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DargonZine Volume 23 Issue 01
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DargonZine Distributed: 04/03/10
Volume 23 Number 1 Circulation: 637
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Contents
Editorial Jon Evans
Unintended Consequences Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Janis 11, 1006-
Yuli 23, 1019
Spirit's Journey Home Rena Deutsch and Ober, 1017
and Mark Murray
========================================================================
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 23-1, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright 03 April, 2010 by
The Dargon Project, Inc. Editor: Jon Evans <thegodling@verizon.net>,
Assistant Editor: John White <john.white@DREXEL.EDU>.
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 Jon Evans
thegodling@verizon.net
We have an interesting pair of stories for this issue. Two veteran
writers, Dafydd and Rena, have been with us for a long time. One of
these stories was written under relative pressure: the looming deadline
of a writers' challenge we have turned into an annual tradition
coinciding with our Summit. The other story was nealry ten years in the
making, finalizing a series that saw its first episode published last
century! Two big extremes when it comes to writing time.
Writing is as writing does, so to speak. We can never tell when the
urge to write, or exactly what topic we are going to write about, will
come about. As amateur authors, we live by whim and fancy rather than
professional proliferation. Most of us have not learned to write on
demand, or focus our attentions on work that does not inspire us at the
moment -- we do have day jobs, families, school, and a myriad of other
distractions. Our ability, and desire, to produce writing is therefore
sporadic, and not generally prompted by the pressure of time.
Unintended Consequences, written by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr, actually was
written under that pressure. Is a tale that weaves throughout a variety
of past Dargon stories. The Summit Challenge we faced in 2008 was to
develop a story that leveraged actions, characters, and elements from a
selection of some of our best stories published in the past. Dafydd,
being the quintessential creator that he is, managed to incorporate
references to all ten of the stories that were in that list. This is a
feat of supreme brilliance, not lessened by the fact that several of
those ten stories were originally penned by him. He had only a few
months to create Unintended Consequences, and it is a lovely trip of
nostalgia and magic woven through the Dargon timeline.
Rena Deutch's story, Spirit's Journey Home, brings an end to her
and Mark Murray's long-running "Spirit" series. Contrary to Dafydd's
several-month-long writing window, Rena has had almost a decade to
create this piece. In finishing this chapter of Dargon's history, she
also allows one of its most famous magi, Annar, to gain some closure of
his own, and recant a curse he placed on a family bloodline many years
before. While Rena has now finished off this series, we have more of her
stories waiting in the wings, so don't think this will be the last you
hear from her!
As ever, we wish you good reading. Enjoy! -J
========================================================================
Unintended Consequences
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
John.White@Drexel.Edu
Janis 11, 1006 -- Yuli 23, 1019
Naia 30, 1014 (Ref 1)
Somewhere "on the other side of the continent from Baranur"
Detta and Taria hurried through the trees hand in hand, giddy with
the freedom of a late spring night. They came to a stop by a thick trunk
and leaned against the rough bark, breathing heavily and looking up at
the moonlight filtering through the leaves.
They sank down slowly to sit at the foot of the tree, shoulder to
shoulder, hand still in hand, their chemises shamelessly revealed by
their descent. They turned their eyes from the moon to each other. Detta
raised her other hand and touched Taria's cheek lightly. Taria leaned
forward, lips parted, eyes closing, waiting.
Suddenly, a loud squeaking came from above them. Both girls looked
up, startled. They couldn't see whatever was making the noise, but then
something fell from the branch above their heads, landing in Detta's
lap. She had expected an acorn or small branch dropped by the upset tree
rats above, but the object was larger and more solid. Startled, she
shrieked and leaped up, scrambling away from the foreign object.
Taria laughed at her friend's fright, and caught the thing
catapulted from Detta's lap. She found herself holding a small statuette
of a tree rat with shiny, almost glowing eyes and a purple streak from
the crown of its head to the tip of its fully purple, fluffy tail.
Detta darted back over to her friend's side and peered cautiously
at the object in Taria's hands. The figurine was so well carved, so
lifelike, that she forgot her fear and reached out to touch it. The
statuette was cool and hard, not warm and soft as it appeared, but she
couldnít quite tell what it was made of.
"He's darling, Taria, but how did he get up there?" she asked.
"I don't know, Detta. Tree rats don't thieve like magpies, do
they?"
"Don't think so. Are you going to keep him?"
"Why not? And since he came to my arms from the tree, I'll call him
Brichal."
The two petted at and cooed over the statuette as they walked
slowly back home. In the limbs of the tree they'd sat under, a mother
tree rat was briefly confused by the absence of her mate and her child.
Fortunately, in the way of animal-kind, she soon forgot about such
abstract matters and returned to what was important -- survival.
A year and a third Lots of places between there and a different
there
Brichal became a very well traveled tree rat statuette. He was
traded for affection, then favors, then goods, going from woman to woman
to man to man, leaving his home in the lands Prince Bastien once ruled
and moving ever northwards. His name went with him, though his origin
was very quickly forgotten.
He eventually came into the hands of a soldier who went to war in a
land even further north. The war didn't go as well as it might have, and
the soldier found himself cut off from his fellows and nearly as lost as
poor little Brichal.
Seber 14, 1015 (Ref 2)
Baranur, maybe, more or less
Valan hadn't wanted to engage the group of villagers and the
stranger who sat cooking in their midst. The locals were no threat, all
obviously much the worse for the wear of the war that had brought Valan
and his fellow soldiers so far from their home in Beinison. The
stranger, for all that he looked grizzled and old, had a crafty air
about him. One man against five -- long odds, but Valan had the idea
that the stew cook might just come out on top of the confrontation.
Valan's commander -- rank bought by family, not skill -- had the
wisdom of a fool, which was just about the only reason they were still
alive, truth to tell. They had caught a goose by dumb luck, but not one
of the five knew how cook one, even if they'd been able to start a fire.
Which was why they'd approached, coats turned, weapons left behind, to
offer their prize to the locals.
It had been a good thing to do: the stone stew had been far better
than any of them, locals and former invaders alike, had ever expected.
The stew had done more than fill bellies too. Valan watched as two of
his fellow soldiers, Lanin and Rontil, offered to help with some repairs
the locals needed, which did as much to ease the tensions between them
as the goose had.
Valan also watched the children, thinking of his own son and
daughter back at home. He knew he'd never see them again -- failure had
no place in the empire. He knew that Rontil for sure, and maybe Lanin,
wanted to go native and find a life in this kingdom they'd invaded, but
Valan couldn't see himself doing that either. If only he didn't get
seasick in the bathtub, he could be a sailor ...
"That's a neat tree rat. Did you carve it yourself?"
