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DargonZine Volume 15 Issue 10
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DargonZine Distributed: 11/24/2002
Volume 15, Number 10 Circulation: 639
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Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
Past, Present, and Presage 2 Rena Deutsch Deber 2, 1010
Cherryseye P. Atchley Yule 10, 1018
Talisman Nine 4 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Sy 5 - 22, 1013
========================================================================
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 correspondence to <dargon@dargonzine.org> or visit
us on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/, or our FTP site
at ftp://users.primushost.com/members/d/a/dargon/. Issues and public
discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
DargonZine 15-10, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright November, 2002 by
the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@rcn.com>,
Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@covad.net>. 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@rcn.com>
As 2002 wanes, I'd like to devote this Editorial to two of our most
important writers: Dafydd Cyhoeddwr, and P. Atchley. Not only do they
each have stories appearing in this issue, but between them they've
written twelve of the 25 stories we've printed this year. These two
authors are responsible for half of the fiction we brought you in 2002,
and that's worthy of acknowledgement, so I'd like to take a second and
introduce you to them.
P. Atchley joined the project on January 2, 2000, and "Cherryseye",
which appears in this issue, is already her fifteenth Dargon story.
After taking some time to get up to speed, she set to work in earnest
this year, as her works alone comprised more than a third of the entire
year's stories. In fact, only twice before has anyone ever printed more
work in DargonZine in a single year.
She describes "Cherryseye" as an unexpected delight. Although it
didn't start out that way, the story turned out to be her first attempt
at writing a romance, and she's quite pleased with the results.
Her story ideas usually come from a momentary emotion she has felt,
which she then tries to recreate in a story of her own. Despite the
positive tone of "Cherryseye", she believes that the negative emotions
are more fun to write about, because they offer more creative options.
She describes her writing style as more plot-focused and
event-driven than most Dargon stories. Her stories emphasize drama, and
she prefers using dialogue to move them forward.
The first story she recalls writing was a novella for children,
wherein a group of children meet a botanist who has created a blue rose,
and villains attempt to steal it from him. Looking back on that piece,
she still considers it a fairly good plotline.
Outside of writing, which is a central part of her life, Ms.
Atchley is accomplished at needlework and enjoys cooking and, of course,
reading.
A message she'd share with our readers is this: "Keep reading
DargonZine; what's life without a story or two ... thousand?"
Dafydd Cyhoeddwr joined DargonZine way back in 1986. In his sixteen
years with the project, he's written an amazing 51 stories, making him
our most prolific writer by far. In fact, he is the only Dargon writer
who has printed more fiction in a year than P. Atchley, having done so
in 1999 and 2000. He has also created more of the people, places, and
things in the Dargon milieu than any other writer. As if that wasn't
enough, he also served as DargonZine's Editor from 1988 to 1994! It
would be difficult to overstate the contribution he's made to
DargonZine.
"Talisman Nine 4", which appears in this issue, is the 33rd chapter
in his ongoing "Talisman" series, and if you haven't read every chapter,
you're really missing some wonderful work, as well as the overall story
arc, which will be coming to a climax in the near future. Dafydd says
that "Talisman Nine" required more revision and reorganization than any
other story he has published in DargonZine, mostly because his reviewers
all asked for more detail! Although he has never co-authored a Dargon
story, he considers "Talisman Nine" to be the most collaborative work
he's ever done.
He finds his inspiration in almost anything: a phrase overheard in
conversation, a song that catches his fancy, or a story or book that
gets him to ask "What if". He eloquently states, "There's no one thing
that inspires me, just as there's nothing that could not possibly
inspire me."
I asked Dafydd recently to describe how his writing style differs
from DargonZine's "mainstream". His response: "Dude, my writing IS
DargonZine mainstream!" And being single-handedly responsible for
one-sixth of the prose published in our eighteen-year history, I have to
admit he's got a point!
Dafydd's family recently gave him a gift: the first piece of
fiction he can remember writing. Somewhere back in the depths of time,
he wrote, illustrated, and hand-bound a six-page Hardy Boys story. Like
P. Atchley with her first story, Dafydd still thinks his plot was fairly
solid.
In a bit of synchronicity, Dafydd, like Ms. Atchley, is also a
needlework enthusiast, as well as a devoted reader. He also games and is
involved in medieval recreationist events through the Society for
Creative Anachronism.
His avid appreciation of feedback on his writing is obvious in
Dafydd's message for our readers: "Read my stuff; all of it! And then,
maybe, write me about it."
That's a little bit of an introduction to two of DargonZine's
leaders and most prolific writers. They deserve ample thanks and
recognition for their amazing contributions to DargonZine's success.
It's an honor to be able to work with them, and a pleasure to share
their work with you. I hope you enjoy it!
========================================================================
Past, Present, and Presage
Part 2: Megan's Story
by Rena Deutsch
<Rena3@hotmail.com>
Deber 2, 1010
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 13-10
"Wake up, Megan!" A gentle shake woke me out of my dreams.
Groggily, I opened my eyes, only to see my mother's face in pain.
"It's time," mother breathed. "Go! Run and get Elena!" Realizing
the urgency in her voice, I vaulted out of my bed, grabbed my heavy
winter clothing and boots, dressed on my way to the door, and ran
outside. It was early morning and freezing cold, but I barely noticed
it. I sank down to my knees into the snow and fell several times as I
fought my way through the white masses. Stupidly, I had forgotten to
grab the snowshoes as well. Fortunately, Elena Etrigan, the midwife,
lived nearby. When I reached her home, I banged with my fists against
her door, shouting her name. Her son Raphael opened the door for me,
asking me to come inside. I couldn't stand still and hopped from one
foot onto the other while I waited for Elena to get dressed and take her
bag.
Within a bell, we arrived back at my home. I could hear mother
screaming before I opened the door. If it hadn't been so cold outside,
I'd have run into the woods. I wanted to be as far away from my home as
possible, knowing fully well what mother was going through at this
point. Instead I hid in my bed under my blankets, covering my ears with
my hands. My mother had made it clear earlier that she only wanted
father and Elena in the room. I felt totally useless and was worried
about mother at the same time. Twice before mother had miscarried, and
last time the baby, a perfect little boy, had been stillborn. I had been
in the room with her then, helping Elena.
Father had been so angry about his son's death; he hadn't spoken to
mother or me for a full month. Instead he'd taken to drinking, spending
evening after evening at the inn, coming home inebriated and combative.
I had the misfortune to get in his way one night. Accusing me of being
lazy and worthless, he also told me it'd been my fault his son was
stillborn. I'd yelled back at him that it wasn't my fault and that I'd
wanted my brother to be alive just as much as he did. He'd struck me so
hard, I'd ended up with a black eye and bloody nose. The next morning
he'd apologized, but I couldn't forgive.
The man I called "father" was mother's second husband. At first
he'd been really nice and I'd been proud to have him as a dad. I would
look up at him and he'd smile at me, pat me on the head, give me pet
names, and I loved him for it. He did all the things I had imagined my
real father would have done.
Two years after their marriage, a fire destroyed most of the
harvest and part of our house. My stepfather started drinking and when
he came home, he'd have nothing but harsh words for mother and me. All
my attempts to please him had been ignored and left me confused. I
despised him for that and wished we could leave. I wanted to go back to
Riverrun, the village of my early childhood. I'd been happy there.
Simona, my twin and best friend, had been there with me. I longed for
her. In my heart, I knew that one day my twin sister would reappear. It
saddened me to no end that mother thought differently.
Mother screamed again and then I heard a baby's cry. I breathed a
sigh of relief. The baby was alive!
"It's a girl, Anna." I heard Elena call out. A shiver ran down my
spine. "What would father say about a girl?" I thought, remembering his
reaction when my brother was stillborn. I contemplated this notion until
I heard his voice.
"Get in here, Megan," he summoned me. "Come and see your sister."
Unenthusiastically, I crawled out from under my covers and stepped into
my parents' bedroom. My stepfather's face was quite red and he breathed
heavily. He handed me my baby sister, wrapped in a blanket, and left the
room. A draft of cold air indicated he'd stepped all the way outside.
"She's so small, Mama," I commented and touched my sister's little
hand. I was now full of admiration for this tiny person who looked at me
as if she knew who I was.
"Megan?" mother sounded reluctant.
"Yes, Mama?"
"Your father had his heart set on a son and didn't pick a name for
a girl. You were born on the same day as your sister, so you get to name
her." I looked at my mother in surprise. I'd forgotten that today was
the anniversary of my birth. I was fifteen years old. So far this day
had only a sad memory. My own father, Sarim, had died in a hunting
accident the day I was born. Mother had answered my sister's and my
inquiry with this simple fact. Something in her demeanor had stopped us
from asking more questions. Several years ago, when I found courage to
ask her about my father again, something I hadn't done since my early
childhood, mother had told me how they'd met and about their journey to
Tench. She'd met my father's parents there. She told me she'd never
wanted to see them again. I gave her a puzzled look, not understanding
why. For the first and only time, mother had told me a story about our
family. She talked about one ancestress who'd gotten cursed by a mage
for marrying another man.
According to mother, the curse had been a simple one, saying that
our ancestress' husband would die if she had a baby, and if the baby was
a girl, our ancestress would die as well. Since then, the women in our
family had been affected by this curse. Mother said that the girls in
the family either died in accidents, got very ill and died, or passed
the curse on. She also told me that my father hadn't believed in this
curse and said it was all just coincidences.
After my initial shock of finding out a family secret, mother had
asked me not to tell anyone else. It was difficult to abide by my
mother's wish. I wanted nothing more than to discuss this curse with my
friends. I felt the burden of knowledge not to be shared with others and
sought solitude. During the summer months I would run into the woods and
during the long winter nights I hid in my room where I thought about the
curse. Finally, I decided that my father was probably right. After all,
my mother was still alive. Yet, when my family history crossed my mind I
trembled, feeling uneasy and very much alone.
