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DargonZine Volume 17 Issue 01
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DargonZine Distributed: 1/31/2004
Volume 17, Number 1 Circulation: 652
========================================================================
Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Knight of Castigale 2 Dave Fallon Yule 29, 1018
Touching Ol Victor Cardoso Yule 10, 1018
and R. F. Niro
Talisman Ten 1 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Seber-Ober, 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 17-1, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright January, 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>
With this issue, DargonZine begins its twentieth year on the
Internet. While I'll save the hoopla for the actual 20th anniversary of
our founding, which occurs at the end of the year, I thought I'd answer
a question that some readers may wonder about. If this is our 20th year,
why does this issue begin Volume 17, rather than Volume 20?
Back in 1984, I founded a magazine called FSFnet (short for
"fantasy and SF on the Internet"). Although FSFnet's focus was on
printing original fiction by aspiring writers, it also had book and
movie reviews, articles about wargaming, and so forth. In fact, FSFnet
had been going for about a year before our contributors began working
together to write stories set in a common land called Dargon. At first,
this collaborative "Dargon Project" was a small part of what FSFnet
printed, but it gradually became the overwhelming majority of our
material.
I produced 47 issues during FSFnet's three and a half year run, but
in the middle of 1988 I graduated from college and temporarily turned
everything over to Dafydd Cyhoeddwr, one of our veteran writers. When he
took over, he stopped printing reviews and articles and non-Dargon
fiction, thereby focusing the group exclusively on the very successful
collaborative project that we'd begun. He also changed the name of our
publication to DargonZine, and sent Volume 1 Number 1 out at the end of
1988.
Since then, we've consistently and consecutively numbered our
volumes until today we begin DargonZine's 17th volume in the 19th year
of the Dargon Project, and our 20th year of consecutive publication
since the founding of FSFnet. So that's how we arrive at our 20th year,
while printing Volume 17.
And we begin this first issue of Volume 17 with the second chapter
in Dave Fallon's intriguing "Knight of Castigale" series, which was
begun in DargonZine 16-5. Dave has admirably persevered with the
Castigale arc despite the departure of several of his collaborators.
Speaking of which, you might recall that last summer we lost two of
our long-time writers: Victor Cardoso and P. Atchley. Each of them left
a story behind for other project members to complete, and the first of
those stories appears in this issue. "Touching Ol" was originally
written by Victor shortly after the 2002 Dargon Summit trip to Scotland,
and has been recently completed by his old friend and fellow Dargon
writer Rich Niro. Ms. Atchley's story has also been completed, and will
appear in our next issue. I can also share with you that after a half
year's break, Victor just recently rejoined the group and is actively
working on a story that he'd begun prior to his departure, so hopefully
you'll see more of him in the near future.
This issue concludes with the first chapter in Dafydd's "Talisman
Ten". The Talisman epic began back in 1999 with "Talisman Zero 1", and
has been the work of a lifetime. "Talisman Ten" will contain the final
three chapters of this 38-chapter novella, and it will be the highlight
of our spring issues.
And I am happy to remind you that we have enough stories completed
to fill our next two issues, so there will be no delays in getting those
out to you. And shortly thereafter we hope to begin bringing you the
massive nine-writer collaborative story arc that we began writing at the
2003 Dargon Summit.
It truly looks like it's going to be a remarkable year, and I hope
you enjoy the stories we have to share.
========================================================================
Knight of Castigale
Part 2: A Knight's Duty
by Dave Fallon
<dfallon23@yahoo.com>
Yule 29, 1018
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 16-5
Sir Maligard DuVania knelt over the body of his fallen squire. No
tear stained his eyes, but his mind was a chaotic swirl of anger and
anguish. Taela had been his squire for more than four years and through
the whole Beinison War. More than just a squire though, she was also his
friend, a trusted ally in whom he could confide when he couldn't voice
his opinions before the rest of his troops or his liege lord, Baron
Kelleman Castigale.
But he had failed in his duties to her. It was he who had made the
decision to chase a band of marauders across Castigale Barony despite
the facts that his patrol was outnumbered and that he had been given
specific orders to return to Castigale Keep. He'd then led the charge to
attack the marauders when he and his troops had found them in the act of
sacking the village of Aerberry. He'd even seen Taela in the midst of
the battle fighting two men at the same time, but he had done nothing to
help her. His pride had made him believe she could handle herself, and
now she was dead.
The most horrible shame of her death was that it occurred just one
day after she had told him that she would bid to become knight herself
later that year. She'd had a bright future ahead of her; she would have
been a great knight and leader of armies. But at the time he had been
angry at her decision to leave, and their conversation had turned into
an argument ending with him shouting at her and storming away.
Unable to stand such thoughts any longer, DuVania heaved to his
feet. Around him, many of the houses of Aerberry still burned where the
marauders had tossed torches on the thatch roofs. The village elder had
managed to get most of the surviving villagers to form a line from the
nearby brook to bring buckets of water, but they were disorganized and
confused. DuVania stumbled among the panicked people, looking for a way
to help, trying to do anything to keep himself active and not thinking
about Taela. Above the din of shouting, he heard a piercing scream from
somewhere across the village. Without a conscious decision, the knight
angled himself toward that sound.
The building that the screams were coming from was set slightly
apart from the rest of the village. He approached the partially open
door and looked in. Supported by wooden beams, the thatch roof burned
like a pyre. On the dirt floor within, a child was trying to drag an
unconscious woman toward the doorway. She pulled at the woman's feet,
screaming as she swatted at burning embers that fell from above.
DuVania shoved the door open all the way and ran in. The wave of
heat and smoke surprised him, however, and on his first breath he choked
and his vision watered and blurred. He stepped forward, trying to regain
control of his lungs, and grabbed the girl, lifting her under his arm.
Still fighting his hacking cough and the squirming girl, the knight
tried to get a hold of the woman's foot but he couldn't reach her.
Cursing between his coughs, DuVania dropped the girl roughly on the
ground just as a loud crack from above brought a hail of fiery embers
upon them. The girl fell so hard that she lost her grip on the foot, and
the knight quickly scooped up the woman and lifted her over his
shoulder. Then he grabbed the stunned girl by her arm and threw her
towards the door. He lumbered after her, still coughing painfully, until
he fell to his knees in the open air a mere stride from the burning
structure. A moment later, a tremendous crack signaled the collapse of
the roof.
DuVania lowered the body from his shoulder as gently as he could
and struggled to expel the ash from his lungs. Coughing and spitting, he
was surprised when a hand slapped him ineffectively on the back and
helped him to stand. "Thank you, Taela," he managed to croak out without
thinking.
He spit again and turned, but his squire was nowhere in sight. With
a groan, he squeezed his eyes shut as he realized what he had said.
Opening them again, he saw that it was the young girl who had helped
him. She looked up at him, her face absolutely emotionless.
She looked to be about twelve years old, with short brown hair and
large brown eyes. Her face was covered in dirt and ash, as were her
homespun tunic and breeches and her bare feet. She did not speak, just
stared at the knight as if she were a soldier waiting for orders.
DuVania stared back, surprised by how calm the child was after her
ordeal.
"Is this your mother, lass?" he asked. His voice was rough and
speaking caused waves of burning pain in his throat, but he tried to
keep his tone soft. She nodded once. He crouched down to examine the
body, but even at a glance he could tell that the girl's mother was no
longer alive. She looked as if she'd been hit in the head with something
blunt: a club or perhaps a mace. The blood around the injury had already
begun congealing into a black scab, and he could see where the skull had
collapsed beneath the skin. The knight grimaced and glanced up at the
girl.
"Lass," he said. "I don't think we'll be able to save your mum." He
tried to make his voice gentle but he did not believe in lying, even to
a young girl, about misfortune. Everyone grows up sometime.
She did not cry, though a look of pain crossed her features. She
looked mournfully down at her mother's body. DuVania thought that she
did not seem in shock; she seemed to merely accept the tragedy. "I need
to bring her to be buried," she said, looking back up at him. Her voice
was even and clear if a little tight, as if she were trying not to say
too much.
The knight swallowed what condolences he had been prepared to give.
