has not healed a hundred beings.' There needs to be more to it
..."
"A healer finds his joy in healing," Rebecca offered, smiling. "My
teacher didn't tell me that until I felt for the first time what you are
feeling now."
Lilike laughed. "Yes! Oh, Rebecca, isn't it wonderful?"
========================================================================
Talisman Ten
Part 2
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
<John.White@Drexel.Edu>
Ober 15-24, 1013
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 17-1
He screamed soundlessly as his body was crushed from all sides by
incredible pressure. He gasped for breath, but couldn't expand his chest
against the forces arrayed against him. He felt himself splayed out,
spread-limbed, horizontally in mid-air, nothing but the pressure from
below and above holding him in place. Pain throbbed like a living,
maddened thing in his body.
He had been betrayed by the one he had trusted most. They would
never have caught him in a vulnerable moment otherwise. But he laughed
at the pain, laughed breathlessly as he was squeezed, because he was not
dying.
He knew that with a little concentration he could draw upon his
power, his carefully amassed reserves, his well-rehearsed spells, and
free himself from this pitiful trap. In just a moment, when he had
pushed aside the pain, mastered it, and could concentrate again ...
Agony streaked through him, limning every fiber of his being with
compounded pain. His thoughts shattered in the onslaught, breaking his
concentration thoroughly. Still he felt no weakening of his spirit, no
diminishing of his body, no dissolution of his mind, just pain and more
pain, but pain would become commonplace soon enough and then ...
The agony redoubled and this time he could feel his body coming
apart. He didn't worry, not at first. They couldn't kill him, he knew
that from experience. They continued to work, though, and he felt the
beginnings of fear. He was being split, his essence was being divided.
He felt himself become three instead of one, but three that were greatly
diminished individually. He realized that his enemies had found the one
thing that could stop him. The pain diminished as he lost the capacity
to feel it, but his breathless, bodiless screaming continued on and on.
Flane jerked awake, panting as if he had actually been screaming.
Shaking his head, he slipped from his bed in the Inn of the Panther in
Dargon and walked to the small window. He opened the shutters and looked
out on the silent darkness, the cool air wafting in to dry the sweat
from his body. He poured himself some water from the pitcher on the
table beneath the window and gulped it down as he reflected on the quest
he had inherited.
The dream he had awakened from was familiar to him. He had
experienced the dissolution of the Margre Chalisento many times since he
had found the artifacts on the body of the brown-robed stranger. A small
rock, a stone cup, a blue-covered book, and a silver ring had together
changed the course of his life.
He had been in the middle of the woods, traveling to Tench with his
fellow members of the Bloody Hand of Sageeza. They were a group whose
mission, to exterminate gypsies and any other foreigners, he had once
heartily agreed with. Out of the woods one day had ridden a stranger
named Shan who had asked to travel with them. Lacsil, their group's
leader, had agreed. Not long after, an attack by gypsies had thrown the
group into chaos. In the confusion, the stranger had been killed. Flane
had found himself searching the body without quite knowing why. His
confusion had ended upon finding the artifacts.
He had ridden away from the attack without another thought, his
hatred of gypsies completely buried under the need to get to Dargon. He
had a quest to complete.
The journey had been long and hard. His horse had died early on
from a snake bite he hadn't even realized it had received until it had
dropped from under him. He had continued afoot, working his way toward
Dargon. Haste had never been a factor in his journey, just a dogged
movement toward his goal. He had traveled through the northern wilds of
Baranur for a month and a half, finally arriving in the ducal seat two
days previously, on the 13th of Ober.
His purpose was clear, and if it bothered him that his memories
were not his own any longer he didn't show it. He had already started
canvassing the many information sellers this port town offered, looking
for lore about the Margre, trying to unravel the riddle-hidden pointers
in the blue book. He knew how the stone of the Margre's intellect had
been unearthed in a similar search by Voesh in Pyridain. Flane recalled,
without having been there himself, how Voesh had enlisted his companions
in Bresk's Band to ferret out information that had led them all to
retrieving the cup of the Margre's body. He reviewed Shan's brief
stewardship of the quest, gained when bad luck had caught Voesh in an
ambush and good luck had saved Shan from the same. The bad luck had
dogged Shan, though, leading to the deaths of his two remaining fellows
in Bresk's Band and finally, to his own.
Flane, however, had succeeded. He was in Dargon, and he would find
the final key. And when the water of the Margre's spirit was poured over
the stone resting in the cup, the Margre would be revived. She would
return to the world, reclaim her power, and reward Flane with everything
he had ever wanted. And if he was so occupied with finishing the quest
that he never took the time to plan that reward, he never even noticed
it.
"I'll just let the seer know you're back, Master Nakaz," said the
young woman who had met them, as she walked through the door into the
back of the shop.
Nakaz said, "Thank you, Thuna," as Aldan looked around the room,
marveling at the clutter, wondering how the owner kept anything straight
in there.
"She seems to know you pretty well, Nakaz," said the son of Baron
Bindrmon.
"That's probably because I've been here twice already, Aldan," said
Nakaz.
"And," said Aldan, "because you're a bard and a very handsome man."
Aldan returned Nakaz' grin at the compliment, then became serious again.
"Do you really think it is worth visiting everyone yet again? If the man
who has taken on the Margre quest hasn't yet visited one of the sages
and scribes in Dargon by now, what makes you think he still will?"
