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DargonZine Volume 19 Issue 05
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 5
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DargonZine Distributed: 5/21/06
Volume 19, Number 5 Circulation: 642
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Contents
Editorial Liam Donahue
Dancing Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Sy 12-14, 1018
Journey's End 4 Rena Deutsch Sy 20-Seber 7, 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 19-5, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright May, 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 Liam Donahue
<Liam_the_red@dargonzine.org>
This month's issue of DargonZine brings you two more Black Idol
stories, from two of our veteran writers: Dafydd Cyhoeddwr and Rena
Deutsch. The climax of the Black Idol arc, which began almost three
years ago, was in our last issue, but the fun's not over yet. Dafydd
brings us "Dancing", a story about one of the unfortunate events
unleashed while the cursed statue of Gow was in the city of Dargon. Rena
offers up "Journey's End 4", which, along with "Journey's End 5" in our
next issue, is the epilogue to the most successful shared writing
project in DargonZine's history.
It also brings you my first attempt at writing an editorial for the
'zine, despite having been the assistant editor for the past two years.
I have to say that it shocked me realize that I've had this position for
that long. What was more of a shock was when I realized that I had
joined the group two years before that. Since I still remember my
elementary math, that means I've been with DargonZine for four years.
So, when Ornoth asked me to write the editorial for this issue, I
decided that I should share what it means to be a new writer for
DargonZine before I completely forget what that was like.
Ask most Dargon writers why they are with the project and they will
give you one or more of these answers: to enjoy writing in a shared
world, to improve his or her writing skills, and for the social aspects.
Many people have known for years how exciting it can be to write in
a shared world. Thieves' World is probably one of the best-known
examples, but there are many other worlds in fantasy fiction that have
had multiple authors. Consider, too, the amount of commercial fiction
and fan fiction that exists for the Forgotten Realms, or even the Star
Trek and Star Wars universes. Of course, if you are reading this, you
are probably already familiar with our particular shared world, but many
new writers have a lot to learn about the world of Dargon once they
join. Once you make it up the learning curve, though, you get to enjoy
the fun and challenge of sharing space with your fellow writers as we
all continue to add to the stories and to our world.
DargonZine takes its mission -- to help writers improve their
writing -- very seriously. It can be intimidating when you send your
first draft to the writers' list and get back six or eight critiques,
some of which might be even longer than the original story! Once you
read the critiques, though, you quickly realize that the purpose is not
to attack the author or the writing, but to make suggestions on style
and content that improve not only the story, but also your abilities as
a writer. Of course there is a cost for all of this: you have to be
willing to give back what you receive by critiquing the stories written
by other Dargon writers.
Our writers are also a fun group. Apart from the various list
discussions and the occasional online chat, we get together face-to-face
once a year at our annual Writers' Summit. The Summits are a mix of
business and pleasure. We talk about running the 'zine, discuss writing
techniques and fantasy related topics, and sometimes even view
demonstrations on fantasy- or period-related topics, such as the
blacksmith visit that Jim Owens arranged for us in Oregon. But we also
go explore wherever it is we are staying. Last year it was Traverse
City, Michigan. This year, I am hosting the Summit in Cincinnati and
Northern Kentucky. The Summit can be a transformational experience for a
new writer. It can turn the group of people that you know only from
emails and story critiques into lifelong friends.
Why am I telling you all of this? Two reasons, really. The first is
simply to share with you what the DargonZine experience is like for a
new writer. The second is to perhaps inspire you to join us. So, if you
enjoy reading about our world and think you'd like to add something to
it, take a minute to look through the New Writer's FAQ and then email us
to get started.
========================================================================
Dancing
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
<John.White@Drexel.Edu>
Sy 12-14, 1018
I looked down at the dagger that was pointed at me, sharp tip
touching my chest, and I could see my reflection in the polished blade.
A thin face, greying hair, and sad, sad eyes looked back at me. There
was a question in that face, but no fear. The threat of the dagger
seemed, perhaps, welcome.
The latch on the door to my office rattled and my hands opened
automatically, releasing the dagger, which thudded dully on my desk. One
end of the crossguard gouged the leather pad that covered much of the
top. My assistant, Heerans, opened the door and said, "Percantlin,
there's been an incident in the grain warehouse. You'd better come."
I looked up from the gouge and into Heerans' concerned eyes. I
couldn't decide whether the interruption was welcome or not, but I knew
that I needed to respond. I rose from my chair into the after-midday
sunlight of the Sy day where it sliced through my office from the window
high on the wall behind me. Concentrating on the warmth it gave my
shoulder and the side of my face, I mentally struggled to leave the
dagger behind before following Heerans from the room. It would, after
all, be there when I returned.
"Rats," he said as we strode past his desk and through the hallway
to the outer door. I struggled to pay attention to his words, noting his
sidelong glances as he said, "They're in the small grain store."
Rats weren't the kind of thing that I, as owner of the shipping,
trading, and storage company called Fifth I Merchants, was regularly
summoned to deal with, and Heerans knew that, too. Ultimately there was
little that I could do to deal with rats that the warehouse manager
couldn't do on her own. But my assistant knew that I was troubled, and
with the rapport that develops between people who work together for
years, he knew that I needed things to do, problems to deal with, to
keep my mind off my pain. Pain that, even after a month, I was still
unable to deal with: my daughter, Kalibriona, was dead.
I barely noticed as we stepped out of the building and into the air
of the city of Dargon. Thoughts of my daughter filled my head. I
remembered her marriage just two years before, and how radiant she had
been, young and beautiful and leaving. My Bronna had been 18 when she
and her husband had moved to a distant duchy, and she'd been barely 20
and returning to Dargon when she'd died. She was too young to be dead.
I didn't want to keep dwelling on that subject, so I sought to
distract myself. I looked around and focused on the details of where we
walked so as to drive the painful memories away.
Heerans and I were walking east on the cobbles of Division Street,
heading toward Coldwell Street but away from the Coldwell River. To our
left was the main warehouse where my office was located, a long, narrow,
storey-and-a-half brick building with strong walls and thick doors. On
the other side of the street were more warehouses, also brick, but they
didn't belong to Fifth I. I could feel the heat radiating off the
sun-warmed bricks beside me; the bustle and noise of the docks rang in
my ears; and the sea-smell of the wide mouth of the Coldwell behind us
was strong in my nose.
We approached the end of the main warehouse and the alley that gave
access from Division to the large loading yard behind it. On the other
side of that alley were three small buildings that were also Fifth I
warehouses but which looked more like shops or dwellings, all windows
and decorated facades and narrow doors. I had plans to join all three
together into a more efficient space someday, but there was no pressing
need.
Heerans and I were about to cross the alley -- the grain store was
in the last of the three small buildings in front of us -- when I heard
a rumbling crash from behind the nearest of those odd warehouses. I
turned down the alley toward the access-way that ran behind the three
odd buildings and separated them from the large, low storage structure
where we kept our bulk items. There was a cry of pain and then another
rumbling crash before I reached the access-way. Several workers spilled
out of the bulk warehouse and arrived at the space between the buildings
before me, and their shouts made me hurry.
The first thing I saw upon arriving was the body. The second thing
I saw was the rubble that had fallen from the walls of the warehouses on
both sides. From my vantage point, the rubble was beyond the body, which
wasn't moving. The workers had seen something else, it seemed, as they
were still shouting and racing down the alley away from me. I looked in
the direction they were headed and glimpsed two figures turn the corner
to the right between the first two house-like buildings.
Heerans had approached the body and I followed, wondering who the
fleeing figures were. My assistant crouched down by the body, and then
stood up again, a sour look on his face. "Just a gypsy," he said.
I looked down and saw that Heerans was right. A young man, no older
than my daughter, was lying there. He had the high cheekbones and large,
hooked nose typical of one of the Rhydd Pobl, and his clothes were a
designed patchwork of colors that were muted and worn, but not shabby.
Blood streamed from a terrible gash in his forehead. I knelt beside the
youth and held my hand under his nose, but felt no brush of air. He was
dead.
My vision began to waver as tears filled my eyes, and I thought,
"Like my daughter." I was just about to start rocking and keening, as I
had so many nights alone in my room, when Heerans laid a hand on my
shoulder. "Sir, did you know him? I mean, he's just a gypsy ..."
I dashed his hand away and twisted around to face him, my misery
turning to white hot rage in an instant. "Don't you dare say that again,
Heerans! He's dead and deserves more respect than that, no matter who he
was. He's someone's son, maybe even some infant's father! Straight?"
Heerans backed away, astonishment written all over his face. His
stammered reply was interrupted by the return of the workers who had
dashed down the alley. "Master Percantlin, sir, we lost 'em," the
younger one said.
I reined in my anger, knowing it wasn't going to be helpful here.
When I could do so without shouting, I asked, "Who were they and why
were you chasing them?"
The older of the pair said, "Don't know, sir. Heard the crash, came
outside, saw two people bending over that one there. I shouted, they
ran. We chased 'em, but they got away down Coldwell Street."
"Thank you for the effort, both of you." I wondered what the
strangers had been doing poised over the dead body. "Could you describe
them for me?"
The younger one said, "Robes and dark hair, sir. The one with the
hood was holding 'is head and limping a bit, though he ran good.
Couldn't tell no more."