"Megan?" Mother's voice pulled me out of my daydream. "What do you
think we should call your baby sister?"
I glanced at her for a moment and then I said with hesitation: "I
want to call her Mona; she has the same dark hair and blue eyes." Mother
looked at me for a long time before she spoke up.
"You still miss her, don't you?" I only nodded. I missed my twin
sister more than I would ever admit to my mother. Long ago I had stopped
telling her when I had a dream about Simona. It just made mother sad and
upset with me at the same time.
"We will call her Mona then," mother agreed. I smiled at my baby
sister, touching her face. Little Mona gave a brief squeak. She was
opening and closing her mouth, sticking out her tongue in the process.
"She wants to eat."
I jumped slightly. I'd forgotten Elena was still in the room and
her words had caught me by surprise. I placed Mona into our mother's
arms, watched for a mene or two as she nursed, then left the room to be
by myself for a while. As I sat on my bed, legs pulled up to my chest
and my arms wrapped around them, I recalled the day, almost eight years
back, when I had last seen my sister Simona. I remembered it as if it
happened yesterday.
"Mama! Mama! Megan got sick again!" Simona yelled, running towards
our house, her long black hair fluttering in the wind. I felt sick to my
stomach and had just rid myself of breakfast. Mother came to my aid mere
moments later, picked me up, and carried me back to my bed.
"My tummy hurts," I complained, vomiting again, using a bucket next
to my bed.
"I know, Megan," mother said soothingly. "I sent Simona to get more
herbs for you. She'll be back shortly. You know how fast she can run."
I answered with a brief smile, and then used the bucket one more
time. I must have fallen asleep, because the next time I woke up, mother
was at my bedside with a cup, asking me to drink its contents. Not only
did it smell bad, it tasted horrid as well. Mother had added some honey
to make it more palatable, but it didn't make much of a difference.
"You'll be feeling better soon, Megan," mother said after I had
finished the brew.
"Where's Mona?"
"I sent her to buy some eggs for supper. The peddlers are back --"
"I want to see the peddlers!" I interrupted her.
"Maybe tomorrow, if you're feeling better," mother replied.
"But --"
"Tomorrow!" mother insisted. "Now, lay back down and rest. When
Simona comes back she can tell you all about them."
"Yes, Mama," I said and closed my eyes dutifully, but I didn't want
to go to sleep. I lay on my bed, playing with our rag doll, waiting for
Simona to come home.
Even though Simona and I were twins, we didn't look alike. My hair
was red like mother's, while Mona's was black like father's. She had
blue eyes where mine were green. Mona could run like the wind, but I, on
the other hand, stumbled over my own feet. I was sick quite often,
whereas my sister rarely got ill. In a way I envied her, wanted to do
what she was doing, but whenever I was sick, Mona spent her time with
me, making me feel better.
I must have fallen asleep regardless of my efforts to stay awake.
The sound of a door slamming shut woke me.
"Mona!" I called out and my sister rushed to my side. "Tell me
about the peddlers!" Mona jumped onto the bed and cuddled beside me.
"Oh, Megan, you should have seen their wagons! They have so many
different things. Lots of fabric in wonderful colors, and kettles so big
you and I could hide in them." Simona's arms stretched out as far as she
could get them. She was giggling and her eyes looked like sparkling
stars.
"And one of the peddlers had puppets on strings. And he made them
dance." Simona picked up our rag doll and demonstrated the dance. It
looked funny and made me laugh.
"Simona, time to eat," mother called. Mona gave me a big hug and
kiss, then slid off the bed and skipped out of the room. A moment later
mother entered with a cup of her brew and a bowl of soup. She made me
drink more of the brew before she let me have the soup. I made a face of
disgust at the brown liquid, but didn't argue. When I didn't finish my
meal, mother gave me a worried look.
"I'm not hungry, Mama." She stroked my hair and took the bowl with
her. Simona and I shared a room, which could only be entered by walking
through the room mother slept in. Our father had created that room when
he built the house. Simona and I loved it. We could hide in it and no
one but mother would know we were there. We had done that on occasion.
For some reason, mother never told anyone about this extra room. Her
room looked like the three of us shared it. I doubt even Zarit and
Jerel, my mother's parents, knew about it.
Simona and I often wondered what it would be like to have a father
around and wished we could have one like Jerel. We had learned long ago
not to ask about our father. Mother would only tell us that Simona
looked a lot like him, and that he had died when we were born.
Afterwards, mother would send us outside to play. I knew she'd cry
because I could see how red and swollen her eyes were when we returned.
Then I'd give her a big hug and kiss to make her feel better and mother
would reward me with a smile.
I didn't find out until much later that Zarit and Jerel had raised
our mother after she had been orphaned. I always thought of them as my
grandparents. As for my father's relatives, I never met any of them.
Well, not face to face that is. However, the evening before Simona's
disappearance, we had a visitor: Father's brother.
"Mona, tell me again about the puppet," I called out impatiently
from the confines of my bed, hoping my sister had eaten.
"Simona has chores to do. She can tell you afterwards," mother
answered.
"Mama?" I asked, hoping mother would alleviate my boredom.
"Megan, be a good girl and let me clean up here. Simona will be
back shortly."
"Straight," I answered, giving in, knowing fully well that arguing
wouldn't get me anywhere. I picked up the rag doll and made it dance
like Mona had done before, but it wasn't the same. Someone knocked on
the door. For a moment I was all excited and then I remembered, when I
was in our room, I had to remain silent when we had visitors. I wasn't
too happy about that rule, but I complied. Instead of asking who had
come to visit, I tried to hear who was there, but the voices were low
and I couldn't make out much until mother raised her voice.
"... that did not seem of much concern to you before," I heard
mother say. She sounded angry. I could hear the door open again.
"Simona, this is your Uncle Ezra. He is your father's brother. He
was just about to leave," Mother said, still speaking with a raised
voice and a bitter tone.
"Hello," she greeted him.
"Hello Simona," I heard him reply. He, too, spoke louder than
before. "We already met. She was very interested in my puppets earlier."
There was a long pause and then I heard his voice again. "It's time for
me to go. Think about my proposal." I wondered what he had wanted from
mother and was curious to meet this uncle of mine. I heard the door
close and then it was silent once more. I wanted mother and Mona to come
into the room and tell me what happened, but I must have fallen asleep.
When I woke up the next morning, I found myself alone in bed.
"Mama! Can I get up now?" I yelled of the top of my lungs. "I feel
much better!"
"You'll have to wait 'til I see for myself. And Megan ..." mother
said as she briefly looked in on me.
"Yes, Mama?" I sat up straight in my bed, wondering what would come
next.
"No yelling in the house, straight?"
"Straight," I repeated sullenly, slumping back into my pillow,
disappointed. I don't know what I had expected, but that hadn't been it.
"Where's Mona?"
"Probably outside, doing her chores," mother replied.
"I want to get up," I pouted.
"A little patience, Megan," mother said, unimpressed with my mood
swing.
"I need to use the outhouse, Mama," I called out only moments
later.
"Use the pot next to your bed."
"It's full!"
"Megan?" Mother had a way of saying my name that told me instantly
I was in trouble if I was fibbing.
"It's really full!"
Mother came into my room, a stern look on her face. She lifted the
lid off the pot, and then replaced it. It was full! Touching my
forehead, she sat on the edge of my bed. "How's your tummy?"
"Fine." I smiled at her and mother kissed me on the forehead.
"Then you may get up. And when you're done, tell Simona her
breakfast is ready."
"Why can't I yell in the house?" I asked, feeling the urge to
rebel. Much to my surprise I got an explanation rather than a stern look
and a warning for being cheeky.
"Because your uncle is in town and I don't want him to know there
are two of you. It's bad enough he's seen Simona. He came here last
night to make me move to Tench and live at your grandparents' house. I
told him no. So in case he comes back, you'll be in your room, and no
yelling in the house, straight?"
"Straight."
"I also want you inside until the peddlers are gone, just in case."
Mother must have noticed the disappointed look on my face because she
ruffled my hair and added, "It's just for another day and I'm sure a
different group of peddlers will show up before long."
I sighed and then dressed quickly to go to the outhouse.
Afterwards, I looked for Simona, but didn't see her.
"Mona?" I walked behind the house where my sister and I had a
little hideout in the bushes. She wasn't there either. "Mona!" I
screamed at the top of my lungs, forgetting mother's earlier warning.
"Mama said breakfast is ready!" That usually brought my sister running
towards the house, but today I didn't even get an answer. Puzzled and
worried, I went back inside.
"Is Simona coming?"
"I can't find her, Mama," I said, trembling. "I looked all over."
Now I was scared. My sister had never before failed to answer me.
"Sit down and eat your breakfast. I'll go find her," mother replied
impatiently and stepped outside. I ate what mother had put on my plate
and even drank the broth she had prepared with Rebecca's herbs. When
mother returned she had a worried look on her face.
"Megan, I want you to go to your room and stay there until I get
back. Don't leave the house and don't answer if anyone calls. Straight?"
"Straight," I replied, nodding my head. "Where's Mona?" I inquired,
as I slid off my chair.
"I don't know, Megan, but we'll find her. I'm going to Jerel and
ask for his help."
"Can't I go with you and stay with grandma Zarit? Please?" I
begged. I was afraid to be in the house by myself and hoped mother would
give in. After a few moments, she agreed and we left together, holding
hands all the way.
