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DargonZine Volume 19 Issue 03
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 19
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 3
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DargonZine Distributed: 3/18/06
Volume 19, Number 3 Circulation: 653
========================================================================
Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Out of the Rubble 3 P. Atchley, Sy 12-26, 1018
Dave Fallon,
and R. F. Niro
The Margre Arisen Liam Donahue Sy 12-14, 1018
========================================================================
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://ftp.dargonzine.org/. Issues and public discussions are posted
to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
DargonZine 19-3, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright March, 2006 by
The Dargon Project, Inc. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@rcn.com>,
Assistant Editor: Liam Donahue <bdonahue@fuse.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>
Once upon a time, DargonZine -- then called FSFnet -- resided on a
tiny little computer network. The Internet was so small back then that a
list of everyone who knew how to use it fit in one text file with less
than a thousand entries. FSFnet's first issue went out to a mere 100
readers because that's how many people listed an interest in "science
fiction" or "fantasy" in the main directory of Internet users. It was a
small world, indeed!
At that time, there weren't many electronic magazines; there were a
couple online newsletters about computer programming, and a handful of
college kids wrote informal, semi-autobiographical humor columns. Aside
from a couple Usenet discussion groups, that's all there was. FSFnet was
really the only organization trying to publish professional-quality
fiction online back in 1984.
FSFnet thrived during those early years. The Internet was a
novelty, and free online fiction readily captured the imaginations of
both prospective readers as well as aspiring writers. We printed a lot
of good fiction that -- for the first time ever -- magically appeared in
readers' inboxes, and our circulation climbed steadily. We provided an
innovative service through a cool, growing new medium, and we were a big
fish in an extremely small pond.
Time passed, and the Internet grew ... and grew! Seemingly
overnight, that little pond we used to call our own became an ocean that
rapidly covered the entire globe. DargonZine has remained the oldest and
longest-running electronic magazine on the net, but we're no longer
unique in what we do. There are hundreds of electronic magazines on
every topic imaginable, including dozens that print amateur fantasy
fiction -- and have much larger circulations than DargonZine. And if
you're an aspiring author, there's a whole spectrum of writers' groups
that would welcome your participation. DargonZine is no longer the only
game in town, and despite our longevity and focus on quality writing,
these days we're a very small fish in a vast pond.
Adjusting to that new reality was a challenge. We've had to learn
how to compete with other writing groups and magazines to attract
contributing authors, and we've had to show prospective readers that
DargonZine is a more interesting way to spend their time than reading
another e-zine like "The Onion", watching "Survivor", listening to an
iPod, reading friends' weblogs, or playing "The Sims". In order to get
the word out, so that our name is known at all, we've had to overcome
our natural aversion to advertising and self-promotion. Today's Internet
is a very different network than it was when we first started, and it's
much more difficult for us to capture the public's attention than it
once was.
I was reminded of this by a recent web comic I read. A 25 year old
Canadian dude named Ryan North puts out a thoughtful strip called
"Dinosaur Comics", and the March 1st entry -- which can be found at
http://www.qwantz.com/index.pl?comic=729 -- struck a chord with me. In
it, the characters are discussing how modern duplication and
communication facilities have made it more difficult than ever to make a
living as an artist. In the next to last panel, one of the characters
observes, "Things are great for society but it sort of sucks for the
individual, because we can flawlessly record and cheaply reproduce all
transcendent artistic work. So as an artist, you no longer have to be
the best in your village, you have to be the best in the world!"
That kind of sums up DargonZine's experience as a magazine. When we
first started FSFnet, we had a captive audience and a major share in a
tiny market, so it was pretty easy to be "the best in our village". But
over the past two decades, virtually the entire planet has become wired,
and just about anyone can write a few stories and put out a magazine
like ours. Today, DargonZine competes for your attention with magazines
sent out by everyone from tech-savvy grammar school kids to
multi-billion dollar corporations like Microsoft. As Utahraptor says,
global competition can be great for society, because you have access to
the best of the best, but it has presented us with some real challenges
here at DargonZine.
The good news is that we don't need to be "the best in the world".
I'll speak more about DargonZine's goals in an upcoming editorial, but
our focus has always been on having fun and helping amateur writers
improve their craft, because those are the things that matter to us as
artists. While we used to be a big fish in a small pond, it's okay if we
don't have the biggest circulation, or a million dollar operating
budget, or sell the most advertising.
More than a decade ago, former DargonZine writer Max Khaytsus said,
"Bigger doesn't make better; it just makes bigger". At the time, he was
talking about how a good writer doesn't need an expansive,
world-threatening plot in order to create drama. However, he could just
as easily been talking about DargonZine and its niche among electronic
magazines. Our goal is to put out a magazine that's "better", rather
than one that's just "bigger", and we are pleased that you're here with
us to enjoy it.
========================================================================
Out of the Rubble
Part 3
by P. Atchley, Dave Fallon, and R. F. Niro
<deepartha@yahoo.com>, <dfallon23@yahoo.com>, and <OrionFarr@aol.com>
Sy 12-26, 1018
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 18-8
Part 2 of this story was printed in DargonZine 19-2
Aviato returned home from work that afternoon, entered his cottage,
and immediately knew something was different. Usually, when he arrived
home, his wife Joliana would be sitting blank-eyed, rhythmically tapping
her fingers on their wooden table, or dozing with her head down, snoring
gently. When neither of these sounds greeted him, his worst fear struck
him, and for a moment he felt encroaching panic. With conscious effort,
he thrust the feeling aside and placed the warm pot of stew that he had
picked up at a local inn on the table before looking around the small
two-room cottage. Their house was empty.
Her downward spiral had started gradually: a sorrow that lurked
behind every word, a grief that dimmed every smile. Then the gradual had
become a swift descent: a depression that had leached joy from a woman
who had once captivated him because of her beautiful smile. She had
taken to using ardon, a drug common on the wharves where he worked, used
by men with no hope. Aviato had known for months that one day he would
return to find her dead from the drug, but he had not thought to find
his home empty of her all together.
He sat down heavily in one of the two roughly hewn chairs at the
table, wondering where she could be. Since she was a healer, perhaps her
services were needed somewhere. He remembered hearing about the causeway
accident earlier that day, when a barge had crashed into the bridge that
spanned the Coldwell, the river that bisected Dargon. He had heard that
there had been many injuries, and the town guard had dispatched runners
to call upon all healers for help. Maybe Joliana had gone as well. It
had been many sennights since she'd practiced her art, but it was a
possibility.
Aviato stared sadly at the pot of stew. He realized that it had
become his anchor. When Joliana had stopped cooking, he had begun
purchasing food at Belisandra's, a local tavern. It took most of his
daily wages, but it offered him an opportunity to share a few menes of
the day with his wife. During the short meal she would not always eat,
but she would occasionally talk and he had decided that it was worth the
price of the food. After only a few sennights, he realized he couldn't
afford it every day on his meager pay, but he did not want to let go of
the time with her and the chance that she might eat something. He
reached a deal with the owner of Belisandra's to return at night to help
out in exchange for the food. He knew that Joliana thought he was
drinking; he had not bothered to share the truth with her.
Now he leaned back, crossed his arms, and wondered if today was the
day he would lose her. He didn't know what to do next: to search for her
or wait.
Tom Madden stared up at the dark sky as the barge moved across the
Coldwell River from the side where Dargon Keep was to the other side
where the river port and seaport were located. It was a clear night with
a cool breeze blowing off the Valenfaer Ocean. The sky was filled with
twinkling stars and few clouds, one of which passed in front of
Nochturon as he watched.
