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DargonZine Volume 12 Issue 07
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 7
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DargonZine Distributed: 7/24/1999
Volume 12, Number 7 Circulation: 715
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Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Talisman One 1 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Spring, 2347 ID
Winterstorm Mark A. Murray Firil 1016
Surfacing Bryan Read Sy, 1017
========================================================================
DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a
collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
Please address all correspondance to <dargon@shore.net> or visit us
on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/. Back issues
are available from ftp.shore.net in members/dargon/. Issues and
public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
DargonZine 12-7, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright July, 1999 by
the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@shore.net>,
Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@mnsinc.com>. All rights reserved.
All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories
and artwork appearing herein may not be reproduced or redistributed
without the explicit permission of their creators, except in the case
of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution.
Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
========================================================================
Editorial
by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
<ornoth@shore.net>
An article crossed my desk this week that blew me away. It was
about another Web site which publishes fiction: Mind's Eye Fiction, at
<http://www.tale.com/>.
Unlike DargonZine, which is very strictly noncommercial and doesn't
accept advertising of any kind, Mind's Eye's goal is to make money by
selling advertising. To that end, they have installed a program which
detects whether a user is running software which blocks banner ads from
appearing, and refuses to display the ends of their stories unless the
user either turns off their ad-blocking software or pays them a small
fee for each story!
Now, that in and of itself is pretty compelling evidence of the
goals and motivations of the site's owner, Ken Jenks. But I find it even
more damning that he has taken these unprecedented steps when a mere 3
percent of Mind's Eye visitors run ad-blocking software! In the article,
Jenks' justification for such blatantly mercenary behavior was limited
to whining that it's just not fair that Web surfers have the option of
avoiding the advertisements which seem to be the most important part of
his site.
Fortunately, that's not the way DargonZine works. DargonZine has
always been free of charge and free of advertising. For more than
fifteen years, we've viewed the Internet as a tool for bringing people
(in our case, readers and writers) together, not for exercising greed.
But beyond serving as an example of what we consider worst about
the Internet, what Mind's Eye has done also raises some intriguing
questions about this so-called "new medium" we've lived in for a decade
and a half.
One of these questions is to what extent advertising revenue will
become the dominant model of defraying the cost of producing a site,
much like the other mass media of television and radio. As Internet
advertising revenues have grown, sophisticated blocking software has
appeared which allows people to filter out ads. Will we see an
escalating software battle break out between large, commercial Web sites
who want their ads to be seen, and companies which make and market
ad-blocking software? And what does this say about the contempt and lack
of respect that commercial companies and Web site owners have for their
consumer's rights? Mind's Eye, by attempting to circumvent the
ad-blocking software that a mere 1/35th of their readership uses,
appears to have taken the lead in disrespecting their readership.
Another question raised by this action is the degree to which
Internet users should expect to pay for content: the stories, images,
and information that companies and individuals provide. Jenks is in good
company here, since television and radio customers are used to the idea
of "paying" for content by "paying" attention to commercial advertising.
However, many knowledgeable people don't think this model will work for
the Web. Rich LeFurgy, chairman of the Internet Advertising Bureau, was
quoted as follows, "Ultimately, a pay-for-content model is not
sustainable on the Web."
We wholeheartedly agree with this statement. The power of the Web
is that the ability to produce and market content has suddenly been made
available and feasible to hundreds of millions of people. In the world
of fiction, this means that amateur writers can publish their stories
online, either themselves or through Internet-based publications like
DargonZine and Mind's Eye. This blurs the line between "professional"
and "amateur" writers, and dramatically increases the supply of fiction
which is available to readers. And anyone who has taken a microeconomics
course can tell you that if the supply of a commodity increases while
demand stays constant, prices fall. And given a choice between sites
with comparable content, we believe that readers will prefer sites which
don't charge for content or ask them to (or, in Mind's Eye's case, force
them to) endure commercial advertising.
A quick recap of what's in this issue: Dafydd's "Talisman" epic
continues with the first installment of a new storyline, Mark Murray
returns from an eight-month hiatus with a quick prelude to a new series,
and we welcome Bryan Read, whose first Dargon story, "Surfacing", rounds
out the issue.
Those of you who browse the issue via the Web will note that the
Online Glossary, which contains descriptions of everything in Dargon,
appears to have changed layout. This is part of a test of our back-end
database. If things go well, all Glossary links will soon be converted
to using the new database; if things go amiss, please let us know by
sending email to <dargon@shore.net> telling us the error you received.
That's it for now! Thanks for reading the 'zine, and please help us
spread the word!
========================================================================
Talisman One
Part 1
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
<John.White@Drexel.Edu>
Spring, 2347 ID
Author's note: This first tale of the Talisman's
rejoining takes place about 120 years after Talisman Zero. As
the might of the Fretheod Empire fades in the wake of the
destruction of the Yrmenweald and the loss of their primary
advantage, the anhekovel, outlying territories of the Empire
have become independent in all but name. But not all of these
territories are content to let the Empire fade away.
Bralidan, heir to the Duchy of Grahk, shone his lantern down the
dusty corridor lined with shelves, and groaned. The catacombs under
Plethiss, the ducal mansion-turned-castle, seemed to go on forever and
even though he had assigned himself the job of thoroughly exploring the
ducal archives stored there, he wished that it had turned out to be a
smaller job.
As he lit another candle and affixed it to a cleared-off shelf, he
reflected that this particular task was turning into another failure.
Though only twenty two, he was finding the prospect of assuming the
ducal coronet more and more of a burden. He was still years from
becoming duke, as his father was hale and enjoyed vigorous good health,
but he still feared the day that Grahk became his to govern.
Ever since turning sixteen and being confirmed as heir according to
Fretheodan tradition, Bralidan had been trying to find within himself
the makings of the duke he must become. First he had explored the
military requirements by learning what it took to be a commander. And he
had done well in the traditional training exercises, first leading a
single squad of teraehran, and then groups of squads, and finally entire
armies. But his satisfaction in his accomplishments was dimmed when he
discovered that the skills to command fellow teraehran did not work
outside of the structure of the military. He quickly came to see that
even the servants employed at Plethiss required different communication
and governing skills. He had gained much from the experience, but not
what he had been looking for.
Next, Bralidan had attempted to learn his father's job by watching
Duke Bralevant at work. Unfortunately the effort was undermined by two
things. First, the duke seldom announced the reasons behind his actions
or decisions, and even though he made a few attempts in order to help
his son, he usually forgot quickly and went back to his normal way of
doing things.
The second problem was that Bralevant took more interest in the
details of running both Plethiss and all of Grahk than was normal. At
times, he acted more like a castellan than a duke. In fact, Plethiss no
longer had a castellan of its own. That only made Bralidan even more
worried, as he knew he had no aptitude for that kind of work. He felt
that, although he was learning some things from watching his father, he
couldn't use Duke Bralevant's methods as a guide for his own actions
once he became duke.
It was the suggestion of his younger brother, Biralvid, that
Bralidan turn his preoccupation with the archives into another learning
experience. Bralidan had always spent an inordinate amount of time in
the dusty catacombs, an activity encouraged by the former keeper of the
archives. Old Norissey had enjoyed his 'young protege', as he called
Bralidan, and fed the young heir tome after tome of somewhat
sensationalistic histories of the glorious Fretheod Empire.
Norissey had died about five years earlier. The new keeper, a young
man named Rajath, had no time for the adolescent heir, which didn't stop
Bralidan from haunting the catacombs, although he'd had little purpose
in doing so until his brother's suggestion. Biralvid's idea was that
maybe somewhere within the volumes of information contained in the
archives was what Bralidan needed to tell him how to be duke.
Systematic exploration of the catacombs and the archives had, oddly
enough, not met with Rajath's approval even though Bralidan hadn't
requested the keeper's time or assistance in doing so. The mystery of
why Rajath didn't want him down here still bothered him, but only in an
idle curiosity kind of way: it wasn't among the keeper's powers to bar
the heir of Grahk from the catacombs.
Intending to be exhaustively thorough, Bralidan set about walking
down each and every row of shelving, examining the contents of each
shelf and making notes as to what was where. Half map, half index, half
almost-travelogue, his notes were getting rather copious. He had started
just that winter, about four months ago. Now it was spring, and he
hadn't quite explored half of the archives so far.
But he had looked at enough scrolls and bound leaves of paper to
know that the possibilities of finding some kind of treatise on exactly
how to be the best duke possible were very small. All he had found so
far were domesday rolls of the populace for every year since long before
Grahk was a separate duchy, detailed lists of provisions for each season
for almost as many years, and a few dry, boring historical documents
about terribly uninteresting times. The sensationalized, and therefore
interesting, histories that Norissey had fed him had all been stored
near the entrance. He had yet to uncover any lost masterpieces.
The current section under scrutiny was five shelves high, just like
most of the others in the catacombs. And also like the most of the
others, the top two shelves were empty: they were too high off the
ground to reach comfortably. It was as if the shelving had been
constructed with some kind of portable stair in mind, which had then
either been forgotten about, or lost in the ensuing years.
Bralidan started on the third shelf, opening plain wooden and metal
scroll boxes and leaf cases, and scanning the contents. He was glad that
the animal skin used for the parchment had been properly and well cured,
since even the oldest scrolls he had found were in excellent condition.
Some of the scrolls he was unrolling and scanning presently were two or
three hundred years old, yet the ink was clear and dark, and there was
no drying or cracking of the parchment itself.
Bralidan reached the bottom shelf without finding anything of
interest. There were only two scroll boxes down there, but one was
different enough to catch his attention. He lifted it onto a higher
shelf and looked at it in the light of his lantern.