I spent almost three days with grandma Zarit while mother, grandpa
Jerel, and half the people in the village searched for my sister. I was
worried sick and had many arguments with grandma to let me go and help
look for Simona. Grandma, however, wouldn't let me leave the house, not
even to go to the outhouse. Nothing I did would change her mind. Time
passed slowly. On the evening of the second day, one of the villagers
returned with Simona's torn and bloodstained dress. I'll never forget
the look on mother's face. She stared at it in disbelief, ran the torn
cloth through her fingers and then left the room. Grandma Zarit followed
her, while grandpa Jerel drew me close and held me tight. I could hear
mother scream.
"Is Mona coming back?" I asked, not quite understanding what had
happened. "Do you think Mama can fix her dress? Is that why she left?"
Grandpa Jerel looked straight at me, tears in his eyes. "No, Megan,
Mona isn't coming back."
"Why? Where did she go?"
"I'm not quite sure. I think she wasn't careful the other morning
and went into the forest."
"But Mama said we couldn't go there because of wolves and bears.
Mona knows that, and she always tells me I can't go there when I
forget."
"Straight, you're not supposed to go there. But we found Mona's
dress in the forest. She must have forgotten about your mother's
warning."
"Did a wolf eat her?" I asked, horrified by the idea.
"I don't know, Megan, but it is possible," grandpa Jerel said
slowly. I buried my face on his shoulder and cried myself to sleep.
Not long after Simona's disappearance, I started dreaming about
Simona. In these nightly visions I saw my sister in a place unfamiliar
to me. I was certain that Simona was scared and calling out for me.
"Simona!" The sound of my own voice woke me. I was drenched in
sweat and breathing heavily. Within moments mother was at my bedside,
shaking me gently.
"Megan, what's wrong?" she asked, looking concerned.
"I --" I stammered, trying to catch my breath. "I saw Simona. We
have to go and find her!" My mother's face went ashen; it couldn't have
turned whiter if I'd told her I'd seen a ghost.
"Megan," mother's voice was stern. She held my head so I'd have to
look her in the eye. "Your sister is dead. She won't come back, ever. Do
you understand?"
"But I saw her!"
"It was a dream, Megan, nothing but a dream. You have to forget
about her and go on with your life. You have to learn to take care of
yourself. Simona won't come back and take care of you."
I choked back tears and nodded. I tried not to let mother see just
how much she'd hurt me with her words. In my heart, I knew my sister was
alive. After a while, I stopped telling mother about my dreams even
though I would have liked to share them with her. Not even grandma
Zarit, who usually had an open ear for me, would listen to my dreams. I
felt left alone with my fears and the pain of losing my sister. Three
winters later my grandparents passed away and mother decided to move to
Dargon.
Mother had arranged for a caravan to take us along. A hand wagon
contained all our belongings and we usually pulled it together. When I
got too tired, mother let me ride on the wagon. During this voyage to
Dargon, mother found a new love and instead of staying in this big town
near the sea, we traveled back again and on to a place called
Hawksbridge high up in the Darst Range. I found a new home here and made
friends with some of the children. A boy named Raphael became a close
acquaintance. His mother was the midwife who now took care of my mother
and baby sister.
I had a baby sister! A baby sister born on my birthday! Excited, I
jumped off my bed and straightened my dress. "I will take good care of
her," I promised myself. For a moment, I closed my eyes and for the
first time the image of my sister Simona appeared in my mind while I was
awake. She looked like she'd been crying. "Today is her birthday, too,"
I thought. "And she is alone." With the back of my hand I wiped a tear
away.
In my mother's room little Mona was crying. I returned to my mother
to see if I could be of any help to her. Elena greeted me with a smile
and handed me my sister. I pulled her close and muttered: "Little Mona."
"I'm leaving now," Elena remarked and put on her coat. "You can pay
me when I come back this afternoon. I'll bring some stew and herbs to
get your milk flowing."
"Thank you, Elena," my mother answered sleepily.
"Thank you, Elena," I chimed in. "And I'll take good care of mother
and Mona." Elena ran her fingers through my hair and smiled.
"Raphael might want to see your sister as well," Elena commented
with a grin. I felt heat rise in my cheeks and remained silent. I
shouldn't have been surprised that Elena knew about the liking I had
taken to her son; nothing escaped her notice. She opened the door and
took a step outside, but then halted in her path.
"Megan, hand your sister over to your mother and help me!" she said
with an urgency that demanded immediate attention. I did as I was told
and followed her outside. There in the snow, only steps away from the
door lay my father. For a moment, I just stood there not believing my
eyes. Then I dropped to my knees and shook him.
"Get up!" I yelled. "Get up!"
Elena's hand touched my shoulder. "We need to bring him inside,
Megan. Help me."
Her calm voice gave me the courage to do as she asked. I swallowed
hard and helped Elena pull my stepfather's body inside. All our efforts
to revive him were in vain. I was crying hard when Elena told me that
there was nothing else she could do. I don't know how long she held me,
stroking my head and back. When I finally looked up, I saw my mother
standing in the room, cuddling my sister. Her face was wet from the
tears that kept running down her cheeks. I rushed to her side and hugged
her tight. With the help of Elena, I tucked mother back in bed. I
snuggled beside her for comfort and heard her muttering as she drifted
off to sleep, "Not again, not again."
========================================================================
Cherryseye
by P. Atchley
<deepartha@yahoo.com>
Yule 10, 1018
"Mayda said that my veal tart was the best thing she had ever
tasted," Koravi said, waving the knife she held to emphasize her point.
"It melted in the mouth, Stilton, it melted." There was a beatific
expression on her face.
"Ha!" her companion retorted. He was a plump young man a little too
fond of consuming his own delicious creations; Stilton could never
resist a sweet, whether it was made by himself or one of the other
cooks.
They were presently engaged in dinner preparations in the kitchen
of Dargon Keep. The oblong room was filled with the smells of cooking,
smoke, and sweat. The two of them stood next to one another in one
corner, Stilton before a fire where a pot hung from its stand, and
Koravi before a counter where she was chopping vegetables. She was
somewhat younger and slightly taller than he and thin as a broomstick.
As he replied, Stilton's attention was more on her face than on the
pot he was stirring; he liked to draw Koravi into forceful discussions
more for the pleasure of watching her eyes widen and her face redden as
she argued than for the sake of the argument itself.
He said, "My blueberry tart! When I baked it for my Lord and Lady
Daeton's wedding, the bride's mother complimented me, imagine that!
"And the rissoles: they were magnificent. I used only the fruit,
with just a dash of cannell, did you know?" He drew a deep breath, awed
as always by his own ingenuity, for he liked to change ingredients just
to see what would come out. "Each one was a perfect round, and you could
taste every single fruit. Try to match that. You couldn't make a decent
sweet if the duke begged you to." He privately admitted that Koravi's
veal tartlets were sublime, but he had never told her so.
"Says the man whose stew isn't fit to be served even to the duke's
retainers, unlike mine, which is truly fit for even the king," came the
prompt answer from Koravi. Stilton grinned, appreciating the deft
insult. He had always felt that she enjoyed their rivalry as much as he
did.
Koravi continued, "Just you wait until you taste my rabbit." She
wielded her knife to good effect. Her chopping motions were so fast that
the eye could not keep up; only the sound alerted the casual watcher to
her efficiency. She finished and shoved all the pieces into a big pot.
"This is going to be the most wonderful stew you have ever tasted; it
will be sweet, and it will be sour, and it will be just perfect. I used
to make it especially for the Lady Myrande. She loves it, and she has
told me so, many times."
Her voice rose abruptly. "Where's the verjuice? You took it, didn't
you? Slug-catcher! Scum-bucket!" Her vocabulary often surprised Stilton;
it contrasted sharply with the image of a well-raised girl that Koravi
liked to project. Her brown eyes widened expressively as she spoke, and
she waved her hand in the air again.
"Where is my verjuice?" Koravi enunciated each word separately, her
annoyance reverberating in the hot, stuffy air of the kitchen.
Stilton smiled at her sweetly and turned back to the fire; he was
stirring the contents of the pot, for he had just added some spices. He
knew that his lack of response vexed his compatriot, but the reason for
his deliberate silence stood sixteen hands tall behind the two of them,
a small smile on her face as she listened to their conversation.
The person standing behind them spoke in a soft voice that was as
gentle as the first flower of spring. "Is something the matter?"
Koravi whirled around to face her: it was Mayda, the keep cook.
"Er ... I'm sorry, Mayda, but I think Stilton took my verjuice. It
was right here," Koravi said in a rush.
"It's there." Mayda pointed to the other side of the kitchen where
there were small shelves with jars of spices; pots of lard were stacked
one on top of another right next to the counter.
"Oh," Koravi said sheepishly.
Stilton had to grin at the look on her face. He didn't know whether
he liked her best when she argued with him, competed with him, or
conceded to him.
Mayda smiled at them both, and Stilton concentrated on his work,
seeing a teasing glint in Mayda's smile, for she was well aware of his
feelings for Koravi.
Mayda said softly, "Stilton, be nice. And Koravi, don't be so quick
to point fingers at Stilton. He would never hurt you."
"He teases me all the time," Koravi said hotly. "He --"
"Yes, he does, doesn't he?" Mayda tapped her foot and Stilton
turned to see her giving him a quizzical look. "Perhaps you ought to ask
him why he does that, Koravi," she said and went away.
Koravi silently attended to her stew and Stilton grinned. It had
taken him a long time to understand why he teased Koravi, and he
wondered if Mayda had known of his feelings before he did. Perhaps one
day soon Koravi would realize what their competition meant ...
It was coming up on the fifth bell the next day, and Stilton was
sitting on a stool in a corner of the kitchen pitting fruit with a
knife. A huge bowl of fresh, cleanly washed cherries sat on the counter
in front of him to his left. Another bowl, the same size, but with a
tiny pile of pitted ones sat to his right.