"Thanks," I said. "Could one of you fetch one of our sentries, and
then the Town Guard?"
The younger one nodded. Both bowed and walked off. I glanced over
at Heerans, who was looking at me with a calm expression. He said, "I'm
sorry, sir. You're right." I nodded, and turned back to the gypsy boy.
Sorrow welled up inside me again, and not just at the thought of
the lost life before me. I quickly started cataloging details, pushing
the despair back little by little.
The reason he'd died was obvious: the head wound. I looked around
and found a bloody brick lying just beyond him and deduced it was the
cause. I noticed that there was nothing else lying near him except for
brick dust. Looking behind me, I saw the rents in the walls of the two
warehouses where the outer layer of bricks had collapsed, strewing
rubble close to the holes and dust much further.
After a squeamish moment, I started searching the body, hoping for
something to help identify him. I knew little about the ways of the
Rhydd Pobl but I didn't really expect to find a clan sigil or a family
crest on him. However, I still needed details to keep my thoughts
occupied.
His belt pouch had a few copper Bits in it. I left them there. In a
pocket sewn inside of his vest was a long, thin box, which I removed. I
opened the simple latch and lifted the lid to find a long tube resting
in the velvet interior. The tube was heavily carved with figures that I
did not recognize, and it had holes in it spaced regularly down its
length. I guessed that it was some kind of flute.
I didn't want to move the body much, not knowing what kind of
procedures the Town Guard would want to go through, but as I searched
him I noticed that there was as much brick dust underneath him as on top
of him. I thought back to the two crashes and the cry between and
deduced that he had been hit by a stray brick fragment from the first
collapse. I did think it odd that only one piece of broken brick had
come in this direction.
I found no hidden pockets, and no clues to his identity. I sat back
on my heels for a moment, wondering what to do next.
"Your pardon, Master Percantlin."
I looked over my shoulder and saw an older man in a Fifth I guard
uniform standing there. He continued, "You wanted to see me?"
I stood and said, "I'd like you to check these buildings to see
whether anything has been taken or disturbed. There were two people
running away when I arrived, and I'd like to know if they were up to
some mischief or other."
The guard looked down at the body at my feet, then back up at me. I
said, "Perhaps they were involved with this, and perhaps his death was
just an accident. But I won't know which until I have some information
about the state of the warehouses."
"Very good, sir," he said, and hurried away.
"Your pardon, Master Percantlin."
I turned around again, wishing people would stop coming up behind
me, and saw a town guard this time. The woman, probably my age, looked
fit and competent in the city's colors with a sword at her side. She
seemed harried, her brow furrowed and her eyes narrowed, as she said,
"You wanted to see one of us?"
I gestured at the dead boy, and said, "I thought you should know
about this."
She looked down briefly, and I could see the dismissal in her eyes
when she looked back up and said, "He's just a gypsy."
I closed my eyes for a moment, then said in a very restrained tone,
"And what does that matter? He's still an ended life. He might have
relatives to notify. And there is the possibility that his death was not
accidental; there were two men running away from him when I arrived."
The town guard sighed, and I could tell that she was restraining
her own temper. She said, "Master Percantlin, in case you haven't heard,
there was a serious accident at midday; a barge hit and damaged the
causeway. In the bells since, there have been an inordinate number of
accidents all over the city. In the resulting chaos, you expect the
guard to devote time and personnel to searching for the family of an
itinerant, and his possible murderer, when it isn't even our job to do
so? You should know that our writ runs to the welfare of the people of
Dargon, not vagrants and wanderers. If the citywide situation was
different, then someone might have been persuaded to follow this up. As
it is, none of us has the time. I hope you can understand."
She turned to go, and I said, "But what about the body? I found --"
She said, "Have someone notify the Death Rattler, but you'd better
wrap the corpse up good; it might be some time before he has room in his
wagon. You can keep whatever you've found. Have a good day, Master
Percantlin. I've got real work to get back to."
Half a bell later, I was back behind my desk, a ledger covering the
gouge that the dagger, now safely in a bottom drawer, had made. The
flute was resting beside the ledger, and my attention was focused on it.
The Fifth I guard had found nothing disturbed or missing from the
warehouses except for the grain store infested with rats, which were
then chased away. Following the town guard's suggestion, I had sent a
runner for the Death Rattler, a corpse collector, and had ordered the
boy's body wrapped in oilcloth and stowed. I was still shocked at the
guard's disregard for the life of the boy, but there was little I could
do in the face of it. I had already dismissed the idea of finding
someone higher in authority, a sergeant or lieutenant, to plead the
boy's case to; while I'd been walking back toward my office I had seen a
wagon crash into the building on the other side of Division and I
realized that the guard probably did have better things to do at the
moment than look into a minor mystery.
The puzzle of the boy's death wasn't so easy for me to set aside,
though. I knew the pain of losing a child, and the thought of the boy's
parents waiting for his return somewhere made me ache with sympathy.
Added to that, I had always found solving problems to be pleasing.
Finding the solution to this one would be deeply satisfying.
My office door opened and Heerans ushered Master Yokit through. I
stood and extended my hand to greet the man, a good customer of long
standing. I didn't normally meet personally with my clients, but my
ordering clerk had not returned from her late lunch.
Yokit grasped my wrist, said hello, and sat in the chair on the
other side of my desk. I sat down, too, and we began haggling over the
price for the hides he had dyed. My hand strayed to touch the gypsy's
flute, and when it did, a curious thing happened. Normally when striking
a deal, I kept a few possibilities in the back of my head. Dealing was
like game playing, with moves and counter moves, and a good player knows
his opponent and what kinds of plays are likely to be made. I knew what
moves I needed to make with Yokit to get the best price, and had a few
tricks waiting in case the man was up to something new.
When I touched the flute, however, an image entered my head. I saw
an array of doors before me and something told me in an instant what
each door represented, laying out every possible action I could take in
response to Master Yokit's proposed deal, including options I would have
never ordinarily even considered. One door meant taking his deal,
another meant offering him more, and a third indicated offering him
less. Another door would lead me to throwing him out for insulting me,
and the next said I could kill him and forge the order for the hides. I
could also make the deal and never pay him, or pay him, take the hides,
and then gift them back to him. Every alternative was represented there,
every door the same size and shape, each equally viable.
All of this information simply appeared in my head, seen and
understood between one word from Yokit and the next. It startled me so
much that I snatched my hand off the flute with an oath, and then had to
apologize for my outburst. We resumed our negotiation and made our usual
fair deal. Once he had left, I stared at the flute again.
Three more customers and two scheduled appointments with shipping
agents occupied the next two bells. I left the flute alone for the first
two of those, but on the third customer I touched the flute lightly and
saw an array of doors as before. I made a bargaining gambit, and the
door that represented my choice grew in my mind's eye as if I was
passing through it. On the other side, I saw a new set of doors and knew
their meaning. Some were the same choices as before and some had changed
along with the possibilities of the situation. There was still no value
attached to the choices -- was this one good, that one bad? -- but there
wasn't any way I could miss an option.
I finished the bargaining without the flute, not really finding any
advantage in the strange ability. When the first of the two shipping
agents came into my office to discuss scheduling, I again touched the
flute, and found myself presented with options again: I could delay or
advance the shipment, pay him more or less to do the job, give the job
to one of two other companies, or send them west with my own guards. I
found the lack of weight to the choices frustrating and I wondered
whether I could choose an option, go through its door, and continue the
process until I had determined whether the course of action was
worthwhile. I didn't dare experiment, though. While comprehending the
choices of the doors seemed instantaneous, I didn't know how long
following various option selections might take, and I didn't want to
offend the shipping agent.
Before my last appointment of the day arrived, Heerans brought
Tanjural, my son-in-law, into the office. I couldn't help but frown when
I saw him. When he had married my Kalibriona two years before and taken
her away to the Duchy of Kiliaen, I had resigned myself to being
separated from Bronna for a long time. Her letters had detailed her life
in the duke's court, where Tanjural had worked as chief clerk. They had
also told of the corruption and double-dealing that had led to his being
released from that job as a scapegoat. In the aftermath they'd had no
choice but to return to Dargon, and along the way my Bronna had taken
ill and died. Tanjural still refused to tell me the circumstances of her
death.
Heerans said, "Percantlin, the causeway disaster has shut down all
traffic on the Coldwell, and it doesn't look like the way will be clear
again for days, maybe longer. This means that our outgoing and incoming
goods need to bypass that blockage. Tanjural has worked out
transportation schedules and routes, and has located some supplies to
build some temporary loading docks upriver. His plans just need your
signature."
I looked at the paper my assistant placed in front of me. It would
have been wise to read it, but I didn't want to spend that much time
with my son-in-law. Tanjural had been an employee of mine before
marrying my daughter, and he knew the business, which was why I'd hired
him back. If Heerans had said anything about possible changes, I would
have delayed my decision. Instead, I grabbed a quill and signed my name.
"Go, get it done," I said harshly, all but throwing the paper back
at my assistant. I continued to scowl at my desk until the door closed
again.