Valan looked up from where he was running his hands nervously over
the little statuette he'd picked up to give to his son. The boy that had
brought leeks to the stew man -- they'd been watching the locals for
some time now -- was standing in front of him staring at the
purple-striped figurine.
"No, son," Valan said. "No, I bought this from a ... a nice woman
back home. Before I came up here."
"Troad. That's my name. Home? Where's that?" the boy asked.
"Beini ... south, son ... ah, Troad. South. Long way thataway."
"Oh. I live here. Alone. Can I pet it too?"
Valan held out the statuette to the boy, who stroked it like it was
alive. The grin on Troad's face reminded him so much of Rintan, his own
son, that he had to fight to keep from grabbing the boy and hugging him.
When he had a little better control of himself, he said, "Here,
Troad, why don't you take Brichal and give him a home. I think he'll
like it here, don't you?" Standing suddenly, he put the statuette into
the boy's hands and turned away.
"Gee, thanks, mister! I'll take good care of him, really. You can
visit Brichal any time you want to, too! Bye!" Valan was already walking
away.
Not quite another year
That "different there" to Dargon
Troad's life wasn't much better with his tree rat friend Brichal
than it had been before the stew man and the other men in the strange
clothes had come and gone, but it wasn't much worse, either. The
aftermath of war is never pretty, and the Baranur-Beinison conflict had
hit parts of the kingdom worse than other parts. Eventually, any
prosperous land will do what it can to fix what it can, and help did
eventually come to Troad's village.
Troad was gone by then, though. He'd gotten the idea that he could
go somewhere else, just like the stew man, just like the guys from the
south. Well most of them, since one had ended up staying. Not Troad,
though. Once spring returned, after learning what he could from Rontil
about living off the land, Troad went north.
Yuli 8, 1016 (Ref 3)
Dargon Harbor
Arlin Tran walked into the captain's cabin of his new ship, the
Dame Sarina, like a sultan walking into his harem, or a newly crowned
king walking into his throne room. He'd had to restrain himself long
enough to watch the former captain and owner, Beck Sephlin, leave --
honoring the man's time with and devotion to his ship, not worrying
whether the old man would rescind the deal, of course -- but once the
dory was away, Arlin had dashed to the door of his new quarters, the
heart of his new home.
The cabin wasn't nearly as grand as the fantasies Arlin was seeing
-- spare, utilitarian, neat, not a bit of ornate trim or excess polished
brass to be seen -- but it was everything that Arlin had ever wanted so
he didn't mind. He had slaved and saved, learning the ropes --
literally! -- while stowing money away, and finally he owned his own
ship.
So what if the old, but still sea-worthy freighter wasn't sleek,
fast, or shiny-new? It was broken in, it was well seasoned, it almost
had a life and personality of its own, like it could sail itself home if
it needed to. Arlin wasn't going to turn pirate or anything. He was
going to be a rich sea captain -- eventually, once he'd established that
he could run this ship just as well as Captain Sephlin had and could
take over the old man's standard runs.
Arlin slipped back out on deck to make sure that his first command
-- to set sail -- was being carried out. He watched the docks of Dargon
slip away, feeling the rising wind on his face, not the least worried
about the storm clouds brewing up before them. Signaling his pleasure to
his new first mate, he returned to his cabin.
He saw the small, purple-striped tree rat statuette on the table
that had been folded down from the wall sometime between when he'd left
and returned, at the same time that he heard the young voice say, "Hi,
I'm Troad. Are we sailing? I'm going to be a sailor! Who are you?"
Arlin turned and saw the tow-headed boy sitting on his bed,
grinning like a vacant fool. A stowaway! Now, what was he supposed to do
about stowaways?
Sy 20, 1016
Oddly-charted waters of the Valenfaer Ocean
"Did you find the chart, boy?"
I ran up to Captain Arlin, a rolled chart under my arm. Cabin Boy
Troad, that's me! "Yessir, sir. Here it is."
The deck moved unnaturally under my feet. I don't mean that it's
moving was unnatural, but that the way it moved was unnatural. Not that
I knew a lot about what was natural and unnatural on the ocean or
anything, but, well, I just had a feeling about it this time. Sure, I'd
only been on board for just more than a month. Even so, I'd gotten a
good idea of what a ship being tossed around by a storm felt like on
that very first day. The Dame Sarina, Captain Arlin's new ship, had
sailed out of Dargon Harbor and into a "slight bit of weather" --
accordin' to First Mate Deto, anyhow -- that'd had both me and the
Captain sick as dogs all over his brand new cabin within menes of
clearing the breakwater.
The captain unrolled the chart across his table. I looked under his
arm, not being tall enough yet to look over his shoulder, and tried to
figure out how anyone could tell what all those lines and arrows and
blotches meant. We'd both learned how to weather a storm over the past
month, so the rolling deck wasn't so bad, but my hand was still clutched
tightly around Brichal, my tree rat statuette, who was stowed safely in
the belly pocket of my shirt.
Lightning flashed and thunder boomed at almost the same times as
Captain Arlin stared at the chart. I knew what was around us -- a whole
lot of nothin' besides water under us, water above us in the clouds, and
about to be all around us when the rain finally let go. Land had last
been sighted two days past, but the captain had still been able to
follow where we were -- or were supposed to be -- for two more charts,
dotting a line in charcoal across the inked vellum that didn't look all
that different than this one did except the lines and arrows and
splotches were in different places.
Another flash and rumble came, then another and another, then a
fourth one that was sort of purple instead of bright white. There wasn't
any charcoal on this chart yet, but Captain Arlin pointed to a funny
mark in the middle of a splotch near one edge of the chart. It wasn't
like any other mark I'd seen on any of the charts, or the scraps of
vellum that the captain was teaching me to read with.
"Now, I wonder what Captain Sephlin meant by this? Troad, fetch me
the Captain's Secrets book that's under the bed -- maybe he wrote it
down in there ..."
I went for the book, but before I got to the bed the ship started
spinning. First stem to stern, which was weird enough, like we were
caught in a huge eddy ... "malestorm" the captain called it, or
something like that. But when it started to spin topmast over keel,
squashing me to the deck and making me dizzy like that first day asea, I
knew we were in trouble ... and not just because of the biscuits and
gravy that were coming the wrong way through my mouth and all over the
room.
Janis 14, 1006 (Ref 4)
Barony of Fennell, Duchy Dargon, Baranur
"This way, Troad. I can hear people over here."