"Stilton, Mayda sent me to help you," a high voice piped up from
his side.
"You? I don't need any help, Oriel," he said.
"Sure you do. You've only just begun to pit the cherries," the girl
said, dragging another stool next to him. She was about twelve years
old, with long, bright yellow hair that hung down her back in two neat
braids. The child's mother, a cook, had taught her some of the art
before she had died, and Oriel herself had recently been apprenticed to
Mayda.
"Straight. You can help me," Stilton said, nodding at the bowl
before him. He watched as she carefully picked up a fruit and a knife.
"But mind, no eating them."
She grinned at his admonishment and asked, "What are you going to
make?" She imitated Stilton at a much slower pace.
"Never pitted cherries before?" he asked. She looked up at him,
smiling, and shook her head. "Be careful then," he warned. "I'm going to
make cherryseye."
"Will you teach me how to make it?"
"You don't even know what it is, do you?" Stilton chuckled. "Well,
it's a sweetmeat and it's for Aimee's birthday. Do you know Aimee?"
Oriel nodded, her eyes wide. "Yes, I saw her yesterday. Her father
works for the duke."
Stilton laughed at the awe in her voice. "Yes he does. Where did
you see Aimee?"
"She came to see Mayda and Mayda gave her a sweetmeat, you know."
Oriel glanced up at him briefly before turning back to her task, biting
her lower lip as she focused on wielding the knife. "How do you make
it?" She looked up a second time before popping a cherry into her mouth.
Stilton gave her a mock-frown. "Now, now, I said no eating the
cherries!" She grinned but did not answer and he continued, "First we
pit them, and then we grind them into a paste."
"Will you save the juice?" Oriel asked, the concentration on her
face faltering as a seed flew out and hit her arm. Stilton swallowed a
smile at the picture. He remembered his own early apprenticeship with
Mayda. She had been very nice to him then. She was always sweet to the
children, he reflected. Seeing Oriel open her mouth, probably to ask
another question, he hurried to reply.
"Yes, we save the juice, and put the ground mixture into a pot. Mix
in a little butter, lots of wine, and a little bread. I boil it, and add
a secret ingredient. When it is cooked, I decorate and serve. Ah, it
shall be delicious, my child ..." Stilton became momentarily incoherent
at the thought of how wonderful the dish would taste. He began to
embellish on his description. "It will be so delicious that everyone
will love it; it will be so delectable that they won't be able to stop
eating it; it will be so divine that --" he stopped as he realized that
Oriel was laughing. He grinned back sheepishly.
The two of them continued to work in companionable silence for a
few menes. As she grabbed the last fruit and began to pit it, Oriel
said, "A secret ingredient? Is it an herb?"
Stilton rose from his stool and reached for a grinder. This was a
wooden ladle, but with a small, cylindrical, metal base. He began to
mash the pitted cherries. "Oriel, Oriel," he sighed dramatically. "It's
a secret ingredient. Secret means I can't tell you, or anyone."
"But --"
"No buts." He silently concentrated on grinding the fruit until he
was finished. "Grab that pot from there, will you?"
Oriel watched in wide-eyed fascination as he poured the mashed
cherries into the huge pot she dragged over to him. Next he added a
small pat of butter. "Mince this bread for me, child." He placed a small
cutting board, a knife, and a short stack of dried bread on the counter.
Oriel climbed back on her stool and began to work obediently.
Stilton grabbed a bottle of red wine and poured. When it was
three-quarters empty, he corked it, returned it to the shelf, and picked
up a small jar from the spice rack. Oriel turned her attention to him.
"Mince," he said, pointing to the bread. She grinned and ostentatiously
turned her back to him and her attention to the bread. He opened the jar
and added a pinch of its contents to the pot. Then cautiously, almost
hesitantly, he added another pinch. Satisfied, he returned the jar to
its spot in the spice rack.
"Won't you tell me what it is, please?" Oriel begged.
"No," he said, grinning at her. "When Mayda allows you to cook,
you'll be able to create your own recipes and then you'll have your
secrets. Until then, hands off mine!"
He added the bread to the pot and placed it on the fire. Oriel
didn't leave his side, watching him stir it with a wooden ladle. He
lifted the pot off the fire when he deemed it had cooked enough. He
poured the cherryseye into two serving bowls. The mixture, a deep red in
color, settled into the bowl with a pop, air coming out in a bubble on
the top as it began to harden immediately. He smoothed the surface
gently with his ladle. "We need flowers to decorate it," he murmured.
"White flowers that will look beautiful against the red."
"I know, I know," Oriel replied, jumping up. "There are some lilies
in a small bush in the second row in front of the keep. Can I go get
them, Stilton, can I?"
"Yes. Come back quickly," he replied, smiling as she rushed off. He
eyed the kitchen thoughtfully, wondering where he could hide his
creation. The fact was that Koravi would try to ruin his masterpiece; he
knew that as well as he knew his own knife. He paused guiltily, because
Koravi wouldn't really destroy his creation, just make it look less than
perfect. Mayda probably didn't care, but ironically enough, he wanted to
make sure his dish remained pristine so that Koravi would be impressed
with his work. He had to laugh at his logic but knew that he would hide
his sweet anyway.
Oriel returned just then, interrupting his thoughts. "Here," she
said breathlessly, handing him a small bunch of white flowers. He took
them and went to a corner of the kitchen to rinse them.
Returning to where Oriel awaited him, he said grandly, "Now, let's
decorate. Anything we serve *must* look pretty. A good chef doesn't
simply cook: he creates. Remember, any masterpiece that is created must
look beautiful." He took one lily and plucked out each petal. Then he
laid them on top of the contents of the serving bowl so that the petals
pointed toward the center. He took another lily and, placing it on the
cutting board, slammed the grinder down on it.
"What are you doing?" Oriel cried.
"Watch," was his only response. The flower was now flat; the sides
had folded down upon themselves, and the center was crushed. Stilton
carefully plucked out the stems and placed the folded petals on top of
the contents of the other bowl. "There," he said proudly. "Doesn't that
look nice?" He wasn't expecting an answer and was surprised when he got
one.
"Yes, but you shouldn't have done that," Oriel said. "You should
have left the petals on them."
"Well, this is my creation," Stilton began. His eyes caught those
of Oriel, and he had the grace to blush. He chided himself; he was
arguing with a twelve year-old. "Never mind that. Now, I must hide this.
I think ..." his voice trailed off. "Go, child. I need to hide this."
"But why?"
He grinned. "You see, Oriel, I have a friend named Koravi who also
works in the kitchen."
"Yes, I know her. She gets angry very quickly, doesn't she?"
He nodded. "She always wants to make something grander than I make,
better than I make. If she finds out what I made, she'll make her honey
cakes, and they are very good."
Oriel nodded so violently that her braids flew around her. "Oh yes!
Last sennight, Mayda gave me one. It was wonderful."
Stilton did not know what Oriel saw in his face but the girl paused
and continued, "But I'm sure I'll love your cherryseye, Stilton,
really."
He laughed. "I'm sure. Now run along, sweetling, so that I can hide
this."
It was almost time for Aimee's birthday party and Stilton was ready
to bring his masterpiece out of hiding. He went into the rear room where
a long table stood already bearing fruits of various kinds. Mayda
herself was supervising the small army of apprentices and maids who were
scuttling back and forth from the kitchen bearing breads and meat.
"Stilton, where is the cherryseye?" she asked as soon as she saw
him. "I've saved a place in the center of the table for it. And where's
Koravi and her honey cakes?" Her gaze fell on one of the cook's helpers,
and she continued, "You there, put the breads at the other end of the
table. Idiot!"
Stilton smiled as the poor apprentice muttered an apology and moved
the bread. He remembered a time many years ago, when he had been the
apprentice who got yelled at. He knew that Mayda never meant anything by
her epithets; in her kitchen, only she could chastise her apprentices,
and anyone else who tried got the sharp edge of her tongue.
Abruptly Mayda's words sank in. "Honey cakes! Koravi made honey
cakes!" He couldn't believe it. She had made her best sweet. Of course
he should have expected it, but why hadn't he? He had hoped that she
wouldn't, and then he had simply convinced himself that she wouldn't.
"I asked her to, Stilton, because Aimee loves them," Mayda said
with a pointed note of patience in her voice.
Stilton said in outrage, "But you didn't ask *me* to make
cherryseye. You just told me to make a sweet."
"That's because I knew the gardener had brought in the cherries
last night, and I saw you putting them away. I knew you would make it."
"But --"
"Enough, Stilton. Where is it?"
"I've hidden it, Mayda. Let me get it."
"You hid it! Why?" she asked, staring at him in astonishment.
"It's because I didn't want Koravi to know what I made. The only
sweet she makes well is honey cakes and I didn't want her to make them."
Mayda began to laugh. "Stilton, when are you going to understand
that your best work is with sweets and Koravi's is with savories? The
pair of you are enough to --"
Suddenly there was a loud scream from the corridor. Mayda and
Stilton ran out. Koravi stood near an open door rocking on her feet and
crying, taking big gulps of air.
"What's wrong, child?" Mayda, for all her harsh words, was a
tenderhearted woman, Stilton knew. She reached Koravi and patted her
hand. Koravi threw her arms around Mayda and wept on her shoulder.
Stilton walked around the two women and looked into the closet ... and
chuckled, trying unsuccessfully to hide his amusement.
"What are you laughing about?" Mayda asked, unable to see the cause
of his merriment.
Koravi stiffened at the sound of his mirth and straightened. "You!
It's all your fault!" she exclaimed.