I was having difficulty clearing my head of the dark thoughts
brought on by Tanjural's presence when my last appointment arrived. I
don't know whether the deal I ended up striking with her was a good one,
but soon, possibly too soon, the shipping agent was gone and I was alone
in my darkening office. I looked at my ledger and at the flute. I
reached out and touched the flute, and examined the presented options. I
could stay here all night and brood. I could go home to my housekeeper
Margat's excellent cooking. I could go to some dockside bar and get
roaring drunk. I could head east across the city to the Lulling District
and contract with a whore at Mother of Pearl's. Or, I could reach down
into the bottom drawer, retrieve my dagger, and finish my earlier
business with it.
I chose dinner, and left.
The next morning I walked through Heerans' office to my own,
ignoring his stare as I passed by. The stare was normal, though it had
only started lately. It wasn't caused by my arrival time, which was
neither early nor late, but probably by the redness of my eyes and the
unkempt nature of my clothes and hair, which were all recent
innovations.
I sat at my desk, finding everything as I had left it the night
before, flute next to the ledger on the leather pad. Heerans came in
with his morning list, which was rather longer than usual that day. The
chaos that had gripped the city ever since the causeway accident the day
before had disrupted my warehouses in the night, and was playing havoc
with my daily appointments. The one bit of unreservedly good news was
that my ordering clerk had returned; she had been caught up helping
accident victims after her lunch.
Heerans left, and I had half a bell until my first appointment. I
yawned and rubbed my eyes, feeling tired and raw after a night plagued
by thoughts of my daughter, the dead gypsy boy, and his parents pining
away for news that would never come. I looked at my ledger book, but
couldn't find the concentration necessary to pay attention to the
columns of numbers. I looked at the flute, and a flight of fancy took
me.
I have never had much interest in creating music of any kind, but I
picked up the strangely-carved instrument anyway. I was surprised to
note that the array of doors did not appear. I guessed that holding the
flute didn't generate the same effect as just touching it. I would have
to test that out later. My fingers seemed to fit themselves over the
holes, and my arms came up in such a way that the wider air hole rested
just under my bottom lip, the bore of the instrument jutting out to my
right.
I looked around to make sure no one was there to watch me make a
fool out of myself. My office was empty. There was a pool of sunlight
from the high windows on my left, just touching the edge of the door. I
glanced over to those windows just as a grey dove launched away from the
sill, its spread wings dimming the sunlight for a moment.
I pursed my lips and blew air out between them and across the
flute. A thin, pure tone seemed to fill the room, and when my fingers
shifted, some lifting, some stretching and covering new holes, the note
changed.
I grew suddenly fumble-fingered and the flute slipped out of my
fingers. I barely caught it before it hit the desk. I looked around on
the edge of embarrassment, though whether for the dropped flute or the
astonishingly pure notes I wasn't sure.
I hesitantly lifted the flute back to my lips and suddenly I saw
all of my options for that moment spread before me. But instead of
doors, I now saw paths, each one mentally labeled as before: play the
flute and succeed, play the flute and fail, throw the flute across the
room, put the flute in its case, and more. I didn't just see the
beginning of each path, either, but where that path led and the options
each choice would then present me with, and another layer of paths and
choices, and on and on. So much information lay before me that it was
overwhelming and I set the flute down in its case to make it all go
away.
Only it didn't. Instead, the paths changed: I could stay seated and
look at my ledger, I could stand, I could go to the door and call for
Heerans, I could go to the door and leave. The paths branched and
multiplied, spreading away from me in a way that I was aware of but
which didn't interfere with my view of the room around me. I noticed
that the flute wasn't present in any of the paths, and wondered why.
The office door opened and Heerans peered in, a puzzled frown on
his face. I ignored the pathways as he said, "Percantlin, there's a
short man with big ears here who wants to know if we want some stem
bolts. Do we?"
I looked at the options, and saw that the paths leading from
accepting the product, whatever it was, led only to loss of money and
wasted storage space. I said, "I've heard of bolts of fabric, but not
bolts of stems. Tell him to go away."
Heerans nodded and withdrew. The pattern of pathways slipped along
past "don't buy them" and settled into a new configuration. I wondered
why I no longer needed to touch the flute to see the possibilities, and
why they were now presented as paths, not doors. None of the options
before me led to an answer to my question, so I chose one I could
understand instead and turned my attention to the numbers in the ledger.
I wasn't sure, but it seemed as if I could hear faint music in the
silence of my office.
The day seemed to blur by, overlaid throughout by the ubiquitous
pathways that almost seemed to dance as they shifted from decision to
decision. Meetings came and went, and I deftly manipulated every one to
the best outcome possible, tracing the paths from junction to junction
before committing to one or another choice. When Heerans came to me with
news of this or that disaster, I could see all of the possible responses
to the situation, and used my new insight to make the best of every one.
It was only as I was heading home after a much busier than normal
day that I realized that I hadn't had time to think about the two deaths
that haunted me. I wondered whether the powers of the flute could help
me find out what had happened to the gypsy boy. If it could show me
things that hadn't happened yet, perhaps it could also show me things
that had already happened, following choices in reverse or something
similar.
Without paying attention to the pathways before me, I decided to
return to the office to retrieve the instrument. As I turned, I caught
sight of a dark form darting out of an alley. Before I could see more
than a wave of dark hair and a flash of something silvery, I felt
something sharp penetrate my chest, sliding deep into my body. I could
feel coldness swell from that penetration, and a warm wetness that ran
from it down my front. My eyesight began to dim and I felt myself
swaying, growing weaker and weaker. The music that had been in the
background in silent moments all day swelled and grew until ...
... I opened my eyes to bright daylight and looked around. I found
myself suddenly back in my empty office, sitting in my chair, my hands
holding the flute, fingers poised confidently over holes. The instrument
was positioned at my lips, its bore jutting out to the right. There was
a pool of sunlight from the high windows on my left, just touching the
edge of the door. I glanced over to those windows just as a grey dove
launched away from the sill, its spread wings dimming the sunlight for a
moment.
I pursed my lips as if to blow, but took the flute away from my
mouth instead. I swayed again as I had just a moment ago, in the dark,
in an alley. I slumped back in my chair and looked at my chest. It
didn't hurt at all, and there was nothing wet there either. It seemed to
be morning, but was it the same morning? Everything looked and felt the
same, or did it?
I set the flute back into its case, and was startled that I didn't
see any pathways telling me what I could do instead. I listened, and
heard no music. I was wondering whether the day had already happened, or
whether I had dreamed it somehow, when Heerans opened the door to my
office and peered in, a puzzled frown on his face. He said, "Percantlin,
there's a short man with big ears here who wants to know if we want some
stem bolts. Do we?"
That wasn't something that happened every day, but I had certainly
experienced it before. I still didn't know what a stem bolt was, but I
knew what to do with them. I said, "I've heard of bolts of fabric, but
not bolts of stems. Tell him to go away." Heerans nodded and withdrew.
I proceeded to relive the 13th of Sy, moment by moment, meeting by
meeting, bell by bell. This time the day seemed to drag, but only
because I knew everything that was coming next. Even without the
guidance of the pathways, or even just the flute's doorways, I was still
able to remember enough about the bargaining to come out ahead, and I
had my responses to Heerans' disaster announcements ready as well. I was
too nervous to try to change anything major, though I was daring enough
to choose a different leftwich for lunch.
I took a different way home that night. I left the flute at the
office, not truly wanting to experiment with its power just yet. I
decided over Margat's fine meal that I needed to find out more about the
flute first.
The morning of the fourteenth of Sy was as busy as the previous day
had been. I left the flute alone and muddled my way on my own through
the crises and disasters that were still plaguing the city, not to
mention the regular business of the Fifth I. I learned that Tanjural's
rerouting plans were working as well as expected, given that every sixth
wagon lost a wheel if not its entire load, and the horses were as likely
to stampede as rabbits were to breed.
At about midday I set aside my duties, trusting them to my
employees for a few bells. I closed the flute into its case, picked it
up, and set off to find some answers. I hoped that learning about the
gypsy's possession would also help me find out about him.
At the house of Aardvard Factotum, healer and information finder, I
was ushered into the parlor by Hansen, the butler. Aardvard arrived
moments later and greeted me with a warm wrist-grasp and a hearty slap
on the back. "Good to see you, Cant. How is the Fifth I doing these
days?"
"As well as can be expected, with disaster running riot in the
city," I replied. "I was hoping you could help me with a little mystery
I came across two days ago. I found the dead body of a young gypsy boy,
and all he had on him was this." I showed Aardvard the closed flute
case. "Do you recognize it? I'm hoping it can tell us who the boy was."
Aardvard picked up the box. He examined it, but there really wasn't
anything distinctive about it. After giving me a sideways look he opened
it, and his eyes widened. He reached for the instrument and I briefly
wondered whether he would see the doors like I had. As his fingers
closed around the tube I remembered that holding the flute created a
different effect than just touching it. I decided to stop him if he
tried to play it, though.
Aardvard drew the flute out of its case and said, "This is very
finely crafted, and, I think, very old." He looked closely at the
strange symbols carved into the shaft of the instrument and tutted now
and again. His brows drew together as he pored over the flute, and he
shook his head more and more often.
Finally he said, "It reminds me of something, but I just can't
place what. I think it has something to do with the Creator's Pantheon,
but the symbols just aren't right. Give me some time, though. I'll do a
little research. I'm sure I know the right book. I'll get back to you
tomorrow, yes?"