Earlier that day, one of his neighbor's adopted children, Briam,
had not returned from a trip to the market and, fearing for the boy's
safety, his neighbor Sian had asked him to search the site of the
causeway accident. A barge had crashed into the causeway, and a huge
lengthwise section of the bridge had fallen into the river, leaving only
a narrow strip that connected both riverbanks. Of the people and
livestock on the barge and causeway, many had perished.
Tom had spent much of the evening going from one cordoned-off aid
station to the next, his ears filled with the painful whimpers and
groans of the injured. His unsuccessful search for Briam had finally
driven him to the bodies. Much to his relief, Tom had found Briam alive
on the keep side of the river. The boy had been very badly injured,
resulting in one of his legs having to be removed, but a healer had
tended him. Now all of them: Briam on a stretcher carried by two guards;
the guard sergeant, Roman Cepero, who had found the boy; the healer,
Joliana; and Tom were all returning to Sian's house.
Soon, the group landed on one of the docks that lined Dock Street
and headed toward Murson Street, where Sian and the orphans lived.
Although the roads were still peopled by a few gawkers and those with
more genuine errands, they were far less busy than they had been
earlier. Even the people who were still outside talked in hushed tones,
as if the disaster demanded such respect.
"Buy a piece of the old causeway!" A voice intruded on Tom's
thoughts. "It's straight out of the river. Its magic will protect you
from harm," a second voice called. "It's a powerful charm to help you
remember this day."
Tom looked over to see a pair of men on the other side of the
street holding out chunks of wet, broken stone to passersby. The two
stood over a thick, badly woven blanket with more pieces of rock
littering its surface.
"Leeches!" Tom's voice seemed to startle the healer, who had merely
cast her tired eyes at the pair but said nothing. "If those are even
real pieces, how lucky was that stonework for the city today?"
Cepero was quick to act. In two angry, limping strides he crossed
the street and stood before the hawkers. At his approach, the pair paled
and one quickly scooped up the blanket, along with their wares. They
scurried off before Cepero could do more than growl.
The party continued towards Sian's house. Tom clenched and
unclenched his fists with nervousness as they walked. As they got closer
to their destination, Tom's worry for Briam and Sian spiraled into a
whirlpool of fear and grief. When they turned onto Murson Street, Tom
felt his back muscles tense up. Finally, they entered the yard of Sian's
house, and she erupted from the door almost immediately.
"Tom! Roman!" she called. Her voice was soft, but it was shrill
with urgency. "Did you find him?"
Tom moved forward to stop her, but she had already reached the
litter. Briam lay there, pathetic in his stillness. His face was covered
with scrapes, bloody scratches scored his one uninjured leg with lines
of dried blood, and the other leg ended in a bandaged stump below the
knee. She gasped as her gaze reached the bandages. Tom put a hand on her
shoulder and squeezed gently, offering silent support. The sergeant
didn't wait for Sian to regain her composure, but led the two guards and
the healer into the cottage.
Tom patted her on the back. She sniffed, wiping the tears from her
face and hurried upstairs. He followed her, passing the litter bearers
on their way out, and entered the bedroom Briam shared with Finn,
another of Sian's orphans. Inside, the healer supervised moving the
unconscious Briam onto the bed while Finn stared wide-eyed. His mouth
opened in a shocked breath, face pale, and his shoulders drew back in an
unwitting gesture of denial as he saw Briam's lower body with one leg
conspicuously missing.
"You found him!" A soft exclamation from the door drew everyone's
attention. It was one of the two girls whom Sian had adopted: Oriel. Her
red-rimmed eyes attested to bells of tears, her ragged, spiky hair
evidence of sleepless tossing and turning.
"Is Kerith asleep?" Sian asked. Kerith was the other girl, the
youngest of all the children.
"Yes." Oriel nodded and took a step into the room.
"Wait. I want to talk to you." Sian moved quickly and drew the girl
outside.
Tom went around the bed to Finn, whose face was still ashen. If
possible, it had gotten even paler as he watched Sian take Oriel
outside.
"I should never have left them," Finn said, his voice wobbling.
Tom sighed. He had heard the tale of how Finn had momentarily left
the three younger children alone on the bridge just before the accident.
How many comforting words would he have to find in one day? "Finn --"
"Kerith was right; it's my fault." Finn's anger and the finality of
his tone silenced Tom. "I should have been there." He rose and walked
over to the bed. The healer sat in a chair the sergeant pulled out for
her. With a grave face, Cepero watched Finn approach.
"It's my fault. Now he'll never become a guard," Finn whispered,
staring down at Briam.
"Now is not the time to wallow in your guilt, young Finn," Cepero
said bluntly. "Your duty now is to be there for him, to help him get
over this."
Finn looked up warily and met the gazes of all three adults in the
room. "What do you mean? Is he ...?" his voice trailed away and he
looked down again.
There was a noise from the door, and a weeping Oriel came running
in to stand by the bed. She knuckled her tears away, but they wouldn't
stop coming. Tom had to look away for a moment before his own eyes
filled. When he looked back, Oriel was weeping over the prone boy. Her
breathing was loud, as if she were suppressing sobs.
Sian turned to Joliana. "How is he? How do we care for him?"
"There's not much we can do for him right now. If and when he comes
out of it, we shall see."
That brought a silence down on the whole room. Tom went out and
brought back a couple of chairs for the sergeant and himself. Sian and
Oriel sat with Finn on his bed, beginning a vigil that lasted unbroken
for over two bells. Oriel and Finn drifted to sleep leaning against each
other. Joliana and Sian both stared at Briam, while Cepero's gaze
drifted around the room. Joliana chewed on her lip and wrung her hands,
her entire body shaken by a fine trembling every so often. Tom saw her
eyes dart around the room frequently, like she wanted to get up and run,
but she never moved.
His own eyes were pinned by the grief in Sian's face. Sian looked
up, the dark stains under her eyes contradicting the strength in her
voice. She met his gaze and offered him a smile, and he knew, somehow,
that she understood his feelings. What she said, however, was prosaic.
"How about some food, Tom? Roman, Joliana, I'm sure you must be hungry
too. Let's go down to the kitchen. The children are all sleeping and
will be fine."
Tom marveled at her resilience, but perhaps it was not so
surprising. She had faced problems all her life and conquered them. The
true question of the moment, for Tom, was how Briam would react when he
realized that his injury would deny him his dream of joining the guard.
Their meal was a muted affair, with no conversation beyond the
necessary. No one wanted to speak of the possibility that Briam could
die. When they went back upstairs nearly a bell later, they found Oriel
awake and sitting in the chair by the bed.
Sian asked, "Is he still sleeping?"
The blonde girl nodded, tears filling her eyes again. After a
moment, she said, "I think I heard him stir a mene back."
"Oriel, I sent a runner to Mayda to tell her you wouldn't be in
today. There's some food on the table if you are hungry." Sian spoke
softly. Mayda was the keep cook to whom Oriel was apprenticed. The young
girl had actually come home for a half-day visit before Briam had been
hurt.
Tom turned his gaze to Briam, propped up on his bed with extra
pillows, his damaged leg swaddled in thick wrappings. As they watched,
his eyelids flickered, and Sian spoke. "Briam, how are you feeling?"
Joliana had steeped some herbs in hot water when they were
downstairs, and she now moved to the bed, offering a cup to the boy as
he squinted confusedly at the crowd around the bed.
"Wha ... what happened?" his voice was strained.
When Briam didn't seem to notice her, Joliana sat on the bed,
lifted him, and balanced his head expertly on her shoulder as she held
the cup to his mouth. After he finished taking enough to suit her, she
held out the cup, and Cepero grabbed it while she laid Briam back down
gently on the bed.
Sian sat down beside him and rubbed his forehead. "You've been
hurt, Briam."