Her look told him that there was nothing more to say. Never before had
he met a child so composed after tragedy. He had often chided young
soldiers for acting like children, but here was a child who acted like
he would prefer any soldier to act. She had put aside her feelings to do
what needed to be done. With a solemn nod to her, he stooped down and
lifted the body in his arms, then headed back to the village square.
Most of the fires had either been put out or had burned themselves
down as DuVania reached the center of the village. The villagers had
turned from the frantic activity of fighting the fires to the more
mournful activity of preparing dead relatives, friends, and neighbors
for burial. Most of the dead had been young men and women who had put up
a resistance against the marauders and had paid with their lives. One
old woman hovered over the body of her son or grandson and wept as she
washed his chest in preparation for burial.
DuVania felt his stomach turn cold as he spotted his lieutenant,
Sern, and his surviving troops helping the villagers. Before discovering
Taela's body amongst the fallen after the battle, DuVania had ordered
Sern and the rest of his troops to catch the leader of the marauders as
he fled with two of his men into the nearby woods. Burning with the need
to see the leader pay for his crimes, the knight gently laid the body he
was carrying down, and headed towards Sern. The coldness in his stomach
slowly turned into a numb rage throughout his body.
By the time he reached his lieutenant, he could feel his legs
shaking and his jaw grinding as he fought to mask his emotions. He had
learned long ago that soldiers would not respect a knight who could not
keep his head in all situations. He thought of the child he had saved
and that there were too many things that needed to be done for him to
let emotions rule him.
Sern saw him coming and hesitated for a moment before saluting.
DuVania wondered if his emotions were too clear on his face. "Sir," the
lieutenant began and then he paused. His voice was characteristically
gravelly, but he spoke softly, almost as if he was worried about
frightening away a wild animal. "I'm sorry about Taela --"
DuVania cut him off: "Well, where are they? Did you bring back any
prisoners?"
Sern's wrinkled face reddened below his shaggy gray eyebrows and he
scratched his head self-consciously. "They were right tricky, sir," he
said. He looked directly at DuVania but flinched slightly as if
preparing to defend himself. "T'was like they'd planned it. They fled on
a well-traveled path so we couldn't tell their prints from anyone
else's. The path was too steep for the horses so we had to dismount, and
then we came to a three-way fork. I didn't have enough men left to send
some up each fork so we went up the middle one a ways, but the path
ended at a shack and there were no fresh footprints around it."
The knight ground his teeth and his eyes opened wider. "You let
them escape?" he asked. His voice sounded strangely calm to his own
ears, but his shaking continued. He felt his eyes twitch and his fists
clench.
Sern stuttered in answer. "Th-- Well, sir, they aren't much of a
threat anymore, seeing as only three of their twenty escaped. And we
couldn't predict where they went --"
"Back to Gribbane," DuVania said. He put a hand up to his face to
cover his eyes. "If I had gone with you I would have known which fork to
take. They went back to Gribbane."
"Back, sir?" Sern asked.
"Last night I saw them." DuVania's rage had boiled off, leaving
only sorrow in its wake. "I saw a group of twenty men all clothed in
black while I was watching on Aspegad Tor. They crossed from Gribbane
Barony into Castigale through the pass below me."
His guilt returned as he realized all he could have prevented. If
only he had ordered the men to challenge the interlopers then, so many
lives would have been spared. The hamlet of Dalper's Dell would not have
been burnt to the ground by the marauders, all of its inhabitants
killed. The villagers of Aerberry would have been spared the deaths of
many of their kin. His squire would still be alive, on her way to become
a great knight.
A year ago, if he had seen so many men traveling from Gribbane to
Castigale, he would have immediately challenged them. Gribbane had been
the most hated neighbor of Castigale for as long as DuVania could
remember. But a truce had been announced between the two long-feuding
baronies nearly four months ago, as Baron Kelleman Castigale's daughter,
Evelain, was to be married to a nephew of Baroness Veronie Gribbane.
However, even with the truce, he should have known when the message came
from Baron Kelleman announcing Evelain's mysterious death that the peace
would be shattered. He should have done something ...
"A horse!" he shouted abruptly. "Bring me a horse! Sern, saddle the
men. We give chase now. We'll catch them as they make for North Pass."
He began searching for a horse but Sern remained where he was.
"Sir, it will be dark in less than a bell," he said. DuVania turned to
him, his eyes wide, furious at having his order questioned. Sern went on
nonetheless, "And we've already gone against Baron Castigale's direct
order to return to the keep, and lost four of his soldiers at it, as
well as Taela ..." His voice trailed off as he saw the look on DuVania's
face.
DuVania took two long steps toward Sern until he was barely a pace
away and said, "I will not ride contentedly back to my lord baron to
tell him I let fiends from Gribbane ride in and kill --" he was about to
say "and kill Taela", but stopped himself, "... and kill his subjects
and soldiers and then I let them get away when I *knew* where they were
going." He turned from his lieutenant and shouted so loudly that his
voice broke, "A horse! I need a horse now!"
His remaining four soldiers had clustered around, but none of them
moved to get him a horse. He could see in their faces that they were
tired, nearly exhausted. He had driven them hard all day to catch the
marauders, and now they had lost half of the original eight that had
left Parsain's Peak with him, as well as Taela, because he had ordered
them to charge at a force with more than twice their number. But there
was something else, as well: they could see how angry he was. He had
broken his own rule of keeping his emotions from his soldiers. Coldly,
he turned back to Sern.
"Straight, then. You lead the rest of the men back to Castigale
Keep. I'll chase the marauders and catch up with you by the time you
reach the capital." He glared at Sern as if daring him to contradict his
decision.
Sern swallowed hard, then said, "Sir, after all we've done, if you
don't return to Castigale Keep with us as Baron Castigale ordered, it
will be nothing less than treason against your lord."
DuVania felt his fist moving before he could stop it. He managed
enough control to change his closed hand to an open one and his attack
turned into a rough shove. Though Sern was not a small man, he
nevertheless toppled under the knight's strength like an old tower in a
gale. He fell hard on his backside, sprawled in a sitting position, and
gazed up at DuVania with open astonishment.
Heaving his breath in and out, trying to regain control, DuVania
turned to see that not just his soldiers, but also many of the villagers
were looking at him with expressions similar to Sern's. They didn't see
a knight, a noble defender of the people and upholder of righteous law;
they saw a brutal barbarian who had no scruples, no honor, no civility.
Through the crowd, DuVania saw the girl he had rescued. She was
also looking at him, but, unlike everyone else, her eyes held neither
pity nor alarm. For an instant, the knight felt a strange sort of
kinship for the peasant girl. They had both lost someone dear and both
mourned deeply. At least she wasn't letting her emotions rule her. He
felt himself gain strength in that and finally calmed himself enough to
focus on what he needed to do.
Among the people around him was the village elder. He had told the
old man to get the villagers together to put out the fires after the
battle. Ignoring the stares and quiet muttering around him, DuVania
asked him, "Who is your lord?"
"Lord Amon Bilgrade," the elder said, his voice quavering. "His
manor is a few leagues northeast of here. But he has been summoned to
Castigale Keep."
DuVania nodded and turned to Sern who had picked himself off the
ground. "I know Bilgrade's brother and his eldest son. They will give us
shelter for tonight and we'll make our way to Castigale Keep tomorrow.
"Have the men separate the bodies of the marauders from those of
the villagers and ... and those of our company. We'll bury our own;
strip and burn all of those who attacked here."
Sern looked as if he would say something, but instead saluted and
the troops and villagers around him seemed to silently sigh in relief.
Their knight was himself again. They quickly resumed their activities.
DuVania took one more deep breath. He felt as if he had imploded, as if
there were nothing left inside to hold him up. Still, he forced his
steps to be steady and sure as he began walking. It didn't matter to him
where he went, but he had to move, he couldn't stay where he was any
longer and he couldn't compose himself enough to help.
"My lord, if I may?" DuVania turned to see the elder again,
approaching cautiously, keeping an arm's length away.
"This is the second funeral I've attended for good people today,"
the knight said sternly, uninterested in whatever the elder wanted. "I'm
tired. I'll mention what happened to Bilgrade's brother for you, but you
should take your concerns to him yourself."
"I just want to understand what's happening," the man said. "You
just said that those men came from Gribbane, but we've all heard that
there's to be an alliance. What's changed? Are we at war?"