"That will be fine, Aardvard. Do you need to copy the symbols or
anything? I don't want to leave the flute here."
"No, no, I've got a very good memory. I'll be fine. Now, you said
this came from a dead gypsy? That's odd. I am not aware of any gypsy
adherents of the Creator's Pantheon; the Rhydd Pobl tend to be more
nature oriented, more animist, more primal. But maybe ... I'll have to
check in the other book, and maybe that one, too." I could see that he
was looking at his pile of research books in his mind's eye.
He blinked and refocused on me, and said, "And as for the boy
himself, let me ask a friend of a friend if he knows anything. Gypsies
aren't loners, normally. Someone will know about him. Unfortunately,
they may not be in the city at the moment."
I stood, giving Aardvard my thanks and farewells. I showed myself
out, and directed my steps homeward instead of back to the office. I
didn't want work to push aside thoughts of the boy. He deserved to be
someone's top priority, even if all I could do was wait for Aardvard's
summons.
I idled around my home for a bell and a half, unable to concentrate
on anything, wishing I could snap my fingers and have it be tomorrow and
already know the answers Aardvard would give. Suddenly, the idea came to
me: I could play the flute! Then I would know what tomorrow would bring
today!
I hurried to my study and settled into my cozy chair, the small
room comfortably close around me, my short bookshelf to one side, a
table to the other. I lifted the flute from its case on the table and
raised it to my lips. I looked through the window to see a wagon passing
in the street outside. As its rear gate fell open, dashing ripe fruit to
the pavement, I blew across the air hole and filled the wood-walled room
with a clear, pure note.
As soon as I set the flute back into its case, I realized my
mistake. Yes, I would know the answers Aardvard would give me as soon as
I awakened from this strange dream, but I would still need to live the
bells between now and tomorrow as if they were really happening. I was
going to be waiting and fretting anyway!
I was wondering how I could be sure I was actually in that
flute-dream state when suddenly there was a pounding on my front door.
The options for response danced open in front of me -- answer the door,
don't answer, run from the visitor, kill the visitor -- and I had my
answer. I went to the door and opened it to find Hansen standing there
staring vacantly at me.
"He's dead," were his first words. I reached up and lowered his
hand, still poised to pound on my door again. Then I pulled him gently
inside and sat him down in the hall chair.
"Who's dead, Hansen?" I asked, though I was sure I knew.
He slowly focused on me, and said, "I went out to deliver my
master's message about your gypsy to his sources, the ones he told you
about. I stopped for supplies on the way back. When I arrived, the house
was on fire! And Master Aardvard was lying there by the path, his head
crushed in. Who would kill Aardvard? Who would want to?"
"Did you summon the guard, Hansen?"
The butler nodded. "They were coming anyway, for the fire. When
they saw Master Aardvard, they sent runners for more help. The sergeant
asked me questions, and then let me go. I didn't know where else to
come, but since you saw him last I thought you would like to know ..."
Margat appeared next to me with a mug of something warm, which she
handed to Hansen; she must have heard his story from the kitchen. She
put her arm around his shoulders and bade him drink up, smiling and
tutting at him, saying that everything would be all right. I stepped
back and let her work while I tried to wrap my mind around the fact that
Aardvard was dead.
I suddenly remembered that I was in the flute-dream, and maybe he
wasn't really dead yet! Then, with a deep sense of shock, I realized
that I didn't know how to return to reality. I went back into the study
and reached for the flute, but found myself not wanting to even touch
it, much less play it. I tried to ignore the feeling, but couldn't make
myself take hold of the instrument.
I turned away and raced out of the room, disturbed by my inability
to touch the flute. There was no one in the hall, but I heard voices
from the back of the house, and I knew that Margat was taking care of
Hansen. I left.
By the time I got to Aardvard's, the fire had consumed most of the
house. I didn't disturb the guards that swarmed the area, but I did
notice that the physician's body had been moved away somewhere. For the
first time I wondered whether my own inquiries had caused Aardvard's
death. It had begun with the gypsy's demise, and now Factotum. In
another revelation, I realized that the burning in my chest that had
ended the first flute-dream had been someone trying to kill me! What had
I gotten myself into?
For lack of anything better to do, I returned to the office. As I
walked past the clerks' area, I noticed my son-in-law Tanjural sitting
at a desk that had been dragged into the ordering clerk's office. He was
staring at a ledger while absently rubbing the upper part of his left
arm.
I stopped in the doorway and said, "How are you, Tanjural?"
He looked up at me, startled; I hadn't initiated conversation with
him since he had given me the news about my daughter. "Ah, fine," he
replied.
"Did you hurt your arm somehow?"
He glanced at his hand as it rubbed his shoulder, then turned back
to me. "No. Well, yes. I was accepted into the ranks of the dedicated
followers of the Creator's Pantheon last night, and the tattoo still
stings a little."
"I didn't know you were religious."
He looked at me with a sadness in his eyes that I recognized. "I
wasn't until recently. They are a comfort."
I dropped my eyes from his, not ready to discuss comfort yet. To
change the subject, I said, "A tattoo, eh? I guess that's one way to
prove your devotion."
He chuckled, and said, "Straight. And their priests get a brand on
their right shoulders. I don't want to know what mark the euilamon take
to prove their devotion!"
I grinned at that; euilamon were the Creator's chief priests, and I
tried to imagine what they might do to indelibly mark themselves. I
continued on to my office, realizing that I had just shared the first
good feeling with my son-in-law since the wedding. Then thoughts of the
wedding led me back to thoughts of death, and suddenly the thought of
sitting behind my desk no longer appealed to me.
I turned around and left, striding down Division Street with no
destination in mind. My thoughts whirled around death and loss, and the
still-unsolved mystery of a gypsy boy who had been, more than likely,
murdered. I turned left on Coldwell Street for no reason and had to pull
up short to keep from running into someone.
I focused on the person blocking my way, and found myself looking
at a gypsy with white hair, lines around his eyes, and an ancient stare.
He said, "Pardon me, but are you --?"
I bolted. I don't know why, but I turned and ran. I had been
thinking about murdered gypsies and suddenly I saw one, and somehow I
was frightened for my life.
I darted down streets and through alleys until suddenly a shadow
stepped in front of me, dark hair flashing, fist raised and holding
something that glinted silver. The fist fell, and I felt a burning cold
in my chest from a blow that knocked me down. My vision dimmed, but I
was sure I was hallucinating as I fell because I thought I saw the most
garishly-colored, yet lifelike, wyrm down the street. My head hit the
pavement ...
... and I opened my eyes to look out my window at a wagon losing
its load of fruit onto the street. I glanced around at my study, and
then at the flute in my hands, which I quickly returned to its case on
the table beside me. The music was gone, and the pathways no longer
danced before me. I was back.
My thoughts settled down, and I remembered how my dream had begun.
My first instinct was to race out of the house and try to warn Aardvard,
but I realized that I was already too late. The murder had happened
while I was puttering around, not flute-dreaming. I couldn't save
Aardvard.
The pounding I was expecting came, and I went right to the door,
calling for Margat. I drew Hansen into the house and passed him to my
housekeeper, saying, "Tell Margat, Hansen. I've got to go."
I started to go to Aardvard's house, but decided that I didn't need
to see that again. Without even wondering about the consequences, I
diverged from my dream and went right to my office.
Tanjural was not at the extra desk in the ordering clerk's office
when I walked past; since I had not gone to Aardvard's, I had arrived
earlier than in the flute-dream. I got to my outer office this time,
where Heerans said, "This note arrived for you not long ago."
I took the folded parchment from him and read, "Master Percantlin,
I understand that you are seeking information about a gypsy and a flute.
Please come to the Inn of the Serpent before eighth bell; I think we can
help each other." It was signed "Oolamrin".
I shoved the note into my belt pouch and left. The inn was only a
few streets away, and I arrived quickly. I walked into the common room,
filled with early eaters and even earlier drinkers, and looked around. A
woman rose from a table on the far side of the room and gestured to me.
I walked over.
She was short, with delicate features and long dark hair. She was
also a gypsy. I briefly recalled the older, white-haired man I had run
from in my flute-dream, but this young woman didn't frighten me like he
had.
She held out her hand and as we clasped wrists, she said, "Welcome,
Master Percantlin. I am Oolamrin. Please have a seat. Would you like
some wine?"
I sat. "No, thank you, I'm not thirsty. Your note said you know
something about a flute and a gypsy."
She frowned sadly, and I couldn't help but notice how pretty she
was even so. As pretty as Bronna, and not much older, either. She said,
"You are direct, Master Percantlin. Very well, I will be, too. Have you
ever heard of Thyerin?"
I had to think to remember, but finally it came to me. "One of the
gods of the Creator's Pantheon, straight?" I wondered why those gods
were so much a part of my life at the moment.
"Yes, that and more," said Oolamrin. "The flute is dedicated to
Thyerin. Some legends say that it once belonged to him, others that it
was fashioned from the leg bone of his greatest euilamon long, long ago.
The flute is bone, taken from a still-living Araf and carved into its
current form while its former owner watched."
I had heard legends of the strange race of people known as the
Araf, and my memory teased me with some kind of connection between them
and Thyerin. There was a strange light in Oolamrin's eyes as she
continued. "The flute contains a very powerful magic, an Araf magic.