Finn crept toward the bed as Joliana tried unobtrusively to check
the wrappings on the leg. Her hands trembled when she prodded the cloth
gently, and Tom realized anew that she had been shaking on and off since
he had first seen her by the riverbanks. It looked like more than just a
nervous habit.
"I can't feel anything. I'm all numb." Briam tripped over the last
word.
"Joliana here is a healer. She's helping you get better." Sian
gestured to the woman at the foot of the bed. "She says that her
medicines are going to make you feel that way for a few days, but it
will help with the pain."
Briam attempted to nod, but apparently couldn't, so he blinked in
assent and closed his eyes. After about a mene of silence, it became
apparent that the potion had made Briam go back to sleep.
"Will he be okay?" Cepero turned to the healer.
"I don't know. I can't be sure." It occurred to Tom that the woman
didn't seem very confident with anything. Her nervous moments made him
suspicious. She repeated, "I can't be sure. He has come through the
worst, but we still have to worry about infection, and fever, and making
sure the surgery site heals properly."
"What will he do without a leg?" Finn asked.
Before Joliana could respond, Briam jerked awake. "My leg? What's
wrong with my leg?" The boy struggled into a sitting position, wriggling
out of Sian's quick grasp in order to try to get a look at his body.
"No!" Briam's terrified words cut through the room. "My leg! What
happened to my leg?"
Sian attempted to speak calmly, but her voice wavered. "Briam, you
were hurt when the causeway collapsed ... Your leg was crushed. Joliana
did what she could, but it was too late. She had to cut it off below the
knee." She took the boy in her arms and hugged him.
He resisted, fighting her. "No, no." In spite of his injury, his
desperate strength was enough to shove her away. "Fark! No!" he
screamed. His eyes rolled and he seemed on the verge of panic.
Tom jumped to catch Sian, and she held onto him for balance.
"Quick, help me." The healer grabbed something from her satchel,
and, as Cepero held Briam, Joliana twisted her fingers under the boy's
nose. He crumpled like a wet dishcloth.
Joliana turned to face them, anger in her face. "He shouldn't have
had to find out like that, and so soon. Now he is going to be a very
difficult patient." She put the herbs in her hand carefully back into
her bag. "He has to sleep; it's best for him right now. There's not much
else we can do. I should go, now. It's been a long night."
Sian sighed. "Yes, it has. Before you go, I have a question. What
do I need to do for him?"
Joliana reached into her bag and pulled out a few bundled items as
she answered. "I will leave you some dressings. You will need to clean
and replace the bandages every few bells. I'll also leave you these
herbs. Steep them in hot water and give them to him every time he wakes
up. It will dull the pain and make him sleep. If there are any problems,
you should send for a healer."
"When will you be by to check on him?" Sian asked.
Tom frowned. He didn't care for this healer. The way she shook as
if with palsy made him think she drank too much, although there was no
smell. He wasn't going to let a healer like that attend one of Sian's
orphans! He opened his mouth to say that they would get Rebecca, the
healer they usually used, but Sian only squeezed his hand and shook her
head. He closed it again, wondering why she didn't want him to speak.
"Uh ... if you want me, I can stop by sometime this evening and
then again the next morning." Joliana appeared surprised at the turn of
the conversation.
Sian glanced at Tom with a warning in her eyes before saying, "Yes,
that would be great. I'll send one of the children for you if we have
any problems. Thank you for all that you've done for Briam, and us."
Sian took the woman's hand in hers as she spoke. Letting it go, she
said, "Finn can show you out."
Tom saw Joliana smile and sighed. In fact, he thought it was the
first time he'd seen the healer really smile since he'd met her.
"Thank you. I will be back later." Joliana turned and followed Finn
out of the room.
Oriel sat down beside the bed and held Briam's hand.
After a momentary silence, Tom said firmly, "We should really send
for someone else."
Cepero nodded, echoing Tom's concern, "Do you think that was a good
idea? There are plenty of other healers in town."
Sian shrugged her shoulders. "She saved Briam's life. The only
thing I can do is give her a chance. I think maybe she needs one." Then
she changed the subject. "It's been quite a night."
"I know," Cepero said. "I should be going, as well. I'll be by
later to see how Briam is doing."
"Sure," Sian answered tiredly. "I suspect you can find your way out
without Finn."
"Yes, I can." Cepero started towards the doorway, but paused just
inside the room and glanced back. Tom met his gaze and realized that
Cepero was just as worried about Sian as he was about Briam. "Stay with
her, Madden. Help her."
Tom nodded emphatically. "I will do the best I can." He would, for
he knew that she needed him, and he would always be there for her.
Four days later, Joliana sat by the unmoving child on the bed in
his room. Her hands were engaged in changing the small pieces of damp
cloth that she had placed on the boy's forehead and his neck and chest
in a futile attempt to bring down his fever.
One part of her mind disconnectedly registered her surroundings.
Her chair rested unevenly in a patch of late-afternoon summer sun,
heating one of her legs to the point of discomfort. She didn't move.
Most of her mind was occupied trying to hold onto any thought that
passed through it. She felt like she was in a delirium, not the kind
induced by ardon or its withdrawal, but one induced by deep emotion. The
only coherent thought she was able to latch on to for a few moments at a
time was Briam's deteriorating condition. The professional part of her
had come alive while she was treating him, and it was able to help her
think. His leg continued to bleed sluggishly and she knew that if she
could not stop it, the end was near. She just couldn't think of anything
to do.
Again, her mind wandered. Over the past few days, she had watched
everyone in the house visit and hover in the room that housed the
desperately ill boy. Even Cepero, the guard who had found the boy, had
come, with concern in his eyes and encouraging words for Sian. As for
Tom Madden, he was in the house frequently and never failed to do some
little thing for Sian every time he came. In some ways, he reminded
Joliana of her husband, Aviato. Both were big-boned men with gentle
eyes, and the way Tom treated Sian reminded her of the early days when
she and Aviato had begun walking out with one another.
All that joy in her marriage had disappeared so gradually that she
did not know how or when it had happened, but she did know the reason:
she could not have children. Yet Aviato had not been overly saddened by
the news when she had learned of it all those years ago; she was the one
who had taken it hard. She had felt her own womanliness to be in
question. How could she face herself, and how could she face the great
Stevene when she lacked that which fulfilled a woman and made her whole?
There was a rustle at the door and Sian entered the room carrying a
few things on a tray: a bowl of water, a cup of tea, and a slice of
bread. "You've been here for bells and haven't had a thing to eat. Let
me change his cloths while you eat. How is he?"
Joliana sighed and placed a hand on Briam's forehead. "Not good.
The fever is spiking. We have to bring it down."
A silence fell as Joliana wet a cloth and wiped Briam's face with
it. In many ways, Sian's behavior confounded her. She cared for the
orphans as if they were her own. All of the other children, from the
fourteen-year old Finn to the seven-year old Kerith, including the
visiting Oriel and Aren, clung to Sian for comfort. They all took
strength from each other. Joliana envied her that. Had she had children,
such relationships would have been hers too. Yet in her perception, the
paradox was that Sian had not birthed these children from her own body.
Joliana had always been traditional, set in her ways even in her
youth. Although she herself had been born into the Olean religion,
Joliana had found strength and solace in Stevenic ways after her mother
had died young. Then she had met Aviato, but again, she had followed the
laws of the Stevene and kept herself pure of body until after their
marriage. She had looked forward to the next stage in her life:
motherhood. When she had not conceived after months of trying, it became
apparent that something was wrong. Now, years later, there was no
denying her barrenness.
Looking up briefly, she remarked, "You amaze me, Sian, with the way
you care for these children."