"Faith, Aldan, and hope," said the bard. "Faith that Meelia was
telling us the truth just before she died when she said that the quest
was headed for Dargon. And hope that the new holder of the quest isn't
hiding from us, but has just taken longer than we expected to reach the
city."
Aldan frowned. "I never thought he might be hiding."
"I don't think it is very likely. Why would he worry about someone
tracking him? But he might just be paranoid enough to ask for secrecy
from anyone he speaks to about his riddles. I don't think that I've yet
been lied to by anyone I've met with and this time I will use my bardic
authority to make sure of that. I also intend to leave instructions that
any future contacts be reported to me, instead of waiting for a fourth
or fifth visit. I think I've seen enough of Dargon's streets in the past
month!"
Their mutual laughter was interrupted by the arrival of a
kindly-faced older man dressed in a robe. He strode into the room and
said, "Well, well, welcome back Nakaz! The last time you were here was
exactly a fortnight ago, on the 2nd of Ober, yes? And who is this you've
brought with you this time?"
Nakaz said, "Your memory is perfect, Corambis. This is Lord Aldan
Bindrmon, a friend I escorted to Dargon. He was searching for some ...
people, but we have both concluded that those people did not actually
come to Dargon."
"Ah, welcome Lord Aldan," Corambis said. "I'm sorry your long
journey was for naught."
Aldan looked puzzled. "Long journey? How did you know ...?"
Corambis just smiled patiently. "I doubt whether a noble with the
last name Bindrmon would not be from the barony in Welspeare," he said.
Aldan blinked in surprise, and then smiled back.
"Now, Nakaz," Corambis continued, "I was just about to send word to
you. I well recall the reason for your previous two visits, so I marked
the man who came in two or three days ago who was also asking about the
Margre Chalisento."
Nakaz was elated to finally hear what he had been waiting so long
for. He asked, "Who was he? What did he look like? Did he say where he
was staying?"
"He said his name was Flane, but he didn't indicate where he was
lodged. He was of an average height, with a plain face and brown hair.
He had two distinguishing features, though. First, the top of his right
ear was missing. Second, in the middle of his left eyebrow there was a
rather prominent scar."
Aldan and Nakaz looked at each other at the mention of the scar.
Nakaz turned back to the sage and said, "Exactly what did he ask about?"
"The Margre, first. When I informed him of my lack of such
knowledge, he then asked about local legends of any kind concerning
leaf-shaped stars, or cat and stag motifs. My response was again
negative.
"However, just this morning I ran across something that might
actually be relevant. I was reading a fragment of a manuscript, much the
worse for wear and of uncertain provenance, but it was concerned with
legends from this area. One of these mentioned something called the
Asthen'ron. I wouldn't have given it a second thought had it not given a
description of this being or thing; it looked like a large cat, but with
a stag's antlers and hooves."
Nakaz' eyes widened and he looked over at Aldan to see the same
look of surprise. "Did you learn anything more about this Asthen'ron?"
he asked.
"Sadly, no, Nakaz. There was nothing more to be gleaned from that
weathered parchment. I do intend to do more digging, though; my
curiosity is piqued!"
"Do that, Corambis, please. I have never heard of this legendary
thing, but I believe it has some connection to the Margre. Thank you
very much for your time and your memory. It is good as well to finally
know the identity of our quester and that he is actually in the city.
Please don't let this Flane know about your discovery, if you would be
so kind?"
"Do not worry, Nakaz, I will keep this between you and me for now.
Glad to serve in any way possible. I don't suppose you would care to
enlighten me as to what or who this Margre is?"
Nakaz smiled slyly and said, "Maybe next time, Corambis."
Grinning, Corambis said, "Fair enough, fair enough. Might I
interest either of you, then, in a reading? Perhaps I could help Lord
Aldan with his missing people?"
Aldan opened his mouth, hope in his face, but Nakaz interrupted.
"Maybe next time, once again. After we catch this lop-eared, scarred
person named Flane. Thank you again, Corambis. We'll see ourselves out."
The bell over the door jingled as Yawrab and Ganba left the shop of
Abernald the apothecary. Ganba walked behind Yawrab, but she knew that
her lover's face was clouded with doubt and sadness. They had been
visiting Abernald's and shops like his all over the city, hoping to
learn that someone in Dargon knew where Lord Aldan was. They had once
again received a negative reply; no one had reported Aldan's whereabouts
to Abernald.
"I'm beginning to believe that he's not here, Ganba," said Yawrab,
turning her odd-eyed visage toward the gypsy. "We've been searching all
over for so long ..."
"I know, love," said Ganba, reaching over to touch the older
woman's shoulder, putting as much affection in the contact as she could.
"I know it's hard. But you know he was headed for Dargon, and Sefera's
cards said he was headed north. Where else but here could he go?"
"You're right," Yawrab admitted, but Ganba could tell by the tone
of her voice that her spirits weren't lifted. "We've covered the whole
of the lower city several times over, though. Couldn't we ask someone in
the Old City?"
"If he's here to hide from his deed of murder, Aldan is not going
to do it among the nobles," said Ganba.
"But what if he didn't do it?"
Ganba had heard this before, and she remembered what Sefera's cards
had said, but she wasn't convinced. So she said, "You chased the man
across the kingdom because you believed he had murdered your sister
Tillna. Why are you here if not to bring him to justice?"
Yawrab stared her green-and-brown stare, then finally nodded,
casting her eyes down. Ganba tugged her away from the doorway and they
started walking through the streets of Dargon. Hoping to cheer her up,
Ganba said, "Even if you don't find him, Yawrab, this is an exciting
adventure, isn't it? Above and beyond chasing down Lacsil, and then the
gathering at Eariaddas Hwl. Straight?"