Thyerin's Dance is the tapestry of creation, the woven history of
everything past and future. Thyerin's Flute is able to open the Dance to
anyone who uses it. With the flute, one can see possibilities before
they are actualities, and the future can be guided by its visions."
I nodded at her words, as they confirmed my experiences. I wondered
if she knew how to control the flute better, but decided not to let her
know I had used it just yet. Instead, I asked, "How did the gypsy boy
get hold of it?"
She scowled and said, "Rantlak belonged to a group within the Rhydd
Pobl who revel in death and destruction. He learned of the flute, which
had been in the keeping of the temple of Thyerin in Kiliaen. Because
worship of Thyerin in the area had been waning, the treasures of the
temple were to be transferred to Magnus. Rantlak's cult stole the flute
from the caravan."
Oolamrin sat up, her eyes flashing. "Imagine what they could have
done with that flute, Master Percantlin: guiding their actions with it
to the most destructive courses; finding ways to cause death on a
massive scale; changing key events to turn others' victories into
failures!" She gasped and dropped her eyes to the table at that, and
quickly said, "My friend and I tracked Rantlak to Dargon, but before we
could find him we learned he was dead. I was so glad when I heard,
through Aardvard Factotum's inquiries, that you had found the flute. It
needs to go back into safekeeping." She turned and gestured, and a tall
man in a dark robe limped over from another table. "Percantlin, this is
Jenkis, my friend. He's a priest of Thyerin. He can take the flute to
safety."
I looked up at Jenkis, who was tall and thin, with brown hair and a
hawkish nose. His high forehead was marked by a healing gash, and his
deep-set eyes seemed to burn with the same fervor that Oolamrin's had
earlier. He didn't extend his hand to me but inclined his head slightly,
then straightened again.
Something about the man, about the situation, bothered me. Oolamrin
had related the story of the flute with something other than disgust,
and this priest looked anything but priestly with the disheveled robe he
wore and that cut on his brow. I found myself not wanting to give either
of them the flute, and was glad that I had left it at home.
Suddenly, I remembered my dream encounter with Tanjural. I looked
up at the priest and said, "Show me your right shoulder."
Jenkis frowned, and Oolamrin said, "Why?"
"Please, just do it."
The priest looked at the gypsy, and then turned hate-filled eyes on
me. His hands moved into his sleeves, and Oolamrin leapt up, saying,
"Not here!" as she grasped at his arms.
I shot to my feet, my chair crashing down behind me. I ran out the
door and turned right. I hesitated, staring at the familiar
garishly-painted wyrm statue that was the signpost for the inn I'd just
left. I hadn't recognized it as my last flute-dream was ending, but now
it signified much more than just someone's awful sense of color. I knew
that it linked the man who had killed me in my last flute-dream with the
pair I was fleeing! Panic claimed me again, and I continued to run. I
stuck to the centers of large streets, passing up alleyways completely
as I made my way back home.
When I arrived, I slammed the front door behind me, dashed into the
study, grabbed the flute, then hurried to my room on the second floor. I
closed and bolted the door behind me, and sank down into the chair under
the window. I could only hope that the gypsy and the priest didn't know
where I lived; I surmised that they didn't, as the note had been sent to
my office. I knew that I should have gone to the guard instead of home,
but the chaos in the city had not subsided, and this was still a matter
of a dead gypsy, since the attempts on my life hadn't really happened.
However, Oolamrin had given me an idea. I lifted the flute from its
case again and started to play it, keeping my intention firmly in mind.
The result was totally different than my previous attempts. I found
myself in an empty blackness. I couldn't see, hear or feel anything.
Before I could become frightened, strands of light seemed to wriggle
into view. Some came from above and below me, and some came from the
sides, and they danced together and interlaced, forming a grid that
seemed to run by me like a road. After a moment, I realized that the
grid looked like the coarse-woven rug in my hallway, but even more it
looked like a ledger with its columns and rows. If only it wasn't quite
so undulant.
I focused on the near end of the ledger and saw the columns
multiplying and dividing, branching and condensing, extending in their
combinations past rows that I perceived as time passing. I looked toward
the far end of the ledger and saw the complex harmony of what I knew was
the shaped past. This had to be the Dance of Thyerin.
I concentrated on the dance, and the ledger moved past me. I
searched for a particular intersection of column-person and row-time,
and there it was. I bent my will on the abruptly ended column, and felt
myself falling toward it.
Suddenly, the strange, unreal world of the dance vanished, and I
was looking down on a small room as if I sat near the ceiling. From the
construction and the lack of furnishings, I surmised that this was an
inn or a way-station. On the bed lay Bronna, tossing and moaning, her
face red with sweat and scrunched up in pain. Tanj was at her side,
mopping her brow, holding her hand and muttering soothing words to her.
His own face was also scrunched in pain, but it was for her, not
himself.
Looking down, I saw what my son-in-law had concealed from me:
Bronna was with child. By the way her legs moved, and her free hand
clutched at her belly, I knew that she hadn't simply "taken ill" on the
trip back north from Kiliaen. Something had gone wrong with her
pregnancy, and she was dying. I could hear Tanj muttering, "If only we
had stayed," and "The healer warned us to be careful." My heart went out
to my son-in-law, whose pain I hadn't believed to be as great as my own.
But he had lost both wife and child at once, while I'd had the dubious
"luck" to bear those pains separately.
I knew the outcome, both from Tanjural's old news and from the
condition of the column within the ledger-dance. I concentrated with all
my might, wishing that I could change the dance, extend the column, ward
off the impending deaths. The flute felt warm in my hands, almost as if
it moved under my fingers, instead of my fingers moving across it.
Knowledge came to me: I could extend my daughter's column, but only by
supplying the substance to lengthen it with. Options appeared in my
head, but only one was in any way viable: I chose freely to give my own
column to my daughter that she might continue dancing. I felt the flute
agree, and a vibration began in my toes. I could feel myself becoming
attuned to the notes I played, becoming the notes themselves, becoming
...
... and I screamed as the flute was ripped away from my hands and
mouth, and the vibration stopped painfully and abruptly.
"Good," said a familiar voice. "We were in time."
I shook my head and looked up to see who had invaded my bedroom.
Standing in front of me were the old, white-haired gypsy I had run away
from in my second flute-dream, and the robed and dark-cowled form of the
wizard Cefn, an old acquaintance. I couldn't see Cefn's face, but the
unnatural darkness within that cowl was identification enough. I tried
to stand, but found myself far too weak to complete the effort. Instead,
I said, "What?" in a croaking voice.
The old gypsy placed the flute he had taken from me into its box
with a great deal of ceremony for so simple an act. He said, "You were
about to do something very ill-considered, Master Percantlin."
"No I wasn't!" I shouted. "I was going to give my daughter back her
life. You shouldn't outlive your children, after all!"
The old gypsy looked at me with eyes as compassionate and
understanding as the false priest's eyes had been angry. "There is no
such rule, my good man, nor would it be a good thing if there was.
Sometimes the young die for good reason. Thyerin's Dance always comes
out right in the end, and the cost for reweaving the dance is always far
more than you agree to pay."
I tried again to stand, and succeeded. I said, "How do --?" and was
interrupted by my door slamming open with a crash. Oolamrin and Jenkis
charged through with guttural shouts and knives pointed right at me.
My previous visitors intercepted my newest ones as I stepped back
into a corner. Dargon was a rough city, but despite growing up in it I
had never learned to fight. Fortunately, both Cefn and the old gypsy
knew. The white-haired man produced a thin sword from somewhere other
than his waist and was fending off the woman's frenzied hacking with
ease. The wizard engaged the false priest with the solid sword he always
wore, and his opponent was already bleeding from several cuts. The next
mene or so dashed by, and before I knew it both of the attackers lay
dead at my defenders' feet.
Cefn turned from his fallen foe to stand beside the old gypsy, who
was looking down at the woman with a bitter sadness my own pain had only
shallowly mimicked. "You had to do it," the wizard said softly. The old
gypsy nodded, and continued to stare.
The silence stretched for longer than the fight had taken. I wanted
to ask question after question, but my need for answers couldn't breech
the sadness in the old man's stare. The grief in his gaze struck a chord
with me, and I began to guess some of those answers I sought.
Finally, he turned to me and said, "My daughter, Oolamrin, was part
of the cult that stole the flute from the caravan. My son, Rantlak,
found them and got the flute back, but Oolamrin followed him all the way
to Dargon to retrieve it. She, or her lover Jenkis there, killed
Rantlak, but couldn't get the flute from him. And now she has paid the
price for her actions."
The old man paused, then said, "Master Percantlin, the flute may
only change hands by free will, or when it has no owner. Would you
please give me the flute so that I can return it to safety?"
"You're a priest of Thyerin?" I said. "Aardvard said he didn't
think that the Creator's Pantheon had any Rhydd Pobl followers."
The old man calmly rolled up his right sleeve and showed me the
brand. I closed the case and handed it to him. He bowed to me, turned,
and left.
Cefn turned the darkness inside his cowl toward me and said, "Thank
you, Cant, for doing the right thing. That flute does not belong in
mortal hands. Kolvain will take it back to its makers." The cowl dipped,
then turned to me again. "Sorry about the mess. I'll send Margat for the
guard, and Hansen up to help clean up. I'll vouch for your story with
the guard, too. Farewell."