Sian sat down next to her, gently took the cloth away, and motioned
to the food. "Eat, please." She began wiping Briam's face. "It hasn't
been easy. I know that a lot of people think I do this because I'm a
deeply devout Stevenic, but that's not it. I'm just giving back what my
adoptive parents gave to me. In truth, some days I wonder if my debt is
repaid yet and if I can go and have my own normal life. It would be so
much easier." Sian frowned as she paused in her ministrations.
Joliana hid her surprise at the confession by helping herself to
the bread. As she took her first bite, she was seized by a desperate
shivering and felt the need for ardon overcome her; but she couldn't
give in to it. Sian sat across from her, pretending not to see. Joliana
tried to force the trembling into a rhythm, but could only endure and
wait for the fit to pass. After what felt like a bell but was probably
less than a mene, she lifted the mug and drained it quickly. The tea was
hot and stung her tongue and throat, but it felt good.
"Is it gone?" Sian asked softly, her eyes back on her task. She
continued to wet the cloths and wiped off Briam's forehead, neck, and
chest.
Joliana swallowed another bite of bread and said, "Yes." This overt
mention of her condition was almost too hard for her to accept, and she
hoped the other woman would not press her for details.
Joliana finished eating in silence, gazing down at the boy. After
he had initially woken up the first night, he had fallen into a
disturbed sleep, which had later turned torpid. For the past day or so,
he had been very still. His leg continued to bleed sluggishly. Now she
checked the stump and discovered that it had begun to fester. Sian
watched as she bandaged the leg.
"He is getting worse." Sian's voice was toneless.
Joliana saw no point in dissembling. "Yes."
"You have to do something." Now Sian's voice had taken on a
beseeching tone, yet the words were like an order. "You must do
something; otherwise he will die."
"I -- I --"
Someone entered, and they both turned. Tom and Oriel came in
together, and it seemed that man and girl read the women's faces.
"Is he de--?" Oriel could not complete the word, and she went
quickly into Sian's outstretched arms.
"No, no," Sian soothed.
"How is he?" Madden asked, meeting Joliana's gaze, frowning as he
tried to read her expression. Joliana was pretty sure the large man did
not trust her, but he seemed willing to give her a chance, since Sian
had.
Joliana shook her head. "He is getting worse. The wound is not
draining properly."
"Isn't there something you could do?" Tom asked, his hands rubbing
Sian's shoulders.
Joliana looked down at her patient, and something within her
shuddered. This boy, no blood relation to these people, had brought them
to tears with his accident; he had made a woman like Sian weep at the
thought of losing a son, and men like Madden and Cepero go silent. As
for her, the boy had accomplished what neither Aviato nor she herself
had been able to do: make a crack in the unremitting hold that ardon had
over her. That thing within her that had tormented her over the years
was crumbling. The boy had done that, a boy whom she had never met, and
a child not her own. Joliana couldn't let him die, for the others' sake
as well as her own; it would be worse than being barren.
She looked at all of them and knew she needed to get away. She had
to think of something to do to save the boy, and she couldn't do that
with their beseeching gazes upon her. "I have to go. I have to --"
"But --" Madden interrupted her.
Sian shushed him by touching his hand, which rested on her
shoulder. "That's fine. When will you be back? I guess you need to get
some more herbs. Do you need any money?"
Joliana was shaking her head before Sian finished. "I'll be back
tonight."
Aviato looked up as his wife entered the cottage. He couldn't help
comparing her appearance tonight with that on the day after the causeway
accident. He had waited bells for her that night, and when she had
finally returned, she had told him the story of a boy whose leg she had
been forced to cut to save his life. She had been shaking with the need
for ardon that day, but he knew she'd had none. Since then, she had
returned to her one patient, and each time she changed a little. Today
she looked tired and unkempt, but his heart still rose at the sight, for
the overpowering grief in her eyes had disappeared.
"Aviato," she said in surprise. "Is it that late already?" She
swayed and he recognized the need for ardon. His joy at the
disappearance of the bitterness within her was tempered by his worry at
what the withholding of ardon was doing to her.
He moved forward and pushed her down into the nearest chair,
saying, "Sit down. It will pass." He turned away to the stew he had been
making and ladled some into a bowl. One of the things he had learned in
his time as a helper at Belisandra's was how to cook. Since the causeway
crash, he had been trying to put those lessons into practice. "Eat this.
You will feel better."
He watched for her reaction a little anxiously, for she had
frequently refused food in the past, preferring ardon and the occasional
piece of bread. She was still thin, with eyes darkened by fatigue as
much as the withdrawal. Much to his amazement, she actually began to
eat, at first with disinterest, but with some semblance of enjoyment by
the third spoonful.
"Tell me about your patient," he said, watching her, reminded of
the first time he had seen her. She had already been a healer then, and
had come to physick his friend who had been in an accident. After bells
of work, she had been exhausted and famished, and he had bought her a
bowl of Salamagundi's Stew. She had eaten it then with the intensity of
a healthy and hungry woman, and the same glint for life had shone in her
eyes then as it did now. The hope in his heart grew and took on a
steadiness.
Joliana began to speak, describing the fever and the bleeding of
the stump. Then she fell silent and Aviato watched her, wondering if the
events had affected her positively, hoping that they had.
"What does the family say?" he asked.
"Oh Aviato," she sighed. "Not one of them is related by blood. Not
one of the children is Sian's own." Then she corrected herself. "No, I
wrong her. They are all her children. She may not have birthed them, but
she is their mother. Even Tom Madden, who is not related to any of them,
who is not even married to her, treats them all like his own children."
In that instant, Aviato understood everything Joliana had left
unsaid. When she had discovered that she would never be able to have a
child, he had tried to console her, but she had refused to be comforted.
At last, something had happened to show her the truth of his words: that
birthing her own child was not the only way for a woman to become a
mother.
"Briam is failing," she said. "His fever is very high, and his body
is limp. I fear it cannot be very long. How can I tell her, Aviato? How
can I let him die?"
"Is there nothing you can do? Is he still bleeding?"
"The bleeding has lessened, but the wound has begun to fester. It
will get into his blood. Once that happens ..." her voice trailed off,
but an intent look had come into her face. Aviato waited, wondering at
her sudden silence.
"Tom Madden said something. What was it?" Joliana stared blankly at
the wall, and then exclaimed, "Leeches! Aviato, I have to go --" A
shudder shook her and her face paled.
He grabbed her hands and held on as she trembled violently, her
breath coming in harsh gasps. Perspiration beaded her forehead and her
eyes were wild. When at length the fit passed, she sagged limply in the
chair.
"How long has it been since you had it?" he asked. It was the first
time he had openly acknowledged her need for ardon.
"It doesn't matter. If I take some now, who will help the boy? And
Sian, the silly woman, refuses to call another healer. I have to go,
Aviato. I have to get some leeches or the boy may not live. If the wound
continues to fester I will have no choice but to cut again, and he
definitely will not be able to withstand another cutting."
When Joliana trod the steps of Sian's house much later, it was past
the night's third bell. The causeway accident had almost denuded the
city of medicinal leeches. She had finally managed to get no more than
three. She feared it would not be enough, but she did not have enough
money in hand to buy more. Three would have to be sufficient for the
nonce.
The house was silent, the children ostensibly retired for the
night, but Joliana knew that the quiet was just a veneer. Sian carried
the weight of Briam's life on her shoulders. Sure enough, she was
sitting by Briam, cooling him off with damp cloths.
"You're back," she said softly. "I think he's worse."
Joliana didn't answer but began to unwrap the bandages from the
boy's stump. The wound was raw and angry, and blood was accumulating
under the skin. She took the leeches out of the small jar and placed
them on the wound. They latched on instantly.