It was wooden, and highly carved, though its decorations were very
unlike the simple carving on most of the other wooden scroll boxes he
had so far come across. The style was very ... different, somehow not
Fretheodan at all. The dominant motif was of foxes, which made him think
of his father, who always wore a small, stylized fox pinned to his
chest. In fact, these foxes were somewhat similar in style.
Bralidan opened the lid of the box, and then lifted out the single
scroll it contained. He looked at the band that held the parchment roll
closed but instead of foxes, the metal circle bore the insignia of Grahk
itself. Bralidan knew that only important documents were banded like
this. He carefully extracted the scroll from within the band, and
unrolled the document.
The title startled him. "Treaty of Rihelbak" was written in an
ornate hand across the top of the scroll. The title was surrounded by
small, neat decorations -- leaves and vines, mostly -- such as were used
on important official documents. If this had been a display copy, the
decoration would have been larger and more colorful. It seemed as if
this was the original copy of the treaty. Why would this document be
almost hidden away in the depths of the catacombs?
Bralidan scanned the scroll, and then read it word by word,
disturbed by what he thought he had noticed. He read the parchment over
carefully for the third time, and he still couldn't believe what it
said. But there could really be no doubt; the writing was in perfectly
plain Fretheodan. It *was* the Treaty of Rihelbak. And by the terms
written in front of him, it was about to be broken by default.
Bralidan decided that this had to be brought to his father's
attention as soon as possible. He couldn't understand how this could
have happened. His father had to know the terms of the treaty -- his
signature was the last one displayed. So why weren't they being
followed? People had died for this treaty -- including his own
great-grandfather! And yet it was being ignored. Something strange was
going on, and he wanted to find out what.
Bralidan slid the scroll into his carry-sack, somehow forgetting
about the fox-carved scroll box completely. He lifted his lantern, blew
out the candle he had set, and turned back the way he had come. The
candle would stay where it was to indicate how far he had come. He
followed the trail he had left of burning, or in some cases guttering,
candles back toward the entrance.
A dozen paces brought him to the next candle. He plucked it from
the shelf -- he would only need the one behind him to mark his place --
but as he lifted it towards himself to blow it out, he accidentally
dripped hot wax on his hand. The sting made him flinch and the lit
candle flew into the back of one of the shelves.
He scrambled after it; the preservation treatment of parchment made
it very flammable, and not every document was protected by a case. As he
grabbed the candle, which had extinguished itself, his hand pushed
against some kind of projection at the back of the shelf. With a click,
the entire section of shelves swung away from him.
Intrigued, Bralidan lifted his lantern and peeked behind the
swung-away shelves. A small room was revealed, lined with more scrolls,
scroll boxes, and a few other odds and ends. He lifted a box off of a
low shelf and used it to prop open the secret door, and went into the
small room.
His eyes scanned the supposed treasures in scroll form that lined
the shelves within this hidden room. But instead of pulling down a few
examples to see what kind of information needed to be hidden away like
this, his attention was drawn to one particular shelf that had three
objects resting on it.
The first object that he picked up he immediately threw into a
corner -- it was a dead rat that had probably starved in the sealed
room. The second item he lifted from the shelf he knew had to be an
anhekova, one of those magical staves that had been the secret to the
military superiority of the Fretheod Empire years ago. But no longer: in
the aftermath of the civil war and the destruction of the Yrmenweald, it
was nothing more than a rather plain wooden staff with an irregular lump
of whitish crystal affixed to the top. He wondered who this might have
belonged to, since it wasn't the General's Staff, which hung on the wall
of the great hall.
But his interest in the origins of the staff faded when the light
from the lantern fell on the last object on the shelf. Bralidan felt
himself drawn somehow to the item. He set his lantern beside it and
reached out to touch it tentatively. When it didn't bite him, or send a
tingle through him, he lifted it off the shelf and examined it.
The object seemed to be a fragment of a sculpture of some kind. It
had a single smooth edge that held a slight curve, and two sides that
sloped jaggedly towards each other. In fact, it looked like a piece of
pie that someone had ripped out of the rest rather than cutting it. The
sloped edges were ragged and uneven, and it was broken off well short of
where those edges would have come together had it really been a slice of
pie.
One face of the foot-and-more long pie-slice was as smooth as its
curved edge, but the other was an intricate, if fragmentary, piece of
art. Most of a carved falcon took up much of the piece, which was an
interesting coincidence, since he had taken a falcon as his own personal
symbol. Connected to the falcon was a band of glass that ran across the
surface of the pie-piece before ending at a jagged edge. Also running
across the piece were ribbons of a dull silver metal and a bright
brass-like metal. The pattern looked like part of a larger work,
probably of Geronlel knot-work, that kind of woven-line decoration that
the natives of that north-eastern province favored. The falcon itself
was also stylized in Geronlel fashion, and it looked like it had been
interwoven with another beast, which might have been a dog; it was hard
to tell without the head.
"I wonder what this was," Bralidan muttered to himself. "It might
have been part of a wall decoration. No, then its back wouldn't be so
smooth. Some kind of projection on a statue? Maybe a warrior's shield?
That could be it."
Bralidan found that he liked the fragment very much, regardless of
what it had been. The falcon was exactly what he had tried to describe
to the flag maker when having his banner crafted. The result had been
acceptable, but now he could actually *show* Diggseth what he wanted.
And then he would put the fragment in his room, where he could look at
it and explore it. And maybe his survey of the archives would eventually
answer his questions about where it had come from and what it was.
Bralidan had a moment's pause as he slipped the carving into his
shoulder sack. Suppose there was something bad or dangerous about this
carving? After all, it had been shut up in this secret room for who knew
how long. But he dismissed those thoughts almost immediately. What
threat could a stone, glass, and metal sculpture fragment possibly pose?
He slipped out of the secret room, and resumed his trek for the
entrance to the catacombs. He left a candle stub on the shelf where the
secret switch was, and picked up all the rest except one more to tell
him which aisle to look in.
As Bralidan made his way out of the archives and up floor by floor
to his father's quarters, the heir thought about the Treaty of Rihelbak.
For hundreds and hundreds of years, Grahk had just been a small
administrative division within the Province Krelinlel of the Fretheod
Empire. Nominally, it still was, but in the increasing chaos since the
civil war more than 120 years ago, Grahk had been forced to do more and
more defending of its borders without help from elsewhere in the empire.
At the same time Plethiss, the country mansion of the administrator of
Grahk, had been turned into a very well fortified castle. Eventually, as
the central authority of Province Krelinlel dissolved, the various
districts within it took upon themselves more autonomy, and the Duchy of
Grahk, among others, was born.
To the northeast of Province Krelinlel stretched a vast territory
of grasslands and plains called the Great Steppes, which were home to
one of the few nations that the mighty Fretheod Empire had never been
able to conquer. The Siizhayip, or People of the Grass, were a loose
association of nomadic clans who wandered the Great Steppes with
complete freedom.
At the western edge of the Great Steppes was a vast plain of
grassland that, while usually considered part of the steppes, only
joined with them along a narrow strait between southward thrusting
mountains on the north, and the plateaus and mesas to the south. It was
within that plateau land that Grahk was situated, and its northern
border encompassed the land adjacent to the narrow neck connecting the
Plains of Rihelbak with the rest of the Steppes.
Ordinarily, the Siizhayip and the Fretheodan left each other alone.
Even after the might of the Fretheod Empire was reduced to what amounted
to individual protectorates around the perimeter of the Great Steppes,
the two groups of people ignored each other. Until a time seventy years
ago, when, for a reason no one had recorded in the histories Bralidan
had read, seven small clans of the Siizhayip had banded together and
attacked Grahk.
The conflict had been bloody and short. Grahk's troops were used to
fighting in the terrain of their homeland; incursions by people trying
to claim their own piece of the crumbling empire had grown more and more
frequent. Not that the Siizhayip were completely unskilled at battle,
but they hadn't been able to stand up to the organized tactics of this
particular remnant of the empire's might. Within but a single month, the
majority of the nomads of the seven clans were dead.
Even though the attack of the seven clans had not been sanctioned
by the clan council of the Siizhayip, there had still been danger of
retaliation by others among the clans. So, the Sun clan had stepped in
and called for a truce. The One of the Sun, the person elected by the
clan council to speak for all the clans when such was required, had sat
down with the duke of the time, and a treaty had been worked out.
Duke Branvor had been perfectly willing to cease hostilities as
long as the Siizhayip ceased as well. But his father, Duke Bravid, had
been killed in the senseless fighting, and Branvor had wanted to make
sure that the Siizhayip never thought to attack Grahk again. He had to
come up with a penalty that would mean something to them. And that
something was land.
The treaty that resulted granted the Plains of Rihelbak to Grahk.
The histories made mention of the reverence that the Siizhayip had for
the land, and that they didn't believe in ownership of land, but did
believe in territoriality. However each side understood it, the Plains
of Rihelbak had been forbidden to the clans of the Siizhayip forever
more.
But somehow, an important part of that treaty had been left out of
the history that Bralidan had learned: there was supposed to be a
confirmation ceremony every five years! The terms of the treaty
indicated that a representative of Grahk and of the Sun clan would meet
at the boundary of Rihelbak and confirm the treaty at the appointed
times. If that confirmation ceremony didn't occur five times in a row,
the treaty would be invalidated and the land would return to the control
of the Siizhayip. The last time the treaty had been so ratified, as
indicated by the dated signatures, was in 2322, twenty-five years ago.
The fact that that last signatory for Grahk was Bralevant only made
it harder for Bralidan to believe that his father had let the terms of
the treaty be forgotten for so long. It was part of the duties of a duke
to ensure that things such as this were taken care of, wasn't it? How
could Bralevant have just ignored these requirements?