Grinning tentatively, looking around at the hustle and bustle of
the city, Yawrab said, "I suppose."
"And those ships!" Ganba said. "Weren't they fascinating? All those
ropes, all those people, and they actually float! They're so huge!"
Yawrab smiled brightly at this. The two of them had spent days at a
time on the waterfront, watching the activity. Ganba had justified the
time by hinting to Yawrab that the fugitive Aldan might just try to
escape completely by taking passage on a ship to somewhere far away, but
they hadn't seen the son of Bindrmon's baron on the docks either.
Ganba took a stab at turning her lover's attention completely away
from their endless search. "What do you want to bet," she said, "that
they haven't changed the sheets yet back at the Panther?"
Yawrab laughed out loud. Their room at the Inn of the Panther had
only had the linens changed three times since they'd taken up lodgings
there, a fact that annoyed Yawrab far more than it did Ganba. They
discussed the possibility of changing inns or doing something about the
appalling laundry as they strolled through the streets, and eventually
fell into a companionable silence.
Despite herself, Ganba's thoughts returned to their quest as they
walked, and she wondered when to give it up. Winter was closing in. She
knew that as the Rooted Folk numbered the year, it was the 18th of Ober,
and the end of their year was less than three fortnights away. Ships
would stop sailing out of the harbor, and caravans going south would
dwindle in number as the northern climate worsened. Ganba didn't need a
caravan to travel, but she was subject to the same limitations. Rain or
snow and cold would stop her just as effectively as any other traveler.
Soon she and Yawrab would have to weigh their chances of finding one man
against the prospect of wintering over in
Dargon.
Her attention was diverted by taunting shouts. Ganba looked around,
but it was Yawrab who spotted the trio of young boys darting and dancing
around an older boy who was better dressed in what almost looked like a
uniform of some kind. The altercation was taking place just outside the
mouth of an alley, which the young boys were preventing the other from
entering. The older boy -- more of a young man, really -- had a look of
abject fear on his face, well out of proportion to the threat the
youngsters posed. The uniformed man's eyes darted from the alley to the
passers-by, who ignored the altercation completely. Panic made the young
man's movements jerky, and a quick jab by one of the tormentors made him
drop all of his belongings.
Ganba and Yawrab strode right up to the small group, who were all
scrambling for the dropped belongings, the boys to kick them away, the
young man to pick them up. "Stop that!" shouted Ganba, and "Get away!"
yelled Yawrab.
All four looked up. The three boys grinned fearlessly, then ran
when Ganba stamped a foot at them. The young man hurriedly looked back
down and gathered his bundles together, edging into the alley after the
boys but not following them.
"Are you all right?" asked Yawrab as she and Ganba walked over to
the cowering young man.
"Y-yes, thank you," he said, his grey eyes still darting nervously
about. They rested momentarily on both of them, and Ganba recognized the
kind of frown as the young man looked at her; she had seen similar all
her life.
"Do you need any help?" asked Yawrab, talking softly to the still
obviously nervous young man. "Why, if you don't mind my asking, were
those boys bothering you?" Ganba could hear the unspoken question, "Why
could those boys bother you?" She wondered whether the young man could
hear it too.
The young man looked around and suddenly seemed less nervous. Ganba
scanned the area but didn't notice that anything had changed except for
there being almost no one walking by. He straightened up, still in the
mouth of the alley, and said, "I'm sorry, I'm Ratray -- call me Tray --
and I work at the keep. Those boys just caught me off guard, see, but
they won't be any more trouble, I'm sure."
He looked at both of them, the frown returning when he looked at
Ganba. Addressing Yawrab, he said, "Thank you for driving them off,
though. I, ah, I should be going now." The nervousness had returned, and
Ganba looked over her shoulder to see a group of people walking toward
them. With a small wave, Tray darted up the alley and was soon gone.
Ganba said, "That was a very strange young man, wasn't he, Yawrab?"
"Strange indeed," Yawrab said. She took a step and stooped to pick
something up. "He must have dropped this," she said, straightening up
and showing off her find.
It was a wooden flute, complete with elongated breath-hole and
circular finger holes. It had once been a fine instrument, but now it
was nicked and notched and dusty. Only the dust had come from the
scuffle, though, as it was obvious the other damage, while superficial,
was old and well worn.
"He's bound to miss that," Ganba said.
"I'll just have to return it to him, then," said Yawrab. Ganba
wasn't sure at all why there had been a hint of slyness in the way she'd
said that.
Ratray sat on top of the shortest of the three towers of Dargon
Keep and played his fiddle. The moon had been full three nights past,
but there was plenty of its light shining on him and he didn't need to
see to play anyway. He was still smarting from the attack earlier that
day, for letting those children get the better of him. He felt worse for
having been rescued by two women, one a gypsy, and on top of it all he
had lost his flute. He could only afford to own instruments that had
been discarded, and that flute'd had a sweet sound despite its nicks and
gouges, none of which had marred the air passage. The fiddle he now
played was in fact the worse for its wear; the piece of canvas he had
glued over the hole in its back made it sound better, but not perfect.
Still, the fiddle was his favorite instrument, as he could sing while he
played.
He never heard the footsteps. One moment he closed his eyes to
concentrate on a difficult variation, and when he opened them again he
was staring at the bard he had seen around the keep for the past few
sennights.