Mayda peered into the closet. Stilton watched her face change as
she laughed softly. The honey cakes, so lovingly prepared by Koravi,
were now a thing of the past. Rats had been at them, and what remained
was a sorry sight. The pastries had been arranged in circular fashion
one on top of the other; the entire plate had been disturbed, and each
cake nibbled so that not a single one remained whole.
"It's because of you," Koravi wept.
"Nonsense, Koravi. Don't be silly," Mayda said briskly. "Stop
crying. I can't imagine what you were doing, putting the sweets inside
this closet. Stilton's fault indeed! As for you, Stilton, where is your
sweet? And wipe that grin off your face this instant!"
Stilton wiped. After all, there was no sense in angering Mayda more
than necessary. He led the way back inside the room where the
festivities were being held.
"It's in here." He opened the door of the closet where extra dishes
and cutlery were stored ... and stared down, stunned.
Koravi's sobs turned to gusts of laughter.
Mayda smiled gently at the occupants of the little room.
"Sweetling, what are you doing in here?"
Aimee Taishent and her dog Karl stared up innocently at the adults.
Massive inroads had been made into the two large bowls of cherryseye.
Aimee's mouth, and indeed almost her entire face, had been stained red,
and the bodice of her dress was pink as well. She had grabbed a spoon
from one of the shelves and enjoyed herself. The dog Karl had been given
free rein at the other bowl, and he had done it justice.
"No!" Stilton howled.
The ten year-old shrunk back against Karl, and Mayda said sharply,
"Control yourself, Stilton." Her voice softened as she addressed Aimee.
"Come along, Aimee. You shouldn't be in here. Everyone will be here for
your party soon, and look at you! Let me find your nurse."
The little girl rose and placed a sticky hand trustingly in
Mayda's, who led her out of the room.
"It's all your fault," Koravi said, frowning.
"How do you say that? My creation was ruined too," he pointed out,
feeling a laugh bubbling up as he thought of what his expression must
have been when he had first glimpsed the destruction of his dish.
She grinned briefly at his reminder but said, "When I think of the
trouble I took to make my sweet! If it hadn't been for you, I wouldn't
have hidden it, and it wouldn't be ruined. And now Mayda is angry with
us, and we'll get punished."
Stilton sighed, and stepped back into the closet, out of the way of
a hurrying apprentice. He tugged at Koravi's elbows and pulled her in.
"Look at me, Koravi. It's just some food. At least Aimee, and the dog,
and the rats appreciated the desserts."
Koravi giggled, and he continued, smiling down at her, "And Mayda
isn't really angry with us ... I don't think so anyway."
"Really? She won't make us wash dishes as punishment for the next
month?" Koravi turned the statement into a question as she looked up at
him with her dark eyes that looked like twin pools of honey.
He caught his breath and murmured, "Yes ... no ... probably." Then
he bent and kissed her.
Stilton wasn't sure how much longer it was, but a long time later,
someone coughed loudly. And again. He lifted his head and turned.
Mayda stood at the door, leaning against the jamb, a slight smile
on her face. "What do you think you're doing?"
He wasn't sure if the question was addressed to him or to Koravi,
who answered before he could gather his thoughts.
"Kissing." Koravi smiled vaguely at them both.
Mayda laughed. "Well, that's nice, I'm sure." She paused for a
moment to survey their faces and repeated, "I'm sure that's *very*
nice," and Stilton watched as Koravi blushed. He wondered if he were
blushing too.
"But you two have behaved irresponsibly. I'm going to have to
punish you." She tapped her foot against the jamb several times and then
stopped as Stilton spoke.
"I know, I know. Wash dishes for a sennight." He was resigned to
it, because he didn't really care. All that he could concentrate on was
Koravi.
"Make that two sennights, and you aren't released from cooking
duties. I want you both to wash dishes after luncheon and dinner time.
But you can do it together." Mayda smiled at them both. "And if I were
you, I would get myself to the washing pens before my punishment was
increased."
Stilton laughed as Mayda left them alone. He turned Koravi to face
him and began to kiss her again. The washing pens could wait while he
concentrated on the charming armful he cuddled.
========================================================================
Talisman Nine
Part 4
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
<John.White@Drexel.Edu>
Sy 5 - 22, 1013
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 15-7
Nakaz walked down the stairs into the common room of the Buzzard's
Roost Inn, prepared to play for his supper. His lap harp was in his hand
and he was dressed to make an impression, in tight leggings and a green
tunic under a leather vest embossed with harps and stars. His blond hair
was bound back with a thin circlet and he had shaved his handsome face
smooth. Two small emeralds as green as his eyes pierced each ear, and
silver rings glinted on three fingers.
He needn't have bothered. The clean, small common room, with its
spotless walls, gleaming floor, and benches and tables that looked new,
was nearly empty. Other than the innkeeper behind the bar in one corner,
there were only two other people in the room. One was an old woman
dressed as a trader in a long, dusty coat and large-brimmed, floppy hat
who sat close to the fire, staring into the modest flames. The other was
the handsome young man that Nakaz had met briefly at the blacksmith's
earlier that day.
The bard decided to introduce himself to the latter occupant.
Despite the strange reaction he'd had upon first meeting the
chestnut-haired man in the blacksmith's courtyard -- as if Nakaz had
been there before, doing exactly the same thing, though he had never
been to Pyinalt's Crossroads before -- he wanted to get to know the
aristocratic-looking man.
As Nakaz walked across the room, he looked over to the innkeeper
and signaled for a drink. When he turned back to his destination, he
found himself being stared at. Two deep grey eyes in a handsome face
were locked on him with an intensity that took him by surprise. As soon
as the young man noticed that Nakaz was looking at him, he dropped his
gaze and took a drink, choking slightly in his haste.
The bard stopped across the table from the young man and said, "May
I sit here?" When the table's occupant only coughed harder, Nakaz asked,
"Are you all right?"
"Oh, yes ... yes, I'm fine, just fine," he hacked. Then, clearing
his throat and gesturing with his hand, he said, "Please, sit down, lord
bard. Ah, what can I do for you?"
"Oh, nothing more than be company," said the bard as he sat down.
"I'm Nakaz, a bard as you have noticed, and I'm pleased to make your
acquaintance." He held out his hand and the young man shook it.
"I'm Aldan ... ah, Lord Aldan Bindrmon, son of Baron Chak Bindrmon,
um, likewise."
"Bindrmon, eh? I can't say I recognize it," said Nakaz. Aldan was
silent for a moment, and Nakaz looked up to see that he was being stared
at again, but this time he couldn't read the young lord's expression.
"Well," said Aldan eventually, "Bindrmon is in the northern part of
Welspeare. I'm sure that nothing worthy of the notice of a bard has ever
happened there."
Nakaz laughed and said, "I wouldn't be so sure." Aldan seemed to
miss his sly glance, and just looked puzzled. Shaking his head briefly,
Nakaz ventured, "What brings you this far from home?"
"I am ... on business," replied Aldan.
"A task from your father, perhaps? What business could Bindrmon
have more than a sennight from his borders?"
"A sennight?" Aldan looked stricken. "I've been traveling thrice
that!"
"Truly?" asked Nakaz, his voice filled with surprise. "And I was
being conservative in my estimate. Someone who knew their route, and
rode long and to purpose, could make it this far in five or six days.
Riding at leisure might add three or four more. But twenty-one speaks of
near wandering," he finished with a shake of his head.
"Ol's pizzle!" Aldan exclaimed. Nakaz grinned at the crudity of the
oath. The young man clutched at his temples, and his face squeezed down
into despair. "At this rate, I'll never reach Dargon!" he wailed and
hung his head over his mug.
Before Nakaz could make a consoling remark, the innkeeper arrived
with the drink he had ordered. Looking up at the weathered face of the
lanky man standing beside him, he quietly ordered another ale for Aldan
and two mutton stew dinners. As the innkeeper walked away, Nakaz turned
his attention back to the young lord opposite him.
Continuing the conversation as if Aldan's outburst hadn't happened,
the bard said, "Dargon is a long way from Welspeare, my friend. What
business could your father have on our kingdom's northern coast?"
Aldan was silent long enough for the food to arrive despite the
deliberate pace of the innkeeper. Finally, as Nakaz was sampling the
surprisingly tasty bread, he spoke. "My journey is not on my father's
behalf. In truth, I left without his permission or even knowledge. But I
must get to Dargon before ... ah, soon. I can only hope that those ...
that my business does not know its way any better than I."
Unaware -- or uncaring -- of the number of questions his
explanation had given rise to, Aldan drew his plate over and began to
eat. Nakaz wondered what secrets the young lord harbored. What did he
mean to do in Dargon? Why was he traveling without the knowledge of his
father? Why did he try so hard to conceal his purpose? And what was it
about his purpose that required him to make haste?
They ate in silence. Aldan never once lifted his eyes from the
table; Nakaz never once took his eyes off the young lord. There was
something compelling about the man, something he had felt first in the
blacksmith's courtyard that morning. It went beyond his own attraction
to the handsome lord, and even beyond the interest he had seen in
Aldan's eyes that had been hidden ever since.
Several sennights earlier, Nakaz had been traveling with a purpose
himself. He had seen a bard named Kethseir at an inn, but the man had
not been dressed as a bard, and he had not responded to Nakaz' attempts
to communicate with him using the bardic silent speech. Suspicious, he
had investigated and learned that the man was calling himself 'Kresh'
and associating with some very rough people.
Nakaz had also met a young lord named Yeran at the inn, who had
been murdered shortly thereafter and robbed of an heirloom ring. Kresh
and his friends had fled, and Nakaz had followed, catching the three in
time to have to choose between taking the murderer to justice, and
chasing Kresh the false bard.
He had done the only thing he could. Once the killer was in gaol,
Nakaz had returned to the inn in an attempt to find Kresh's trail again.