Arlin, former captain of the shipwrecked Dame Sarina, led the only
survivor of said wreck, his stowaway-cum-cabin boy Troad, towards the
sounds coming through the trees. They had been traveling for days,
perhaps even a sennight, from the coast through the frigid forest,
looking for a town, village, a temporary camp, mostly just people and
help. That last storm, it hadn't been natural in any way. The purple
lightning, the spinning ship, the weird feeling of coming loose from the
world and suddenly being slammed back down into it ... he didn't know
what it meant but it couldn't have been good. Then losing his ship, his
whole crew -- that had been even worse.
The sounds resolved themselves into what was clearly a battle, and
Arlin wondered if he was cursed. His superstitious sailor's nature
briefly sought to blame the boy, but there was no way that Troad --
innocent, trusting, grinning, smart Troad, with his little tree rat
figurine he called Brichal -- could be bad luck.
They reached the edge of the trees and found a melee in full fury.
Armored men in surcoats swatted at each other with maces and swords,
while a couple of boys and a young woman were being watched over by a
frowning, portly, older man who bemoaned how everyone was tearing up his
front yard. Just about everyone was bloody, even a few of the
bystanders.
Arlin thought the symbols on the surcoats looked familiar, and he
concentrated on trying to remember instead of watching the battle.
Troad, on the other hand, was making amazed sounds at what was probably
his first look at combat first hand. No one was dead yet, and Arlin
briefly wondered just how exciting the boy would find that aspect of the
reality of battle.
As if the thought had summoned the deed, people started to fall.
Soldiers, knights, the noble, distinguished by the decorations they
wore, all died the same. Arlin heard Troad whispering, "Get up, get up,
it's his turn to die now." The increasing desperation in the boy's voice
was increasing his volume as well, and Arlin finally said, "Hush, now,
Troad. Let's wait until this is over before we introduce ourselves,
straight?" When the boy turned away and hugged him, Arlin just hugged
back and continued watching.
Finally, it was over. One last man fell after a sorely fought duel,
and the young woman raced over to the keeling victor shouting, "Father!"
Arlin heard another man speaking to the boys mention Sir Jarek, and
suddenly he knew. But it was impossible. He'd heard stories from his
father, who had served in Fennell Keep, about the perfidy of Sir Jarek
that had been thwarted by the Baron Dorja.
"Come, Troad," Arlin said, getting to his feet. "Let's introduce
ourselves to Baron Dorja Fennell." Who, he thought, had dueled and killed
Sir Jarek all the way back in the year 1006!
Seven years, from 1006 to 1013
Mostly in the Barony of Fennell, Duchy Dargon, Baranur
Troad and Arlin, displaced in time, made the best of their lot with
the kind intercession of Baron Dorja, who took them into his service.
Both learned a new way of life and did their best to adjust to their new
time. Troad had an easier task there, having known little more than his
own village before being whisked into the past. Arlin, however, knew
more of the events of the years that were happening once again, and so
had to struggle harder with himself not to try to change that history.
When the ducal levy came and Troad was chosen to go, Arlin bade his
stowaway friend a fond fare well, hoping that the wish would be true,
and the coming war would leave the young man in peace.
Seber 24, 1013 (Ref 5)
Shipbrook Keep, Duchy of Dargon, Baranur
Troad shifted his shoulders, settling his armor more comfortably as
he marched with the rest of the troop back to the docks and the ship
they had sailed in on. He couldn't believe that it had been seven long
years since the shipwreck that had ended his seafaring career, not to
mentioned stranding him out of his proper time.
Arlin, once his captain and friend, then his mentor, teacher, and
still friend, had tried to explain it to him, but Troad didn't really
understand it. Neither of them knew why it had happened, but the reality
was undeniable: somehow time had flowed backwards. Troad had also
finally realized that the war that had wrecked his life, killed his
parents and those of many of his friends, hadn't yet happened.
Arlin was still in Fennell serving the son of the Baron who had
taken them both in seven years ago and made them part of his household.
They had both received training at arms and settled into life there.
Then, when Duke Dargon and the Count of Connall had come raising forces
to march against the renegade Shipbrook, the baron had assigned Troad to
the levy. The trip by ship to Fennell Harbor had gone well, for all that
Troad had spent most of it looking worriedly at the sky, dreading the
advent of every dark cloud that came over the horizon. They'd landed
safely, marched to the gates ... and ended up not being needed. Count
Luthias, Duke Clifton, and the castellan Michee-ah, or something like
that, had essentially battled the barons Shipbrook and Oleran
one-on-one, leaving the soldiers out of it. Well, at least Troad knew he
could have held his own -- Baron Fennell's trainers were nothing if not
thorough.
The gangplank loomed, and Troad felt in his belt pouch for his good
luck charm. Brichal was still there, even if it was two years before a
soldier that hadn't yet invaded had given it to his younger self. The
ship was sailing for Dargon without its supercargo -- the high nobles
had gone on ahead by the agency of the spooky Marcellon. Troad wished
he'd had the guts to ask the high mage about traveling in time, but as
friendly as the old man had seemed despite his uncanny air, he had
surely had more important things to think about.
Troad stepped onto the deck and immediately looked to the horizon,
searching for dark clouds. He hoped the trip to Dargon was as uneventful
as everything else had been since leaving Fennell .
A month, 1013
Shipbrook to Dargon
Troad got his wish, and the ship that took him to Dargon made it
there safely. The troops that the duke had called up and taken north
were then released from the levy since the city had not yet seen battle
and it could not afford to keep a standing army idle while the enemy
made their way north. Luckily, there were plenty of jobs waiting the
able-bodied men and women. Troad was soon a member of the Town Guard, a
job that almost immediately provided all the excitement he could ever
want.
Ober 24, 1013 (Ref 6)
The streets and alleys of Dargon
Troad ran, anger propelling him as much as the desire to catch the
thief he and his fellow Town Guard were chasing, especially since the
victim of the thief had been Troad himself. His second day with the
city's guard hadn't gone well at all, and having his purse snatched
wasn't helping!
If Troad's partner Navan hadn't been a native, his hard-earned pay,
not to mention his tree rat Brichal, would be gone forever. As it was,
he was running and darting and dodging as hard and fast as ever he had
under Baron Fennell 's trainers, doing his best to keep up with Navan,
whose shortcuts and hard turns were at least as wily as the thief they
chased. Two other guards had joined the chase as they passed their
stations, and the third set they'd passed had gone a totally different
way to cut the runner off.
A crash from up ahead drew Troad's attention from his partner's
maneuvers. The thief had crashed into an almsbox by a doorway. Coins and
other debris rained down at his feet, and he slipped slightly allowing
Troad and his fellow guards to close in slightly. Unfortunately, he
recovered and raced on, but Troad took warning from the mistake and
stepped as carefully through the ruins as he could and still maintain
his pace.