His hands stopped moving, and he said, "Greetings, s-s-sir bard. I
hope I d-d-didn't disturb you ..."
The tall, blond man smiled and squatted down. He said, "No, I
wasn't disturbed at all. I was taking a break from the gathering I was
at, looking for some fresh air, and was lured up here by your lovely
music. You play masterfully, young man."
Ratray blushed and looked at the roof between his knees. He said,
"Ah, you jest, I'm sure, sir bard."
"Call me Nakaz, and I never jest about my art."
Ratray looked up and saw the serious look on the man's face. He
said, "I'm sorry sir ... Nakaz. I'm Ratray, call me Tray."
"I've seen you around the keep, Tray," said the bard. "You work
here?"
"Yes, I do. Humble servant, fetch and carry, clean, unskilled labor
like that."
"Where did you learn music then, Tray?
Ratray looked at his scrounged fiddle, and back at the bard. "Just
came to me, s-- Nakaz. Never took lessons or nothing."
"Then you have an amazing talent, Tray. You should go to the Bardic
College. You would be an asset to our ranks."
Ratray didn't even flinch at that. He had never been able to dream
that dream, and he was sure he would never be able to in the future.
"No, Nakaz, I'll never be a student at the college. I ... I'm cursed."
"Cursed?"
Ratray looked up at Nakaz, having not heard ridicule in the single
word. He found the blond man looking at him as seriously as he had
before when questioned about his art. Ratray realized that the bard
might be able to understand and decided to tell his story. At the very
least, Nakaz was unlikely to use it against him as Marnvik had.
"When I was young, four or five," Ratray began, "my mother took me
to a gypsy who was telling fortunes in the marketplace. For two Bits the
gypsy, Zeefra I think was her name, gave me and my mother a prediction.
She said that my life would be irrevocably altered by a cataclysm of
crowds and fire. She couldn't say any more, except to explain that
irrevocably meant forever and altered meant changed. We already knew
that cataclysm meant something bad.
"From that day, fear has ruled my life. I don't know when this
cataclysm is going to happen, so I go everywhere afraid that my end will
come the next time there are more than two people near me. Always
looking, always wondering, always afraid."
Ratray was silent for a moment, and then his hands started to move
on his instrument and a haunting melody drifted across the rooftop.
"Music helps, but it hurts worse," he said. "Music sets me free for
moments at a time, but always there is the sadness that I can't share it
with anyone, except like this. I can't be a bard if I have to be alone
all the time. So you see, I am cursed."
The bard didn't reply. When Ratray's song ended, the bard held out
his hands, and Ratray handed over the fiddle. Nakaz played a note,
grimaced, looked the fiddle over and nodded to himself when he saw the
patch, then played again, soon reaching accommodation with the
strange-sounding instrument.
Ratray listened to Nakaz play, enraptured, and when the bard handed
his instrument back he proceeded to copy, and then embellish, what the
bard had played. Encouraged by Nakaz' smile, he continued layering
flourishes on the complex melody he had been given, receiving the man's
applause with pleasure when he finished. The pair traded the instrument
back and forth for several more bells, and if anyone was disturbed by
the noise, none complained.
Yawrab walked up the steps to the courtyard that surrounded Dargon
Keep, trying as hard as she could not to look as nervous as she felt.
Having continually dodged the logical step of looking for Aldan among
the nobles of this northern duchy, she now felt like everyone was
looking at her and saying to themselves, "Why did you wait so long?"
There was more to her nervousness, though. She had served nobility
all her life -- first Lord Cranhull, then the Denvas -- but she didn't
know anyone on this side of the Coldwell River. Her old feelings about
strange surroundings and new places were resurfacing as she entered
someplace that was almost familiar despite being leagues and leagues
away from everything she had known.
The changes she had undergone in the past months since meeting
Ganba and leaving Beeikar resurfaced, and she pushed down her
nervousness. She wasn't looking for an audience with the duke, nor was
she here to shout to everyone her story of her sister's death and her
hunt for the one who might have killed her, Lord Aldan. She was simply
going to give back the flute the young man Ratray had dropped, and then
ask a favor of him in return: nothing to be nervous about at all.
There were several servants around the entrance to the keep,
cleaning the stonework and sweeping the courtyard, getting ready for the
King's Birthday celebration that was coming up in five days. None of
them were Ratray, and when she asked the sentry at the door where she
might find that servant, she was directed around to the west side of the
keep.
Yawrab walked around the corner, admiring the view over the Old
City. The keep was a commanding feature of the city, up above everything
on its outcropping of stone. The Coldwell River and the lower city on
the other side of it were behind her, but she knew that the keep
overlooked that just as well. It was the perfect place to build a
fortification, and she had never seen anything like it.
She reached the servants' entrance in the back corner of the keep
and looked around for someone to ask Ratray's whereabouts of. Then she
saw him standing by the parapet, looking at the forest away to the south
and west. She walked over to him and said, "Excuse me, Tray?"
The lanky young man with the fringe of dark hair spilling over his
eyes turned and said, "Yes?" His eyes darted around quickly, and then
settled back on her.
"I don't know if you remember me?"
Ratray looked at her for a moment, then he said, "The boys.
Yesterday." He didn't sound entirely pleased to be reminded of that
incident.
"Yes, that's right. I'm Yawrab, and my friend and I are staying at
the Inn of the Panther. I came today to give you back your flute. I
think you dropped it in the scuffle."