Unfortunately, the thief had changed horses, leaving Nakaz with no
choice but to give up his chase.
After that, Nakaz had wandered both north and east from that part
of Duchy Magnus. No purpose had driven him, or kept him in the area; he
was not scheduled to resume circuit duties until the following spring.
Every choice he had made since then had kept him in the region, moving
from town to town, visiting tiny hamlets that seldom saw a bard,
spending a few days with a trading caravan, carrying news from place to
place when the need was great, but always within this particular area.
His travels could have taken him anywhere; he had thought to visit
Monrodya at one point, but that was to the west and just as he had
turned his horse toward the setting sun, he had been persuaded to
deliver a message to a town to the east.
Sitting across from Aldan, whose freshly-washed hair hid his face,
Nakaz wondered if his own wanderings these past few sennights had
mirrored Aldan's aimless course, as if fate were trying to arrange their
meeting. Aldan seemed to need to get to Dargon with some haste, and was
failing at his task. Nakaz knew he was capable of helping the lord, but
he wasn't completely sure he should. The trip would take more than a
month, and he had no idea what the young man intended when he arrived.
In the other tray of the balance, though, was their fate-directed
meeting and he was sure there were the makings of a story in Aldan's
plight.
As the bard blinked, a fleeting image appeared behind his closed
eyes. He seemed to see the strands of Aldan's hair forming into
interwoven bands and taking
on the gleam of metal before his eyelids
flicked up again and the picture vanished. His decision was made, and he
forgot about the strange vision.
Nakaz broke the long silence with, "I can get you to Dargon, Lord
Aldan."
The young man raised his grey eyes to look at Nakaz through the
fringe of his hair. "You? You can? But ... but why?"
Nakaz grinned at the incredulous tone in Aldan's voice. "Should I
not render aid to a noble of the realm?" he said
"Well, ah ... I did say I was not on baronial business." Aldan
raised his head and looked Nakaz in the eye. "The matter is personal,
and perhaps not one that I should involve others in. I know that bards
serve the kingdom wherever required, but ... well, I do not want to take
you away from those duties. Surely the requirements of your office
wouldn't allow for such a journey."
"My time is my own until next spring, Lord Aldan. I assure you that
you take me away from nothing more pressing. I have much experience
traveling around this kingdom. My knowledge will speed your journey
greatly."
Nakaz waited for Aldan's response. The young man looked back at his
plate and sopped up the last of the gravy with his last crust of bread.
Nakaz knew that the young lord could profit from his help, but would he
take it? Would Aldan accept his aid, or was he too proud to take even
the assistance a bard had to offer? Nakaz wondered whether his own
interest was great enough to warrant following Aldan if his help was
refused.
Before he could decide whether the mystery was that compelling,
Aldan said, "I would be glad of your aid, Bard Nakaz." The young man
looked up and once again extended his hand across the table.
Nakaz shook it and said, "Excellent! We should get started as soon
as possible. Your horse will be ready tomorrow?"
Aldan slid his plate to the end of the table and drank down the
last drops in his mug. "Firesocks has been reshod and is ready now," he
said. "I would have left this afternoon, but Joos over there told me
that the next inn to the northwest was a full day's travel." The young
lord gestured toward the innkeeper with his mug, his movement large
enough to both indicate the man he had named and notify Joos that he
wanted a refill. Turning back to the bard, he continued, "So I decided
to spend another night here. Good thing I did, straight?"
"I would modestly agree, Lord Aldan," said Nakaz as he set his own
plate atop Aldan's and tapped his finger on his mug after attracting
Joos' attention. "You are aware, though, that as we get farther and
farther north, there will no longer be inns spaced a convenient distance
apart? Have you made preparations for sleeping under the stars?"
"I've been made aware of that, yes. I have some supplies, and was
planning on acquiring more in Port Sevlyn." The sentence hadn't been
phrased that way, but the question was in Aldan's face, as if Nakaz was
already completely in charge, even of decisions the young man had
already made.
"Port Sevlyn will be soon enough to make those purchases, and there
will be a fine selection of goods there." Aldan relaxed, which made
Nakaz smile again. The bard continued, "So, how soon do you need to be
in Dargon, Lord Aldan?"
"Soon. As soon as possible ... well, as soon as is feasible." Aldan
tipped his mug up again to get the very, very last drop. Nakaz followed
his gaze to see Joos slowly pacing across the room with their refills.
"One last thing, Nakaz."
"Yes, Lord Aldan?"
"Stop calling me 'lord', straight?"
"Straight, Aldan. We leave no later than second bell."
"I'll be ready."
They sat in silence, staring at Joos' snail-paced approach.
"You've been here a night already, yes?" asked Nakaz. Catching
Aldan's nod out of the corner of his eye, he continued, "I don't suppose
that this place gets more customers later in the evening, does it?"
The mugs arrived with the shake of Aldan's head. Nakaz sighed, and
took a drink. "I didn't think so." After a moment of silence, he said,
"Do you want to hear a song?"
The next morning, Nakaz walked into the courtyard between the inn
and its stables not long after the town's single clock-bell had softly
welcomed the new day. To his surprise, Lord Aldan was already there,
helping a frowning, rumple-haired stable boy ready both of their mounts.
Nakaz watched Aldan work, noting how expertly he handled his horse.
Nakaz was impressed, though he knew he should really have expected a
noble to know horsemanship. He had to remind himself that just because
Aldan didn't know how to get himself to Dargon did not mean that the
young man couldn't ride at all.
Aldan was dressed for the road as well, in leather leggings and a
tightly-belted tunic. Even his long, chestnut hair was bound back
severely into a queue. Nakaz could see the wear that the past three
sennights had put on the gear of both horse and man, but the quality of
both also showed in how well they were holding up.
The stable boy grumpily took Nakaz' belongings out of his hands,
and before long both horses were ready for travel. Nakaz watched Aldan
slip two Bits to the stable hand, which caused the frown to vanish
completely from the boy's face.
Aldan turned to Nakaz and asked, "Are you ready to begin?" The bard
didn't hesitate to nod. "Shall we, then?"
Nakaz climbed onto his horse, Riesta. Aldan was soon secure in
Firesocks' saddle, but the young lord didn't take the lead out of the
courtyard. Nakaz looked over to find Aldan waiting. He gestured to the
lord, but Aldan simply shook his head once. Nakaz realized that, as with
the unspoken question the night before, Aldan was putting the entire
trek into his hands.
Accepting the duty, Nakaz flicked his reins, and Riesta started
forward. He heard Firesocks' new shoes sounding on the cobbles behind
him as he led his charge away from the Buzzard's Roost Inn, out of
Pyinalt's Crossroads, and northward to Dargon.
By the time they stopped to rest the horses and eat a brief lunch,
Nakaz realized that none of his expectations for the journey were likely
to be met. He had already accepted the idea that instead of being an
advisor to the young lord, he was to be the leader of the expedition.
However, he had not expected to be the absolute leader; Aldan offered no
input whatsoever on any decision to be made, from when to rest their
mounts, to which of two northward forks to choose. Nakaz guessed that
Aldan's previous wanderings had made him wary of his own directional
sense, and wanted to rely fully on the bard's travel experience.
The young man's silence went even further. Nakaz was naturally
gregarious -- could a bard be less? -- and tried for bells to interest
Aldan in casual conversation. The young man made only curt replies, and
then only to the most direct of questions. Nakaz had hopes that as time
went on and they both became more accustomed to each other's company,
this might change.
Soon their quiet rest period was over, and they were on their way
once again.
Nakaz had great experience traveling under diverse conditions, both
alone and in varying company. He well knew how to keep himself occupied
while on the road, and applied those techniques that worked best when he
rode by himself. If Aldan was bothered by the humming and singing, he
made no more comment than a pack horse might. Even when Nakaz purposely
practiced his voice exercises, or tried dozens of slightly altered
phrases of a new composition to find the correct cadence, Aldan never
uttered a word. It bothered Nakaz inordinately to be unable to provoke
the young man into speaking until he glanced around to find Aldan with a
long-suffering frown of annoyance on his face. Much mollified, the bard
decided to stop teasing the lord.
The promised inn was reached shortly after nightfall, with the
light of the just-past-full moon illuminating their way to its door.
Nakaz was relieved that Aldan's resolution to be silent did not extend
into their time there. To his disappointment, however, he was unable to
coax any meaningful information out of the young lord: not about his
past, nor about his current business. Their conversation was more than
casual, it was utterly superficial, and Nakaz wondered whether Aldan
might even prefer total silence.
The next few days passed in essentially the same way. Aldan
remained aloof from the bard, though he did not shrink from doing his
share of the work, from fetching water to grooming the horses at the one
inn they stopped at that was too small to have a stable staff. And no
matter how he couched his requests, Nakaz learned little more about his
charge.
Port Sevlyn provided a small clue. They arrived in the large port
town on the Laraka River in the early afternoon of their third day
together and gladly halted their journey to shop. As Nakaz had already
told Aldan, the farther north they went, the more they would have to
rely on what they carried, as neither towns nor inns would be as
conveniently placed. After securing rooms, they sought out the shops
around the river docks and on the outskirts of town.
At one point, walking down a wide street lined with open-front
shops displaying leather goods, baskets, blankets, and the like, Aldan
suddenly cried out "Fox!" and bolted. Nakaz dashed after the young lord,
who seemed to be following a tall man with red hair. Aldan caught up
with his quarry and grabbed his arm, which startled the man into
running, darting between two shops. Aldan followed, but by the time
Nakaz reached the small alley, both of them were gone.
Nakaz made the pragmatic choice. Aldan knew where they were
staying, and the sun was setting. If they were going to leave the port
on the morrow, they needed to be prepared. With a shrug and a sigh,
Nakaz went back to shopping.