When Cefn was gone, I just stood there staring at the bodies in my
bedroom. I considered what the old gypsy had said. Not only had he
outlived his children, but he had killed one of them himself. How much
harder was that to bear than my own loss?
I thought about Kalibriona's death, and the death of the grandchild
I hadn't even known about. I had lived with that crippling grief for
long enough. Death had been too close to me lately, not only Bronna but
Rantlak the poor gypsy boy, Aardvard the information seeker, and the two
times I had been dream-murdered as well. I looked at my options as they
danced before me, and I rejected the choices I had made lately. My
daughter was dead, but I wasn't, and neither was Tanj. He hadn't killed
my daughter, either, and he didn't deserve the coldness I had been
giving him ever since he had delivered his news. He had made great
strides in putting his grief behind him. I would follow his example.
I stepped over the bodies and went downstairs to wait for the
guard. On the way, I mentally rehearsed how I was going to invite
Tanjural to move in with me. After all, the new
heir to the Fifth I
merchant house deserved better than a dockside hovel, now didn't he?
========================================================================
Journey's End
Part 4
by Rena Deutsch
<Luv2rite@dargonzine.com>
Sy 20 - Seber 7, 1018
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 18-5
Part 3 of this story was printed in DargonZine 19-4
Far away from any shore, a small sailboat drifted on the Valenfaer
Ocean, its sail missing, its mast broken. In it lay a man in ripped
clothing and with a ragged appearance. He was clutching a bag along with
a belt that bore the insignia of a bard. Too weak to lift his head past
the railing, his eyes stared blindly into the clear blue sky. He wished
for rain, for that was what had kept him alive during his ordeal;
however, during the last two days, not a drop had fallen. His dry tongue
brushed over his even drier lips, tasting salt. A sigh escaped him and
for a mene he closed his eyes, awaiting death. When he opened them
again, he saw a large fishing boat. Not trusting his blurry vision, he
thought he was hallucinating, and then voices reached his ears.
"Captain!" a screeching voice sounded. "Captain, there's a man in
that boat!"
"Looks like he's still alive!" somebody else added hoarsely.
"Then get him on board!"
The man's vision failed and he felt himself lifted over someone's
shoulder and carried upward. He was laid down on the deck of the fishing
boat. Helping hands tried to get him to sit, but his muscles wouldn't
cooperate and hold him sitting. He slumped back down, his head hitting
on hard wood. Drops of fresh water dribbled in his half-open mouth. It
tasted like nectar to him and he smacked his lips. He tried to lift his
hand, but found he couldn't. His eyelids fluttered and he saw several
men standing around him.
"What's your name?" one of the men asked.
The man tried to say "Kal," but only rasping sounds escaped his
throat and then he passed out.
"Kal, come over here. See what I've found," Simona called out and
waved her hand. Her long black hair was unbound and being blown in the
wind. Her white tunic had grass stains. As Kal came closer, he could see
her blue eyes sparkle in the sun. He reached out to take her hand and
pull her close, but found he couldn't get a hold. Suddenly, Kal found
himself standing in the middle of a clearing, alone. Simona was nowhere
in sight.
"Mona!" he called and began to run. He tripped over a root and
fell. Kal got up and rubbed his knees. As he looked around, he realized
he wasn't in the woods, but in a ship's cabin. "How did I get here?" he
meant to say, but only inarticulate sounds came out.
The door to the cabin opened and a black-haired boy entered. Kal
was reminded of his own youth upon a ship.
"Captain," the boy called out. "He's awake!" The sound of heavy
boots on wood came nearer and a broad-shouldered man stepped inside. He
wore blue pants and a brown tunic, which was fastened by a rope. A full,
black beard covered most of his face and made it difficult for Kal to
judge the man's age.
"Thank you, Sam. Why don't you go and bring a bowl of fish stew for
our passenger here."
"Aye, captain," Sam replied and scurried out of the cabin.
"You finally decided to wake up. It's only taken you three days,"
the captain stated. "Do you have a name?"
Kal made another futile attempt at speaking. He placed his hand on
his throat in an attempt to tell the captain his voice wasn't working.
"You're mute?" the captain asked. Kal shook his head.
"You do know your name, straight?" This time Kal nodded.
"Here, write down your name." He handed Kal a piece of charcoal and
pointed at the board on the wall. Kal shook his head and handed the coal
back.
"You're unwilling to tell me your name?" Again, Kal shook his head.
"You can't write?"
Kal nodded.
"But you carry the insignia of a bard and your sack of belongings
contains a lyre and a flute. Are they yours?" Kal shook his head at
first and then nodded, a tear in his eyes.
Sam entered without knocking and placed a bowl in Kal's hand. Kal
gave him a grateful look and a smile.
"When you're done eating, come on deck. Everyone here works. We can
use an extra pair of hands to gut and salt fish." Kal nodded again and
began to eat.
For the next fortnight, Kal spent his waking bells gutting fish and
placing them in barrels of salt. His skills as a sailor and fisherman
returned quickly, which pleased the captain. Every night Kal lay in his
hammock and dreamt of Simona. It was the same dream every time. He was
chasing after her. Unable to reach his beloved, he tripped and fell.
Every morning he found himself on the floor, much to the amusement of
the others. When he finally had a voice again, he answered to the
captain's satisfaction the questions about how he had ended up in the
sailboat and why he carried the belongings of a bard with him. He didn't
lie to his rescuers, but he didn't tell them that he had helped Simona
steal a statue for the purpose of throwing it into the sea and thereby
saving a town from a curse.
A sennight later, the ship returned to its home port. When the
first shouts of "Land ho!" had reached his ears he felt saddened. He
didn't want the voyage to end. While the crew had gazed upon the shore,
Kal had directed his view to the sea where Simona was, ignoring the
passing land. He longed for her and more than once had he considered
jumping overboard in the middle of the night. Each time his own
cowardice had prevented him from following through.
Kal had been so absorbed in his thoughts about Simona that he
hadn't paid any attention to where the vessel was heading nor had he
bothered asking the crew where they were from. As he glanced towards the
town they were approaching, something about the harbor struck Kal as
familiar and he looked at it in surprise. It had a striking similarity
to his former hometown, yet it was different. Ten years had passed since
he'd last seen his hometown's harbor from sea. This harbor had a larger
dock area and some of the buildings he remembered were no longer
visible. Could this be the town he had left so many years ago? Kal
swallowed hard.
"Hey, Kal!" The captain's voice sounded angry. "Everyone here helps
docking the ship. Move it!"
Kal jerked around and nearly tripped over his own feet. Some of the
crew laughed. He gave them a twisted smile. Moments later, he was busy
tying down the sails. By midday the ship was tied at the dock and the
unloading began.
"No, it can't be Armand. It's just another port," he thought as he
stared at the docks before assisting the crew. He shook his head briefly
and then focused on his work, banishing all thoughts about his hometown.
As soon as all the barrels with salted fish were transferred onto
the dock, Kal was called into the captain's cabin. He was surprised to
receive pay for his three sennights of work and a job offer.
"Where are we?" Kal asked the captain after he had pocketed his
earnings.
"Armand," was the simple answer and Kal felt the blood drain from
his face.
"I will consider your offer to hire on permanently, but first I
have some unfinished business to attend to," Kal said and turned to
leave the captain's cabin.
"We'll leave for our next trip a sennight from today. If you decide
to sail with us, let me know within three days and then report for duty
the night before."
"Thank you." Kal bowed. He walked back to his sleeping place and
picked up his bag. He was back in Armand, his hometown. "Of all the
places on Makdiar, I had to end up back here," he muttered as he made
his way down the gangplank.
Kal walked along familiar streets for over a bell before he
realized in which direction he was heading. As he set foot in the street
that harbored his parents' house, he hesitated, debating with himself
whether or not to proceed. "I might as well find out now if they're
still unforgiving." Taking in a deep breath, he continued on.
The house looked just as he remembered it: reef grass grew over the
tiles on the roof, the fore garden had a single rosebush, and the rest
of it was various herbs. The blackberry bush he had loved so much as a
child still grew along the south side of the building. Two boys were
playing in the front yard. He was about to address them, when they
looked up and then hurried inside the house. He smiled. Kal thought
briefly of his younger sisters Keana, Kaylee, and Koryn and wondered if
they were still living with their parents. Kal walked up to the door and
knocked.
"Who's there?" a female voice asked. Kal smiled.
"It's Kalanu, mother," he answered. "May I come in?"
"We don't know anyone by the name of Kalanu." A harsh male voice
responded from inside. "Go away and don't come back!"
"Father --"
"I don't have a son by that name!"
"Father!"
"Begone!"
Kal dropped his chin to his chest and stared at the ground. He
briefly considered pleading with his father, but decided otherwise. It
wouldn't make a difference. As Kal stepped away from the house, he heard
his mother arguing with his father, but to no avail. "I should have
known better," he thought. "Father won't forgive me, ever. I could have
spared myself, and mother, the pain of returning." He wiped a lone tear
from his face.