She held out the battered wooden flute, and Ratray's eyes grew wide
as he reached out for it and took it gently from her hands. He touched
it all over, as if to make sure it wasn't damaged any further, and then
looked back at Yawrab. "Thank you, again, Yawrab. I was sure I'd never
see this again, and I can't afford to replace it."
Yawrab was pleased that the young man was glad to get his flute
back as it left the perfect opening for her. "You are welcome, Tray. Ah,
I was wondering if you could do me a favor in return?"
The servant grew wary, and hugged the flute to his chest.
"Perhaps," he said. "What is it?"
"My friend and I are in Dargon looking for someone," Yawrab said.
"His name is Lord Aldan. We've been looking for sennights in the lower
city, but not at all yet up here. I was hoping you could keep your ears
open for his name?"
"Well, I suppose I could do that for you. Lord Aldan, you say?
Straight. What do I do if I find him?"
"As I said, Ganba and I are staying at the Inn of the Panther. Do
you know where that is?"
He sneered at the mention of Ganba's name, and muttered, "Gypsy," a
reaction Yawrab was used to, if not usually quite this pronounced.
Louder, Ratray said, "No, no I can't go there. Might ... no, can't.
Maybe, instead, I could leave word with Abernald the apothecary,
straight?"
"Oh, yes, that will be fine," said Yawrab. "Now, Aldan is tall,
with ..."
"Tray," someone called, and both of them turned toward the voice.
Yawrab saw a tall blond man come around from the back of the keep. He
was wearing the insignia of a bard, and as he got closer she could see
that he had a very large nose that didn't make him at all unattractive,
as well as piercingly green eyes.
"I was wondering if you'd seen my friend, Tray," said the bard,
stopping in front of them. Yawrab found herself fascinated by the man,
almost drawn to him. When he glanced over at her, their eyes locked and
she could have sworn she felt something pass between them in that moment
of contact. She felt herself flush with desire; she wanted to touch that
hair, grasp that waist, pull down those leggings and --
Blinking rapidly, she turned her back on the bewitching man.
Lifting a hand to her cheek, she could feel the heat of the blood in her
face. Her voice shook as she said, "Thank you, Tray. Abernald's, then?
Straight." She walked away quickly, not worrying whether her haste was
making a bad impression. She had never in her life felt like that about
anyone, man or woman. Why had she reacted so lustfully toward that bard?
Nakaz watched the woman walk away, confused by his reaction to her.
He had felt drawn to her somehow, like he knew her and all he had to do
was touch her and she would remember him. The sensation confused him,
and he was both glad and sad that she had walked away so abruptly.
He turned back to Ratray and said, "About my friend, Tray. He was
supposed to meet me up here, but I haven't seen him. He's tall, with
long brown hair and beard, brown eyes, good looking, and his name is
Lord Aldan."
The musician servant looked startled by that, and said, "But, she
..." He turned his head to where the woman had walked away, and Nakaz
followed the gaze, but she was gone.
Before Ratray could say anything more, a shout rang out. "Rat!"
Nakaz turned to see a stout fellow with a ruddy face standing in one of
the servant's entrances behind them. The man said, "Get in here, Rat. No
more lounging today. Too much to do 'afore the celebration."
Nakaz looked at Ratray, who shrugged and strode over to the
ruddy-faced man. He called over his shoulder, "Haven't seem him, Nakaz,"
before he vanished inside.
Nakaz wondered why Ratray had seemed to connect Aldan with that
woman. Then he wondered where Aldan was, and continued his search.
"Why are you so eager to get back here, Yawrab?" Ganba asked as
they neared Abernald's Apothecary. "We were here just two days ago."
Yawrab hadn't told Ganba about her visit to the keep the day
before, so she said, "Well, I returned Ratray's flute yesterday and I
sort of asked him to keep an eye out for Lord Aldan. Then this bard came
up and ..."
Ganba interrupted with, "You didn't need to hide that from me,
Yawrab. I suppose it was only a matter of time before we had to start
looking in the Old City and the keep. I take it that Ratray didn't know
who Aldan was."
"No, he didn't. But he did say that if he found out anything, he
would leave the news with Abernald."
"Now I know why you're so eager."
They entered the shop, ringing the bell over the door, and went
right to the counter in the back. The cheery figure of Abernald stood
behind it, and he called out, "Good day to you, Ganba and Yawrab. I'm
afraid I have no news for you today. Would you care for a poultice?"
"So, you haven't heard from Ratray, the young man from the keep?"
asked Yawrab.
"No, he hasn't been in since day before yesterday. Either of you
have a ticklish throat? I've got a certain-sure cough draught right
here."
"Thank you, no, Master Abernald. We'll be back later."
Ganba guided a crestfallen Yawrab out of the store. "It's too soon,
that's all, Yawrab. We'll go back later and see whether the news is any
different."
Yawrab didn't answer, just started walking away from the shop.
Ganba said, "Perhaps we should find somewhere to eat on our way back; I
think that the stew at the Panther has been in the pot for a little too
long."
Yawrab again didn't respond, despite the mention of a subject she
usually had no end of opinions about. Ganba knew that her lover was
depressed when Yawrab ignored two men who were about to come to blows
over a tipped applecart and just walked right past. Ganba shook her head
and followed.
Ratray made his cautious way to the door of Abernald's Apothecary.
He hadn't been able to get away from the keep before now, and he wanted
to discharge his debt to the Yawrab woman. He watched for a moment as
two men traded blows, stumbling over apples next to an overturned cart.