The chase continued, taking Troad past more of the city than he'd
seen yet, either on his latest venture there, or the one that he'd had
seven years ago, three years in the future. Navan had narrowed the gap
between criminal and justice by half by the time that a final turn
brought the runner up against a wall of guards and what coins on the
ground couldn't do, that blockade managed -- the thief crashed to the
ground. Troad made sure to retrieve his pouch and Brichal before joining
in on some street justice.
Three years
The city of Dargon
War finally came to Dargon, and the levy was called up again. Troad
fought for the duke and the king, and the southern enemy was pushed
back.
Troad returned to the Town Guard once the war was over, spending
two years in the ranks before taking his leave. He was guarding the
warehouses of the Fifth I for better pay than he'd ever earned when his
life changed once again.
Nober 6-13, 1016 (Ref 7)
Dargon and environs
Tristyn, one of Sir Westfahler's guards, whistled when he saw
Dargon for the first time as he escorted Sergeant Jenna, once a fellow
guard, to her new post with the duke. He'd grown up in the small holding
of Westfahler, and the big city that was the ducal seat awed him.
Jenna laughed and said, "Country hick! Don't let them see how
dazzled you are, Tristyn, or they'll have you stripped of every Bit --
and probably your armor, weapons, and clothes! -- in a split mene."
"Tell me you're not just as impressed, Jenna! You're no more
sophisticated than I, and you know it," Tristyn said.
"Maybe, but at least I know how to look iced about it!"
Tristyn laughed at that, but took the sergeant's advice. He laughed
long and hard, though, when Jenna saw that bridge-thing over the
enormous river and cut off her own whistle in mid-blow.
Tristyn and Troad met at the bar of the Inn of the Panther when
they both walked up and ordered ale at the same time. They looked at
each other and found something utterly fascinating in each others' eyes.
Their ale was delivered, paid for, and drunk without a single waver of
their locked gazes.
Jenna hugged Tristyn while Troad stood off to one side, somewhat
nervous and feeling extraneous. "Take care, sergeant," Tristyn said,
choking up slightly at finally saying goodbye to his very good friend.
"You too, Tristyn. And good luck with your new man, there. He looks
quite handsome. I'm sure Barros would be happy for you."
Tristyn hugged Jenna again, then stepped back. "I'll take your best
wishes back to Sir Westfahler, sergeant. And I'm looking forward to your
return home."
Jenna saluted with a smile, and waved to Troad before turning and
walking away to her duties at Dargon Keep.
Troad urged his horse forward when the pathway widened enough and
said, "Have we entered the dangerous part of the forest yet, Tristyn?"
"Actually, we passed the first circle about half a day back,
Troad."
"Circle?" Troad asked. "Oh right, those marks on the map. Right.
What are they again?"
Tristyn looked fondly at Troad, and said, "Mysterious magic, love.
Bubbles of weirdness that come to life and then fade away on their own
schedule. Not always dangerous, but it's better to be safe than sorry
since they don't come with signs listing their effects. Best to stay
well away from them, which is why this path is so well maintained and
marked."
Troad looked around at the wide, sunny path, unconsciously drawing
closer to Tristyn. He couldn't decide whether he really wanted to see
one of those bubbles or not.
The storm came up suddenly, clouds boiling up from nowhere and
turning a sunny late fall afternoon into a windy, gloomy nightmare.
Troad and Tristyn rode faster and faster, hoping to find shelter of some
kind, but only succeeded in losing the trail in the darkened forest.
If they hadn't slowed their headlong rush out of necessity -- lack
of visibility combined with low-hanging branches meant they needed to
take more care as they rode -- the disaster would have been far worse.
Lightning began to crash down around them, spooking their horses not to
mention themselves.
A flash and boom, a branch falling at the hooves of Troad's horse,
and the young man was on the ground. Tristyn scooped him up as another
crash made the riderless horse veer away, right into another flash. Both
men watched as the flash turned from white to deep turquoise, then
flared yellow before fading to a sickly green.
The storm fled as suddenly as it had arrived, and sunlight flooded
the forest in what seemed like barely a mene. There was no sign of
Troad's horse or the tree that had halted its headlong dash.
Troad grasped Tristyn's waist and laid his head against the man's
broad back. Tristyn heard Troad sigh, "Brichal's gone," as they rode
away from the weird storm damage.
Leaves moved moments after the horse and its two riders vanished
between the trees. A naked young man sat up looking bewildered. His eyes
were purple, and he had a purple stripe down the middle of his hair and,
in fact, all the way down his back. He held an object in his hand -- a
figurine of a horse fully equipped with tack.
The next few months
Duchy of Dargon
Brichal sat naked in wet leaves, poked by broken branches, a
strange object clutched in his hand. Familiar scents of greenery
comforted him somewhat, though he didn't know why. Everything around him
was strange, yet strangely familiar. Strangest of all was his own body,
so totally unfamiliar, yet so right.
The young man stood, wobbling only slightly though he had never
before stood on only two legs. He took a few halting steps, swaying
slightly and bracing himself against tree trunks as he went. He emerged
onto a path and looked vacantly in both directions. He looked up, a
brief longing for the high branches fading away before a growing desire
to go toward the setting sun.
Luckily for Brichal, the folk who lived in the forest took him for
mad rather than dangerous when he came across them. He learned to speak
very quickly, almost as if he wasn't learning the language but how to
use what he already knew. Civilization came almost as easily, if only to
a point -- he knew how to use a spoon and knife, for example, but he
wasn't adept at casual conversation.
He wandered across the northern part of the Duchy of Dargon,
sometimes going west, sometimes north, sometimes south or east,
following something within him that led him on without letting him know
what he chased. He stayed away from villages and cities for a long time,
fearful of being among so many people, but eventually his inner goad
drove him into the city of Dargon.
Sy 11, 1017 (Ref 8)
City of Dargon
Heidi watched Willis and Deserae as she did her job at the Inn of
the Serpent. Poor Deserae with her scarred face seemed to finally have
found herself a good man -- as strange as Willis was at times, he seemed
to truly care for Ballard's daughter, even if he did insist on calling
her Maura.
Heidi sighed wistfully as she wiped down a table. She was young and
pretty enough to get more than her share of attention from the patrons
of the Serpent, but aside from a few overly hopeful, or overly sad,
usually very young men, most of her admirers knew that the limits of
that attention only rarely extended more than an evening in the taproom,
or a bell or two upstairs. She wondered whether she'd ever find someone
like Willis.
Heidi took a pail of slops from the kitchen into the alley behind
the inn. She tossed the contents away, and then jumped when she heard a
sneeze from behind her. She whirled, pail held ready as a weapon, only
to find herself confronting a sad, slight, bedraggled young man with the
strangest purple streak in his hair. The fellow was crouched against the
wall, head down, sniffling softly more from a stuffy head than sadness,
Heidi thought.