Aldan returned that evening, meeting Nakaz in the common room of
the inn. "I'm sorry, Nakaz. Did you search long for me?"
"No. Who were you chasing?" Nakaz made the question as casual as he
could, taking a large bite of his supper and not looking up at the young
man standing next to him.
"He ... I thought ..." Aldan was silent, and then he walked away.
Nakaz looked after him, but he was only fetching his own supper from the
window that gave access to the kitchen. He returned and sat down across
from the bard as usual. Before eating, though, he said, "He was not who
I thought him to be."
"Oh?" responded Nakaz. Aldan applied his fork to his meal, giving
no sign that he intended to answer the implied question. Nakaz tried
another tack with, "I've acquired the last of our provisions. We'll
leave at about dawn, as usual, unless there is anyone else you wish to
chase?"
Aldan looked up at Nakaz with a hard, closed expression on his
face. "I'll be ready," was all he said.
As their journey continued, they camped by the side of the road
under the waning moon many more nights than they slept at an inn. Nakaz
discovered that Aldan's skills extended to gathering firewood and
cooking a passable meal, as the pattern of their previous days together
continued. Sy was the last month of summer, and the days were slowly
cooling toward fall so that sleeping under the heavens was no hardship.
On the ninth night since crossing the Laraka, their meal consisted
of biscuits and rabbit, courtesy of Aldan's culinary skills and Nakaz'
trapping ability. After the remains had been cleared away, Nakaz
unpacked his mandolin to practice. Something about the night -- the
sliver of the waning moon, the warmth, the breeze sighing through the
trees -- reminded him of his deceased lover Shorel, which led him to the
style of music he decided to play. He knew that he hadn't been as
bereaved by Shorel's loss as he should have been, but at least his music
didn't suffer for it. Bards needed to be able to enact any emotion and
Nakaz was well versed in that.
He first kept his voice silent as he practiced playing music that
evoked sadness and loss. Some instruments were better than others for
that, and he might have been better served using his lap harp, but he
thought he was successful enough with the mandolin.
Next he began to sing songs of loss. He chose the saddest he could
recall and poured all of his craft into them, imagining that he had been
set the task of making the very rocks in the ground weep.
He looked up at one point to see tears on Aldan's cheeks as the
young man stared into the fire. The sadness on his face was too deep,
too raw to be only the result of the sad songs. Nakaz recognized a loss
as intense as the one the bard wanted to have felt for Shorel's passing.
He wondered whether he had accidentally discovered what was driving
Aldan north, but stilled his excitement when he realized that it could
just as easily have been something else in the young lord's past.
Nakaz finished his song, and immediately began something of a more
neutral emotion, slowly modulating that into something brighter,
happier, lighter. He watched Aldan's emotions slowly fade from his face
as the music progressed. When the young man blinked and looked up, Nakaz
shifted his gaze to the treetops, not wanting Aldan to know his pain had
been observed.
Nakaz heard rustling, and looked to see Aldan standing and walking
out of the radius of the fire's light. He let the man go, trusting he
wouldn't go far. Continuing to play light, airy tunes, he let his mind
wander. Before long, he thought about the fragment of the stone
sculpture he had retrieved from Shorel's belongings in the dungeons of
Frasilk Keep. He had an impulse to fetch the thing out of his saddlebags
and show it to Aldan; it seemed to be a very important thing to do, but
only for a moment. He swiftly realized that to show the stone, with its
carved cat and fox, and the interwoven gold, silver and glass bands
connecting them, would mean that he would have to explain how he had
gotten it. That would mean telling of Shorel's death, and he feared that
Aldan's pain was still too raw to be able to deal with that tale.
Fighting the feeling that he was making a mistake, Nakaz packed his
mandolin away and made ready for bed. As he banked the fire for the
night, he idly wondered when he could reveal the sculpture to Aldan.
They should reach the city of Valdasly in two more days; maybe then the
time would be right.
The bedroom on the third floor of the Black Fox inn had been
severely rearranged. The bed had been removed to another of the six
rooms that Bresk's Band had rented; the table from that room had been
transplanted to this one. Chairs from the common room had been spirited
up the stairs, and now the bedroom was an improvised meeting room.
Shan, a big, bulky, dark man, sat behind one of the tables. In
front of him were several pieces of age-worn parchment, an inkwell, and
a selection of fine brushes. Next to these items was an old book with a
blue cover open to a strange illumination.
He looked up and said, "We should really do this in the reverse
order, Voesh. It's better to age the parchment after it's been written
on; the effect is more complete that way."
"We simply do not have the luxury of enough time for the 'right
way', Shan," said Voesh, sitting behind the other table on the opposite
side of the room. "You have aged six pieces of parchment in the same
period as you could have done two, and now we have leeway should one of
us suffer a mishap."
"Yes, the copying," said Joal, a wiry, fair opposite reflection of
Shan, as he leaned against Shan's side. "Wouldn't it be easier just to
show the book?"
Voesh's perpetual scowl deepened, making the crescent-shaped scar
in the middle of his left eyebrow stand out even more. "No, Joal, it
would not. The scroll I shall compose will consist of fragments taken
from the book, carefully selected and edited so as to disguise their
full meaning. Additionally, the book should be known about by as few
people as possible. Thus, Shan's copying task."
"And the aged parchment?" asked Joal. Shan was already leaning over
his parchment, brush in hand, studying the illumination. He shifted
slightly, and Joal eased reluctantly away to let him work.
"Simplicity itself, my friend," replied Voesh icily. "We will tell
our target that these scrolls are heirlooms and thereby avert any tricky
questions as to their origins. Shan, your scroll must be an exact copy
of that page, down to the smallest dash or curl. I am unsure of its
purpose, but the surrounding text marks it as vital."
"Of course, Voesh, of course. You've already made that clear. I can
do it, you know."
"Yes, yes, I apologize, Shan. It is getting dark; we should make
haste."
"One more thing," said Joal, interrupting Voesh's reach for his
pen. "This 'subject' you've mentioned. How do you know that someone in
Valdasly is going to have the answers you're looking for?"
"Because," Voesh said, clacking his pen forcefully onto the table,
"the clues all point to this area. I have a ... feeling that the time
and place are right. Tonight we must be ready.
"Are you satisfied now, or should I go over it a few more times,
Joal?"
"We always used to go over things, Voesh," said Joal, raising his
voice. Shan glanced up at the sudden vehemence, but quickly returned to
his work. "It used to be that we came up with plans together, with
everyone agreeing before we began. Lately, though, it's just you and
your schemes, directing us like pawns on a board. We should be called
'Voesh's Puppets' instead of Bresk's Band."
Joal stood as his anger took him. He bumped the table slightly, but
Shan was dipping into the ink and no harm was done. Joal said, "And
where's our coin coming from on this one, eh? Why go to all this
trouble, faking scrolls and sneaking answers, if we're not getting
anything out of it? It's been all spend, spend, spend since you got that
scar on your little trip. Trekking all across the kingdom, wasting
sennights in Magnus trying to recoup that outlay of jingle you said was
necessary. Then there was what you gave Kale for that ring! So far,
we've only seen the hazards of your quest, Voesh, and I'm beginning to
think that the Marg--"
"That is enough!" shouted Voesh, and silence followed his outburst.
Rising slowly from his chair, he glared across the room at Joal and
said, "You chose to be part of my 'quest', Joal, along with the others.
If you are having second thoughts about that choice, perhaps you should
talk to Bresk about your options. Now --"
Voesh was interrupted in turn when the door slammed open and Meelia
strode into the room. She glanced at the two men standing and the one
who was still intently bent over his work. She swaggered over to Voesh's
table and grinned. "Why aren't you working like Shan?" she asked. Her
sleekly-muscled adult's body was totally at odds with her ten year-old's
voice.
Voesh began to bluster, but Meelia, eyes twinkling, said, "Never
mind, never mind. I've found the perfect victim. A bard just rode into
town!"
Voesh's expression lightened, coming remarkably close to a smile.
"Perfect, Meelia, perfect. Thank you. Go find Bresk and Yera and let
them know. Then find out where the bard is staying, and if he is
performing somewhere. We need a place to meet.
"Oh, and perhaps you could take Joal along?"
"Sure thing, Voesh. Come on, Joal, let's leave the scribers alone.
Fancy a drink?"
Joal glared at Voesh, then leaned over and kissed Shan on the
cheek. He followed his blond friend out the door.
Voesh stared at the door for a moment before sitting down again. He
began taking deep, even breaths to calm himself down. He focused on the
blank parchment in front of him and cleared his mind of everything but
what he had to compose. The silver ring with the grey-blue stone glinted
in the light from the window as he picked up his pen and began
scratching letters into the parchment.
The White Spike tavern was two-thirds full of people and
three-thirds full of noise. Nakaz contributed his share from the low
platform next to the fireplace, strumming his mandolin and belting out a
rousing song about blood and death. Those tables closest to him were
crowded with people singing and drinking along, but the rest of the
patrons pursued their own entertainment, heedless of the bard at the
front of the room or whether their own noise interfered with him.
The White Spike was not the kind of place that Nakaz would have
played, given more of a choice. It had a low, rough ceiling and wooden
walls darkened by smoke from the oil lanterns and the grease of the
unwashed bodies that pressed up against them night after night. Sand
covered the floor. While it was there to make the place easier to sweep
out at closing, it was a measure that a classier establishment would not
have needed. It was the type of place that made an entertainer work to
keep the attention of the patrons.
Nakaz idly scanned the room while his audience took the chorus.