The knight closed his eyes. "I do not know, myself," he said. He
was silent for a moment during which the elder waited patiently.
"That girl," the knight said finally, opening his eyes and
gesturing towards the girl he had saved. She still stood over her
mother's body. No one had come to comfort her, though many of the
villagers were now attending to their dead, several of them crying and
moaning for lost relatives. "Who will take care of her now? Where are
her kin?"
The elder squinted towards her and frowned. "That's little Sandia.
She hasn't any kin here, sir, that's a'sure." He leaned in closer to the
knight and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Her mum came here a few
years back. Alone, no man with her, and her child already a toddler. She
offered no word for where she hailed from, and though she brought some
coin with her, she spent far more in her years living here and earned
far less."
"A debtor?"
"That's right, sir. Nearly two dozen Round, by my count. And she
was straight unfriendly with most others in the village, thankless for
what we gave her to help raise her child. Now we'll have to feed that
child with no hope of redeeming her mum's debts."
DuVania looked past the elder at where the girl had taken a rag
from one of the old women and was washing her mother's chest. Still, not
a single tear had left her, and though DuVania knew that she mourned,
she did not let that mourning incapacitate her.
"I am Sir Maligard DuVania. My wife is Lady Friana DuVania, niece
to the duchess of Asbridge. In a few days I will send a man with coin
enough to cover the woman's debts."
The man's eyes widened so much that they seemed like they might pop
out of his wrinkled head. "I know of the DuVania family," he said,
leaning closer again. "But then you must have taken your wife's last
name when you married, not the other way around?"
The knight ignored the question. "When we leave here today, I will
take the girl with me as my ward." He walked away, leaving the old man
fumbling with his questions.
The ride back to Castigale Keep was a somber one. The tension
between Sern and DuVania had not completely abated, and the soldiers
still mourned their fallen comrades.
The girl, Sandia, had at first protested leaving her home village.
She shouted that she would not go despite anything DuVania or her own
people said. The knight finally forced her into his saddle and held her
there until the village was out of sight. When departing from Bilgrade's
manor the next morning, she was quiet and reserved, riding on a separate
horse that DuVania tied to his own. She didn't complain or even ask for
a break the whole day of traveling, though she couldn't have been used
to horseback riding.
DuVania wondered a few times why he bothered with the peasant
child, but he remembered her look when he had told her that her mother
could not be saved and he knew that there was something special about
her. There was little chance his wife and daughter would understand
that, but he could not leave her to the villagers.
Once DuVania's group left the hills their pace increased. The
flatter land south of Castigale Keep was crowded with villages and
farms. The people publicly mourned the death of the baron's daughter,
Evelain Castigale, but the few that DuVania stopped to talk to knew only
rumor and speculation about it.
By the time the company rode to the gates of Castigale Keep, the
sun had set and they were all tired and hungry. They had ridden for four
bells straight since the last time they had stopped, and though Sern had
suggested they stay the night in one of the outlying villages before
reaching the keep in the morning, DuVania would not hear of it.
Finally, on the third bell of night, the group passed through the
massive front gates into the courtyard of Castigale Keep. There were no
lights waiting for them, so after sending the soldiers off to the
barracks, DuVania, Sern, and Sandia stood alone in the dark until a
tired old butler emerged from the main building with a lantern. He
looked slightly annoyed at DuVania's request to report to Captain Dagny
Ludoran immediately, but he did not protest. Instead, he turned and
quietly led the way.
The butler led them down a flight of stone steps into the lower
level of the keep and to a heavy wooden door. He opened it and held it
for them to enter, but did not follow them in. DuVania heard it bang
shut behind them.
The room was dim and smelled of mold. Lit only by a small iron
candelabrum, it contained only one gigantic round table about which were
set a number of chairs. All of the windowless walls were covered by
heavy tapestries, some depicting fierce battles and others glorious
victories. The table itself was littered with papers, many of them maps
of the region and surrounding baronies. Poring over one of the maps was
the room's only occupant, Captain Dagny Ludoran, the half-sister of
Baron Kelleman Castigale.
The woman was of small stature. Her face was angular, her hazel
eyes serious, and her auburn hair tightly braided behind her head. She
wore a standard red and gray guard's uniform but with blue velveteen
edging.
DuVania and Sern quickly saluted when Dagny looked up at them. She
returned the salute and said, "I'm glad you made it after all, Sir
Maligard DuVania. You are the last knight to arrive. Tomorrow we'll
assemble here and I'll explain the situation."
DuVania nodded. "Thank you, captain. We ran into some trouble on
our way back. A hamlet near the foot of Mount Parsain is razed."
Dagny did not look upset, but one of her eyebrows arched. "What
happened?"
"A group of men attacked Dalper's Dell. We found only the
destruction, but we tracked the marauders to Aerberry and confronted
them there, where we routed them. However, three, including their
leader, escaped. We lost three men; another was injured and was left in
the care of Sir Amon Bilgrade's family until he can return." The knight
paused, then finished in a lower voice, "And my squire, Taela, was
killed as well."
Dagny's eyes narrowed as she seemed to chew over the information
DuVania gave her. "You know, your order to return immediately was very
specific, DuVania," she said.
"Yes, but there's more," DuVania said. "I saw these men enter
Castigale from Gribbane the night before. They must have made right for
the hamlet and attacked it that night, as if they had planned it. There
was no profit to be had in attacking a little hamlet; they did it just
to destroy." Dagny's brow steadily lowered as DuVania spoke. "These
brigands who attacked Dalper's Dell behaved like trained soldiers. An
old hermit who saw them said they marched in two columns. They fought
with steel weapons and all wore the same black uniform. Lieutenant Sern,
who led the charge to overtake them, reported that their retreat through
the forest was orchestrated and disciplined." Sern nodded beside him but
kept silent. "I believe they were Gribbane soldiers sent to terrorize
our people."
There was a long silence in the room. Dagny's expression had gone
from angry to calculating, her eyes darting over the map before her as
if tracing the movements of the group. DuVania waited patiently until
she finally looked up. "Did anyone else see these marauders and note
this as you did?"
"All of those surviving in Aerberry did, and perhaps any survivors
from the hamlet, though it is impossible to say."
Dagny nodded and her eyes flickered over Sandia, who was standing
by the door. "And who is this?"
"This is Sandia of Aerberry," DuVania said. "She --"
"I'm an orphan," Sandia said. Her sudden outburst was simple, but
defiant, and so surprised everyone in the room that there was sudden
silence. Dagny's thin eyebrows shot up.
"Her mother died during the battle and she has no kin left in the
village," DuVania said. "I plan to leave her in the care of my wife
until I return."
"Return?" Dagny asked.
"I would ask that I might hunt down the brigands that attacked our
lands."
Dagny sighed loudly. "Sern, take Sandia to the kitchen and get her
something to eat. Find yourself a plate as well." Sern nodded and turned
to leave. Sandia stood rebelliously for a moment before she turned to
follow the lieutenant.
When the door had closed behind them, Dagny said, "DuVania, we
can't spare you or any soldiers to go chasing bandits through the
woods." The knight began to protest but she held up her hand. "I'm going
to tell you now what I would have told you tomorrow at the meeting. Few
lords and knights of the realm know this, but Evelain was assassinated.
"To many who were at the party just five days ago, her death seemed
to be a tragic accident. Evelain was leading a tour through her new home
when a stone column collapsed, burying her in rock. However, I have
found evidence that the accident may have been set as a trap. What's
more, clues point to Lord Sagrie Gribbane, her husband-to-be, as the
perpetrator. He never arrived at the party and even now we don't know
where he is."
Dagny paused a moment before continuing. "Baron Kelleman has
declared war on Gribbane, though it has not been made public yet and we
would keep such from his subjects' ears for the moment."
DuVania absorbed this information without surprise. "Then we are to
march on Gribbane Barony?"
"Not yet. We don't have the troops available to conduct a
meaningful campaign before winter sets in. We need you and all other
lords to spend the winter building an army and training troops. In the
spring we will set upon Gribbane. If we are quick, we will unseat
Baroness Veronie Gribbane before the dukes can interfere."
DuVania said, "But in past conflicts like this, the dukes have been
so angry with the barons involved that they have unseated both of them.