She set her pail down and slowly walked over to the young man, as
carefully as she might a frightened dog. "Hey there, are you hurt?" she
asked in a caring voice.
The fellow looked up at her, revealing startlingly purple eyes to
go with his streaked hair. He stared at her for a moment, then shook his
head.
"Well, that's good, 'cause I'm no healer," Heidi said, smiling
wide. "So, what's your name? What are you doing back here?"
The man continued to stare at her. She thought he wasn't going to
answer, but finally, he said, "Brichal. I'm Brichal. Where's here?"
Heidi had reached Brichal's side by then. The young man hadn't
flinched as she approached, just continued to stare with a disconcerting
directness. She noticed that he hadn't once ogled her on-display charms
either. She said, "Here is an alley behind the Inn of the Serpent in
Dargon." Brichal's stare didn't change. "No connections, eh? Must be
lost, then. I wonder what it is about the Serpent that draws strays? No
matter. Come on, let's get you cleaned up and ship shape."
She reached down and drew Brichal to his feet by one arm, tsking
when she saw the state of the rags he was almost wearing. All stretched
out and standing, instead of crouched into a ball, young Brichal was
something to look at under the grime and rags. She started moving toward
the kitchen door, pulling Brichal gently along by that arm grip,
wondering whether maybe she'd found her own Willis.
Melrin 4, 1018 (Ref 9)
The Madenee Manor House, Barony Madenee, Duchy Dargon, Baranur
Brichal helped Anliv and Lenna roll the dead body of the nasty
Haian in the carpet. He had come a long way, in a lot of ways, since
that alley behind the Inn of the Serpent almost a year ago, but he knew
he still had a long way to go.
Heidi had been very nice, even when her obvious hopes about his
sexual interest had been dashed. She'd helped him get cleaned up, then
get a job at the Inn -- pot boy wasn't glamorous, but it gave him a
room, food, and some coin every now and then. It also gave him an
opportunity to get used to being around so many people, which slowly
wore away at the strangeness he seemed to project to all who met him.
Brichal had learned much from Heidi and the others at the Serpent,
but there was still much he didn't know about himself. Where had he come
from? How had he arrived at that wet forest glade? He knew a slew of
names -- Taria, Valan, Troad, more -- but not who those people were. He
did know his father's name, Sirnon, but nothing more about the man.
At Lenna's command, the three of them lifted the rolled carpet and
walked from the room. The weight wasn't significant, but what had
happened over the past few bells did weigh on his mind. He'd enjoyed
being one of the baron's cowherds, and the party the night before at the
lodge had been a nice bonus to his regular pay. But that nasty man
breaking in and accusing the very nice Maurev of cheating on the baron
had been disconcerting, most especially when, had the party not been
interrupted, Brichal might well have been helping the baron 'cheat' on
the baroness. Then that cross country ride in the dead of night,
followed by the little charade in the baroness' bedroom, culminating in
a bloody body and a bloody rug, were easily enough to get him thinking
about a change of career.
After all, cows were pretty smelly.
Summer, 1018 Dargon
Smelly cows and a dead horse thief had done almost as much to push
Brichal out of Madenee as the divining rod of his need to find --
whatever he was seeking. Following the draw, he took to wandering again,
which was no longer quite as easy as it had been before he'd been
civilized by his stay in Dargon. Now he needed jobs to take him from
here to there, since a growing sense of self worth no longer let him
merely exist, beggar-like, a mad wanderer kept alive by the charity of
strangers.
Unskilled labor was easy to come by, fortunately -- it took no
great learning to mend a fence or dig an irrigation ditch, or even to
chop a tree beyond knowing where to stand when it fell. He also seemed
to have an uncanny way with animals, so herding sheep or driving cattle,
which weren't quite so smelly when on the move, came easily to him.
If only he could find jobs that took him in the same direction as
he felt the need to go at any given moment, he would almost be content
with his strange lot.
Seber 14, 1018 (Ref 10)
City of Dargon, Baranur
Brichal sat on the driver's bench of his wagon and thought that
horses didn't smell all that good either, nor was the view from where he
was all that appealing. He'd eventually returned to the city after
leaving Baron Madenee's service, following the pull in his head, when
the farmer he'd last worked for had put him in touch with a merchant in
town. Unfortunately, that pull was now trying to draw him south, and he
was pledged to the merchant for another month of wagon-driving.
He looked around at the busy streets of Dargon, taking note of the
people walking back and forth. He envied those people their knowledge of
themselves, their understanding of their origins and the path of their
futures. Why, even the shadow boy urchins, like that one with the funny
rag tied to his shoulders, probably knew more about himself than Brichal
did.
Wait, why was that boy ...? "Hey, move!" Brichal shouted in a
gruff, startled voice as the shadow boy calmly walked out into the
street, directly in front of his horse. Brichal clearly saw the boy turn
his head, acknowledge the approaching horse and wagon, and then turn his
head away again as if it didn't mean anything to him.
Brichal tried to pull back on the reins, but it was too late. He
braced himself as the horse smashed into the boy, knocking him across
the street, then stumbled and fell, whinnying horribly and wrenching the
shafts until the yoke broke and with it, one of the wagon's wheels.
Brichal all but fell out of the driver's seat, cushioned in his
fall by the beans spilling out of the wagon's bed. He stumbled to his
feet and looked at the wagon, then looked at the cargo, and back at the
wagon again. Dried beans probably wouldn't be ruined by contact with
Dargon's not-too-filthy streets, but who was going to fix the wagon? And
then reload the beans?
"Hey!" Brichal again shouted, this time at the bystanders who were
poking at his beans speculatively. "Get out of here! Go! Scat!" He
turned to see a flash of blue from where a strangely cowled man knelt by
the fallen horse. Brichal was sure the beast had broken a leg in the
fall, but it was struggling to rise even as the man beside it got easily
to his feet. "You, what are ...?" he started to shout, but then the man
turned to face him, and Brichal saw only impenetrable darkness within
that cowl and he shut up.
The weird man turned and walked away even as the horse reached its
hooves. Brichal looked around once more, wondered whether a broken
wheel, spilled beans, miraculously healed horse, and even that poor
child, was worth the meager pay he wouldn't see until the end of his
service to the merchant. A moment's thought was all it took -- that, and
the magically obscured cowl -- to make him decide it wasn't.
Brichal slipped into the crowd and walked away from the accident
even as a Town Guard wandered by and started asking questions. Brichal
decided it was time to follow his inner compass ... after he washed the
dye out of his hair, of course.