Kal made his way back towards the docks. For a while, he considered
staying at the Harbor Inn, but then he remembered that just about every
sailor who didn't have family in town stayed there. Not wanting to
socialize with rowdy seamen and answer their questions or get involved
with one of the barmaids for the night, he decided to seek out the
Broken Barge, one of the better taverns in Armand and further away from
the docks.
It was close to nightfall when Kal opened the door of the tavern
and entered. The room was filled with people. He was searching for a
place to sit down when he noticed a man alone at a table. The man was
dressed in traveling clothing: brown pants, white tunic, and a
sleeveless, brown vest. His brown hair was shoulder-long, with bangs
that covered his eyebrows, but didn't hide his blue eyes. As Kal came
closer, he noticed the man wore the pendant of a bard. Kal swallowed
hard and tightened the grip on the bag he was holding. He closed his
eyes for a moment and thought of Simona.
"Sit down and join me," the man said and pointed at one of the
empty chairs. "My name is Tray."
"Thank you," Kal replied and sat down. "I am Kal."
"You look like you have a story to tell, Kal," Tray said and
gestured the barmaid to bring a tankard of ale.
"Why do you say that?" Kal looked directly at the bard.
"Everyone has a story to tell. I'm traveling to collect these
stories so they won't be forgotten. Many of the men here have shared
their adventures already. I also see you carry a bag containing a lyre,
yet you are no bard, nor do your hands know how to play the instrument.
Straight?"
Kal looked at his hands as if he hadn't seen them before. The ropes
on the ship had left their mark, as had the knife he'd been using to gut
fish. His hands still carried the smell of salted fish. He nodded.
"Would you care to share your story?" Tray pressed on.
Kal thought, "What do I have to lose?" He reached for the tankard
of ale the barmaid had placed in front of him, took several sips, and
continued his thoughts. "Father still harbors his grudge, which means I
probably won't be able to hire on next sennight. By then the captain
will have heard all about me and won't have anything to do with me. My
father will make sure no one will give me work here."
"I will share my story. It is not just my story; so many others are
part of it. I will need time to tell."
"Take your time," Tray encouraged him and then announced with a
loud voice, "This young man here is willing to share his story."
Within a mene the noise in the room quieted and everyone looked at
Kal. He picked up his tankard and drank more of his ale, then took a
deep breath and began to speak.
"I am Kalanu. I have a story to tell. I'm no bard, but I will do my
best. My last name? It's not important, not anymore. Not since my father
disowned me and threw me out of his house. That was a decade ago. I
haven't seen my family since.
"My hometown is Armand, this beautiful port right here by the
Valenfaer Ocean, where the Grenweir River finds the sea. My father was,
and probably still is, a fisherman, captain of the Bountiful Catch. I
was his only son and so he took me to sea with him from the moment I was
old enough to hold a knife and gut fish. I thought I was destined to
follow my father's footsteps and I made every effort to please him, but
it was never good enough. I wasn't the best in mending the nets, and I
wasn't the fastest in climbing to the lookout; in fact, I wasn't best in
anything, and I couldn't win any competition. Father saw this as a
failure and always let me know I had to do better.
"My father had one obsession, which was to find and kill a beast he
called Misting Blinder. The way he described it, the beast was the
length of ten fishing boats and blue in color. With one wave of its
tail, it could sink a ship, and when it opened its mouth, it could
swallow the entire catch contained in the largest net. The beast was
able to spray water in a way that it would blind the people on a ship
long enough for the creature to vanish into the depths of the ocean.
Father claimed that he had lost his catch more than once to this beast
of the sea. Neither I nor the crew could confirm his story. We hadn't
seen the beast.
"Inwardly, I laughed when father told the story of how he had first
laid eyes upon the beast, and so did just about every sailor in town. No
one else had ever seen such a creature. But things changed when a crew
of eight entered the tavern my father was in and told a similar story.
He organized a hunting party of three ships to search for the beast and
take it down. I was in my sixteenth year and tried to persuade my father
not to go. 'If the beast is truly as dangerous as you describe,' I
argued, 'then we should run from it.' Father called me a coward. I
didn't want to go, but father forced me.
"We had searched for over a fortnight and were nearly out of fresh
water when a creature surfaced next to our ship. It was the largest
creature I'd ever seen. Its eyes were tiny, only about the size of a
curled up cat, compared to the rest of the body; its mouth ran the
entire length of our ship. I stared at the creature and it stared back
at me. Then it sprayed water from the top of its head and I was soaking
wet, so was every other man standing nearby. It got their attention.
Suddenly, there was a lot of running and yelling. Everyone but me got
busy readying the large harpoon they had put on the ship for exactly
that moment. The other two ships turned and soon we had the beast
encircled. To me it looked like the creature was watching us with
amusement. It opened its mouth and that's when I noticed that the beast
had no teeth. Instead it had something hairlike hanging from the roof of
its mouth. It looked like it was laughing at me! It was then that I
realized this was no dangerous beast.
"I ran to my father and tried to stop him from pulling the trigger
on the ballista and prevent him from launching the harpoon, but it was
too late. Almost simultaneously, all three ships sent their harpoons
into the creature's back. As if to punish me, the creature shot me a
painful look, bucked like a horse that is throwing its rider, and dove
under, its back bleeding.
"When I saw the pain the beast was in, I took a knife and cut the
line attached to the harpoon so it dropped into the sea. In retrospect,
my reaction had probably been our salvation, because the creature took
the other two ships with it, and all but a few hands were lost. My
father, however, didn't see it as our saving, but as the reason for our
failure. He argued that if our ship had been attached as well, the beast
wouldn't have been able to pull the ships under. In his opinion, I had
failed him again, and so he disowned me, threw me out of the house, and
ran me out of town.
"I had no idea what to do next. I wouldn't be able to set foot in
my hometown for a long time; my father made sure of that. It hurt, not
to be able to say good-bye to my sisters. I miss them, especially Keana.
We were close ..." Kal's voice trailed off and for a moment was silent.
Wiping his nose on his sleeve, he continued.
"I decided to go to Magnus. At first I followed the river, hoping
that further up I'd find work, but it seemed that my father's influence
was greater than I had thought possible. I gave up and turned my back on
the river. I would have loved to travel by boat, but none of the sailors
or fishermen would give me passage in exchange for work. So I walked,
living off the land. I nearly starved before I found wild berries and
nuts at the edge of the forest. I didn't know how to set traps for
animals, start a fire, or cook; that was women's work, at least in my
father's eyes, and so I hadn't learned the skills my sisters had.
Eventually, I crossed paths with a traveling monk who taught me to set
traps, skin an animal, cook, and, most importantly, how to make a fire
without setting the forest aflame.
"I arrived in Magnus about a year after my departure from Armand. I
had learned to steal what I needed and made use of that in the city
until I found work with a smith named Nai. He told me I was too skinny
to work the hammer and anvil just yet, and so I spent two years tending
to the fire and polishing the swords, knives, and other tools he made.
"Many of Nai's customers were bards. I admired these people and
loved to listen to the stories they told and the songs they sang.
Whenever time permitted, I went to the marketplace, where I was sure I
could find a performing bard. It was on one of these outings that I saw
her, a beautiful black-haired girl, a student at the College of Bards.
She was at the place of punishment, with a whole group of students,
witnessing the hanging of a woman who had been accused of killing her
own child. Instead of watching the execution as I had intended, I
watched the girl. She seemed appalled and broke into tears after the
deed was done. It wasn't for another two years that I would come to find
out who the girl was.
"In the meantime, I continued to be Nai's apprentice. I had no
talent, and I knew it. I could barely fit a horse with new shoes. Why
Nai kept me, I never found out. Nai had a wonderful wife and they loved
each other. When she became pregnant after long years of being
childless, Nai was beside himself with joy and wished for a son. What he
got was a daughter, but not for long. Nai's wife died in childbirth, and
a sennight later the baby followed. Grief-stricken, Nai neglected his
duties and took to drinking.
"I tried to keep the smithy up, but without Nai's help there was
little I could do, and soon there were no more customers. Nai didn't
seem to care, so I packed my bags. I waited for Nai's return from his
latest drinking binge to tell him I was leaving, but he had a surprise
for me. Not only did he return sober from the tavern, he also brought a
black-haired young woman with him. Her lips were painted blue to match
her eyes and she wore the insignia of a bard. I couldn't believe my
eyes. It was the girl from the market: the one I hadn't been able to
forget since I had first laid eyes upon her two years earlier.
"Nai introduced her as Simona Molag and informed me that she'd be
traveling to Dargon and he intended to accompany her. He invited me to
travel with them. There was no doubt in my mind that I'd be joining
them, and I asked for our departure time.
"Simona answered that question. Her voice left a melody in my mind.
I barely slept that night. My mind was thinking of ways to make her
mine. Simona kept her distance though, and slowly our threesome turned
into heartfelt friendship. I found out soon enough that Simona was on a
mission. She had been separated from her mother and twin sister, Megan,
when she was only six years old and was searching for them. Our journey
was filled with obstacles. Every time Simona thought she would get some
information about the whereabouts of her mother and sister, she was
disappointed.
"It took us almost a year to travel from Magnus to Dargon. Simona
was close to giving up hope of ever finding her family when we spent the
night at Spirit's Haven, an inn in Dargon. May, the owner of this inn,
was able to tell Simona that her sister Megan was on her way to
Hawksbridge. She had lived at Spirit's Haven for several months with her
injured husband, Raphael. After a fight with her husband, Megan had left
with May's daughter to visit relatives.