They had drawn away all passersby, and he entered the shop confidently.
"Why hello, Tray. This is a surprise," said Abernald.
"No pipedust this time, Abernald," Ratray said. "Just some news for
a woman named Yawrab or her gypsy friend." Abernald frowned at the sneer
in Ratray's voice, but the servant continued. "She can find Aldan at the
Lighted Candle in the Old City, where he's staying with a bard named
Nakaz."
"That's excellent, Tray. Why, Yawrab and Ganba were just in here
wanting that very news. I'll be sure to tell them next time I see them."
The crowd around the upset applecart was growing, and Ratray
nervously said, "Well, better be going then. See you later, Abernald."
"Safe trip," said the apothecary as Ratray slipped out the door and
away from the brewing brawl. He felt good for being able to repay the
woman for his returned flute, even if it had cost him an otherwise
unnecessary trip into the city. Keeping his eyes out for unexpected
crowds or naughty children, he made his way back to the keep.
Aldan walked into the taproom of the Inn of the Panther to rest and
have a drink. It was going to be a long walk back over the causeway into
the Old City, and he thought he deserved a pause before starting the
journey.
In the four days since learning that Flane had begun asking about
the Margre, he and Nakaz had made little progress in tracking him down.
They had visited Genarvus Kazakian and Dyann Taishent, as well as the
scribes Cavendish and Greuber. They had visited a dozen other sages,
seers, and scribes as well. Some had been visited by the quester, some
had not. Most had promised to send word if Flane came back.
That morning, several messages had been awaiting Nakaz and him at
their inn, the Lighted Candle. Nakaz had decided to split up to respond
to them, and Aldan had just come from his last meeting, with Greuber. To
his disappointment, none of the people he had visited had produced any
new information, although one had confirmed the legend about the
cat-stag Asthen'ron. He was still chasing the quester, and he didn't
seem to be gaining. He hoped that Nakaz was faring better.
Aldan had just received his second tankard when a shout went up
from one small table. "To marriage!" The half-a-dozen people at the
table lifted their tankards at the toast, and soon others around the
taproom were shouting out their congratulations. Aldan sipped his ale
and stared at the group. Since he seemed to be the only one paying more
than casual attention, he guessed that these were regulars in the bar.
Four of the six, two men and two women, wouldn't have drawn
attention in any crowd, but the last two couldn't help but do so no
matter where they went. One of these was a man in a robe and cowl, but
the cowl was filled with darkness; nothing could be seen of the face
within. The other was a woman in a silver mask with a black bracer of
some kind on her right wrist. She never used her right hand for
anything, lifting her tankard with her left. Aldan noticed that her
sword was belted on her right side for easy drawing with her left hand.
The odd pair seemed to be very friendly. He gathered from
eavesdropping that it was one of the others who was getting married, and
that one seemed to be related to the silver-masked woman.
The talk of marriage bothered Aldan a little. If things hadn't gone
so wrong, he would have been married to Tillna by now. What bothered him
most was that he wasn't sorry that things had gone wrong, except for the
death of Tillna herself. His fiancee had been murdered by his former
friends, the children of the nobility of Bindrmon. He had admitted to
himself a fortnight ago that for some reason Weasel had lied as he lay
dying, and that the rest of the Menagerie, as they had called
themselves, had not actually run to Dargon. Someday he hoped to find
them and bring them to justice, but he knew that could wait. Stopping
the Margre quest couldn't.
Aldan stared into his tankard, thinking of this important task he
and Nakaz had taken on. It seemed so elusive, so endless. He had been
chasing those who were pursuing the artifacts of an ancient legend for
what seemed like ages, and getting no closer. The prospect of circling
the city, visiting sage after sage, seer after scribe, always a few
paces behind lop-eared Flane, made him tired. A lot of things made Aldan
feel tired these days, though. Getting up in the morning sometimes
seemed like a chore, like something he had been doing for hundreds of
years, and doing it no differently than he ever had. This, despite the
fact that these days he awoke beside Nakaz, the handsome bard who had
once been his guide and was now his lover. As exciting as their
relationship had been in the beginning, now Aldan found himself feeling
like he and Nakaz had always been together though they had been so for
only a month, and though he was no less in love with the bard, he was
feeling tired of that existence.
Aldan's attention returned to the table, where the cowled man had
lifted his tankard. "To Kroan and Anorra -- a long, happy, and
profitable life!" Aldan smiled and sipped with them, hoping the
betrothed would be happy. There was a sudden crash, and a gasp from the
people around the table. They were staring in shock at the silver-masked
woman, who had tried to lift her tankard with her right hand.
"Well, no one could believe it!" said Ganba as she and Yawrab
walked toward Abernald's for the second time that day. "Je'en hasn't
lifted anything with her right hand since the accident that had changed
her life. You remember, everyone was telling her story. But there she
was, in the middle of the taproom with a tankard hanging from the
fingers of her right hand. I saw it myself!"
Yawrab was only listening to Ganba's story with half an ear. She
was sure that Abernald would have heard from Ratray by now. It was
almost ninth bell, and the apothecary closed at ninth, so they had to
hurry.
"Cefn took the tankard from her hand, and Kroan patted her on her
back, trying to comfort her. She didn't like that much, though. She
shouted something rather rude, and stalked out. Everyone else left then,
and I got another tankard."