Yule 2, 1019
A gypsy fair, not far south of the city of Dargon, Baranur
Brichal's purple eyes were wide as he stared at the tray of jagged
crystals that were sparkling in the center of Madame Zeefra's table. He
found the trappings of the seer around him to be reassuring in some way,
as if he might have finally come to the right place. He had spent more
months wandering around chasing the lure in his mind before finally
deciding to try to find answers elsewhere. His options had been
limitless, especially in the city of Dargon that seemed to attract seers
and soothsayers like rotten fruit draws flies, but ultimately futile.
He'd heard the name of the gypsy Madame Zeefra from many sources, and
when word had come that the caravan she traveled with was near, he had
sought her out.
Madame Zeefra's tent had not been hard to find at the gypsy fair.
Brichal expected to wait in line for the seer's time, but there was no
one waiting outside when he walked up. Just as he'd reached for the tent
flap, it had opened and an intent young man had come rushing out, and
expression of purpose on his face. Brichal stepped aside, and the man
excused himself before hurrying away, seemingly having found what he'd
sought in the tent. Brichal hoped for the same luck.
The dark-haired woman, bedecked with shimmering clothes and
jangling jewelry who sat on the other side of the table finally looked
up from the sticks she had thrown out of an ornately decorated jar.
She'd had trouble deciding on her divination method, but that had only
strengthened Brichal's faith in her talents.
There was a strange smile on her young/old face, and she said,
"This is very portentous, and very curious that you would come here just
when you did. I can tell you exactly what you need to do to find every
answer you seek, and all you need do is listen well."
Brichal leaned forward eagerly. He'd been afraid he wouldn't be
able to meet her price, despite everyone telling him that Madame Zeefra
was the most fair, and most skilled, oracle around. "I'm listening, my
lady," he said.
"Very good, Brichal Sirnon's-son. You must seek out ..."
Yuli 23, 1019 (Ref 11)
City of Dargon, Baranur
Brichal had returned to Dargon, following the advice of Madame
Zeefra and the pull of his inner compass. Every street he walked, every
turn he made, the pull grew stronger, and when he reached the door of
the bar he had been told to seek out, he found that the pull within him
was so strong it almost dragged him bodily into the taproom.
He walked into the Rogue and Quiver about halfway between eighth
and ninth bell and crossed the room, drawn directly to the table at the
back where an old man and that same young man he'd met outside Madame
Zeefra's tent were sitting. He strode up to the table, looked at the old
man, the wizard Tasrein as it had to be, and said, "I'm Brichal
Sirnonson, and Madame Zeefra said you could tell me who ... and what ...
I am."
The young man's eyebrows went up in surprise, and the cat's eyes
almost seemed to pop out of his head. He heard the same word doubled,
almost as if both had spoken it. "Sirnon?" they whispered.
The wizard stared at Brichal intently for a few moments, and then
he sighed resignedly. "This was certainly a consequence I never
considered," he said before covering his eyes with his hand and letting
out a sigh that was almost a groan.
Bibliography:
Ref 1 - co-existing with the flashback tale in A Fatherís Gift
Ref 2 - Stew a la Gundi
Ref 3 - Beckís Next
Ref 4 - A Matter of Honor, Part 3
Ref 5 - Trial by Fire, Part 3
Ref 6 - Talisman Chapter 10, Part 3
Ref 7 - subsequent to Born Leader
Ref 8 - Surfacing
Ref 9 - Ballad of the Potter and the Horsethief
Ref 10 - Fears
Ref 11 - just after A Fatherís Gift
========================================================================
Spirits Journey Home
By Rena Deutsch and Mark A. Murray
Luv2rite@dargonzine.com and Mark@rhillai.com
Ober, 1017
I am a warrior. It's the legacy that my father gave to me. Standing
here in this hard and cold tower, I could only wonder if it would be the
legacy that died with me.
The thick log walls of the room seemed more of a stout prison wall
than a protector from the elements. The windows were small and a metal
bar ran through the middle of them. A stone wall built with old,
chiseled blocks started the tower at one end of the room. Stairs
spiraled upward in a long sweeping arc. There seemed to be no way out up
there.
On the opposite end of the room, a doorway led to the main entrance
room. There in that room, a group of warriors stood poised to attack.
But they were no ordinary warriors.
"Dopkalfar!" my mind screamed. They were a mythical race found in
tales to frighten children, and I was looking at a group of them through
the doorway. Legends told of a tall race with dark hair, dark eyes and a
savage blood lust. And indeed, they were tall with dark hair and a
darker complexion than most. I hoped that was where the truth to the
legends ended.
"Dopkalfar," I thought again. My pulse throbbed just above my
temple. The sweat in my hand gathered in small droplets. I had trouble
believing it. A race that lived forever and supposedly ate people for
breakfast. Some people say, a Dopkalfar could make a whole town
disappear with the wave of his hand. The warriors in the entrance room
stood poised to kill us all.
Lylle, or whatever was now Lylle after some spirit had invaded his
body, waved his hand at them. Each of us had been asked to give up our
body and let a warrior take over. I couldn't decide. I needed to see
Megan first. A howl started and roared into a major windstorm as it
moved from Lylle's hand to the Dopkalfar. My teeth ground at the
piercing scream of the wind. The Dopkalfar were swept out of the room.
The lucky ones were just thrown backwards to land outside. Others, who
had managed to enter the room, were battered against walls and thrown
about until finally, they flew out the door. Once the wind died, more
took their place. I sensed a presence next to me.
"Megan," I said, turning towards her. She held a knife in her hand
and there was a fierce determination in her green eyes. Her red hair
cascaded down around her shoulders in waves.
"Raphael, we have been apart too long," she said, placing a hand
lightly on my arm, her eyes looking straight into mine. "Never again."
"No," I agreed, covering her hand with my own. A slight chill from
her fingers seeped into my own. "I'm sorry for the pain that I have
caused you." I pulled her close and kissed her lightly. A single tear
rolled down her cheek and I wiped it off, letting her hand go. My
beautiful wife of nearly four years was by my side again. I had wondered
if I'd ever see her again. Shortly after our handfasting, she had fallen
under a spell. It had taken me almost three years to free her from the
spell only to get injured in the process. In my self pity, I had hurt
her feelings one too many times and she had left me to return to her
mother. How she had managed to get trapped in this tower in which we now
stand, facing the Dopkalfar, I did not know. She will tell me
eventually. For now we had to stand our ground. I stooped to pick up my
straight cane. With a twist, the top quarter of it separated and I
pulled out my sword. It was a gift from my father. Illiena bless him.
More Dopkalfar could be seen outside the door.
"We aren't getting out alive, no matter what happens," I thought.