What if they decide to remove Kelleman from his position as well?"
"That is a risk that my brother is willing to take," Dagny
answered. Her tone was neutral, but DuVania saw a flash of something in
her eyes. It might have been worry, but it looked almost like hope to
him. He frowned darkly as Dagny continued, "Baron Kelleman loved his
daughter, and the Gribbane family has harassed ours for years. This
malicious assassination of my niece must be addressed. Kelleman will
settle for nothing less than Veronie's head."
DuVania took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I see. But you
don't need me for this. I have no land besides my home here in the town.
I have no peasants to recruit for soldiers. Let me serve Castigale by
chasing these marauders."
"You can train," Dagny said stubbornly.
"You have enough knights to do that," DuVania said.
Dagny thought a moment, and then said, "We have enough knights, but
I can't spare a single soldier. Besides, the marauders may have run to
Gribbane Barony by now. I can't have a body of soldiers cross the border
to look for them; it will attract too much of Veronie's attention to
what we're doing."
"Then I will go alone," DuVania said.
Dagny's frown only deepened. "You're insane," she said. "There's no
honor in throwing your life away for this."
"No less honor than risking a title to avenge a daughter's death,"
DuVania said. "I only ask you grant me leave to do what Baron Kelleman
is doing. He lost Evelain; I lost Taela." Dagny grit her teeth slightly,
but the tension around her eyes seemed to soften. "At least I could
follow the brigands and confirm if they are some plot of Veronie's or
not. They came from her land; I can confirm if she actually commissioned
them."
"A knight turned spy," Dagny said and emitted a sharp bark of a
laugh. "You have two months." She pointed at him with emphasis. "Four
fortnights and I want you back in this room, Sir Maligard DuVania. And
don't be in a rush to attack a camp full of outlaws alone. Just find out
who they are and return."
DuVania saluted and smiled ruefully. "I'll leave in the morning."
"One thing, DuVania. If Gribbane soldiers catch you, Kelleman
Castigale will claim you are an outlaw. Don't just stay alive, stay
hidden. Veronie is always quick to hang outlaws from Castigale."
DuVania found Sern and Sandia in the back kitchen of Castigale
Keep. They were chatting with two of the kitchen hands. When DuVania
entered the room the conversation ceased. The two servants, looking at
each other nervously, excused themselves and left.
Sern climbed wearily to his feet from where he had been sitting at
a plain table, but Sandia stayed seated, only glancing at the knight.
She had a chunk of bread and a wedge of cheese so large that DuVania
could scarcely believe a girl her size could eat it. Sern asked, "What
did Dagny say?"
"I cannot lead troops to find the brigands," DuVania said. Sern
seemed to relax a bit at that. "We have a busy couple of months ahead of
us, so don't feel completely at ease. Still, there is no reason for you
to prepare to ride tomorrow."
"What about me?" Sandia asked.
"You either."
The answer seemed to satisfy her, though she looked for another
moment at the knight as if waiting for more information. When he did not
continue, she shrugged and turned back to munching on the cheese.
DuVania sighed and turned back to Sern. "Sern, I want to apologize
for pushing you yesterday and to say that it was good serving with you.
If I don't see you again, please know that you were an excellent
lieutenant and a fine soldier."
"I don't understand, sir. Are you going somewhere?"
"For at least a while I will be busy away from Castigale Keep. From
my understanding, you are to stay here." Sern scratched his head and
looked about to say something, but DuVania raised his hand. "I can't
tell you more than that. I'll just be doing a knight's duty.
"Now, it's been a long enough day and night, so I suggest we
retire." The knight saluted to signal the end of the conversation. After
a moment's hesitation Sern matched his stance. Then, nodding, the
lieutenant spared a quick smile for Sandia and strode out of the room.
"Well, Sandia," DuVania said. "I want to introduce you to my family
and get you a room at my house in town. As I said, I'll be leaving for a
few months. When I return, I'll see about getting you installed as a
page at the keep."
"You still haven't asked me," Sandia said, looking up from her
food. Her eyes were narrowed but she didn't look scared. She met the
knight's stare evenly.
"Asked you what?"
"Whether I want to be a page or not."
The statement caught DuVania completely off guard. He blinked
several times before frowning. He opened his mouth to explain to her
exactly how much choice an orphaned peasant girl had in this world, then
closed it without uttering a sound. Such forthright speech from a child
should earn a sharp rebuke, but the knight could not deny that his
actions had brought her here, not her own. Again, he was reminded that
his actions had also brought about the death of his squire, and he held
back his anger. The two stared at each other for a long moment. Finally,
DuVania drew a deep breath and said, "Do you want to be a page?"
"No," she said, finally breaking her stare to return to her food.
"But I've naught else I can do, and I can't find my way back to my home
at the moment." She shrugged, then, with her mouth full of cheese, she
said, "So I guess I'll be a page after all."
"You know," DuVania said. "One of the first things they teach a
page is humility." Sandia shrugged again without looking up and DuVania
sighed.
"Come, it's late and I have much to explain to my wife. Let's go."
========================================================================
Touching Ol
by Victor Cardoso and R. F. Niro
<viktor@mac.com>
Yule 10, 1018
"Priestess, I am frightened."
Lisette Derrickson's voice was small and quiet in the sparsely
furnished room. Despite her statement, she continued preparing for the
ritual, removing her clothes and bathing herself in pungent oils derived
from the blue, fleshy berries of juniper. She looked younger than her
age of seventeen years, seated among the billowy, pale folds of cloth
that she would wear. Yet Lisette was a girl by virtue only, since her
breasts were full and her hips suitable for child-bearing.
Hossil Braemar, dressed in a priestess' robes of blue and white,
turned where she stood, a lit splint in one hand and a candle in the
other. She stared searchingly at the girl sitting on the edge of the bed
and did not answer right away.
"There is nothing to fear, Lisette," the acolyte finally replied,
lighting the candle in her hand and setting it in a small alcove. "Ol
will accept you or he will not." She blew out the splint.
"But what will become of me if I am rejected?" Lisette asked. The
girl thought it easy for her teacher to be so calm. Hossil, after all,
had a place in Ol's temple; Lisette did not.
"Lisette, how long have you been in Dargon, at this temple?" Hossil
asked.
"Since Deber."
"Have you seen anyone here who is not content?"
"No, but --"
"And are they all priests?"
"No, but --"
"But what, my young apprentice?"
Lisette hesitated. She wanted her answer to be rational, to sum up
the logical reasons for her doubt and to make the priestess understand
them. In the end, however, she could only answer, shamefaced: "I do not
wish to fail."
Hossil frowned. Stepping forward, she took a seat next to her
protege. "Lisette, you cannot fail," Hossil whispered, putting an arm
around the girl's bare shoulders. "Ol accepts you for who you are. He
will ask you into his service if that is your destiny, but not every
servant serves him in the priesthood. Do you understand this?"
Lisette swallowed her burgeoning tears and nodded, but in the back
of her mind she could not dispel the fear of failure, and it fluttered
like dark wings at the edge of her vision. She had already begun to
imagine the wonders of her life as a priestess of Ol. It was not the
life of the farm girl she had been.
Two bells later a man and woman carried Lisette into a dimly lit
chamber, bearing her body on their shoulders like a precious relic that
would shatter if dropped. She was wrapped in the fine linen from
Hossil's chambers, two stalks of the golden-flowered meilore plant
grasped in each hand and crossed atop her rising and falling breasts.
Even though she saw only the ceiling, Lisette knew it as the ritual
room: a grim, square enclosure large enough to hold a gathering of fifty
men. The walls were black, veiled in shadow, and the only light came
filtered down from a well set high in the vaulted ceiling. An altar
stood in the center of the room, plain and unadorned.
Lisette tried easing her breath as the pair set her down on the
altar's uneven surface. She struggled to keep inhaling, feeling as if a
great weight was pressing down upon her chest. She did not move her eyes
to glance at the acolytes. She knew them to be two of the dozen she had
already met, but as part of the ritual she must not acknowledge or
communicate with them.