"What are you doing?"
Joliana replied, "The blood is pooling under the skin that I
stitched together. If the wound doesn't drain properly, it will
suppurate and poison him. The leeches will drain the blood. Because of
the accident, I could barely find any and I spent two bells searching
across the city. We may need more, and it's going to cost."
"What's going to cost?" Tom Madden had entered the room while the
two women had been whispering to one another.
Joliana explained, and he said, "Don't worry, Sian. I'll take care
of it. Joliana, please tell me where to get them."
"We don't need them immediately," she said. "These will be fine
through the night. We may need some in the morning."
Sian rose and accompanied Tom to the doorway, and Joliana turned
her back to give them some privacy. She examined the boy, conscious of
the whispers behind her.
That began a vigil that lasted through the night and the next
morning. Tom Madden brought an additional six leeches. As soon as the
three Joliana had brought had fallen off, she replaced them with three
new ones. As the blood pooling under the skin decreased, Joliana thought
she sensed the boy's skin cooling, but she could not be certain. She
made tea of willowbark and fennel and other herbs and tilted it into the
boy's mouth; some of it made it into him, and some did not.
Each bell passed for Joliana with only shudders to mark them, for
the need for ardon never failed to make its timely appearance. Oddly
enough though, after each fit passed, the next seemed more bearable. By
the time the last leech fell off Briam's leg, fat and gorged with his
blood, Joliana knew his fever had come down. His blankets were drenched
with perspiration but his body was cool to the touch.
"Oh," she whispered.
She was unaware that she had spoken aloud until Sian said sharply,
"What is it?"
Joliana turned to her, smiling, but with tears in her eyes. "The
fever is broken. He will make it."
Sian swallowed and fell to her knees by the bed, placing her hand
against the boy's forehead. "When will he wake?"
"Tomorrow. I have been feeding him something to make him sleep as
well as to lower the fever. I've stopped now, but it should wear off by
tomorrow." Joliana looked out of the window at the approaching dusk. "I
should go," she said. "I'll be back tomorrow."
Some ten days later, Joliana sat by Briam's bed examining his
stump. The boy was asleep, having ingested some of Joliana's sleeping
potion after lunch. She was still dosing him, albeit less frequently,
but knew that she needed to stop completely soon. The leg was healing
nicely; the leeches had done their job well. Thinking of the little
creatures made her think of her own dependence on ardon. The fits had
reached their zenith on the day she had brought the leeches to Briam,
and afterwards had reduced in both intensity and frequency. The day of
the causeway accident was one many people would remember for other
reasons, but she herself would only remember it as the day she had
started her recovery from ardon.
There was a rustle at the door as Sian entered, sat down, and
handed her a steaming cup of tea. "You seem to be thinking serious
thoughts."
Joliana took the hot cup in her hands carefully. The shaking had
all but gone over the past couple of days, but still she did not feel
secure. She wasn't sure how to answer the other woman's unspoken
question, and it was too hard to talk about her thoughts. She settled
for a bland statement that conveyed nothing of her true feelings. "I
feel better."
The younger woman seemed to understand, for her reply was just as
vague. "Sometimes things happen that make us decide to change."
Sian was easy to talk to because she had an innate sense of tact,
but Joliana still found it difficult to express her innermost feelings.
During one of their conversations, she had admitted being barren, and
Sian, with her usual discretion, had not pursued the topic.
Now Joliana tried to expand on how she really felt. "Sian, you have
a wonderful family here. I saw you and Tom worry about the children like
you'd brought them into the world, yet four or five years ago you'd
never even seen any of them before. That is incredible."
Sian replied, "I didn't choose this family. What I did choose was
to help these children, to make us into a family despite the fact that
I'm not their mother, but when I did, I didn't realize how happy it
would make me."
As if saying the words aloud made understanding them easier,
Joliana said slowly, "You and Tom *are* parents to these children."
Sian grimaced. "Tom ..." Her voice trailed off and there was
silence for a moment. Joliana sensed that the younger woman was trying
to express something very private.
"Tom and I have been like this for a long time, close friends. I
don't know if that will ever change and if we will ever become more than
friends, but I do know that I can depend on him."
Joliana nodded, realizing that she had something that Sian did not:
a husband who was a companion, supportive even in the darkest moments of
life. What Joliana had, Sian worked at. In that instant, Joliana
couldn't understand how she had ignored Aviato's pain and how she had
never noticed his support as she had drowned in her own sorrow. The
comparison between Sian and her was stark, and Joliana found that the
mirror of comparison was truthful: it showed her not only what she
lacked, but also what she had.
Now that Sian had shared a difficult confidence, Joliana found it
easier to say a few words about her feelings. "Thank you for allowing me
to work with Briam. Seeing him recover makes me feel hope, makes me see
what I have, not just what I don't."
Again, Sian's answer was indirect. "The children are all here
today, Joliana, but they grow up. Aren and Oriel are already apprenticed
and don't live here any more. There are more children on the street
without parents, without a family, than I could ever hope to adopt."
The words painted a new picture in Joliana's heart; perhaps with
some effort, she too could have what Sian had: a family.
Outside, the town bell tolled nine times, and Sian asked, "Will you
stay for dinner? Tom will be over soon."
Joliana considered it for a moment, but realized where her steps
should lead now. "No, I want to go and be home when Aviato returns from
the docks tonight. He was worried about me the night of the crash, and
since then he's been staying home from the pub."
As she left, Joliana looked up at the evening sky, remembering the
night of the causeway accident when she and the sergeant had brought
Briam home. She had shuddered practically all the way to Sian's house,
and her thoughts that evening had been darker than the night; she had
yearned for the ultimate end. Little had she realized then what a
turning point in her life that night would be.
Tonight, Joliana felt a sense of freedom. She knew she never wanted
to taste ardon again, but she also knew that she had a long way to go
before she could conquer her need for it. The physical symptoms had
diminished greatly, but not disappeared. She had regained her husband,
gained a friend, and perhaps, the possibility of a family, in exchange
for giving up ardon. To her mind, it was a good exchange.
========================================================================
The Margre Arisen
by Liam Donahue
<bdonahue@fuse.net>
Sy 12-14, 1018
Chaos reigned in Dargon. It began with a barge crashing into and
nearly destroying the causeway that connected the old city with the new.
More people had gathered on the causeway that day than in decades, all
to watch members of the town guard recover a one-armed body from the
river. Speculation, and betting, had been high that the body was that of
Duke Clifton Dargon. The duke had lost an arm several years earlier
defending the city and had not been seen in Dargon for over a sennight.
Many of the people on the causeway during the crash had fallen into the
Coldwell, where some had been crushed by falling debris or drowned.
The misfortune was not limited to the causeway. People slipped down
stairs, spilled wine on important documents, and dropped valuables down
their privies. At the docks, a longshoreman named Radis helped a pair of
sailors load four crates of silk from far Bichu onto a cart. Hitched to
the cart was Radis' most reliable team: a pair of mules named Surefoot
and Steady. As the longshoreman led his mules down the gangplank,
Surefoot stumbled, causing Steady to panic. The cart, mules and all,
went over the side, dragging Radis along. He was knocked senseless by a
kick to the head from Surefoot as the mule struggled to free herself
from the cart. The sailors watched in dismay as a fortune in silk was
ruined by seawater.
A small tremor -- so small that one might have taken it for a large
cart rumbling by -- shook the city as the ground below shifted. Jamis,
part owner of an establishment called the Shattered Spear, glanced up
from cleaning behind the bar at the sound of tinkling glass. A set of
four wine glasses -- actual glass, and worth a month's profit, purchased
for wealthy patrons who never visited -- rattled together on a nearby
table where he had set them after dusting them. Jamis watched in horror
as the table, which had withstood the impact of many drunken brawls,
collapsed. The glasses were dumped onto the only spot on the floor not
covered in sawdust, where they shattered.