"Let them kill you!" Lylle yelled as he turned and flew up the
stairs of the tower. While the body was Lylle, the voice was not. The
Dopkalfar tensed and for a moment, I thought they would charge.
Something held them back, though. Perhaps it was the two of us left in
this room. Whatever it was, it did not stop them from slowly and
cautiously advancing. They held swords and daggers and there were many
more outside waiting to enter. I thought about my two travel companions
Lylle, a boy on the verge of manhood, and Merrif, a mage with powers
that went awry more often than not. Without their help I wouldn't have
found Megan. Lylle, or Lylle's body, had fled up the stairs. Meriff
stood transfixed and immobile.
"I love you," Megan whispered in my ear before kissing my neck. I
shivered as I felt her soft lips touch my skin.
"And I, you," I whispered back, not taking my eyes off the
advancing warriors.
"I ..." Merrif began, full of fear. He looked at the Dopkalfar and
made his decision. "Yes!" he said with strength and determination. "By
Illiena's favor, yes!"
Merrif changed as the figure of light entered his body. Turning,
Merrif flew up the stairs. Niatha quickly sprang towards the stairs to
follow. Megan and I were the only ones left.
"To the corner of the room," I said. We moved. She was on my left
side and next to a bookcase. The corner provided protection from behind
us and it allowed whatever Dopkalfar to run straight through to the
stairs. Having fewer warriors to fight is always a good thing. The
wonder over seeing what I once thought of as fantasy and legends was
fading fast. Our lives were at stake here.
"Where's Anam?" Megan asked. I gave a quick glance around and
couldn't see him. Anam was a wolf that I had saved as a cub and had
raised. He had come with me to search for Megan.
"I don't know," I replied as Dopkalfar warriors sprinted through
the room to the stairs. All hesitation was gone from them and there were
both male and female warriors that dashed up the tower. I didn't get to
wonder about Anam, though, because some of the warriors walked toward
us.
They weren't in a hurry and they looked confident. Most of them
were holding swords, but some carried knives. Three, maybe four could
attack us at one time. I was glad that none of them had spears.
"I am Megan!" she told them. I felt her move away from me for a
moment. "I'm the protected one!" she said. I didn't understand what she
was talking about and didn't have the time to care. The Dopkalfar on my
right stabbed at my gut.
I calmly flicked my sword up just enough to deflect the attack. He
retreated. They now knew I was trained and could defend myself.
Another lunged at me. It was a feint for a second attack from
another warrior. I eluded these attacks as well. They were testing me
and they were working together to do it. It wouldn't be long before they
found an opening.
"Who gave the order to attack?" Megan asked. "Who is in charge?" A
book flew through the air and barely missed a warrior's head. Megan was
throwing books. She knew if they got close, we wouldn't survive the
fight.
Another book flew through the air. It missed its target, but I
caught glimpses of movement to my left. They were closing the distance
and attacking Megan!
"Illiena save us!" I yelled as I thrust my sword out straight.
Sidestepping to the left, I avoided one blow. Twisting and striking to
my left, I cut a gash across a chest. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw
Megan slash a warrior with her knife.
"Not enough time," I thought as I feinted at one warrior and
flicked the tip of my sword at another's eyes. Megan screamed and my
spirit went numb. I couldn't look. My sword pierced an arm and cut a
large swath as I turned to strike another warrior.
I felt something hot run through my side and my head nearly
exploded with pain. As I dropped to my knees and turned, I swished my
blade in an arc in front of me. I felt contact several times, and then
the whole building shook. I nearly fell and some of the warriors did. As
I completed my turn, I saw Megan.
"Oh, Megan," I heard myself groan. I couldn't feel anything, then.
It was as if all hope had left me cold and barren and empty. There was a
knife sticking in her leg and a deep cut ran from her shoulder to her
hip. Blood was flowing down her leg. She had her hands wrapped around a
warrior's throat.
As I lunged forward to block a thrust at her, the building shook
with an even greater force. Megan fell, but as she did, she took part of
the warrior's throat with her. He gurgled and gagged as he, too, fell to
the floor. Illiena was with me and I kept my footing. I thrust my sword
into the side of a female warrior and ripped it out in an arc to block
an attack on me.
Pain lanced through my back and legs. I tried to turn, but fell
instead. Rolling backwards, I avoided a knife and a sword. I wanted to
kick out, but my legs wouldn't move. Instead, I snapped my wrist and let
my sword keep them at bay, for the moment.
One of them threw a knife at me and it hit my chest with the
pommel. "Illiena must be looking over me," I thought. The building shook
again and a section of a wall fell. I could see outside; it was bright
and shiny. The cold air swept in and covered us all in a blanket of ice.
"Ne lera Faretha auna spira," I heard one of them cry out. His
voice was filled with pain, but from what I could not tell. Crawling to
Megan, I ignored the Dopkalfar. Their final blow would come soon enough,
but hopefully I could look into her deep green eyes one last time.
Slowly, with every bit of strength I had, I crawled and watched Megan
slip quickly away from me.
"Just a little more," I thought as the room spun around me. I heard
her call my name and I cried out for her. Everything was blurry and
fuzzy. Then the pain was gone. "Is this the end?"
"Raphael," someone called my name. It was female and accented,
almost like the Dopkalfar.
"Am I not dead?" I groaned, only seeing blackness but feeling no
pain. My words echoed strangely inside my head. How long had I been
unconscious?
"No, short-breather, you are not dead. You only need to open your
eyes and the world will come back to you," someone else answered,
definitely a male Dopkalfar. Hardness covered his words and hate tinged
his intent.
"Megan?" I asked, opening my eyes. Long wooden timbers with dark
grain running through them assaulted my eyes. The wooden beams above me
ran the length of the room and strength ebbed from them. There was a
sharpness and crispness to what I saw that had never been there before.
I noticed every bud that had been stripped from the wood and bits of
bark left on them. The room shimmered in light as if I could almost see
the air itself. "Wha--?"
"Raphael!" the female cried and I heard love, fear, hope, and life
in that voice. Even though it did not sound like her, I would always
know Megan.
"Megan!" I yelled and tried to stand. A pair of Dopkalfar arms and
legs swam before me and I yelped in surprise and threw myself backwards
to get out of their way. As I landed and tried to roll, I noticed those
arms and legs were my own.
"Stop!" yelled another Dopkalfar, or so I thought. His voice was a
bit different though. There was more of a musical quality to it. "I am
Aedrill and I am Ljosalfar. No more harm will come to you or your
friends, but you must not move quickly or you will hurt yourself. You
are safe here in my home."
"What?" I babbled as I knelt and looked down at myself. It wasn't
me anymore. I was in a Dopkalfar's body. "What did you do to me? Megan?"