The door closed and the sound of a bolt sliding into place echoed
in the room. Lisette exhaled forcefully, feeling her muscles loosen for
the first time since the morning. She did not move her gaze from the
skylight, its brightness stinging her almond-shaped, green eyes. She had
not been allowed outside for a sennight, performing the necessary
ablutions for the ritual only by candlelight or in complete darkness.
The sun was a welcome, if temporarily unpleasant, visitor. The scent of
the oils and the meilore lay heavily in her nostrils, causing waves of
lightheadedness to pass over her. After her six months as a resident of
the temple, her moment had finally come.
She lay on the stone slab for a bell, by her reckoning, but there
was no way to tell for sure. She had been told when she prepared for the
ceremony that this room was constructed to dampen external sounds, such
as the tones of Dargon's city bells. She waited patiently for the Touch;
she prayed silently for the Touch. But all she received was the slight
shifting of the light above her, dimming as the sun crept across the
sky. When the altar became uncomfortable against her skin and her arms
ached from holding the meilore stalks, she sat up, removed the linen,
and eased herself to the floor in order to stretch.
She next paced the confines of the room, running her fingers across
the rough surface of the walls. They were cool and moist beneath her
hand. The oils on her body left her chilled, although the overall
temperature of the room was not uncomfortable. She circled the altar a
dozen times more, eventually settling in one of the room's dark corners,
leaning against the union of the two walls behind her. Her wrap lay in
disarray on the stone slab, the flowers dropping their petals limply.
Lisette crouched, lowering her head into her hands. Her doubt began
uncurling its dark claws. How long did the priests wait before they came
back for an initiate, she wondered? Bryan, son of Rissomer, had not been
gone a bell before emerging anointed. Sheirel Beiren had barely been
locked into the room before they had returned for her. She didn't know
of anyone who had failed during her stay at the temple. How long before
she had to face Hossil and announce her failure? Lisette had not asked
to be a priestess. She had not asked to come to Ol's temple and leave
her family. But everyone said she had shown signs. She exhibited an
empathy with the land in a way much deeper than the ordinary farmers of
her village. She had always found it strange that a simple farmer's
daughter like herself would be accepted into the order, but once she had
been admitted ... she did not like to think about how much she liked
life at the temple. Would her teachers announce her failure at midday
service?
Lisette shifted her feet, finding it impossible to get comfortable
against the unyielding stone wall. Once admitted to the temple, she had
given herself completely to the rituals and teachings of the order. She
had discovered the beauty in Ol's teachings, and the wonder in the power
of his creations. She had done everything she could do to be ready for
this day.
Looking around her at the emptiness of the room, at the wilting
plants ... she realized that it had not been enough.
Her shoulders sagged with relief. Lisette gasped, realizing the
source of her fear. It opened its dark bloom to show her its heart: a
part of her had been afraid of the god's Touch. She had been scared of
what Ol might ask of her. If the Touch was not going to come, she would
not be forced to face Ol's demands of her, demands that she might not be
able to meet.
"No!" she said, chastising herself. This weakness shamed her. She
had already sacrificed the comfort of her village, her family, and her
friends to come to Dargon to join Ol's order. She was not ready to stop
trying ... she would not stop trying. But what if Ol did not want her?
Lisette bit her lip. She would have to return home, humiliated, and
find a husband and have her own children. She had no other skills or
calling that would be useful at the temple. Wiping her eyes, she stood
up and raised a spark of defiance. This would be her path. The
humiliation would be brief; she would learn to live with the failure.
She remembered the day when she had left her village, when everyone in
the small hamlet had turned out to see her parting. As she had hugged
her family, she couldn't help but hear some of the gossips already
deciding how long it would be before she returned in defeat. It would be
as they had expected.
"I do not need the priesthood," she muttered. She would make her
own choices and bear the consequences. Her error had been in dreaming
too big and she would not make that mistake again. Lisette could live
with having a family and caring for them. She would hone new skills and
perhaps, one day, Ol would choose one of her children. Yet even if he
did not, she would never see her offspring as failures.
And in that moment of independence, at the point where her heart
was comforted and she saw new paths opening before her, that was when
she felt the Touch. It came as a shock to her: a cool, invisible finger
that traced a bead of moisture between her breasts, following a trail
down her torso to her navel. Then it disappeared. She inhaled sharply,
shivering at the ghostly caress.
She turned around in fright and stepped back, clasping her hands to
her shoulders, covering herself in the motion. "So now you come," she
murmured. "Now, when I renounce you?" In her retreat, she backed into
the side of the altar.
The Touch reappeared behind her, starting at the shoulder and
moving downward along her spine. Again it vanished. Lisette felt herself
shudder in unexpected pleasure. She stopped moving, her thoughts of
independence returning.
"I do not need your order, Ol," she announced. For the first time
since arriving at the temple, she truly felt that she didn't need the
god's blessing, the god's proof of her worth. She could find her own
way.
Yet, despite her strong words, she wished for the Touch to return.
Slowly, she lowered her arms. When the ghost returned, it was in
the form of lips that graced her neck, vaporous hands that grasped her
arms and supported her. She leaned back, her long hair sweeping behind
her. Soft lips, smooth and gentle, nibbled their way along her shoulder,
down to the tender space between her arm and her breast. She raised her
arms above and behind her, arching her back into a presence that stood
before her, pressing itself back into her.
"Ol ... " she whispered.
Lisette felt herself lifted from the ground then, the hands moving
to support her, raise her towards the skylight. The hand on her shoulder
became an arm, embracing her; the other moved lower to support her body.
That one rested on the back of her thigh, the ghostly fingers reaching
beneath her.
She spun in an otherworldly embrace, light blooming around her.
Lisette felt warmth flow around her and smelled the sharp, brisk scent
of spring. She opened her eyes to see flowers falling from the skylight.
Rose petals and daffodil sheaths, tulip leaves and peony blossoms,
drifting slowly in that wondrous light, filled her head with a perfumed
aroma that caused her soul to swell in her chest.
Her vision of the room blurred in the spinning, replaced by images
of a forest, sunlight dappling the ground in a clearing through leaves
both broad and full. Grass scents replaced the flowers; it was the
thick, heavy scent of summer. Along her lower back and legs she felt the
brush of a thousand stalks of grass, tickling her with their curious
heads. As she smiled, a shower passed over the clearing, its beads
settling on her body in a rainbow sheen. Lisette spun and the drops
became streams that coursed over her. They ran along her arms and off
her fingers, down her stomach and around her toes. She felt a number of
them gather in the natural depressions of her body, gingerly pressing
against her. They became a force that teased and touched, movements that
caused her to cry in ecstasy.
When she opened her mouth, more trickles of water pressed between
her opened lips, enveloping her face in their embrace. The ghost lips
found their way to her breast.
Lisette nursed the world and made love to it, both at the same
time. Swells of pleasure consumed her, building like an ocean breaking
on the shores of a firm and yet comforting shore. She lapsed into
unconsciousness with the greatest of the waves, falling into a slumber
where she dreamt of the soft caresses of water.
When she awoke, she found herself on an unfamiliar beach with an
unfamiliar ocean at her back. The smell of the sea was strong. She stood
up slowly, discovering that she was on a narrow strip of rocky shore
with the chill sea air descending on her naked body. Off in the distance
a forest started, stretching to the left and right, hugging the
coastline. Leaves were bright in the fiery blaze of autumn and they fell
from branches of silver birch and tall oak. In imitation of the sea, the
leaves tumbled like a wave along the ground, racing to meet her at the
water's edge. Ol's Touch had disappeared, leaving a sense of yearning in
its place. Lisette was propelled by her wonder at the being that created
such a need. She took her first step, leaving a depression in the sand
behind her.
Lisette picked her way through the rocky headland, into long and
tawny grass. She parted the billowing stalks with her determined stride,
passing copses of birch that huddled like old spinsters gossiping at the
market. As she approached the woods, she turned her head away from a
wave of fluttering leaves and tried to cover herself against the wind.
It had gotten so cold so quickly. She then passed into the shadow of
that mysterious wood.
Her breath started showing in a pale cloud and she shivered. She
did not let the frigid land daunt her. She followed where her heart led,
needing to understand the path she walked. She stepped over fallen
trunks, through brush that was brown and dying. The deeper she ventured,
the closer the trees grew together. The graceful birch yielded to
thicker-trunked oaks and elms. She stroked their gnarled bark as she
passed, their giant forms towering above her.