In a magically sealed cave below Dargon, the city's misfortune
continued. The tremor that had merely shaken the table in the Shattered
Spear caused debris on the cave floor to jump about. A cup that had been
cast into the cave years before landed on its base and stayed there as
the cave continued to shake. All the loose stones hopped about during
the tremor, but only one stone landed in the cup. It was the only stone
that mattered. A crystal decanter that had, for no good reason, been
placed on a high shelf of rock when it had been hidden in the cave fell
to the floor and shattered. A splash of the water that had been stored
in the decanter for many centuries landed in the cup and covered the
stone. The evil that was befalling Dargon above could not compare to
what was about to be released in the depths below the city.
Body, mind, and spirit reassembled at last, the Margre Chalisento
stood. Trying to still the ache in her head and the trembling in her
knees, she surveyed her surroundings. She was in a small cave formed
centuries earlier by the flow of water. The cave was completely
lightless, but that presented no challenge to one with her abilities. A
single natural column of stone dominated the chamber. Stalactites
descended from the ceiling and crystal growths dotted the walls. At her
feet, in a bowl-shaped depression, were a cup and the shattered remains
of a decanter. Across the cave, below a sealed entrance in the ceiling,
lay a desiccated corpse. She wondered whose body it was. Chalisento
shivered, recalling her imprisonment, remembering the crushing weight of
stone.
"Quickly! We must act quickly!"
Chalisento sensed, rather than heard, the familiar voice. She was
beyond hearing. Her skull had been crushed, along with her body, by an
enormous block of granite. The stone hung suspended, barely two
fingerspans above the floor of her great hall, through the force of her
will. She clung to life by the same power. She knew that she could
restore her body and reduce the granite slab to pebbles, but only if she
could focus through the agony.
The voice, a gravelly bass, spoke again. "Hurry, get into
position!"
This time she recognized the speaker: a trusted ally and the
closest thing she had to a friend. She thought he might be trying to
rescue her. She had to let him know that she lived. She concentrated,
pushing past the agony, to speak his name, not with her lips but with a
breath of wind. "Baltar."
That one word cost her dearly. The granite block descended a few
hairbreadths and fresh agony coursed through her ruined body. She almost
missed Baltar's next words.
"She is aware! There is no time!" There was no joy in those words,
only fear. "Areana! Talus! Mendregar! Take your places. If she frees
herself, all is lost."
'If she frees herself?' No accident then, this block of granite,
but a trap. It was a clever trap, too. She had long ago guarded herself
against almost every form of magic. But a massive block of stone dropped
from a great height? There was no magic in that. It could not kill her,
not one with her power, but it could distract her for a time. Chalisento
wondered what her four former allies planned to do with their remaining
moments on Makdiar.
"Let us begin." Baltar's voice reverberated in the vast chamber.
Chalisento found focus in her newly discovered hatred of Baltar. He
had always been dramatic, a seeker after glory. She was certain that
whatever plans these four had made included a prominent position for
Baltar. Thinking of the torment she would inflict upon that arrogant ass
helped Chalisento focus beyond her own pain. The crushing weight of the
rock eased.
Then Talus spoke. His voice was soft and melodic, in contrast to
Baltar' deep rumble. "I invoke the power of the air. May the wind strip
the flesh from the bones of the Margre Chalisento."
As wind began to blow through the tiny space between granite block
and floor, Chalisento panicked for the first time. It was possible that
these four could destroy her with the right combination of elemental
sorcery. She had no time to wonder about how they had uncovered this
vulnerability. She forced her mind to stay calm through the agony and
fear, hoping for an opportunity to strike.
Baltar spoke again. "I invoke earth. May the stone grind to powder
the bones of the Margre Chalisento."
Chalisento's contempt for Baltar deepened. Such laziness! The stone
was already doing his work for him. He would not need to expend a bit of
his own power. What would be next: fire or water? And who would invoke
it? Mendregar, ever the showman, loved the spectacle of fire, but Areana
was a true master of the flame. Chalisento suspected that Mendregar's
ego would have won out. She prepared herself.
When the arrogant young magus called out, Chalisento's disembodied
voice started a half a heartbeat behind. They finished in unison. "I
invoke fire."
Chalisento felt the energy that Mendregar had summoned. She willed
it to turn back against him. "May the flames burn to ash Mendregar of
Varum!"
Mendregar's death scream was cut short as his own power consumed
him. The other mages cried out as one. The wind stopped, but Chalisento
felt unbearable torment as the granite block moved closer to the floor.
She had been forced to release her control of the rock in order to
destroy Mendregar. Still, she was pleased. Without a fourth magus, they
could not hope to destroy her with the elements, and the stone slab
would not keep her contained forever.
She could sense her three former allies conferring in hushed tones.
Through her torment, she perceived fragments of sentences.
"... what other choice ...?"
"... not kill ..."
"... hidden away ..."
Then Areana's voice sounded clearly. "I call forth the mind!"
Baltar and Talus quickly followed, calling upon body and spirit.
Chalisento felt herself pulled apart, as the essence of her being was
separated into three principle parts, and bound into a chalice, a stone,
and water in a crystal decanter. The last sound she sensed was the slab
of granite, crashing to the floor at last.
Chalisento gazed down upon the objects that had been her prison. A
shudder passed through her body and she realized that she was trembling
with cold. She called upon the tiniest fraction of her power; a thick
woolen robe appeared and draped itself over her naked shoulders.
Free. She was free. She smiled without humor, beginning to plan the
torments she would visit upon her former companions. Then her gaze fell
upon the corpse that lay near the sealed entrance of the cave. How long
had she been trapped? From the appearance of the body, she concluded
that it had been in the cave for several years. Chalisento stepped
forward, still shivering, and rolled the corpse onto its back.
A crossbow bolt stood out from the man's chest, clearly indicating
how he had died. But who ...? She looked closely at the remains of the
man's face, gray skin stretched tight over bone. A knot of whiter tissue
stood out above the left eye socket. Chalisento's finger traced her left
eyebrow, which was split by a similar scar. Then a name came to her:
Flane. With the name came a dozen others, people who had, through the
centuries, encountered one of the objects of her imprisonment. Although
her power and awareness had been limited, she had been able to force
each in turn to seek out the other objects, which had been scattered to
the distant reaches of Makdiar, so that she might regain her freedom.
Centuries? Yes, it had been that long. She remembered listening to
Baltar's whispered apologies, as he had transported the stone that had
held her mind. He had claimed that he and the others had chosen to
betray her out of fear, because she had become too powerful, and her
power had made her unpredictable. He had begged her forgiveness even as
he had hidden her away to face ages of tedium.
The stone had been the first to be discovered. Chalisento suspected
that was because Baltar had been a braggart. She was certain that it had
been he who had woven clues concerning her imprisonment into songs and
myths. She had possessed each owner of the stone in turn, driving them
to seek the other relics. She had been thwarted for many years by a
curse that fell upon whoever possessed one of the objects of her
imprisonment. Chalisento saw the hand of Talus in that. He had always
been clever.
The holders of the stone had all died violently. On occasion,
someone would pick up the stone immediately after the holder's death,
allowing her to continue her quest for freedom. At other times, it had
lain idle for decades before another person picked it up. Eventually, a
man named Voesh had recovered the chalice as well, and the ring that
would unlock the magical seal of the cave that held the decanter. After
Voesh fell to the same curse, his former ally, a man named Shan, had
recovered the items, but he had then been slain in a battle that did not
concern him.