"We continued our travels, this time knowing which direction to go.
Simona had been happy and we made good time despite the onset of winter.
We were somewhere in the Darst Range when we lost our way and arrived at
a tower in the middle of the forest. The place looked like a
battlefield. An old man and a young boy were dead. A cat sat on the old
man's chest; it seemed to cry. A bit further lay another man with a wolf
at his side. Sitting close by, with her back leaning against the tower,
was a red-haired woman, barely breathing. Simona ran to the woman's side
and cradled her in her arms, sobbing. She had found her sister. In the
last few menes of her life, Megan told her twin where she could find
their mother.
"Heartbroken, Simona cremated her sister as well as her sister's
husband and the other two dead people there. Neither Nai nor I were able
to ease her pain. We continued our journey to Hawksbridge, where
Simona's mother was supposed to live. For once we were lucky. When we
arrived in town, the local midwife Elena showed us the way, and we had
no problems finding Anna. Nai and I watched from afar as Simona met her
mother after nearly sixteen years.
"We spent the winter and spring in Hawksbridge, and Nai showed
quite some interest in Anna. Simona and I took to the woods on occasion;
however, most of the time, Simona set off alone. She carried with her a
bag of scrolls on which she documented her knowledge of a curse
affecting her family. Nai and I spent time fixing up Anna's house and
chopping firewood. My skills as a hunter hadn't really improved in all
the years, so Nai set the traps. I was happy, thinking I could live in a
town like Hawksbridge and settle down, maybe have a family. I was still
hoping that Simona would be mine one day, and with Nai showing so much
interest in Anna, that hope grew stronger each day. I -- we should have
never left Hawksbridge. I should have stopped her!"
Kal picked up his tankard of ale and emptied it halfway. His hand
reached for the belt in his bag and he pulled it out for everyone to
see. He stared at it for a moment and then placed it on the table in
front of him.
"Keep talking, I want to hear what happened next," someone in the
audience said.
"Continue on!"
"Straight, continue on!"
Kal took another sip of his ale and placed the tankard back on the
table next to the belt. His fingers stroked over the fine leather of the
belt before he rested them on the buckle. His voice quivered slightly as
he resumed his story.
"Simona insisted we take a trip to Northern Hope. She came back
from one of her solitary trips into the woods determined to leave her
mother's house. She wanted to find a mage to lift her family's curse.
Simona convinced Nai to stay behind with her mother and help her with
the harvest. She had wanted to be back before winter. And so we set out
to Northern Hope. For the first time since our arrival in Hawksbridge,
Simona donned the garments that identified her as a bard.
"I was thrilled. I got to spend several months with Simona, away
from prying eyes and awkward questions. I took my chances and succeeded.
Finally, the girl of my hopes and dreams was mine. In my mind I planned
ahead, planned for the time we'd be back in Hawksbridge. Nothing would
ever come between her and me. The trip to Northern Hope took a sennight
longer than anticipated; the closer we got to our destination, the more
accidents we experienced. We lost half of our food supply, Simona
slipped and slid halfway down the mountain, and I injured my ankle,
which slowed us down, but we still reached the town. Simona had
explained that she needed to find a powerful mage to help her lift the
family curse.
"Anyway, once we arrived in town, Simona found the mage Anarr. I
wasn't too impressed with him. He was conceited, arrogant, and certainly
wasn't able to help Simona. When we approached him for assistance, he
yelled at Simona. He brushed her off in a manner that would have forced
me to duel had I any skill with the sword. All I could do then was stand
back in frustration. Simona didn't give up and managed to actually talk
to him and he told her he'd try to help her after the town festival.
Anarr had been able to lift the curse from Northern Hope and the people
celebrated. Simona gave a wonderful performance at the festival. At the
inn where Anarr was staying he took Simona to his room and tried to lift
the curse, but he failed. So he asked her to accompany him to Kenna with
his hired hand Edmond. I wouldn't have stayed behind, even if he'd tried
to keep me away.
"Edmond seemed more concerned with a statue he was transporting and
the mule he was guiding than anything else. During our first days of
travel, Anarr spent all of his time with Simona, talking to her. He
brushed me off every time I tried to come closer. One of the nights, he
took Simona into the forest for another attempt to lift the curse. I
tried to follow, but Edmond held me back. I gave in, knowing that if I
ruined it for Simona, she might not forgive me. Nonetheless I felt
angry, frustrated, and most of all jealous. How would I know if Anarr
only had honorable intentions with my beloved? I didn't trust that mage,
but she needed his help. I prayed to Stevene that he would be successful
this time, but when I saw the two of them emerge from the forest, I knew
he had failed again. Worse, he looked all sweaty and frustrated and was
walking stiffly. I feared the worst and Simona wouldn't answer me. I
tried to comfort her that night, but she wouldn't let me. When I touched
her face, it was all wet. Hot anger rose in me.
"The following evening we arrived in Kenna. Anarr again only had a
snide remark for me and I was about to take him on, but Simona stopped
me. I think Anarr was trying to leave me behind, but Simona insisted I
come along. We left the next morning for Dargon. Anarr had booked
passage on a river barge for all of us. We boarded and seated ourselves
at the front of the boat. It was my first time back on a boat since my
father had thrown me out.
"Anarr again spent a lot of time with Simona and I spent my time
with the crew. It helped; I wasn't feeling quite as useless and jealous,
and I got to watch over her. Anarr tried for a third time to lift the
curse, but failed again. I was glad to see him leave the barge the next
day, but at the same time it hurt to see my beloved suffer. Once Anarr
had left, all sorts of mishaps befell our traveling companions on the
barge. I'll spare you the details. The day we arrived in Dargon, the
barge hit the causeway and broke in half. The causeway itself collapsed.
So many people died that day or were injured. Simona found out it had to
do with the curse Anarr had lifted off Northern Hope and the statue
Edmond had brought with him to Dargon. It had to be warded in order to
be safe and somehow the warding was gone.
"Dargon got its share of misfortune over the course of the next
couple of days. Anarr was nowhere in sight to lift the curse again.
Simona and I figured out where the statue was and decided to remove it
from Dargon to prevent further accidents and mishaps. We succeeded in
obtaining the statue as well as a sailboat and took off. I don't
remember how long we were at sea when we got into a storm. The wind kept
pushing us further away from Dargon and I worried that our food supply
would run out before we could reach land again. The storm got worse and
I was thinking it would be a good time to get rid of the statue and told
Simona. She said we needed to get even further away, but I felt we were
far enough away so Dargon would be safe from the statue's curse. It was
then that a huge wave washed over the boat and Simona and the statue
fell overboard."
Kal swallowed hard as he remembered his futile attempts to find
Simona and pull her back on board. It was as if the sea had mocked him
by showing him her face repeatedly, yet keeping her out of his reach. He
reached for his tankard and emptied it.
"How did you survive?" a voice from the audience asked. Kal looked
up, but couldn't identify the speaker.
"I don't know how long I drifted. The mast had broken and without
sail and oars I had no hope of making it back ashore. A fishing boat
found me and its crew were kind enough to take me onboard. After I had
somewhat recovered, I joined the crew until we arrived back here. I
debarked and went to my father's house, but found that even after a
decade, he still denies my existence."
"What will you do next?"
"I'm not sure," Kal replied. "I had hoped to hire on the ship that
found me, but I have doubts that the crew will still want me, once
everyone knows my story. My father's influence in this town may still be
as strong as it was a decade ago. There is also the matter of my friends
in Hawksbridge. They deserve to know what happened to Simona."
"Why don't you stay with us?" A blonde woman in a green dress
stepped forward and Kal's eyes went wide.
"Keana? Is it really you?"
"At least you still recognize your sister," Keana grinned and
embraced her brother. "Just know that not everyone here thinks like
father, and many men owe their lives to you. When you cut that rope you
freed the ship and the people on board were able to come back home. My
husband Jeffrey here owns the inn; his father is one of those men who
survived that hunt for the beast. You can stay with us as long as you
like! I know mother will be delighted and maybe in time father will,
too."
Kal smiled and let go of his sister's embrace. Tears of joy ran
down his face, but he barely noticed them. He turned to Tray.
"Might I ask you to write a letter for me? I'd like to let Nai and
Anna know what happened."
"I'll do better," Tray replied. "I will travel to Hawksbridge and
bring them the message myself. Do you know if Simona kept records? This
curse you mentioned interests me. I'd like to find out more about it."
"She had a bag of scrolls which she left with her mother. All her
other belongings are in this bag: her lyre and flute and a few other
items. Will you return them to her mother?"
"Most certainly."
"Thank you, Tray," Kal said, and as an afterthought he added. "You
may also want to look for Anarr. He may have some answers for you. He
talked for a long time with Simona. He was headed for Dargon to meet
Simona and me, but never showed up."
Kal placed the belt carefully back in the bag, tied it, and handed
it to Tray. As Tray took the bag with Simona's belongings, Kal felt a
gentle hand on his shoulder. He turned to look into his sister's smiling
face and thought, "Not all is lost; maybe I can rebuild my life here."
========================================================================