The leaves on these trees were gone, revealing clawed fingers that
shook at a grey and clouded sky. The further she walked, the greater the
landscape changed beneath her feet. The ground, once a soft bed of
rotting leaves and undergrowth, became a mat of needles, ragged and
littered with stones that pushed up from beneath the soft mantle. After
some time, Lisette found herself climbing over boulders, as the
landscape of oaks and elm gave way to clusters of spruce and fir trees
amid rocky defiles. She pushed on as she sought to continue her search,
the stones cold and unyielding under her hands. There were ample
opportunities for Lisette to panic, she knew this, but fear did not
penetrate her heart. Although she did not know where she headed, a part
of her knew to travel inward and onward, yearning to explore Ol's Touch.
Small, white mounds of snow appeared on the ground, hiding in
shallow hollows and shade. They numbed her toes as she walked through
them, but still she climbed. At last, the clumps of trees gave way
altogether and she found herself on the bare slope of a mountain,
christened in gleaming snow. The mount was not tall, but was wide and
rounded, capped with a peak of rock that shrugged off snow in the wind
gusts.
Just beneath the crest of the mount she came to a cave. Teeth of
snow and ice rimmed its mouth, grinning. She entered it without
hesitation, her teeth chattering and all feeling in her extremities
gone. Lisette knew that a deeper understanding waited for her.
A labyrinth of various-sized stones and boulders greeted her, all
illuminated by the diffuse light streaming in from the cave mouth. The
wind was less here and Lisette felt relieved to be out of its piercing
chill.
On one of the rocks perched an eagle, its predatory head watching
her closely. The bird's body, while still powerful, was thin and gaunt,
speaking of a harsh survival. She wound around the boulders and came
forward to stand before the creature, watching it curiously. Its beak
was sharply curved, ending in a wicked point as long as her thumb. Its
keen grey eyes that held an intense intelligence -- and even deeper
hunger -- did not flinch from her probing gaze. The great bird clenched
one of its barbed talons, scraping the boulder. Finally, it stretched
its great wings, beating them weakly several times, and let out a feeble
cry.
Lisette started hunting around her for something to feed the
animal. She ventured to the back of the great cave and to its sides,
peering under rocks and in the crevices that pierced the walls. There
were no rats or other creatures that she could find. After a fruitless
search, she returned to the eagle.
Then a thought struck her and she knew what she had to offer it.
Cautiously, she leaned forward and extended her wrist, holding it
beneath the eagle's sharp beak. The bird nipped at her skin, drawing
blood. Lisette felt a burning pain, but also a deep pleasure at having
found a way to help. She lifted her arm and let a thin stream dribble
from the wound into the creature's opened mouth. It swallowed feverishly
for several moments, but still the blood seemed too thin and
insubstantial to provide it with sustenance. It was not enough.
Lowering her arm, Lisette peered intently into the eagle's eyes.
She read its hunger and its desire, but knew that the creature would not
take what was not offered. Understanding came as a warmth crawling over
her body, seeming to start at her feet and work its way upwards. She
realized she was not looking for more pleasure from Ol, but rather to
repay him for what he had given her. She had been right. She did not
need Ol now ... but now he needed her.
Without further thought, she lowered herself onto the ground before
the great bird, exposing her body to its hunger. The eagle swooped off
its perch and landed on her thighs, the hooked talons gripping at her
skin. One claw probed at the space between her legs. She was surprised
at its hard, warm touch, contrasted against her own cold skin. The
creature turned its head to look at her from one glossy eye. Then,
quickly, it swiped its dagger-like beak across her abdomen. Skin tore
and blood flowed, growing into streams that ran down her thighs. Lisette
felt the blood curl around her features and into the crevices of her
body, its warmth both shocking and pleasing.
There was no pain in the animal's devouring. Lisette simply closed
her eyes and said nothing -- did not cry out -- content to have ended
Ol's suffering.
When Lisette opened her eyes again, it was to find herself back in
the ritual room of the temple, lying on the stone slab. Her wrapping was
torn and slashed, barely covering her, and the stalks of meilore were
crushed beneath her arms. Two acolytes stood beside her, watching
intently.
She recognized them: Atil Gravik, the man with a balding pate and a
thin beard encircling his mouth; Hossil, her long, blonde hair falling
about her shoulders.
Lisette tried to speak but found she could not. Her throat was dry
and hoarse. She licked her lips and realized they were severely chapped.
Atil leaned forward and kissed her, opening his mouth to hers, and
she tasted water flow from him. Then he drew back and Hossil was in his
place, kissing her and giving her more water at the same time. When
Lisette had finished drinking, she smiled, and Hossil looked at her with
bright eyes.
"Welcome to Ol," the acolyte said.
========================================================================
Talisman Ten
Part 1
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
<John.White@Drexel.Edu>
Seber 22 - Ober 5, 1013
The ring of naked dancers had again drawn a crowd and Yawrab found
herself among the curious onlookers. She watched the bodies move around
the fire, parts bouncing and swaying, and found herself more fascinated
by the movements than the nakedness. She was pleased with herself at
that, glad that she had put so much of her non-gypsy past behind her.
She had first seen the style of dancing practiced by the Gwynt Gyrun,
the Wind Riders of the great plains south of Baranur, a sennight ago. At
the end of the three-day wedding ceremony of Maks, a Rhydd Pobl gypsy,
and Syusahn, one of the Gwynt Gyrun nomads, all of the bride's people
had formed a ring about the couple, stripped down to skin, and had
started to prance in a circle to the beat of drums and vowel-sounded
chanting. It had been all she could do not to stare at the jouncing,
jiggling parts.
Yawrab was not well enough versed in the style to be able to
distinguish between this dance of parting and that dance of union. She
could feel the rhythm of the drum, though, and she found her feet
beating the ground along with the dancers'. She was not yet uninhibited
enough to join in as several gypsies had, but she could feel the music
moving in her, moving her.
Smiling in contentment, she left the circle, her feet stepping in
time to the chants and the drums. She crossed the large, sculpted
clearing in the forest of northern Dargon that the gypsies called
Eariaddas Hwl, passing celebrants clustered around myriad sources of
entertainment. She caught the skirl of small-pipes from one, and the
swirling, beat-driven strains of the gypsies' favorite dancing music
from another. From her previous wanderings during her time there, she
knew that storytelling, drinking contests, and legerdemain exhibitions
were some of the other amusements offered.
Yawrab wasn't wandering this time, though, which was why she hadn't
stayed longer with the naked dancers. She had an appointment to keep. It
was a gypsy sort of appointment, so she felt no need to rush or to try
to tell time by how far the quarter-moon was over the trees or by
ringing imaginary bells in her head. Ganba, her door into the Rhydd Pobl
culture as well as her lover, had informed her the previous night that
Sefera had offered
the use of her divination skills to help Yawrab with
her quest. From what she had heard of the fortune teller's skills, she
was looking forward to the experience.
She came to a quiet corner of the gathering place and found herself
grinning with delight at what she found there. A table had been set up
beneath a wide-spread, high-branched tree and at it sat brown-haired,
bronze-skinned Ganba. Across from her was an older woman with long, dark
hair, who had to be Sefera. Neither of them had prompted Yawrab's grin;
that was caused by the myriad star-like lights twinkling in the air
between tree and table, creating a mystical, magical atmosphere.
As Yawrab drew nearer, she saw the wire-thin chandeliers supporting
the tiny candles that made the light, but the otherworldly ambiance was
not diminished. She walked up to the table and into the arms of Ganba,
who had risen from the slatted folding chair to greet her. Yawrab had no
qualms about kissing Ganba in front of a stranger, and she did so
warmly, hugging her tightly. Ganba returned the affection just as
openly, and then they sat.
Ganba said, "Yawrab, let me introduce Sefera, sign-reader and
fortune teller. Her talent is legendary among the Rhydd Pobl, and she
has some notoriety among your people, the Rooted Folk, as well. She is
known to traveling carnivals and in large marketplaces as Madame
Zeefra."
Sefera extended her hand across the table, and Yawrab took it. The
fortune teller was smiling gently, and her grip was warm and strong.