Bralidan finally arrived at the door to his father's quarters on
the upper floors of the east wing. He pulled the braided rope and heard
the bell inside jingle. Almost immediately, Osirek, the duke's personal
aide, opened the door, his face stiff and bland in his most businesslike
manner. But when the man saw who stood at the duke's door, his face
crinkled up with a heartfelt smile and he gestured the youth inside.
"Ah, welcome, master Alin! You've been in the catacombs again,
haven't you? Just look at all that dust and grime." The old man, who had
at least fifteen years on the duke and so was almost like a grandfather
to Bralidan, produced a small hand broom from somewhere. "Now, let's get
you cleaned up a bit before you see your father. You did come to see
him, yes? Something you found in those caves, yes? Good, good, right,
just a moment and I'll let the duke know you're here."
Osirek fussed about Bralidan for a few moments, brushing dust off
of his shoulders, cobwebs out of his hair, neatening up his outfit as
much as possible. Then he said, "Now, just a moment, Alin. The duke is
reviewing some inventory lists, just checking how Plethiss fared the
winter. I'm sure he'll not mind an interruption from that task, but it
wouldn't do to startle him and make him lose count or something. I'll be
right back."
The old man darted quietly through the doors on the other side of
the small antechamber, and Bralidan stood, absently fidgeting with the
treaty scroll. Osirek poked his head back into the antechamber and
beckoned to him. Bralidan stood and walked slowly over to the doorway,
while Osirek straightened up, held the door open, and announced in an
official voice, "Heir Bralidan to see you, your grace."
Bralidan stepped into his father's secondary receiving room. The
chamber was outfitted for reception as well as work; an ornate throne
stood against one wall, between floor to ceiling windows, curtains, and
an impressive collection of all manner of weapons mounted on the wall as
a decoration. In another corner stood a desk, its top covered with
sheets of ledger-ruled parchment. Bralidan knew the duke spent more time
behind that desk he was just rising from than in his throne.
Bralevant was a large man, about half a head taller than Bralidan
and weighing maybe half again as much. Once the duke had been fit and
trim but these days, Bralidan realized, the floor length robe he wore
bulged more than a bit in the middle. He wondered what would happen if
his father had to take to the field of battle; had his armor been kept
matched to his shape?
And that robe -- yet another new piece of clothing. The duke never
wore the same garment twice, though the cloth of one garment normally
became parts of other garments eventually. The only constants in his
clothing were the narrow band of gold he wore about his head, and that
carved wooden fox-shaped brooch that he always wore on his chest.
Bralevant's most striking feature, aside from the paunch of good
living, was not his pale skin nor his raven black hair. Rather, it was
his eyes. The left one was blue while the right one was brown.
Bralidan's eyes were a misty grey, and in most other respects he bore
little resemblance to his father. His own hair was reddish brown, not
black. His face was narrow, rather than broad and square like the
duke's. His skin was a more natural tone, and he was both shorter and
thinner than Bralevant.
Biralvid, on the other hand, was a little copy of their father,
except for his eyes which were both blue. Bralidan had once envied his
little brother that resemblance, believing that his father would prefer
Biralvid to him. As it turned out, the duke was far more interested in
running Plethiss and Grahk, and both his brother and he had been raised
by servants. As far as he could tell, both were equally regarded by
Bralevant -- when they were regarded at all.
Bralevant stood and said, "Well, hello there, son. Osirek tells me
you have been poking around in the archives again. I'm glad to see that
you're taking your future responsibilities so seriously, though I must
say that I never found myself drawn to the catacombs the way you do. I
doubt that I could find anything in there without the keeper, a detailed
map, and several wilderness guides!" He laughed heartily, then
continued, "Osirek also says you have something I need to see. What is
it, son? What have you found?"
Bralidan said, "Yes, father, I have found something disturbing in
the archives: the Treaty of Rihelbak!"
The duke frowned. "So, son? The Treaty of Rihelbak was signed years
ago. What relevance could it have today?"
"But father, what about the confirmation signings?"
"Well, ah ..." Bralevant looked confused for a moment. His hand
rose to his chest and he stroked the fox brooch with a finger. "I don't
... don't know ... What are you talking about, boy? Have you been
breathing spider webs too long?"
"Father, you must know. Twenty five years ago, you confirmed the
treaty as required. Since then, nothing."
"When? Confirmation signing? What?" Bralevant's hand was clutched
over the fox-brooch and he was frowning as if he was in pain.
"Here, look. Right here. Every five years, the treaty has to be
confirmed. If it goes twenty-five years without being confirmed, the
treaty is broken. And Father, it was last signed twenty-five years ago
this year!"
Bralevant squinted at the parchment that Bralidan held up. He
scanned the whole thing as if he couldn't see anything written where his
son was pointing. He closed his eyes and gasped something that sounded
like "Ke ..." His hand jerked, and with a slight tearing sound he pulled
the brooch free of his robe. The duke opened his eyes again and seemed
able to see the words his son was indicating. He read them closely,
mouth gaping. He finished reading, and closed his eyes again, slumping
back onto his stool with a short gasp of something like pain.
Osirek dashed over to the duke and said, "Alev, are you all right?
What's wrong?"
Bralevant opened his eyes and reassured his friend. The fox-brooch
was laid on the desk, and was promptly forgotten.
The duke said, once he had recovered from whatever had gripped him,
"Good work, son. I don't know how I could have forgotten about that part
of the treaty, or even how the treaty could have ended up in the
archives. It should be on that shelf over there, with the other vital
documents.
"Well, it looks like we have an outing to organize, doesn't it? The
treaty signing is in two weeks, and this year I will be there. And so
will you, son. And so will you. After all, if not for your squirreling
through the catacombs, the treaty would have been broken, right? I just
don't know how this could have happened ..."
Osirek started to reassure the duke, who was still looking shaky.
Bralidan immediately felt left out as the two old friends chatted
together, and he turned and left without any ceremony. But he kept hold
of the treaty. He knew his father would organize the confirmation
signing, but Bralidan was going to see to it that it didn't get
forgotten again.
Nikorah was riding her horse, Red Mist, when she saw them. Six
riders and a wagon were approaching the camp from the Rihelbak. They
were coming this year!
She rode back to camp and jumped off of Red Mist's back in front of
her father, Demahh, the One of the Sun clan and thus the One of the
Siizhayip. "Father! They're coming!"
"Who's coming, Nika? Who did you see?"
"Them, father. The Kuizhack of Grahk. They're going to sign!"
Nikorah felt elation; this meeting wouldn't be in vain like the last
one. The people from Grahk were going to sign!
She saw that her father was frowning, and wondered why. Then, as
she thought about it, she realized what the signing meant. "Oh, I
apologize, Father. I wasn't thinking. This means that the Rihelbak will
be barred to us again. And it was almost ours! I wonder why they didn't
sign for so long. Did they do it on purpose? To torture us or something?
I hope not. Maybe they just forgot."
Demahh's frown softened as his daughter rambled on. When she ran
down on her own, he said gently, "Yes, there is more bad than good in
your news. But their coming was in the hands of the Anhilizharnoh. And
only they, the Lords of the Sky, know why this year was different than
those previous."
With a heartfelt sigh, he continued, "Go gather the others. The
sooner this task is completed, the sooner we can rejoin the clan. Off
with you!"
Nikorah gave her father a teasing bow, and hurried away to spread
the news. She tried to temper her enthusiasm, but it didn't matter what
the signing meant ultimately; it was still a ceremony, an event. And she
would get to witness it.
She quickly gathered the other four members of their delegation,
finding the senior herd keeper Kendra last, who was whittling away at a
piece of wood as usual. Only Kendra reacted badly to her news, her
swarthy features blanching almost white. She got a furtive look in her
eyes, and said after a moment, "Nika, dear, ah ... tell Demahh that some
of the horses are restless. I had better stay with them, keep them calm.
I am not needed at the ceremony."
Nikorah shrugged, nodded, and gave Kendra a hug. She had always
treated the herd keeper like an aunt, and she wondered what was
bothering her. Then she went racing back to the other side of the camp
as fast as her feet would carry her. The riders would have arrived by
now, and she was eager to see the Kuizhack, these strange people who
actually lived in houses of stone.
There was a great deal of milling around going on next to the low
wall that the Fretheodan Kuizhack had built across the entrance to the
Rihelbak Plains. Only two feet high, the wall couldn't physically keep
anything out of the Rihelbak, but it served as a symbol of the treaty
which had kept the Siizhayip out of those plains. The riders from Grahk
were unloading the wagon they had brought with them and, with the help
of the four Sun clan members, were getting ready for the ceremony. Large
rugs were placed on the ground on the steppe side of the wall, upon
which a high table was set. The legs were so tall that Nikorah wondered
how they were going to see the top of it as they sat on the ground
around it. And then chairs -- strange things all made of wood, not like
the mostly canvas or hide chairs the Siizhayip used -- were set all
around the table. "That answers that," thought Nikorah.
The top of the table was covered with an embroidered cloth, and
then a small square of wood was placed on top of that. A scroll was
placed on the square of wood, and two quill pens were placed to each
side of the scroll.
The chairs were jostled around. Strange stands were placed around
one side of the table, upon which were hung more rugs. Nikorah realized
that the people of Grahk were trying to turn the openness of the steppes
into some kind of enclosure with all of their rugs and stands and tables
and such. She laughed at their strange quirks. Why close out the
horizon? Why cut off long vistas and views? Then again, why live in
unmovable houses of stone?
Finally everything was ready, at least as far as the people of
Grahk were concerned. Nikorah knew that her father would just as readily
have squatted on the bare earth, traded a few words, and scratched his
mark on the proper line with no more bother than that, but he was going
to do whatever the Kuizhack wanted. This ceremony was dictated by the
Fretheod Kuizhack, and Nikorah's father saw the need to accommodate them
even though the freedom of the Siizhayip was limited by it.