Flane, a member of the losing side of the battle, had found the
artifacts and fled with them as the battle raged. He had not known the
nature of the items, but had taken them because Shan -- or Chalisento
within the mind of Shan -- had considered them valuable. She had
possessed his mind as well, and Flane had continued the journey that
Voesh had begun. Indeed, he had almost completed it, but had instead
been slain at the entrance to the cave in which Chalisento now stood.
She remembered her impatience as she waited for low tide, and then
her elation as she had, with Flane's hands, dug away the sand that
covered the hidden door to her prison and had broken the seal. Her joy
had quickly changed to fury as a crossbow bolt had pierced Flane's
heart. A bard named Nakaz had learned of the quest and tracked Flane
down. She had touched the bard's mind when he had picked up the objects
of her imprisonment but had been unable to possess him. It had been as
if she had faced the strength of a hundred minds, as if the bard had
been a hundred men and women. Nakaz had cast the stone, chalice, and
ring into the cave and sealed it again, hoping to prevent her from ever
rising. But now that she had risen, she would have to find the foolish
bard and replace his hope with agony.
Chalisento pulled her robe tighter. Why could she not get warm? In
irritation, she splayed her fingers, closed her eyes, and focused her
power. The bowl-shaped depression in the floor filled with green-tinged
witchfire. She smiled as she watched the chalice that had held her body
for centuries melt into a puddle. Chalisento stepped into the fire. As
her robe burned away, she felt the flames surround her naked form,
savoring the warmth. The witchfire, hotter than any normal flame, could
do her no harm. Her long hair, unbound, swirled about her head. The heat
of the fire continued to grow.
Warm at last, Chalisento's thoughts turned to revenge. She sent her
awareness skyward in search of knowledge, while her body stood bathed in
emerald flames. Looking down from above, she beheld a small city. The
minds of the inhabitants shone like stars before her. She sensed
something else, as well, something powerful and consumed by anger. It
was not a mind, though, and its nature eluded her. She needed to know
more about the world outside her prison to know if the anger's source
was a threat to her, so she turned her attention back to the city's
inhabitants. Seeking the brightest light, she descended toward it,
encircled it, and entered.
As she slipped into the man's mind, she looked out through his eyes
and beheld a study, filled with tomes bound in
leather. The man whose
mind she had entered was seated at a table with a scroll, inkpot, and
sand laid out in front of him and a quill clutched in his hand. He
slumped into his chair as Chalisento took possession of him. She skimmed
his thoughts, as if leafing through a book, and learned that his name
was Corambis the Sage. He was not just intelligent, then, but learned.
In the cave below the city, Chalisento's lips curled into a smile.
She dug deeper into his memory. Corambis' body began to twitch, but
she ignored it. He knew about her, had even discussed her legend with
someone: Nakaz! At the discovery of the bard in Corambis' memory,
Chalisento drove even deeper, seeking knowledge of Nakaz's location. As
she did, the sage's twitching grew. A violent spasm rocked the table,
spilling the ink; the quill snapped in his clutching fingers. She found
nothing. Corambis had not seen the man for five years.
Chalisento relented in her furious search, aware that her efforts
might kill her host. She did not do this out of concern for him; he had
earned a horrible death for helping Nakaz keep her imprisoned. She
needed him alive to learn about those who had imprisoned her.
More gently, she paged through the sage's memory, seeking first for
information on her former allies. Corambis knew nothing of them. This
was a blow to her, but not a surprise. None of them had possessed the
power to remain alive for the long centuries she had been imprisoned.
She was pleased to discover that their legends had not survived as long
as hers.
Another possibility entered her mind. Perhaps Baltar and the others
had been forgotten for another reason. She had been imprisoned for many
years. What mighty civilization now ruled the world? How had magical
learning advanced? Did mages whose power dwarfed even her own dwell on
the world above? Chalisento continued her search through the sage's
memory.
A mighty empire, Fretheod, had ruled the world during her
imprisonment, but it had crumbled ages before. Tiny countries now
squabbled among each other, each fighting for their own corner of
Makdiar. From what she could see through the filter of Corambis' mind,
magical learning had not advanced during her imprisonment; it had
dwindled. The magi that the sage considered powerful would have been
mere novices in Chalisento's time. Pleased with her findings, Chalisento
skimmed Corambis' mind for information on the city above.
Once an outpost of the Fretheod Empire, the city was now called
Dargon. It was the seat of power for a duchy of the same name. The duke
of Dargon owed fealty to the king of Baranur, who dwelled in the distant
city of Magnus. Baranur's chief rival, imperialistic Beinison, was the
largest country on the continent known as Cherisk.
Chalisento began to plan. She would rise from her prison and lay
waste to the city -- nay, the entire duchy -- of Dargon to announce her
return. The king in Magnus would swear allegiance to her or die. Once
Baranur was hers, Beinison would fall to the combined might of Baranur's
army and Chalisento's magic. Then she would do what had proved
impossible to the Beinisonian emperors: unite the continent under her
rule. Once Cherisk was hers, she would build herself an empire that
would dwarf the Fretheod at its peak.
She abandoned the sage's mind, leaving him slumped in his chair.
She had briefly considered killing him for his complicity in her
continued imprisonment, but decided to wait until she could look into
his eyes as he died. Instead, she turned her attention to finding Nakaz.
She decided that it would amuse her to have the bard present when she
broke the seal on the cave and emerged once again on Makdiar. He had
kept her imprisoned for the previous five years. She would flay the skin
from his bones for the next five dozen years in return.
Having touched Nakaz's mind after the bard had foiled her escape,
she knew that he would not be hard to find. Even a mind not as strangely
multi-faceted as the bard's was easy to recognize, once touched.
Chalisento rose above Dargon once more, gazing down upon the shining
lights that represented the thoughts of her future subjects. Nakaz was
not in Dargon. This did not surprise her. From what she had learned of
bards from Corambis, they were wanderers. She widened her search.
Night fell in Dargon when Chalisento's awareness finished sweeping
over Baranur. There was still no sign of Nakaz. In the cave, her fists
clenched as she was forced to admit defeat. Nakaz was dead or hidden in
some distant land. Either way, the bard had eluded her. As her awareness
returned to her body, Chalisento's eyes snapped open. The cursed bard
had wasted another day of her time! She flung her arms wide and cried
out her rage. The green witchfire swirled around her and the sea cave
shook as her shout of fury echoed within; stalactites fell and
shattered.
The long centuries of imprisonment had apparently affected her
self-control. She had wasted too much energy on the bard. If he lived,
he would pay for his transgression, in time. If not, he no longer
mattered. Her display of anger troubled her even more. Such an
exhibition of raw magical power could be detected. If there were
powerful magi nearby, she might have placed herself in unnecessary
danger. True, Corambis had known of no magi worth her notice, but that
did not mean they did not exist.
Chalisento gasped. The angry presence she had sensed before
possessing Corambis: she had forgotten it in her obsession to find
Nakaz! Had it noticed her? She sensed no power directed against her, nor
any awareness focused on her. Whatever it was, it had not detected her,
or could not. A third possibility entered her mind: what if she was
beneath the notice of the strange power? She dismissed the thought. She
was the Margre Chalisento. She would crush the power, or bend it to her
will.
Still, caution was warranted, until she could learn the nature of
her opponent. She sent her awareness drifting up once more above the
city and gazed down upon the bright lights that represented the minds of
the city's inhabitants. Despite the fact that it was well past
nightfall, many of the residents of Dargon were outside their homes,
clustered along the banks of the river, upstream from the city. She
could see why: a bridge that had spanned the river at that point was
partially collapsed.