"I'm here," Megan called. A Dopkalfar female sat up against the
wall across from me. "I think I'm going to be sick," she said. I heard
Megan throwing up and I clenched my teeth to keep from following her.
"We honored our word," Khytyrh told me. He was the first one that
had spoken to us. His words were bitter and full of hate.
"The only way to save your lives was to use the magic and transfer
your essence into bodies that were whole," Aedrill explained. I looked
at the two of them and saw the differences. Not just noticed them, but I
saw their spirits whirling around inside them.
Aedrill leaned heavily on his staff, his body stooped as if he was
barely holding himself up. But more than that, I could see that he was
weary, both physically and mentally. Only his pride and stubbornness
held him standing. The wind gently played with his long blond hair and
his blue eyes pierced me in a strong stare. I couldn't look away until
he let me. With a small smile, he turned away and slowly walked over to
another Dopkalfar body. His staff clicked on the wooden floor at each
step.
Khytyrh, however, held himself straight and upright with pure
tenacious willpower. It throbbed throughout him and built into a pulsing
beat that I could almost feel. He was tall and thin, too, but unlike
Aedrill's pale skin, Khytyrh was a bit darker, like he'd worked in the
sun all his life. His black hair matched his dark, brooding eyes. I
didn't look away from them, not because I couldn't, but because it would
have lowered me in his view. I knew that. And I also knew that there was
nothing I could say to erase the hate in his eyes. We stayed locked in
that stare until I heard Megan.
"Raphael, help me," Megan called. Instantly, I turned and tried to
stand. My balance was gone and my fighting center was displaced. I
wobbled and teetered, but I stood. Slowly, with one foot in front of the
other, I stepped over to Megan. She used the wall to climb herself to a
standing position.
"You look funny," she told me. I watched a giggle form in her eyes
and then saw it spread out to her throat and lips.
"You should see yourself," I replied. I looked at her with new eyes
and watched the emotions build and express themselves. Small things that
she used to do, like the giggle and the way she smirked and the way she
looked at me with those green eyes coalesced inside her and I found
Megan once again.
"Megan," I whispered, looking up into crystalline violet eyes. She
stumbled into my arms and I held her tightly to me. I had found that no
matter what physical form she took; I would always love her.
"What happened to our bodies?" Megan inquired.
"They are broken and cannot be healed," Khytyrh replied. "We
honored our promise. That should be good enough."
"What promise?"
"Not to kill those who were innocent. The tower held two Fretheod
mages as prisoners and when they attempted to escape, we had to stop
them at all cost. She," Khytyrh pointed at Megan, "was trapped in the
tower by an old magic and could not leave."
"Where are Merrif and Lylle?" I asked, wondering if they too were
here.
"Merrif is Dopkalfar as well and healing," Aedrill replied slowly.
"Lylle?" I asked. Aedrill shook his head slowly.
"Anam and Niatha?" I asked, dreading the worst.
"The wolf and the creature?" Khytyrh said and for a brief moment, I
thought I saw a smile. "They are well and a handful."
"I want to see my old body," Megan said.
"Megan, why?" I said. "We're together again, nothing else matters."
"It matters to me," she replied slowly. "I feel, I'm being drawn
back and I want to know why." I looked at her then at our hosts.
"Is it possible?"
"It is, but I wouldn't advise it," Aedrill said reluctantly.
"Then show me!" Megan demanded.
"As you wish," Khytyrh sighed and waved his hand. A part of the
wall became translucent and we looked at an outside scene. It shifted as
if we were moving and the tower came into view. Zooming inside, we saw
that Merrif's and Lylle's bodies were still on the ground. Then I saw
Megan's body, propped up against the wall of the tower and a bit further
was my own. Megan and I watched for several menes, taking in every
detail. I was about to ask them to stop the view when I noticed three
people approaching the tower. A black-haired woman dressed in the
garments of a bard accompanied by two men. I felt Megan stiffen next to
me.
"Simona," she whispered. I looked at her in surprise. I had heard
about Megan's twin sister. While Megan insisted that one day she would
see her sister again, that she was alive and well, their mother believed
Simona died when she was six.
"Are you sure?" I asked Megan.
"I can feel her." We watched as the three people discovered first
Lylle and Merrif and saw the horror on their faces when they noticed
Megan's body against the tower. The woman ran towards her and cradled
her body. She seemed to be crying.
"I have to go back!" Megan said. "I have to go back and tell her."
"Go back where?"
"Back to my body."
"No! She won't recognize you," Aedrill spoke up.
"You don't understand; she's my twin sister. I have to tell her!
Tell her where to find our mother, tell her ..." Megan said, agitated
that her request was denied.
"There cannot be anyone alive in the outside world who knows the
Dopkalfar still exist."
"I won't tell her," Megan promised.
"No! She will see you and know. There is no way this can be
allowed." Khytyrh crossed his arms in front of his body.
"Then find a way," Megan yelled. "Haven't I been through enough?
First I'm ill all the time, and then my sister is taken from me. When I
finally find some happiness with my husband, someone places a curse on
me. While I hear and see everything that is going on around me, I cannot
act upon it, cannot show my husband how much I love him. No sooner am I
freed to make a journey to see my mother, I get trapped in this tower.
If you think for one moment, I won't make it possible for my sister to
find our mother, you are mistaken. If you don't want my sister to see me
in this body then find a way!"
Aedrill and Khytryh stood against Megan's outburst, but then they
turned and walked to the other side of the room. For several menes they
spoke to each other. I grinned inwardly. Megan's temper was still the
same no matter what form her body took.
"We will give you two menes of your time to speak with your sister,
but not as Dopkalfar," Aedrill said.
"How?" Megan asked.
"Khytryh will sustain your old body so you can talk while I
transfer your spirit, first to your old body, then back into this one.
It is risky. If we leave you too long, you will die. You will not tell
your sister about us."
"I promise," Megan said solemnly.
"Then lie down on the floor," Aedrill instructed. Megan complied. I
watched as Aedrill lifted his hands and the light inside my wife formed
into a small, white ball, exited her body and flew into her former body.
I noticed that Simona seemed to stop crying and instead listened
intently and then Megan's spirit returned. For quite some time, she lay
still on the floor, breathing slowly. I wondered if this had happened to
me as well when my spirit had entered this body for the first time.
"It is done," Aedrill said. "Once those three have left, the tower
will be no more."
I helped Megan to her feet and embraced her. She smiled at me and
my heart beat faster. Simona had gotten Megan's message. Megan and I
were together again. Merrif, Niatha, and Anam were alive. We would mourn
for Lylle later. Right now, Megan was in my arms and well. Nothing else
mattered.
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