Demahh motioned to his people, and Nikorah joined him at the table.
The hard wooden chair was uncomfortable, but she wouldn't be here for
too long, she hoped.
The one in charge, the one with that bright metal band around his
head, said, in Fretheodan of course, "Welcome, People of the Grass, to
this confirmation signing of the Treaty of Rihelbak. I am Duke
Bralevant. This is my eldest son and heir, Bralidan. And this ..."
But Nikorah didn't hear anything else the man said, nor any of the
words her father traded with the duke person. She didn't notice when the
quills were picked up, finally, and the treaty confirmed and witnessed
and dated. She noticed none of this because she was too busy noticing
the duke, and more importantly, his heir.
She found herself fascinated with both of them. There was something
familiar about them both, but she had a different feeling about the duke
than about the younger Bralidan. She found herself not liking Bralevant,
for no reason that she could detect. His pale skin didn't bother her,
nor did his very black hair or the tiny moustache and beard he sported
just around his mouth and chin. Not even his eyes, one blue and one
brown, specifically bothered her. It was something else, something
distant, almost a memory. Almost.
But nothing at all bothered her about the heir, so she put the duke
out of her mind for a time and concentrated on the one called Bralidan.
He was good looking, almost handsome but not quite. His reddish brown
hair that hung to his shoulders was very enticing, though, as were his
mysterious grey eyes. There was something about him as well, but not
something unpleasant. Still like a memory or dream, but definitely a
pleasant one. She wondered what he looked like in just a tunic, and then
she wondered what he looked like in nothing at all. She wondered if
these people of Grahk would want to stay for evening meal. She wondered
if she might get to talk to Bralidan. She wondered what she might say to
him if she did. She didn't know anything about the kind of life he must
lead, always in the same place, cut off from nature by walls of stone.
But he had been riding a horse. Maybe they would talk about that.
Even in the midst of her distraction, she noticed that both the
duke and his heir were also looking at her. The heir in particular was
spending more time glancing her way than paying attention to her
father's -- or his own father's -- words. They only made eye contact
once, and it had been so intense, so full of a meaning that she just
couldn't quite fathom, that she had made sure not to look into those
grey eyes again.
At last, everyone was standing up from their chairs. She had been
so absorbed that she hadn't even noticed how numb her rear end was now.
She leaned on the table and worked the feeling back into her legs,
keeping her eyes on Bralidan. But it soon became apparent that the
Kuizhack were not staying. They took down their meeting table and its
cloth walls, and in far less time than it had taken to set it all up.
Soon, the entire collection of table, chairs, rugs, and frames was back
in the wagon, and with some courteous words of parting, the Kuizhack
rode away. Nikorah stood and watched after them, and she was sure that
the heir, Bralidan, looked back several times before details were lost
in the distance.
She returned to her ghur in the encampment and slipped inside the
low, dome shaped structure of hides covering bent poles woven together
at the top to form a smoke and air hole. She was glad she had earned her
own ghur last year upon reaching her sixteenth summer, because all she
wanted to do at the moment was think about Bralidan.
Nikorah settled herself on some pillows that were placed atop the
rugs that formed her ghur's floor. She reached into a small chest and
pulled out her favorite flute, the one with two bells that she had
crafted herself. She dug around in another chest, and finally dragged
out one of her favorite keepsakes and set it in front of her. While she
slipped off her moccasins and rummaged in the first chest for the
special hammer, she stared with pleasure at the hunk of rock.
The keepsake had been a gift from her father. A tinker, one of
those wandering vendors of trinkets and repair work, had happened by the
clan's camping ground seven winters ago. Nikorah remembered the stir he
had caused; anything different in the middle of winter was a welcome
diversion. She also remembered the first time she had seen her little
stone cat, lashed to the side of the box wagon the tinker pulled. It was
a fragment of something else, since its two straight sides were jagged
and broken, and the strips of gold, iron, and glass that ran across its
surface looked torn apart where their paths met those irregular sides.
The bulk of the foot and a half long fragment was taken up by a stylized
cat, out of which a bit of the iron strips seemed to grow. The strips
were woven together, almost like a basket, but not as neat and regular.
But the best thing about it, aside from the picture of the cat that she
used as her personal totem, was that the metal strips clinked musically
when tapped. The glass strips didn't, though she often had the thought
that they should, somehow. But nothing she hit them with produced a
sound that was sufficiently note-like to bother repeating.
Even though the cat-rock was a broken instrument, Nikorah had found
a way to play it. The few notes it was capable of didn't make up a
complete scale, nor were they all even in the same octave. But Nikorah
had managed anyway. She clamped the tiny hammer she had grabbed between
her toes and slid her foot into position over the cat-rock. Then she
placed the end of the flute between her lips, positioned her fingers,
and started to play, using the tones of the cat-rock as accompaniment.
And as her fingers and toes worked together and the ghur filled up with
music, her mind began to weave fantasies about the heir of Grahk.
========================================================================
Winterstorm
by Mark A. Murray
<mmurray@weir.net>
Firil 1016
The cold winter wind whipped at her face and stung her cheeks. She
leaned into it, daring it to freeze her more. The pain in her face still
did not compare to the pain in her soul.
"Megan?" Laera called in a soft voice. "You shouldn't be out here
without a warm coat or cloak."
"My soul is colder than this wind will ever be," she whispered.
"Please, Megan, come inside. I will be blamed if you should die out
here."
"All right, Laera," Megan sighed. "For your sake, and May's, I'll
come inside." The thought of May and Spirit's Haven almost brought tears
to her eyes, but winter had already stolen all of them with its icy
touch.
May had sent her to Hawksbridge, accompanied by Laera, in the hopes
that being away from Dargon, Spirit's Haven, and memories of him would
ease the pain in her soul. Laera was May's daughter and being young, she
enjoyed the travelling, no matter how cold it got. This was Laera's
first trip outside of Dargon. They had stopped at an inn to wait out the
blizzard before continuing on their journey.
Dargon had been the place where Megan's curse had finally ended.
She had been paralyzed from conscious movements. Throughout the long
duration of the curse, he had provided for her. He had protected her,
and in the end, he had willingly placed his life in danger to save her.
Spirit's Haven had been the inn owned by May where she had recovered
from the curse.
Now she was travelling without him to Hawksbridge and to her
family. Raphael was no longer by her side.
Megan walked back inside to where the fire crackled and spat
embers. Red-orange flames danced and flickered. The shift in temperature
stung her skin, but she stayed in front of the fire. It blazed and
burned as it tried to engulf her, though she was out of reach of its
grasp. Paying no heed to the fire, she thought of Raphael -- of all that
he had done for her. Small round tears formed in the corner of her eyes
as she tried to stifle a cry.
"You shouldn't stand that close to the fire, Megan," Laera said. "I
brought you a bowl of soup and some bread. The bread is a bit hard, but
if you dunk it in the soup, you won't notice it."
Megan only partially heard Laera; she was still thinking of him. At
night, he would cover her with a blanket and then crawl under it to
settle in beside her. He would always take a little while to get
situated next to her. Throughout her curse, she never could tell him how
warm and loving he felt beside her. And when the curse was over ...
things were not the same.
She felt something brush her arm and looked down. A large black
wolf stood next to her. It was staring at her with a puzzled look in its
eyes. She was glad that she had brought Anam. He had a calming affect on
her that she did not understand.
"I am alright, Anam," she said. "I was just remembering him." Anam
licked her arm. She felt his wet tongue scrape her skin. She lifted her
hand and scratched behind his ear. "I miss him."
"What was that?" Laera asked.
"Nothing Laera. Is my soup hot?"
"No, it was just warm when I brought it," Laera replied. "I could
heat it up for you."
"No. It will be fine." She turned away from the fire and walked
over to the table. The inn was fairly nice. There weren't many holes in
the walls, most of the tables were solid, and the smoke from the
fireplace went out the chimney rather than gathering in the room. The
food wasn't as good as the food at Spirit's Haven, but few places could
boast that. A blizzard had forced her to stay there longer than planned.
Although the blizzard had blown past a day ago, her escort had wanted to
wait and make sure it was fully gone. She sat down at the table and
started eating her soup.
"Your wolf brought back the deer that's in your stew," Laera told
her. "Just after the blizzard ended, he went out and returned dragging a
deer. I was helping fix dinner. We didn't tell anyone about it 'cause
you know how people get. They wouldn't want to eat something a wolf
dragged in. But they'll eat something a man's dragged in just fine. It's
the same if you ask me. With that one, at least." She pointed to Anam.
"He didn't chew on that deer or maul it in any way. Just dragged it back
here.
"The cook heard a scratching on the back door and when he opened
it, there was your wolf with the deer." Laera giggled before continuing
her explanation. "He said he nearly went in his pants seeing that wolf
at the door. It was funny the way he said that. His voice was a bit
higher than normal and he checked himself to make sure that he didn't go
in his pants," Laera laughed. "Then he recognized it was yours as it
trotted away. He said he never turns down free meals, so he butchered
the deer right then and there. He said to thank your wolf for the meal."
Megan turned and looked at Anam. He was stretched out on his side
on the floor with his eyes closed. "You're just like him, you know
that?" she whispered. "Always watching out for me. Did he teach you
that?" Anam didn't acknowledge that he had heard her voice. She knew he
wasn't asleep; he was just resting there because there was nothing else
for him to do.
"He's beautiful," Laera said. "Do you think he'd let me pet him?"
"I don't know," Megan answered. "He doesn't take to too many
people."
"I won't try then. I'm too scared he'd bite my hand off. He's so
... oh, I don't know ... majestic, I guess. Where'd you get him, Megan?"