Yawrab could have shouted something rude herself when yet another
intersection was blocked by the wagons of merchants packing up their
wares for the night. She detoured around, knowing that Ganba would
follow, dreading hearing the nine bells that would signal that she was
too late.
Another brawl over an upset applecart diverted them, and then it
was a potter who was trying to sell her last bowl and wouldn't take no
for an answer. Yawrab was tempted to smash the thing, but then she would
have had to pay for it anyway. Finally, Ganba extracted them from the
merchant's grasp just as the bell tower began to chime.
Shoulders slumping in defeat, Yawrab continued toward the
apothecary. Diversions no longer bothered her, so that she arrived at
the shop with a long face but in no temper. She knocked on the door,
knowing that Abernald lived above his shop, but no one answered, and no
lights showed in the second floor windows in the gathering gloom of
evening.
"Don't worry, Yawrab," said Ganba. "What difference could a day
make?"
Yawrab didn't answer. She followed her gypsy lover away from the
shop, but she didn't see the streets they walked through. She had been
sure that Abernald had the information she was seeking. If Aldan was in
the Old City among the nobility, then he would certainly show up at the
keep, and Ratray would learn where he was staying. If only she hadn't
been delayed!
She couldn't maintain her frustration for very long, though; she
was too tired. Yawrab felt stretched like wool inexpertly put on a
spindle, or like cloth worn thin by repeated use. It was as if she had
been doing the same thing over and over, not for the few sennights she
and Ganba had been in the city, but for years, decades, centuries beyond
that. Searching, always looking for something, often not knowing what
for, but always looking. She wondered if it would ever end.
Moonlight filters into a shuttered and dark shop through warped
boards and air vents. The silvery light glints off large glass jars
filled with herbs and medicines revealing the shop to be an apothecary.
A shadow among shadows moves slowly and cautiously. It sidles its
way over to the jars and, after a pause to be sure it is alone, it
begins to fill several cloth bags from the large glass jars.
Suddenly, its movements lose their fluidity, like a marionette
whose operator has just sneezed. An elbow strikes and dislodges one of
the jars and it crashes to the floor, shattering. The shadow freezes,
and then, under control again, begins to hurriedly complete its mission.
The owner of the shop, who lives on the second floor, has been
awakened by the noise. He comes down the stairs armed with a large club.
The shadow seeks a way out, its mission now done, but the stairs are
closer to the door than it is.
The owner opens a shopfront shutter, flooding the tiny store with
moonlight, and catches sight of the shadow, formless and dark no more.
Light glints off a silver mask, the owner gasps out, "Je--", and a sword
wielded sinisterly slides between ribs. As the owner slumps on the
stairs, the shadow closes the shutter, wipes its sword on the owner's
nightrobe, and slips stealthily out of the shop.
Yawrab led the way down the stairs and into the taproom of the Inn
of the Panther at half past second bell the next morning. She looked
around at the shambles the room was in, noting that it looked about as
it usually did. The disorder bothered her from a practical as well as a
managerial viewpoint; you didn't leave spills on tables, not to mention
tankards and mugs, overnight. Yawrab knew that the place would look this
bad for several more bells, and she knew it wouldn't have if she were
running this place. The thought put an idea into her head, an idea that
instantly energized her, pushing back the weariness just a little. Once
she had found Aldan, perhaps she could take on reorganizing this inn.
She and Ganba left the inn and made their way toward Abernald's.
They walked in companionable silence, staring straight ahead, having
seen the sights that the city streets held many times before, which was
why it surprised Yawrab when Ganba stopped in front of the Inn of the
Serpent and stared at the garishly painted statue that gave the lodging
house its name. She didn't particularly care for the image, so insipid
were the colors that covered the sculpture, and she couldn't understand
why Ganba found it fascinating. She watched the gypsy's hands curl as if
they held tools, and then Ganba nodded and turned away.
"What was that about?" Yawrab asked.
"Oh, nothing, nothing," said Ganba. "Perhaps a little something to
pass the bells, that's all."
Yawrab tried to pry the gypsy's meaning out of her the rest of the
way to Abernald's, but Ganba wanted to keep her secret. It cheered
Yawrab to banter with her lover like that, though, so she didn't
begrudge Ganba her privacy.
Yawrab's cheer faded, however, as they neared the apothecary's shop
to find that they weren't the only ones there. The door of the shop was
open, and she could see some town guards moving about inside. Outside
there were more guards looking carefully around at the street and
talking to neighbors.
She walked over to a woman in a guard uniform and asked, "What's
wrong?"
"I'm sorry, ma'am, you'll have to move along," said the guard.
"We've got a murder investigation to deal with here."
"Murder? Who?"
"Abernald himself. Surprised a burglar, we think. Though the
killing blow was very precise ..."
Yawrab paled, and she felt Ganba put a hand on her shoulder and
squeeze it. "Murder? No, not Abernald!"
"Did you know the apothecary, ma'am?" the guard asked.
Yawrab shook her head absently, and Ganba said, "We were customers,
that's all."
One of the guards by the door to the shop called out, "Ilona!"
The guard glanced over, then turned back to Yawrab and Ganba. "I
see. Well, we don't know much about what happened here, but we're
investigating. I've got to go. Perhaps you could move along?"
The city of Dargon began to bustle as the celebration of the King's
Birthday approached. As the calendar counted down to the 24th of Ober,
people from outlying farmsteads and the nearer villages and hamlets made
their way to the city, and businesses geared up for the increased
custom. Everyone was cleaning, stocking, preparing, working hard to
celebrate King Haralan's natal day.