Descending, Chalisento eased her awareness into one of the minds
arrayed below her, being careful to use only a feather-like touch: just
enough to read the surface thoughts. There was no point in announcing
her presence by creating more seizures in the inhabitants.
"Lucia! Lucia, where are you? Great Ol, where can she be?" A man
frantically searched through the fallen for his betrothed, missing since
the causeway had collapsed. Chalisento skipped to another mind.
"The child! The child is dead!" A healer clutched a dead infant to
her chest, but she mourned another child: one that she had never been
able to conceive. Chalisento moved on.
A guard pulled another corpse from the river. "How many more dead
can there be? God, I know I shouldn't complain when so many others have
lost their lives and loved ones, but where is my relief? Cepero said
Espen would be here over a bell ago!"
As Chalisento flitted from mind to mind, she learned little more.
The bridge had collapsed when it had been struck by a barge earlier that
day. Some of the minds that she had touched doubted that the barge alone
had been enough to cause the damage; a few suspected magic. She wondered
if the angry presence she had felt was the cause of the collapse, or if
its fury could possibly be a result of this disaster. Chalisento moved
away from the bridge, toward Dargon Keep, hoping that those who ruled
would know more.
She found Lauren Dargon, wife of Duke Clifton, awake in her
chambers. "Why did this disaster have to strike while Clifton was away?
Was I right in ordering half of the guards from the keep to go help? Is
there anything more that I can do? Should I be down there myself? And
what about the fire in the kitchen? That poor apprentice was so badly
burned! Should I have punished Mayda for negligence? No, she will punish
herself enough. If only I had thought to keep Griswald or one of the
other healers here, instead of sending them all to the causeway, but how
was I to know?"
"Poor Lauren," thought Chalisento, as she drifted away. "You will
have much more to concern you once I emerge, but you won't have very
long to worry about it." Lauren hadn't known anything about the
presence, either.
It was much the same throughout the rest of Dargon. Almost every
waking mind was thinking about the causeway collapse. Those that were
not were preoccupied with their own misfortunes. Chalisento encountered
people who had fallen down stairs or off rooftops, lost valuables, or
burned themselves on cookpots. Then she touched the mind of a man lying
awake, restless with worry that did not involve the bridge or his own
ill luck.
"Have to find Anarr, that charlatan. Simona thinks that he can help
her, but he tried three times already. What makes her think he'll do it
the next time? She's a bard; she should know better. I bet he just wants
to be alone with her. If he weren't a mage, I'd show him ..." A magus
and a bard? Chalisento was intrigued. She settled in, watching as the
man's thoughts turned from one subject to another.
He spent a lot of time thinking about how much he loved Simona, and
about how much he enjoyed having sex with her. He was clearly jealous of
the magus named Anarr, whose power he feared despite his claims that
Anarr was a fraud. The man, Kal, had journeyed with Simona, Anarr, and a
man named Edmond, first through the mountains, and then on a river. A
series of misfortunes had struck the barge on which they had traveled.
Chalisento saw visions of a woman falling overboard, the barge drifting
out of control, and crashing -- this man had been on the barge that had
struck the causeway! Was that why he worried? Was he feeling guilt?
Disgusted, Chalisento prepared to leave.
"Have to get to sleep. Need to wake up early, catch Rilk at the
river, or we'll never get the cursed statue away from him ..."
A curse? That was the angry power she felt? No wonder it hadn't
noticed her. It was merely a mindless manifestation of someone's hate. A
curse strong enough to affect an entire city was incredible, though. A
magus strong enough to cast such a spell might be a formidable foe. She
had to learn more! Heedless of the effect on Kal, she dug deeper into
his mind. The young man's eyes rolled back and he began to twitch. "If
he lives," she thought, "he should be grateful. When I am done with him,
he will get the sleep he craves."
Within Kal's mind, she learned that the statue, a figure of a god
named Gow, had been the source of a curse on a town called Northern
Hope. Anarr had told them that the curse was the work of another god:
Amante, Gow's rival. The magus had claimed that he had warded the
statue, keeping the curse in check. Kal thought that Anarr had lied
about lifting the curse, but he harbored a deep certainty that it was
true. Kal had never learned why Anarr and Edmond were taking the statue
to Dargon. He had lost track of, and interest in, the statue after the
barge crash until Simona had figured out that the statue's ward had been
removed and that its curse was at work in Dargon.
Kal had come across the statue again some time later, in the
possession of a man named Rilk. Before he recognized the statue, Kal had
even helped the big sailor to repair a wheel on his cart. Kal had
learned that Rilk had been trying unsuccessfully to book passage on a
barge across the river. When he had told Simona about his encounter with
Rilk, Kal and the bard had made plans to ambush Rilk at the barge docks
the next morning.
Chalisento was pleased. Their plan included stealing a sailboat and
taking the statue out to sea. Their boat would pass near the cave where
her body still stood, bathed in flame. She would wait until they neared
her prison and then emerge and seize the statue, bending the power of
the curse to her will. She would even be able to capture the bard.
Simona would either tell Chalisento where to find Nakaz, or suffer his
torments herself.
She considered entering the girl's mind, and ransacking it as she
had done to Corambis', but she needed the girl to be quick-witted in the
morning. Gaining control of the statue was far more important than
finding Nakaz, and her plan would fulfill both of her goals. As Kal
settled in for the night, Chalisento released her grip on his
consciousness, letting him lapse into sleep. Rather than return to her
own body, she remained within his mind, nestled among his dreams as she
planned her return to Makdiar. She wanted to ensure that she was present
when Kal encountered Rilk again.
Chalisento returned her attention to Kal as he awoke. After
relieving his bladder, he roused Simona, and the two went to the barge
docks. Kal worried incessantly until Rilk appeared. Chalisento vowed to
kill both men quite slowly. Then the plan was in motion. Simona
distracted Rilk while Kal undid his own repairs and cut the rope holding
the statue to the cart. Chalisento shared Kal's impatience and mounting
fear as Rilk continued to lead his mule-drawn cart toward the nearest
ferry, while the wheel stubbornly stayed on its axle. When it became
clear to her that Kal was not going to act, Chalisento used her own
power, channeled through Kal, to pry the wheel loose. She doubted that
the man even noticed, since his will had been focused so strongly on the
wheel already.
It fell off, dumping the statue to the ground. This time it was Kal
who distracted Rilk by offering to help, while Simona snatched up the
statue and ran. Kal quickly followed and the two were off in a stolen
sailboat moments later. Kal's last thought as Chalisento left his mind
was about their good fortune at getting underway just as the tide was
beginning to go out.
Chalisento, her awareness once again within her own body, opened
her eyes. "It's time," she said, "for Makdiar to tremble at my return!"
With a laugh of pure joy, she extended her arm. A simple gesture was
enough to burst the magical seal that the bard Nakaz had hoped would
contain her for eternity.
Instead of bright sunshine, she was greeted by rushing water. The
tide! She had forgotten that the entrance to her cave was only uncovered
at low tide. In the far northern latitudes where Dargon lay, the
difference between high and low tide was many feet of water. The ocean
poured into her tiny prison. The air in the chamber, with nowhere to go,
compressed around her, causing her ears to pop. As the seawater crashed
in, it failed to extinguish her magical witchfire. It did, however,
shatter the natural stone column in the middle of the cave. The ceiling,
shaken repeatedly by the tremor that had freed the Margre, her cry of
rage at Nakaz escaping her wrath, and the thunderous impact of the sea,
collapsed. The sea, the air pressure, the witchfire, and the stone: the
malevolent power of an ancient, mindless curse brought the four elements
together to work her doom. Even the mighty are not exempt from the curse
of a god.
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