"He was just there one day when I woke up," Megan replied. She
didn't really lie to Laera, but she couldn't tell her about Raphael ...
how he had found the pup in the woods when he was searching for
something to break her curse. It was the only one left alive out of the
litter; even the mother was dead. He took the pup with him and when the
curse was finally lifted, Megan woke to Anam licking her face.
"Just there? Where?" Laera asked, curiosity almost blinding her to
the expression on Megan's face. "Oh, Megan," Laera blurted when she saw
the painful look. "I didn't mean to pry. Really. I get so curious about
things, I keep asking questions."
"It's okay," Megan replied, wiping the almost fully formed tears
from her eyes. "I'll let you know when you're prying." Wanting to turn
the girl's attention elsewhere, she forced a small smile on her face.
"Now, tell me what you've heard about Hawksbridge. What's it like?"
"Oh! It sounds so grand! I'm told it's ..." Laera began, but
Megan's mind wasn't on Hawksbridge; it was on Raphael.
"I *said* I can't move them!" Raphael yelled, his voice strong and
hard.
He was stretched out on the bed, his hands curled into fists at his
side.
"Try," Megan pleaded. She was kneeling beside the bed, hands on the
edge, wanting to hold him.
"I *have* been! Do you think I like lying here like this?"
"What if I help move --"
"*No*! It won't matter! It won't work! I can't move my legs and I
never will!" he yelled at her. His fists pounded the bed in short strong
hits.
"Don't yell at me," Megan told him, her voice rising a bit. "I
didn't do it!" Raphael turned his face away from her and stared at the
wall. "I didn't cause this to happen!" she said, emphasizing the point
again.
"I can't move my legs and that's all that matters," Raphael
replied.
"*No* it isn't!" Megan said, her voice getting louder. "Why can't
you see that? *We* matter."
"And what will *we* do now that I can't move?" Raphael asked,
snapping his head around to look at her.
"I've been working downstairs," Megan said. "May needs the help."
"And I've been on this bed all day. Useless."
"No, love," Megan said, taking hold of his hand. "Never useless."
"What can I do?" Raphael snapped, pulling his hand out of hers. "I
can't walk, I can't move my legs at all, I can't work ... What am I to
do?"
"I ..."
"You don't know," Raphael finished for her. "Useless."
"Try to move your legs. Please."
"I *have* been trying!" Raphael shouted. "I try every day that
you're working. They don't move. I try so hard, I get soaked in sweat.
They don't move. I try so hard, I pass out from exhaustion. And they
*still* don't move."
"You don't have to shout at me!" Megan replied, angrily. "I'm
trying to help!"
"We've been to healers and mages and priests! Nothing has worked so
far; why do you think you can?"
"Quit! Quit shouting at me and quit being angry at me!" She got up
and started for the door.
"Go then. I can't follow you!" Raphael said to her back. Megan
stopped and turned around, her hand on the door latch.
"You won't make me feel guilty! You *won't*! I didn't do this, that
twisted mage did! If you want me, come downstairs and get me." She
opened the door, walked out, and slammed it shut. She didn't leave him,
though. Instead, she went downstairs and found May. She needed someone
to talk to because Raphael only made her angry.
She had told May all about what had happened. How Loth had been an
evil mage and how he had twisted a spell and had caused her to fall
under the curse. She had not been able to move consciously, but she had
been able to see and think on her own. Raphael had taken care of her in
that state for a long time, all the while searching for a cure. With the
help of his childhood friend, he had found the cure and that cure had
been killing Loth. The price of the cure had been paralyzation. Loth had
paralyzed Raphael before he died.
She had been freed from the curse, but Raphael had taken on
another. He couldn't move his legs and for him that was the same as
death. She understood what it had done to him. He was used to
travelling, used to caring for her, used to being able to defend himself
and her, and he couldn't do any of those things.
No, she hadn't left him that time, but things had grown worse and
eventually May had arranged for her to travel back to her family. May
said she needed some time away. May also said she'd take care of
Raphael.
"Megan?" Laera asked, bringing her back to the present.
"Yes?" she answered.
"Were you listening to me?"
"I'm sorry, Laera. My thoughts drifted away."
"You look sad."
"No," Megan replied, quickly. "I'm just tired. That's all."
"It has been a long day."
"Yes, it has. I'll see you in the morning, Laera." She stood and
started for her room. "Come Anam." Anam lifted his head and looked at
Megan. Her back was turned and she was starting to climb the stairs.
Anam slowly got to his feet and then followed her.
Megan and Laera left with the others the next morning. The snow was
piled high in places, but the road was manageable. Dark grey clouds hid
the sun. It looked more like dusk than daybreak. Efram, the leader,
wanted to make up the time that they had lost, so he pushed ahead,
disregarding the gloomy sky. They didn't travel far.
Anam was usually well away from the horses as he tended to make
them skittish. Megan watched as he loped closer to her wagon. He was
headed straight for her. The horses pulling the wagon behind her caught
sight of him and started acting up. The wind must have carried his scent
as the horses pulling her wagon jumped about, but the blinders kept them
from spotting Anam. Someone called a halt and she jumped down. As she
went over to Anam, the sky darkened. She looked up and saw black clouds
headed their way. The trees in the distance swayed and bent from gusts
of wind.
The blizzard came upon them suddenly. They were unprepared for the
fierceness of the storm and it hammered its rage upon them. Everything
went deathly white as the wind howled against them. Megan could hear
someone shouting, but couldn't make out the words. The blizzard hid all
but Anam from her. He was right by her side. She didn't know where to
turn to find anyone. Anam started to move forward and she put her hands
on his back and gripped his fur so that she wouldn't lose him, too. The
two of them inched forward. She didn't know where Anam was going, but
anywhere had to be better than just standing there.
The snow and wind assaulted Megan, causing her to stumble and fall
several times. Anam would stop and wait for her to stand before moving
on.
She was cold and her face stung. When she breathed in, it was like
daggers filling her insides. She thought about trying to pull a scarf
over her nose and mouth, but she didn't think she could with gloves on
and she didn't want to lose track of Anam.
The blizzard hindered her sight and all she saw was white as she
nearly collided with a tree. She hoped Anam knew where he was going. She
tried to lift her feet to push through the snow, but stumbled and fell
again. Anam stopped to wait for her. The cold was seeping into her and
she was afraid she wouldn't be able to continue on for much longer. She
moaned from the aching inside her as she stood to continue onward.
And then, the white was gone. She stumbled and nearly fell as the
snow disappeared from around her legs and she thought she had gone blind
because it was now dark. Turning around, she saw the white of the storm.
She finally realized that they had entered a cave. Anam moved on ahead.
Megan followed; she didn't want to lose him in a cave either. She also
didn't want to be left alone.
"Anam, wait," she said after taking a few steps. "I can't see."
When Anam stopped, she took off her cloak so that she could get to the
straps on her pack. "I hope the others find shelter, too," she muttered
as she took the pack off and opened it in search of her flint. After
finding it, she searched for the dry kindling she carried. Her escort
had made her pack it. They had traveled in harsh winters before and knew
that dry kindling sometimes made the difference between life and death.
She was glad they had helped her pack. Her fingers twitched and shook as
she started to build a fire.
Using a strip of her scarf and some kindling, she struck the flint
and watched it spark. Each spark built hope inside her. If she could get
a fire going, she knew she would survive. Another spark and the strip
caught on fire. Breathing a sigh of relief, she built a small fire which
gave off enough light to see a little deeper into the cave.
"It seems as if someone is smiling upon us, Anam," she said when
she saw the scattered remnants of dried grass and sticks. Gathering the
sticks, she built a slightly larger fire and warmed herself at it. "I
don't know what used this cave as a home, but I am glad it brought in
what it did."
She huddled next to the fire. Anam paced around her, sniffing the
cave.
"Don't tell me that whatever makes this cave its home is still
here?" Anam made his way back into the shadows. "If you're going back
there, let me at least make a torch so that we can see."
"Anam, wait," she called, afraid to lose her only companion. She
wasn't afraid of the cave. If there was any danger in here, Anam would
have sensed it. He stopped and turned to look at her. She wrapped a
strip of scarf around a branch and lit it. "It won't last long, so I
hope this cave isn't very big. Let's go."
Anam led the way down a small passage in the cave. Although it was
high enough that she didn't have to stoop, there were places where she
had to scrape through, and the winter clothing didn't help.
At one narrow passage, she lowered the torch as she squeezed
through. Looking ahead, she saw a light. It was a soft green glow that
lit the passage in front of her. Anam was sniffing and walking toward
the light, and she hurried to catch up with him.
The narrow passage opened up into a round chamber. Covering the
walls was glowing lichen. It gave off a soft green light that lit the
whole chamber. She stepped into the circular room and looked around. The
floor was covered with dirt and there was a glimmer of something in the
middle of the floor.
Moving over to it, she knelt and brushed away the dirt. It was
shaped like a rectangle, and the more she uncovered, the more it
reflected the green light. After removing most of the dirt, she blew
onto the square object to clear away the dust. Staring down at the
object, she saw her reflection staring back. It was a mirror.
She looked at her red face and grimaced. The wind and snow had
cold-burned her. Reaching down to pull the mirror out of the ground, she
felt a tug. Something was pulling her down to the ground -- no, to the
mirror. She fought back. The mirror was sucking her into it and fear
flared throughout her. It was magic and it was taking her! Her fear of
being cursed again blazed through her, giving her added strength to try
to pull away. She raged and shook, her long red hair whipping about her
face.
Her strength receded slowly and she found herself falling into the
mirror -- into another curse.