Yawrab found her attractive, and the age that was written on her face
made her look wise, not care-worn.
Sefera said, "I am pleased to finally meet you, Yawrab. I've heard
about how you helped Ganba deal with that madman Lacsil and his Sageeza
fanatics." Yawrab was about to protest that she hadn't done much beyond
riding along with Ganba's bantor, or wagon group, but the fortune teller
didn't pause long enough. "Of course, every stranger prompts gossip at
one of our gatherings, even at a time like this, while the Wind Riders
swell our ranks. You've heard the stories about the rooted-folk wizard
and his apprentice?"
Yawrab nodded. She had listened to the gossip about Cefn, the
cowled mage, and his partner -- not apprentice -- Je'en, who wore a
silver half-mask and a brace on her arm. They were guests of the bride
and groom, having performed some service for them. She wondered whether
her own tale had grown as much as that pair's had. She didn't believe
that they had really rescued Syusahn from a magically living tower!
"I've heard about your search," Sefera said. "I haven't pried into
the details; I like to be open to what the other world has to say. Shall
we begin to listen in?"
She produced a bundle of something wrapped in purple silk and set
it in the center of the table. With a deft tug, the silk slid open, and
she spread it out into a square under a deck of black-backed cards. She
said, "Touch them, Yawrab. Just rest your hand, either one, on them for
a moment or two, and let them get to know you." Yawrab complied, trying
not to feel either silly or skeptical.
Sefera took the cards from under Yawrab's hand and began to shuffle
them. She fanned them out and said, "Choose a marker, Yawrab, a card to
represent you in the spread."
Yawrab reached over and plucked a rectangle from the fan. Sefera
drew the cards together again and took the one Yawrab had chosen,
turning it over and putting it in the center of the purple square of
silk in the middle of the table. The picture on it was of a tiny man
standing on a mountainside.
"Good, good, the jester of rock. It makes sense; you are one of the
rooted folk, so your suit is rock. The high rank shows good things about
you. Next, we must examine your past."
The fortune teller turned over the top card of the deck, followed
by another and another. She set them down in a ring around the marker
card, and began speaking in a rhythmic, measured voice.
"Your childhood looks clear. Yes, yes, but here, in adulthood,
early, something very, very traumatic. I can see the damage to your mind
and body." Yawrab didn't react to the cards revealing her rape by Lord
Cranhull. Her past couldn't hurt her any longer.
"A journey, then, without healing. A journey and then complacency.
You found a routine, right? A place to fit in, a place you further
shaped to yourself. Once a part of it, you never wanted to be apart from
it. But you didn't really belong."
Yawrab realized that Sefera was talking about her years as the head
housekeeper for the Denva estate, a job she had been good at, a job she
had liked, or had seemed to like. Only now did she realize how confining
that job had been, how restrictive, and how the restrictions had been
ones she had set around herself.
The marker card was surrounded now, images showing flames and water
and what she had to be told was wind, as well as more fanciful, abstract
images that weren't of any of the four suits. Sefera said, "Now we move
to the recent past." The cards she turned over now were set in a row
below the ring around the marker.
"I see an ending, someone close, family." Yawrab recognized Tillna,
her sister. "A bad end. Murder. I see flight. You flee, the one you
chase flees, the murderers flee as well." Yawrab started at that. Lord
Aldan was not one of the murderers?
"There's Ganba's influence, and your journey north." Sefera was
turning the cards more slowly. "The one you seek also comes north. But
..." She flipped four cards into a line above the marker's ring, and
frowned at the results. "But nothing makes sense here. Random cards, no
message. Why?"
Sefera gathered up all of the cards, shuffled them again, and dealt
three cards off the top, hesitated, and dealt a fourth. The jester of
rock showed first, followed by the four of wind that had been Ganba's
card. The deuce of rock showed next, and Sefera indicated that as the
man Yawrab was following. "Lord Aldan, son of Baron Bindrmon," Yawrab
explained. The fourth card, the ace of flame, was set beside Aldan's
card.
"A new layout," said Sefera. "Perhaps this will show us the future
better." She dealt an arrangement of cards around the first four, but
hissed in frustration at what she saw there. She gathered all but the
four up and tried again, and twice more. Completely different cards
showed up each time, and finally the fortune teller said, "The cards are
blocked. They see nothing beyond today for you, Yawrab. Nothing at all."
Yawrab looked at Ganba, and then back at Sefera. "You don't mean
...?"
Sefera's frown cleared for a moment, and she said, "No, no, it
doesn't mean you have no future, my dear, no. It just means the cards
cannot reach into your future." She sighed, and said, "I'm sorry,
Yawrab. It seems I won't be able to help you locate the man you're
seeking."
Ganba leaned forward and asked, "Isn't there anything you can do?
You use more than just cards; I've seen you. Might one of your other
methods be able to do what the cards can't?"
Sefera said, "They are all fundamentally the same, Ganba. Whatever
blocks the cards would block them as well." She wrapped the cards up in
their silk and made them vanish again. When her hands came back above
the table she stopped in mid-motion, and looked up with eyes wide with
possibility. "Unless ... There's one method that is more direct, more
personal than the cards. Wait here for a moment."
She rose and walked away. Yawrab looked a question at Ganba, who
just shrugged.
Sefera returned with a small bowl, a bucket, and a roll of
parchment. Ignoring her chair, she deposited her items on the table and
used a knife to cut a large square of parchment off of the roll, which,
when spread out flat, almost covered the table. She handed the knife to
Yawrab and said, "I'll need a little blood, my dear." When Yawrab just
stared at her, she continued, "I said it was more personal. I don't need
much, just a few drops."
Yawrab took the knife and nicked her middle finger. She let a few
drops of blood fall into the bowl, then put her nicked finger into her
mouth. Sefera retrieved the knife and made it vanish to the same place
the cards had.
Sefera took the small container and held it for a moment. Then she
took a handful of white sand out of the bucket and dropped it into the
bowl. She did that twice more before beginning to stir the sand with her
fingers. Yawrab expected the sand to clump up in the blood, but instead
it slowly turned pink as if her blood was really mixing throughout it.
The fortune teller finally took the small bowl and poured the whole
contents into the palm of her other hand, where it fit without any
trouble. She set the container aside, and cupped both hands above the
parchment. She closed her eyes and began to hum softly. A moment later,
she opened her fingers to let the sand through.
Only the sand didn't fall, not at first. Sefera hummed louder, and
it began to sift out, slowly at first and then faster and faster. Even
though she didn't move her hands, the sand fell all over the parchment,
forming a pattern that grew ever more complex.
It was circular, as large as the parchment. In the outer third of
the disk, six animals formed, three pairs of two. The design was
stylized, and consisted of two foxes, two falcons, and two cats. Each
pair was situated with its back to its twin, thus facing one of each of
the other pair.
Filling the rest of the disk and surrounding the six animals were
bands that wove over and under each other like the reeds of a basket.
The pattern wasn't totally regular, but it was balanced between the six
figures and formed a pleasing image.
The strangest thing about the pattern was that Yawrab recognized
it, or part of it at least. Ganba owned a segment of a stone sculpture
that bore a portion of the pattern before her. In fact, she was sure
that the match was exact: the part of the pattern of sand that held the
cat facing the fox looked just like Ganba's carved fragment.
Sefera's hands were empty; the pattern was complete. Yawrab looked
at Ganba, who was staring at the pattern intently. She shifted her gaze
to the fortune-teller, and found a look of surprise and confusion on her
face. Yawrab found her attention returning to the sand painting when the
parchment suddenly began to vibrate rapidly, and the sand scattered
across it and the table. In a moment, the pattern was gone. But the
image, and the way it called to her, was one that Yawrab would never
forget.
The room was dark. The windows were open, but the end-of-Seber moon
was no more than a sliver, and there was no light coming from the street
at that bell in the Old City section of Dargon.
Lord Aldan, son of Baron Bindrmon, broke a long, companionable
silence with, "No luck, then?"
Bard Nakaz said, "No, Aldan, no luck yet. It would help if we knew
exactly who has taken up the Margre's quest, of course, but I think our
current strategy will eventually pan out. Voesh had to seek out extra
information before he and his friends could locate the second artifact.