Yawrab spent the three days between Abernald's murder and the
birthday trying to catch up with Ratray at the keep. Since the keep was
the center of the main celebration, she never managed to find him. She
turned her attention to learning everything she could about the staff at
the Inn of the Panther, intending to find the source of the problems
there. She continued to search for Aldan, but let it be secondary to her
new quest.
Ganba worked hard at the search as well, a task made more difficult
by the influx of strangers for the birthday and the short tempers caused
by the increased workload everyone had to endure. She also began
negotiating with the owner of the Inn of the Serpent, one Ballard
Tamblebuck. She took some of her carvings with her on her third visit,
and was soon talking with some woodcutters about obtaining a large block
of wood for a reasonable price.
Nakaz sought more information about Flane and the Margre. He
learned from Genarvus that the Asthen'ron had been an idol worshiped by
the locals before the Fretheod had arrived, but no more information had
been forthcoming from anyone.
Aldan assisted Nakaz, but had no more luck than the bard.
Ganba and Yawrab celebrated the King's Birthday in the taproom of
the Inn of the Panther, toasting and cheering, dancing and singing. They
set aside their concerns and cares temporarily and revelled until the
late bells of the night.
Nakaz and Aldan attended the official affair in the keep, of
course. Aldan pointed out the cowled man and the masked woman, who also
attended. Their celebration was not as wild as that in the various
taverns and taprooms across the city, but Aldan found it very familiar
and comforting, and Nakaz knew how to move among the nobility as well as
any born lord. Nakaz marked the moment that the masked woman left the
ball, and Aldan noticed when the cowled man was summoned out of the room
by a woman in guard livery. Shortly thereafter, the ball was cut short
when Duke Clifton himself reentered the room and announced that due to
security concerns, the evening was over.
Nakaz' bardic credentials allowed him to learn the full story
before he and Aldan returned to their inn. A thief had managed to
penetrate the security of the keep and had entered its deepest vaults.
There, she had opened a hidden vault that no one had known existed and
made off with its contents. To make matters worse, this thief had not
been the only one to break into the keep. When the two thieves had
clashed, the second one had been left for dead. Only the intervention of
the cowled mage, Cefn, had saved him.
Nakaz had, of course, offered his help in the investigation. The
duke's people had declined for the time being, and he and Aldan returned
to their own inn.
Ratray found himself walking down the stairs into the deepest
vaults of the keep. He had been given the duty of cleaning up after the
intrusions of the night; it was his punishment for begging off of
helping with the party itself, and the servant had no complaints. He
just hoped he could stay awake. It wasn't often he was working at the
eighth bell of night.
Aldan dreamed that he was running through a tunnel of glass,
twisting and turning, going up and down as he passed over and under
other tunnels. He raced and raced, moving faster and faster and ...
... as Ganba ran, she began to see in her mind's eye the pattern
that the golden tunnel she raced through made as it turned left and
right and rose and fell. The shape grew more and more solid as ...
... he ran, over and over, through the silver tunnels. Soon Nakaz
would be able to understand the meaning of the pattern, the reason for
the other tunnels he passed over and under, the other runners he was
beginning ...
... to sense as she ran around and around the disk. Yawrab could
see more and more of the disk, not just the edges but the crisscrossing
lines within, each originating from a strange figure and returning to
that figure's twin. Just a few more circuits and she knew she would be
able to know the whole ...
Ratray had swept the white powder carefully from the steps leading
down into and below the dungeons of the keep. He mopped the blood from
the vault floor and returned the loose items to the empty shelves around
the room. He wondered just how valuable the contents of the vault were,
or rather the remaining contents.
He looked at the floor in the center of the vault. Inlaid into the
stone was a compass rose whose points he was pretty sure wouldn't line
up with a real compass. The pattern was broken in the very center,
though, where a portion of the inlay had risen from the floor, pushed up
by a small box, open on one side, taller than it was wide, its bottom
even with the floor of the vault. Ratray walked around the box,
imagining it rising up from the floor under its piece of inlay,
triggered by the thief who had stolen its contents. From the rumors he
had heard, no one had even known of this secret vault. The second thief,
the one the wizard had saved, had indicated that the objects within had
been a rolled parchment, a skull, and an oddly-shaped object, but even
he'd had no clue as to their nature.
Ratray crouched down in front of the box and looked inside, but
couldn't see anything. He reached in and felt around. Right at the back,
something tilted as he touched it.
A rumbling began, and the floor of the box began to lift. Ratray
stepped back and saw that the entire box was rising again, grinding and
rumbling as it lifted to reveal another compartment below the now empty
one.
A new vault, twice as tall but just as wide, was soon revealed.
Inside were two objects. One was an ornately carved staff with a lump of
milky crystal enclosed at one end. The other was a small chunk of stone.
Ratray moved closer, reached out and lifted the stone and the staff. He
didn't recognize the carvings on the staff, but he could tell that the
stone, which was shaped like a piece of pie, bore an animal that seemed
to be a fox in the outer, wider third. Coming from the back of the fox
was a band of gold that wound up onto the rest of the flat surface of
the stone and interlinked with two other kinds of bands, one silver and
one glass, so that it looked like a loosely woven basket in some places.
Ratray gazed at the two objects and wondered just what he held.
Four people spread across two inn rooms in the city of Dargon sat
bolt upright in their beds at the very moment that Ratray touched the
stone. They all said the same thing at the same time: "It's free!"
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