========================================================================
Surfacing
by Bryan Read
<brrman@yahoo.com>
Sy, 1017
Rain spattered the mud of the roadway and Willis stumbled into a
turbid alley as lightning abruptly shattered the dark night sky.
Shivering, he thrust himself into an opening between several stacked
barrels. It did little to ward off the deluge from above, but he found
he could walk no further. He could feel warm blood seeping down his
thigh.
The city had already been swallowed by the night when the rains
began. The rain was unusually heavy and cold for the month of Sy,
chilling Willis down to his knuckles. He pulled long, wet strands of
hair from his face, hooking them behind his ears with trembling hands,
and looked down at the bloody stain on his breeches. All he had wanted
was to get to the inn and out of this rain, to sit by the fire, have a
last drink and then go quickly. Was that too difficult?
"Of course it is," he thought bitterly. "Since when does anything
ever go as I want it to?"
His vision blurred again. The shadows swirled and melted, and he
squeezed his eyes shut. His stomach retched violently but there was
nothing left to bring forth, and Willis simply gagged and heaved,
leaning against a slick barrel.
The seizure lasted only menes, as had the one before, but his
strength was failing him even as he sat amongst the barrels. Wincing
slightly -- not from the pain, but from what he expected to see --
Willis unsheathed his knife and cut open the already torn legging of his
breeches. Fresh blood seeped from the wound, but the rain washed it away
quickly so that he could plainly make out the jagged tooth marks on his
upper thigh. With a nervous curse, he sliced the woolen leg of his
breeches completely free and tied it tightly about the wound. Had it not
been for the chill of the rain deadening his senses, he would have cried
out.
Willis could hear his heart pounding in his ears as he thought of
the beast that had attacked him. It had taken him by surprise, and torn
into his leg with jaws so strong he had thought his leg might snap under
the force. It was a large dog, or so he had thought, but the piercing
crimson eyes that had glared with such mad hunger had quickly removed
any thoughts of a domestic canine. He had thrashed with the animal for
what seemed like an eternity before his knife finally took the beast in
the eye, forcing it to back away.
It was then that the rains had suddenly fallen, as if God had
decided to save him from the terrible fate. It was thick, disorienting,
and everything surrounding him had vanished in its depths. He had
plunged into the alleyways of the city, seeking shelter from his
attacker.
It wasn't just the beast that Willis was desperately avoiding. He
had heard men in the distance, calling, shouting in pursuit of their pet
and its prey. He had no intentions of being caught. He would never go
back to that place. He listened for any sound of his pursuers, but the
rain consumed all sounds now, except the occasional burst of distant
thunder. He saw no one about when a series o
f lightning strikes
illuminated the alley outside his hiding place.
Knife in hand, Willis staggered from the cubby in the barrels and
back into the alley. The downpour removed all sense of direction, but he
chose one anyway and trudged onward. He made his way through a series of
dark alleys before falling to his knees in the mud.
"Keep moving, Willis," he told himself. He crawled on desperately,
emerging onto an open roadway.
Nochtur Street was a wide avenue, normally host to an assortment of
nightly celebrators and performers. Being so close to the commercial
district of the city, it was in good repair with cobbled walks and
scattered sitting benches, but tonight the street was empty, save for
the sea of spattering rain filling the ruts and holes. Willis found
himself crawling onto a stone pathway. Attempting to stand, he looked up
into a sudden source of light and his legs seemed to melt away. He fell
onto his behind and pulled free a knife, attempting to ward off the
giant snake looming above in the strange light.
Willis opened his mouth to scream.
"You all right, sonny?" came a gruff voice, as strong fingers
gripped Willis' shoulder. "You should come in outta the rain, you know."
Willis tried to stand. His vision swirled, danced, and finally
faded into blackness.
"Ballard Tamblebuck's the name, sonny. How do you feel?"
Willis blinked.
"You're lucky I was up and about," the portly innkeeper continued.
"Lucky the shutters came open and I caught a glimpse of you."
The innkeeper was tall, but the baldness of his head and roundness
of his paunch kept his appearance short and globular. He chuckled and
smoothed the dull white apron that hung off his belly.
"Where am I?" Willis croaked. "Is this the Shattered Spear? My
room?"
"Why, you're at the Inn of the Serpent, my boy!" Ballard answered
as he straightened his back proudly. "Only the most richly furnished inn
of the west side."
Willis' eyes darted about the sparsely furnished room.
Noticing the young man's glance, the innkeeper chuckled. "You
happen to be in the only spare room available tonight. It isn't much but
I rarely put anyone in here."
Ballard Tamblebuck stood before a closed window, its outer shutters
rattling under the rainfall. Another figure stood not far off in the
doorway, silhouetted before the soft orange light of the hallway. A
small table stood in a far corner of the room, the only furniture other
than the bed on which he lay. Willis moved to sit up, but the innkeeper
gently pressed him back to the lumpy mattress. Willis looked down in
horror upon his torn pantleg, and Ballard peered at him curiously.
"What was that thing?" Willis stammered, his eyes suddenly wide
with terror. "What was it?"
The innkeeper stood back, fists on hips, and cocked his head.
"What's wrong with you, boy? That was just the statue. Gotta have a
serpent outside the Inn of the Serpent."
Willis shook his head violently. "No! It was going to swallow me,
it was!"
Ballard smiled then, a small rueful smile. "You just take it easy,
sonny. I know the problem. Seen it before, I have. You been down on
Layman Street, no doubt."
Willis looked to his thigh. "Can you help me? Can you fix my leg?"
"Of course I can. Done it before, I have."
Willis gave a sigh of relief, almost a cackle. "I thought they had
me for sure."
"You stay here," Ballard remarked as he walked around the bed.
"I'll fetch what I need." He left the room, past the figure standing in
the doorway.
Thunder rolled over the inn. The single candle flickered, as if in
response.
Willis watched the silent figure that studied him. It was
motionless, cloaked in the shadows created by the backlight of the
lantern in the hallway. He strained to see through the darkness, his
eyes narrowing in a squint, but gave up with a heavy sigh.
"She's gone, you know," Willis said to the silhouette in the
doorway, his voice distant, eyes vacant. "Left me to die of an empty
heart. Have you ever had an empty heart?"
There was no reply so he continued.
"I paid him all I had. He said I wouldn't feel anything. All I had
to do was take the poison and I could be over it."
Ballard Tamblebuck brushed into the room and to the side of the
bed, a steaming cup in hand.
"You must drink this," he urged as he supported Willis' head in one
hand.
"But ... But my leg," Willis stammered. "How will that help my
leg?"
"Easy, sonny. You'll be fine. There's nothing wrong with your leg.
It's just the ardon, that's all. Comin' off that stuff is worse even
than Hanla's Sleep. Fool drug is poison. What're you doing with that
stuff in you?"
Willis noisily slurped the mixture as Ballard held it to his lips.
Then he said, "You have to fix my leg. Please!"
"There be nothing wrong with your leg. You got no legging is all."
Willis glanced again at his imaginary wound and then pushed his
head back into the pillow, as if trying to escape his own body.
"Kill me then," he muttered. "It was my intent in the beginning
anyhow!"
The innkeeper frowned and pinched his fat lower lip in thought.
"Bought some black ardon, no? Trying to murder your own self."
Ballard was nodding to himself thoughtfully. "Good thing you made a bad
purchase. No telling what strange things you be seeing. No worry,
though. That tea will help you get to your feet. Drug just needs a way
out of the body is all."
"Maura," Willis groaned. "I lost my Maura. Let me die."
Ballard Tamblebuck looked to the silent shadow in the doorway.
Slowly, his face went quiet of expression, and his gaze again fell
on the demented boy. He set the tea on the table in the corner and stood
at the foot of the bed.
"What be your name, sonny?"
"Willis. My name is Willis."
"Where do you come from?"
Willis seemed to think for a moment. "I ... I am not sure," he
mumbled. "Somewhere far away."
Ballard pinched his lip. Ardon was a vicious drug, illegal within
the city. If magicked in one design it could become highly addictive; in
another it was deadly poison. The boy had wanted to die, but had
foolishly bought it from a street seller. The drug would leave lasting
memory loss, Ballard knew, and at this very moment the boy was as
malleable as corn paste. He would recover from the delusions of the
injury he was seeing, but his mind was barren now. The innkeeper sighed.
That memory and spirit could be reforged. Ballard had seen a healer use
such methods and give a deranged woman the ardon one time, and she had
come to her senses. That had been a long time ago, he admitted. He had
come to Dargon to forget those troublesome years of his past. But
something could be done here.
"It'll be alright, sonny," Ballard said. "I'll see to it. Maura is
here. She's come back for you, Willis."
Willis peered at the innkeeper, his eyes glazed. "But she was lost
on the sea. My Maura is gone."
Ballard shook his head softly. "She is here, Willis. Waiting for
you. What does she look like?"
The young man winced, as if the attempt at remembering brought him
physical pain. "I ... I can't. Is ... is she really here?"
The innkeeper nodded softly. His insides ached from what he was
about to do. But it would be better for Willis, he rationalized, to
learn from a loving wife rather than to die ignorant and lonely. And he
is a fine looking man, young and strong, no doubt. Willis could make a
fine husband for Deserae. Then he gave a bitter inward laugh. Since the
accident there wasn't a man in Dargon who failed to look away if Deserae
happened by. He had seen it; seen the pity in their eyes, the revulsion.
Now he was molding a man from depravity to fill the task.
His attention focused on the figure in the doorway as it moved into
the room. She was a slight woman, with less curve than the average man
would crave, and her hair was long about her shoulders, but somehow
lifeless. She smiled hesitantly at Willis with thin lips, and her gray
eyes held a hint of sadness, rimming with wetness as they met with the
confused young man. Her face was scarred, nearly entirely, from burns,
but Willis gazed upon her as if she were his world.