The curse brought doom on all six of those people, but we can't trust to
the curse to eliminate this new holder."
Silence fell as the pair reflected on the Margre and her quest. The
Margre Chalisento had been a powerful sorceress in the dim, distant
past. She had lusted after absolute power, but had been thwarted just
short of her goal. She had been magically separated into three parts,
and these parts had been crafted into artifacts, which were then strewn
across the breadth of the continent of Cherisk. So far, two of the three
artifacts, a small rock and a stone cup, had been retrieved.
This brought up thoughts of Meelia, who had revealed her
involvement in the Margre quest in her final, dying moments. She and her
five friends, led by Bresk but directed by Voesh, had encountered Aldan
and Nakaz in Valdasly. Meelia had been in an accident just after
recovering the second of the three Margre artifacts, and had died of her
wounds.
Nakaz and Aldan had chased after the remainder of the questers,
finding dead bodies along the trail until they followed the final member
of the group. That one had encountered some kind of struggle between
some gypsies and a group of fanatics known as the Bloody Hand of Sageeza
and had been killed as well. Unfortunately, the artifacts had not been
on his corpse. Aldan and Nakaz had done the only thing they could think
of: continued to Dargon, where Meelia had indicated the band was going.
Since arriving, the pair had been canvassing the city, looking for
information about the Margre or anyone asking about her legend. To date,
they had found out little.
Aldan asked, "How many more sages does Dargon have?"
"Quite a few, to my surprise. I've been visiting knowledge
gatherers and sages for a sennight, but none have been visited by anyone
besides myself looking for information on the legend of the Margre
Chalisento. From what I can determine, there are at least a sennight's
worth to go. I suppose it's the port that draws them all this far north.
The sailors' tales, the strange cargo, the frontier spirit. The freedom
to think new thoughts, unlike a more tradition-bound city like Magnus."
"And if the calendar turns to Ober and you still haven't heard
word?"
"Then I will have to start over. There's nothing else I can think
of to do, Aldan."
Nakaz changed the subject by asking, "What about your search? Any
sign of your Menagerie?"
Aldan said, "I've had no more luck than you, Nakaz, but I think
that, given a few more days of searching, I will be able to say that
they really aren't here. I've spread the word that I am seeking
information about Lords Eywran, Wannek, and Lothanin all over the Old
City, and even down in the lower town. So far, no one has heard of them,
and I can't think of a reason that they would feel the need to disguise
themselves this far north of Bindrmon. I'm beginning to think that
Weasel, er, Lord Kuvey, must have lied."
Nakaz turned on his side, and said, "I'll turn your question back
on you, then. What will your next move be once you admit that they are
not here?"
Aldan remained on his back, staring at the ceiling he couldn't see.
"I'll let it go, at least for now. If they didn't come here, they could
have gone anywhere and I don't know where to start looking. So I'll just
forget about them for the time being. At least until we can deal with
this Margre situation."
"And Tillna?"
Aldan sighed. "What about her? She's dead, killed by my one-time
friends. I'll mourn her, of course, but no less or more than I would if
I had been able to chase down the Menagerie right away. She was my
fiancee, Nakaz, and I cared for her, but I've come to realize that I
never loved her." He turned to face Nakaz in their bed, and continued,
"I think I knew that even when I proposed to her, but I am sure of it
now. She shouldn't have died, and I will do what I am able to see her
murderers brought to justice. But if that has to wait until I can return
to Bindrmon, then so be it."
He reached over and drew Nakaz closer. "I'm not glad she's dead,
Nakaz, but I am glad that chasing her killers brought me to you." He
kissed the bard, and there was no more talking for quite some time.
Ratray stood in the shadows of a building at the corner where the
Street of Travellers crossed Merchant's Way. His walk from Dargon Keep
across the causeway over the Coldwell River and along the lengthy
stretch of Travellers before it entered the lower city proper had been
uneventful, but the challenge was about to grow. He watched the flow of
traffic along Merchant's carefully. He had a scowl on his youthful,
unbearded face and he mumbled under his breath, "Fifth of Ober; same
errand five times. Shouldn't have told Marnvik, shouldn't have told
nobody."
The street before him was just as crowded now, at seventh bell, as
it always was, and Ratray knew that he couldn't hope for it to become
suddenly deserted. He waited, fidgeting and fretting, long, thin fingers
writhing around each other in impatience, until there was only a handful
of people walking along in front of him. Then he sprinted across the
intersection and dashed along Travellers, speeding unerringly for an
alley on the right and slipping into its darkness with a sigh of relief.
The alley ended at Traders Avenue, another wide, busy street.
Ratray huddled behind a barrel there, breathing hard from his run. His
grey eyes darted furtively around the street, noting the solitary
walkers and the people clustered in groups. When his breathing was back
to normal, he slipped around the barrel and started sidling along the
wall, his thin body swallowed by the shadows there, moving slowly as he
angled for the best position to launch himself from. The crowds in the
street eddied back and forth, and an opening appeared between him and
the side street he needed. Ratray set off, scuttling as rapidly as he
could without running, his shoulders hunched up around his ears, his
head down, watching his path through the brown fringe of his bangs.
The side street was quieter, but Ratray didn't slow by very much.
He lifted his head to keep a better watch, though, as he made his way
past two more intersections. Another busy street presented itself and
again he paused in a shadow to determine his best chance of navigating
the crowds. He shuddered violently when a group of four people,
chattering busily amongst themselves, passed him from behind, and he
pushed himself into the street as soon as they were gone, before he was
completely ready.
His path across this street was not as swift nor as direct as the
previous one. He continually dodged and diverted, avoiding walking
closer than two arms-lengths to any group of three or more people. By
the time he reached the corner he wanted, he was shaking and panting
heavily, even though he hadn't been running.
After pausing in a dark doorway one more time, Ratray made his way
down the next street, crossing and recrossing it to avoid the few
pedestrians he encountered. He approached a final intersection and
peeked around the corner to see if the way was clear. Satisfied, he
walked down to Abernald's Apothecary and peered through the window. He
waited until two of the three customers left before pushing through the
doors and walking up to the counter.
"Hello, Tray," said Abernald, the owner and only worker in the
shop. "I saw you out the window, waiting. Haven't gotten over your
concerns yet, eh?"
"Hello, Abernald," said Ratray, wishing that the people he worked
with in the keep were as willing to use the nickname he wanted them to.
Instead, they called him Rat, and then laughed when he shouted at them.
Looking up at the shopkeeper, he said, "No, my worries haven't gone
away. I really don't think they ever will, either."
"I'm sure you're wrong, my boy. Just give it time. So, Marnvik
needs more pipedust?"
"Or so he says, yes, Abernald. I know he's just teasing me, making
me go out like this, but I gotta do what my boss tells me, straight?"
"He's bound to get tired soon, Tray. Or broke. Just a moment."
Abernald walked over to a bank of small drawers and opened one. Ratray
turned to look nervously at the door, shuffling his feet and clicking
his fingernails against the counter. Abernald was soon back with a small
cloth bag, which he set on the counter.
Ratray fetched the coins he had been given out of his pouch and
pushed them across the counter. "Thank you," he said as he took the bag.
"I'll probably see you tomorrow."
Abernald laughed and said, "Good luck, Tray, and don't worry."
Ratray just shook his head as he walked out of the apothecary.
He set off on his return journey in the opposite direction from
which he had arrived. He used the same methods as before, though. He
darted and scuttled, dodged and scurried. He crossed the lower city
without enjoying a single step, until he heard the music coming from the
bar across the street.
Ratray's face transformed from squinting fear to peaceful pleasure,
looking even younger than his sixteen summers as it did so. He crossed
the street without worrying about the pair who almost ran into him. He
approached the door, but a single peek within restored his caution. He
turned away from the entry and found a shadowy niche just along the wall
from it. He listened to the sprightly tune for a few moments, and then
began to sing along to the song he had never heard before in a clear,
confident tone. His eyes were closed, imagining the impossible situation
of sitting before a crowd entertaining them as the person in the bar was
doing. He wasn't even aware of the stares he got from passers-by, so
rapt was he. He didn't worry about what Marnvik would do to him when he
got back to the keep late. He sang and dreamed, and for once forgot
about the foretold future that normally ruled his existence.
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