Ballard Tamblebuck wiped away a tear that threatened to travel his
cheek. "May the gods forgive me if I be acting without their grace," he
thought.
"Maura?" he heard Willis stammer. "Maura? My leg, Maura. It's hurt
bad."
Deserae knelt at the bedside, her smooth hand on his forehead. She
smiled knowingly. "I know, Willis," she replied, her voice a soothing
whisper. "I'll make it all better. We'll be together again."
Willis returned her smile. He looked upon her with longing.
"Yes," he whispered. "Everything will be all right."
Ballard lifted his face from thick hands to gaze into the warm
coals. The fire was nearly dead. For a fleeting moment he considered
re-stocking the smoldering pit, but let the thought fade. His mind was
elsewhere on this frosted morning. The pale sun had broken the horizon
behind silver-gray clouds only a half bell earlier, and to Ballard
Tamblebuck, it was a fitting start to what promised to be an unpleasant
day.
"What would you think of me now, my sweet?" he whispered to a tiny
flame that struggled to breathe. "Would you have done the same for your
daughter?"
The flame flickered and died.
Ballard gave a sad sigh. "I thought not."
"Talking to the fire again, Father?" sounded a smooth voice from
behind him.
He looked back over his shoulder from where he sat on a wooden
chair before the fire pit. Deserae stood at the foot of the carpeted
stairs, her hand lightly touching the railing. She wore her typical
daily clothes: a plain brown dress and low cut leather boots. She
appeared as she did everyday, with the exception of a new smile, and it
seemed to scatter the misgivings he carried inside him from the previous
night.
The chamber they occupied was a large one, the common room of the
inn. A dark hardwood bar trimmed with brass corners stood along the wall
opposite the entrance, and an array of tables with accompanying chairs
were neatly placed around a central fire pit. The stairs climbed the
wall next to the bar, leading to the rented rooms, and continued upward
to those of Ballard Tamblebuck and his daughter.
And now Willis.
"Has the boy remembered anything more?" he asked quietly.
Deserae crossed the room to stand next to her father. She put a
hand to his slumped shoulder.
"He remembers what I tell him he remembers. He is a nice man, and
smiles at me."
"He won't always listen to what you tell him. The drug will
completely leave his body by evening. He'll still want answers, but will
be open to your suggestions no longer."
"So you have told me," she remarked, her voice calm and quiet. "I
have told him most of what he will want to know."
"Did you tell him how he came to lose his memory? Surely he's asked
that."
She nodded softly. "I told him he had been gone away for some time,
and that we had not seen him until last night when he arrived in that
condition."
Ballard released a slow breath, pinching his lip, and brought his
eyes back to the smoldering coals. "He will be fine, then."
"How will you explain to everyone about me changing my name?" she
asked.
Her father smiled. "I have been thinking that maybe you could get
baptized into Stevenism, like you've always wanted. It is customary for
many people to take another name to symbolize their new path in life."
"You would really let me do that? You have always said --"
Ballard waved his hand. "I know what I've said. But things have
changed my mind. We will have you baptized. I just wish I could get some
sign I've done the right thing."
She gently squeezed his shoulder. "I know you did this for me,
Father. I know it was hard for you, and I would never have asked you to
do this. But do not fault yourself for this man's loss. You have given
him life in place of death. He will thank you for it some day. Mother
would say the same."
He looked back to her with a faint smile, thankful for the
comforting words. It seemed to restore his usual verve, and he stood,
stretching. He threw several pieces of wood in the pit.
"The roomers will soon be wandering down. Could you fetch the pot
of stew? Need it hot or they'll be grumbling."
Deserae smiled pleasantly and entered the kitchen. A wide, low
table stood in the center of the room flourishing a thick cutting plank
and a cleaver. On the surrounding walls an assortment of iron pots
occupied a shelf that circled the room. In the rear of the kitchen was a
door leading outside and next to it stood two large casks, suspended by
thick oak beams several feet off the floor.
"Hail to you, young man," she heard from the common room. "What
brings you down here?"
"Good morning, Master Tamblebuck," Willis replied. "I am feeling
rather thirsty. Might I fetch a drink of water?"
Deserae stiffened. Was he coming in here? Although she had done her
best to be his Maura, to fill that empty memory, she never lost the
uncertainty of her situation. "Will he suddenly remember that he has
never known me?" she thought. "Will he know I am not his Maura?" She had
asked herself other questions as well, but they all danced around one
lingering fear.
"Will he look on me like other men do?"
Willis swung wide the door and sauntered in, barefoot and obviously
enjoying it. He peered at this object or that as he moved near the meat
table at which Deserae stood. She smiled as she watched him approach;
she noticed the smile came easily. His eyes were bright beneath a head
of loose brown wavy hair, and his face had regained its color.
Leaf-green eyes gazed into hers, and she felt lost in them, enjoying the
stare of another for the first time that she could remember.
"I'll get your water," she managed.
He placed his hands on her shoulders gently.
"I can get my water," he returned, smiling. "You have tended to me
enough." He spied about the room and spotted several large casks resting
on a shelf in the back of the kitchen. "Ah," he said, and approached
them.
She handed him a mug before he had a chance to ask.
He hastily pulled the peg from the cask, letting the liquid tinkle
into the tin mug. He turned, held it up to her in good cheer and downed
a gulp.
Rum sprayed about the room, over the pots and pans and beef and
everything else.
"By Stevene's Light!" he howled amid a fit of coughing, his eyes
wide. "What manner of water is this?"
Deserae's laughter nearly toppled her over, and she grasped the
table's end for support. He stood there as she tried to catch her
breath, a grin slowly hooking his face. Soon, he too was chuckling.
"You've never had rum, Willis?"
"I don't recall. Have you ever seen me drink it?"
"No," she answered, her smile wavering. "No, I haven't."
Willis studied the liquid in the mug. "Still, I think it agrees
with me."
Then, after a quiet moment, he sighed. "I wish I could remember.
What did I do? Where did I come from? Who am I?" He took the cloth from
Deserae's hand and wiped the rum from her face. "I know what you have
told me, Maura, but I wish I could remember it all."
Deserae put a hand on his arm. "It will come back to you
eventually, Willis."
He softly touched her cheek with back of his fingers. She nearly
flinched, at the strange feel of it, and fear began to grip her. Would
he realize?
"I know it, my love," he whispered.
He kissed her then, and something within her dissolved. Her
frustrations, her anger, her shame; all of it was washed clean as hope
flooded through her. She was dizzy when he pulled his lips from hers,
and she opened her eyes slowly, praying that it was not a dream.
"Maura!" Ballard called from the common room. "I be needing the
stew, girl!"
"Go ahead," Willis said. "Just tell me where the water is and I'll
clean up this mess."
With a giggle she pointed to the door leading out back. "The water
keg is out in the barn," she said and then slipped around Willis,
fetching the heavy pot of stew. As she exited the kitchen she could feel
his gaze upon her, and she reveled in it, even dared to sway her hips as
she had seen other women do in front of men.
"Ah," Ballard Tamblebuck sighed as his daughter hooked the pot
handle over the fire pit.
He sat next to another man. The guest was tall, sitting a full head
higher than Ballard, and was dressed in drab brown robes, the sleeves
hanging low over his hands. He was bald and clean-shaven, though his
face was deeply tanned and leathery, creased with middle age.
"It won't be long, traveler."
The man gave a slow, pleasant nod. "It will be good to eat a rich
meal after so many days walk."
"You must have been walking in the rain the past few days."
Another pleasant nod.
"You come far?"
"I have traveled for nearly a full cycle of the moon."
Ballard whistled. "A full month, eh? Long time to be on your feet.
Be needing a room while you're in Dargon?"
The man smiled and shook his head. "There are people I have to
meet. They will provide for me once I find them."
Ballard nodded.
"But I have been visiting the various rooming establishments in the
city. I am looking for a young man named Willis."
Deserae stiffened, but continued to wipe the surface of the table.
"Can't say I know of any Willis," her father replied offhandedly.
"What's he look like?"
The stranger paused a moment. "I am not sure. He may have grown his
hair, but he does have very green eyes." Ballard's frown made him
continue. "We live in an isolated area, and he is the son of my
employer. I have been instructed to bring him home at once."
"I see," replied the portly innkeeper, pinching his lip. "If I do
happen to find a Willis in my establishment, who might I contact?"
"There is a man. Ask for Podras at the Spirit's Haven. He will see
to you."
The stranger in the robes ate his stew in silence, preferring a
corner table and a drink of water. He tipped well, paying with a silver
coin, marked with a mint that Ballard did not recognize, and left
without another word being spoken. Shortly after, Heidi bounced through
the entrance, humming a light-hearted tune.
"You're late," Ballard chided. "Do you think I pay you to flirt
with the boys on the street?"
"Sorry," she squeaked as she removed her coat.
"We have a guest," Ballard continued. "A friend of Deserae's who
used to live here a short while ago, before you started here."
"What's her name?"
"*His* name is Willis."
"Willis?" Heidi giggled. "Found a man have you, Deserae?"
"He had a touch of fever last night and is a bit confused this
morning," said Ballard. "Be nice."
Willis emerged from the kitchen, mug in hand. "You know," he said.
"I rather like this rum. Makes me feel all warm."
Heidi smirked. "Looks more drunk than confused to me."
Deserae stifled a laugh as she finished polishing the last of the
tables.
Willis opened his eyes.
It was dawn. The shutters were closed to the outside world, but he
knew the sun was cresting the horizon. He had no idea how he could know
such a thing, and had been amazed during the first few weeks of his stay
at the Inn of the Serpent, but now he was accustomed to his unfaltering
ability to wake precisely at the dawning of the sun each new day. He was
usually awake before Maura, and took pleasure in watching her sleep. He
listened to her quiet breathing, took in her form in the quiet of the
morning.
Many times he wondered about her scars. He could not remember how
she had been so badly burned, but he would not ask her, not wanting to
stir up painful memories. While the burns had been serious, they had
healed relatively well, he knew, and her features were hardly as
grotesque as she had grown to think of them. He knew that she deemed
herself ugly, that she looked at other women with envy, sometimes with
anger. The years of repeated comments, laughter, and general disdain she
suffered from many of the inn's visitors had broken her spirit. He had
seen that spirit grow every day since he had awoke that first day of his
*new* life. He found it pleasantly odd that even though he could not
remember any of their early days together, he knew that he loved this
woman, and always would.
He had his own scars, of course. He could spot several areas about
his arms and chest that looked to be old wounds of some sort, but the
most pronounced was the scar on the palm of his left hand. Or rather, it
was a marking. The strange inky-black pattern brought a familiar tingle
to his stomach, but he could not grasp the memory. It had been there
since the first morning at the inn, or at least that was the earliest he
could remember it being there -- it was the earliest he could remember
anything -- and he could not understand how it had come to be there.
Maura stirred, a soft moan escaping her lips.
Today was her day away from working the inn, and he had no
intentions of rousing her from her slumber. He softly rose from their
bed and pulled on his trousers and tunic, leaving his feet bare. When he
reached the base of the steps, the polished hardwood cold at his feet,
he received a good morning nod from Ballard, who had glanced back over
his shoulder. The innkeeper was staring out the window, the same window
from which they both watched the dawn every morning. It made Willis feel
somehow at home, knowing he and Ballard shared at least something in
common.
He approached the large man and leaned on the wall next to him.
"Can I ask you something?"
Ballard put his eyes on Willis. "About Maura?"
The very mention of her name made him smile. "Yes."
"You want to know how she got her scars, no?"
Willis nodded. "I don't want to cause her pain with such questions.
It's just that I've been here so long and I feel that I know nothing of
anybody, including myself."
Ballard dropped a heavy sigh in the silent morning. "It was a
kitchen incident. A pot was boiling over; its lid was stuck somehow, but
it blew. Scalded her face, it did. She was such a pretty girl. She used
to laugh and have fun until that day. Three years now that was.
"She had been seeing you for that entire summer," he lied, silently
pleading for forgiveness from the gods. "You were on an errand for me
when it happened. The only comfort she had was in you."
Willis nodded silently, his eyes teary at the thought of her pain.
"But you've changed, Willis. You've made her smile every day since
your accident. You're a different man. A better man. And I'll show you
something that hasn't seen the light of day for three years."
Willis followed him down a flight of stairs into the wine cellar,
past the racks of wine and deep into the back of the bricked basement.
The lamp he held threw light about the room, and he saw a series of
different racks, these holding empty wine bottles. Standing against the
nearest was a large picture frame, nearly as large as the windows
upstairs, its face turned away from view.
Ballard motioned for him to turn it around.
Willis caught his breath as he gazed at the portrait, not because
of the masterful painting that it was, but from the fact that he knew
exactly whose face it was the instant he saw it. Her cheeks were smooth
and flawless, her lips pursed in a tight smile, and her eyes beaming
with exuberance.
"She is beautiful," he breathed. "By the light of day, she is
beautiful. But why is the name Deserae painted in the corner?"
"That was her birth name," the innkeeper answered. "She took Maura
as her new name when she was baptized into Stevenism, shortly after you
met those years ago."
Another lie. He was beginning to feel criminal.
"Hellooo," rang Heidi's voice from atop the stairs. "There's a man
here! He says he'd like to see Willis."
Ballard felt his stomach churn and threaten to retch.
"For me?" Willis asked in surprise.
"You're the only Willis I know, silly," she retorted.
He started for the stairs before Ballard could grab him, and
ascended into the common room even before the bigger innkeeper could
reach the steps. When Ballard did manage to emerge into the common room
his fears had become realities. It was the same man that had visited him
four months earlier, dressed in the same drab brown robes with the same
bald head. He gave a silent cuss, but quickly recanted. It would do no
good to curse the gods now. He was being punished for acting so vainly,
for thinking he could create another man's life.
"Willis," the stranger said softly.
"Willis?" he heard Deserae whimper from atop the stairs.
"Willis," Ballard heard himself say.
The young man named Willis simply stared at the strange man in the
strange robes.
"I can help you, Willis," he said. "I have been searching for you
for a year now. Where is Maura?"
Willis glanced to a woman on the stairs.
The man frowned.
"Who ... Who are you?" Willis stammered.
"You do not know me?" His gaze fell on Ballard Tamblebuck. "You
told me you did not know Willis. Why did you lie? Why did you make me
spend such a long time here in your filthy city? Did you think I would
not find him?"
Ballard swallowed hard. "I found him only a day before your first
visit, raving in the rain outside the inn. He was near death from a
drug. Ardon, it was. Made him see things that weren't there. Lost his
memory. I didn't know if you would hurt him."
"Hurt him?" The man rubbed his bald head, his temper cooling. "I am
Gizzel, representative of the Rithius Family. Willis Rithius has been
missing for some time. He was never supposed to be here. He should be at
his father's side."
His eyes fell back on Willis.
"You should not have run, Willis. Maura was not meant for you. You
have been arranged with another." Gizzel paused a moment, glancing again
to Deserae atop the stairs. "No matter. She is no longer an issue."
"What are you talking about?" Willis stammered, regaining part of
his composure. "Maura is standing right there!"
Gizzel peered again at the girl atop the stairs. "I was told of the
death of a girl on the ship you took here. I had assumed it was Maura."
Ballard gripped his apron, desperate to gain some control of the
situation. "There was an accident and she was burned."
The stranger shook his head. "As I said, it matters not. I have
come to take you home, Willis. Your father and brothers feel your
absence strongly."
Willis shook his head silently, awestruck.
Gizzel brushed aside his robe to reveal an ornate sword hilt. "I
have been given strict orders, Willis. I will use any methods
necessary." He waved his hand toward the door.
The tattoo on Gizzel's palm flashed for only an instant, but Willis
recognized the dark pattern. It was the same mysterious mark that
scarred his own hand. Some faint recollection sparked within him. Images
flashed in his mind: the fall of a blade, a flapping banner, the
crashing waves about the deck of some vessel. There was blood, fire,
chaos. The past invaded like cold steel. Then there was a face, smooth
and pale. Willis clenched his fists.
"I ... I need some time," he stammered.
Gizzel shook his head, only slightly. "You spent your time running,
Willis. We leave now."
Deserae stumbled down a step as she called Willis' name. She
watched as his green eyes turned to connect with hers. His face was
ashen, his knuckles white. Still, he did not speak. She fell to her
knees against the railing and buried her face in trembling hands as she
sobbed. There was nothing left, nothing at all. She would lose the only
man who had ever loved her, the only man to see beneath the curse of her
scars. Now he would hate her for what she had done to him. He would know
how they had deceived him.
A touch caused her head to lift.
Willis took her hands in his. "You should not cry," Willis
whispered. He was kneeling from a step below, his face close to hers.
"I understand it all, Deserae. You saved my life that night, and in
doing so you set yourself on the path to your own healing. I am grateful
I was the tool in Stevene's hands used to heal your spirit. But I know
something of who I am now, and I must know the rest.
"And I feel no joy in leaving, but my place is not here any longer.
I must find myself, Deserae, as I have helped you find yourself. You can
start a new life. The world waits for you now."
"You can't go, Willis. You can't!" she whispered fiercely.
He kissed her forehead as a tear traveled his cheek. "I do love
you, Deserae. And I wish I was simply this man at this inn, but I
remember things now. I have to find out who I am. I have to leave with
this man. He has the same mark, Deserae. It means something, I can feel
it. He can show me who I am."
Deserae traced the strange lines in his palm with her finger. "Will
you come back, Willis? Will you come back to me?"
He released a trembling breath. "I will send word, my love."
Then his hand slipped away.
She could not reply, fearing she might be sick. She watched him
descend the stairs slowly. Gizzel took him by the arm as he reached the
bottom of the stairs.
Ballard spread his arms helplessly. "Where are you taking him?"
"It is not your concern, innkeeper," replied Gizzel flatly. "Just
be content that no harm will come to you or your daughter."
Ballard frowned at the shrouded threat, but still watched with wide
eyes as the two exited the inn and softly closed the door behind them.
Deserae let herself cry unabated then, pulling her knees close and
dropping her head to rest on them. She felt her father's arm about her
shoulders, but it made nothing easier. Nothing would ever be easier.
Ballard Tamblebuck stared out the open window. It was dawn. Light
snow feathered to the ground in a silent dance as the innkeeper gazed
into the clouds above. Many days he had stood here with Willis to watch
the day's new sun light the sky. It had been several months since he had
last done so. He had been content then. He had brought his daughter some
measure of happiness, a life in which she deserved. He had given her a
man who loved her.
A snowflake drifted onto his face.
It had been a terrible mistake. He had taken a man's life and
replaced it with one built on deceit and trickery. He had kept a man
from his family. Worse yet, he had given his daughter a taste of a life
she could never have. He had betrayed everyone. Even himself. He had
always wanted a son.
"I'm going to the market, Father," Deserae said as she stepped off
the stairs. She was pulling on a coat.
Ballard looked to his daughter. Long brown hair fell over her
shoulders, and her eyes glittered in the new sunlight. She looked as she
always had before this terrible mess, he thought.
She turned and waved as she reached the door, a smile touching her
lips. Then she was gone, strolling down a wakening Nochtur Street,
basket in hand.
"Well, almost as she always had," he thought. "Almost."
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