Along the wall to the left was a group of tables set aside for those who
enjoyed the effects of certain burning herbs. Different colored smoke
rose from the small pots on each table and drifted among the quiet
patrons seated there, who inhaled the fumes and savored their reactions
in silence.
Next to the open front door was a table where three men played some
kind of betting game that involved trying to stab their own fingers with
very large knives. Perhaps the real goal was trying not to stab
themselves, but Nakaz wasn't exactly sure owing to the number of nicks
and cuts on the hands of the players.
Other, safer games of chance were conducted at various other tables
around the room. Nakaz saw dice being rolled and cards being dealt, and
every table, occupied or not, was piled with mugs of ale and beer both
full and empty. He wondered whether it was his performance, or a lack of
enough dice, bones, and cards that kept his audience listening to him.
He was bombarded with requests for the next tune as the last notes
of the song he was singing rang out. Some he had played already, some
several times. The drunk by the pillar shouted hoarsely for the tune he
had just finished, but Nakaz had been ignoring her all evening since she
was obviously far too intoxicated to hear him anyway. He plucked a title
out of the air, began strumming its notes, extending the introduction
until the inebriated cheering died down, and then plunged into the
familiar chantey.
Nakaz might have preferred a less diversion-filled venue, or at
least one with a higher class of clientele, but the city of Valdasly,
the seat of a barony of the same name in northern Arvalia, hard by the
Darst mountains, was in many ways a frontier town. It boasted many
taverns and inns, but only one -- the Blue Frog Inn -- could be
considered anything other than a dive, and its doors were closed for a
merchant meeting.
It had taken more than a bell to convince Aldan to come out with
him this evening. They were staying at the Yellow Wren, an inn that was
no more reputable than this tavern but without a common room of its own.
Nakaz had felt the need to play for an audience; opportunities to do so
would be dwindling as they traveled on. From the moment he had entered
the tavern, though, Nakaz felt that he had made a mistake; this place
stood to be dangerous to one of noble birth. His concern melted when
Aldan fell into the spirit of the place, calling out raucously to the
barmaids for service the moment they had claimed a table. He had shooed
the bard toward the front of the room shortly after their second round
of drinks, and Nakaz had gone without reservation, his charge having
surprised him once again.
Nakaz glanced over to their table and saw that Aldan was playing
bones with a pair of rough-looking men. He saw Aldan's lips moving, and
realized after a moment that he was singing along. Nakaz wondered where
the son of a baron had learned the words to a bargeman's chantey.
Cheering broke out when the tune was done, and as before, requests
were shouted out. A very distinctive voice cut across the noise. It was
a high voice, the voice of a child but possessing a volume that couldn't
possibly come from the lungs of a little girl. "Sing something about the
Margre Chalisento!" it called.
A commotion erupted from the rear of his audience, and the voice
didn't call out again, but Nakaz had become intrigued. The Margre
Chalisento was the subject of a tale from the time before time, when
magic was as prevalent as water and wizards were as ubiquitous as
peasants. But more than that, it was an obscure legend, something only a
bard or a scholar of the ancients could possibly have known about. This
was not one of those characters that had story after story, song after
song written about her. He couldn't fathom where anyone in a dive like
this would have heard about the Margre Chalisento.
He knew a few stories about the sorceress, though. He chose one
that played up the more exciting aspects of the legend, and matched it
to a dramatic piece of music he had written. The first notes rang out
and even though no one recognized the tune, the mood of the music caught
their interest. They quieted slightly -- down to a dull roar -- and
Nakaz began to play.
"What did you think you were doing?" hissed Bresk, his hand clamped
over Meelia's mouth. Joal was holding her down by one arm while Bresk's
other hand pulled at the other. Meelia struggled against her friends,
the mischief in her eyes becoming anger at being so roughly handled.
Voesh gestured for the others to let her go, but his narrowed eyes
indicated his own disapproval.
Meelia slapped both men lightly when they had freed her. By then
the handsome, blond bard had started playing, but hadn't yet started
singing. Meelia whispered, in her little girl's voice, "I just wanted to
see if he knew!" She slapped Bresk again, just for good measure, before
continuing, "It won't matter. He's not going to connect anything up."
Joal snuggled back up against Shan before saying, "How do you
know?"
Meelia replied, "Because I just do! Now shut up and listen!"
The bard had started to sing. The story he told was about an
ancient sorceress betrayed by an associate, beset by her enemies,
thwarted in her ambition. Voesh was nodding, but not in time to the
music, more like he was agreeing with the points of the song. The other
five around the table wore smug smiles; they already knew the story that
everyone else in the tavern was hearing for the first time. In fact,
they knew more than the bard was telling.
The story ended with the Margre Chalisento being vanquished, and
the front of the tavern leapt to their feet, cheering wildly. The six,
however, just smiled and took a drink. Each of them knew that the bard
had ended the story early; the most important part had not been told.
The bard stepped off the platform, pleading a dry throat and the
need for a rest. His audience tried to persuade him to continue,
pressing drinks and Pennies at him, but the best they could extract was
a promise to return in half-a-bell. Meelia watched the bard walk back to
his table where his companion was still gambling with the strangers. The
game broke up shortly after the bard arrived, and the two of them were
alone again.
Turning back to her friends, she asked, "Is it time?"
Voesh nodded, and placed a scroll on the table. Shan produced the
scroll he had been working on, and shoved it over in front of Yera.
Joal, who was massaging Shan's neck, said, "You know, I don't think
Yera is the right one to send."
"Why not?" asked Bresk.
"Oh, I don't know," Joal said playfully. "It's just ... maybe I
would be the better person to talk to them. Or even Shan."
Meelia giggled, but Voesh said, "Stop it! You see two men together
and assume ... But your fantasies have no place here, so just shut up.
Yera's looks have nothing to do with the choice. Her bearing is more
likely to suggest the honest possession of an heirloom."
Meelia said, "Hey, you shut up, Voesh. You used to be much more
easy-going before you got that scar. He's just playing; he knows it's
not likely that they're sharing a bed as well as a table. He doesn't
really want to change the plan, do you?"
Joal contrived to look bored and smirk at the same time. He said,
"No, of course not."
Yerianolya had been silent the whole time. Finally she said, "Let's
go." And after a long pause she continued, "And Meelia's right, Voesh.
You were more fun, once."
Aldan slammed down his wooden mug and licked his lips. He shouted
for another and smiled at his traveling companion. Nakaz was smiling
back, but his mug was still half full. Aldan knew that he was drinking
too much, and he also knew that he would regret his indulgence in the
morning. He didn't fancy riding with a curdled head, but he was enjoying
himself too much to be reasonable about it. His quest was progressing
well and he deserved to celebrate, so celebrate he would. Why, just the
other day, he had actually seen Mount Voldronnai, the famous volcano! At
least, he was pretty sure he had seen it. Nakaz had pointed it out to
him above the trees, far off in the distance, but Aldan was almost
certain he had picked out the right one from among the peaks that the
bard had pointed at.
Wouldn't that be a story to tell his father? Wouldn't Chak Bindrmon
be impressed that his son had been close enough to the volcano to see it
with his own eyes? And think of how impressed Tillna would be!
It took a moment for his drink-addled brain to remind him that
Tillna was dead, and would be impressed by nothing he did. Sadness
soaked his spirits like a sudden downpour as he recalled just why he was
so far from home and seeing such exciting sights.
Then, just as suddenly as a spring shower passes, his sadness
vanished, replaced by the warmth of his need for revenge. He would find
the remaining members of the Menagerie, and they would pay for taking
Tillna away from him. That was why he was in Valdasly right now. And
Valdasly was almost Dargon, after all!
Aldan wished that he could be more open with Nakaz, but he was
afraid to. Aldan wanted the Menagerie dead, and he didn't know whether
the bard would allow that. It was hard to keep himself so silent, but
silence was easier than maintaining a convincing set of lies. Lies and
sad songs and lonely roads ... Aldan took a gulp of his refilled mug and
tried to return to his celebrating.
Nakaz was trying to ask him something, but before Aldan could focus
his attention on his companion, he was diverted by two people who were
walking over to their table. The two were an interesting pair: the man
was short and had short black hair, while the woman was tall, with very
short white hair that looked as soft as fur. Both wore frowns, but
somehow the man's seemed more permanent. The woman had a refined-looking
face: narrow, long, with a regal-looking nose and tight, red lips. The
man's most distinguishing feature was a crescent scar in the middle of
one eyebrow.
The pair reached the table and the man with the scar spoke first.
"Your pardon, sir bard. My name is Voesh, and I wondered if I could
presume to request a moment of your time and knowledge?"
Aldan watched as Nakaz gestured the man to a seat. The pair of them
bent their heads over a scroll that the man with the scar spread in
front of them. The woman stood watching them, and Aldan watched her. She
was beautiful in a distant sort of way, and he wondered whether her hair
was as soft as it looked.
He let his gaze drift lower. He hazily wondered if her breasts were
as soft as her hair looked, and he giggled to himself. Aldan was about
to let his attention dip lower still when he heard her say, "Excuse me."
He looked up and said, "Yes?"
"May I have a seat?" she asked with disdain. Aldan smiled an
inebriated smile and kicked the chair next to him out. She scowled down
at him, but sat. She spread a scroll in front of him and said, "Your
pardon, my lord. My name is ... Yera, and I wondered if you might be
able to help me. This scroll has been in my family for centuries, and I
have been seeking its meaning for a very long time. I came to ask the
bard, but while I wait, I thought that it couldn't hurt to show it to
you." Her tone implied that she expected less than nothing from Aldan,
but he found that funny too. He heard her mutter, "And maybe you'll stop
ogling me," which only made him laugh harder.
Aldan finally got control of himself, but he had forgotten why the
woman was sitting next to him. He stared at her, trying to focus on her
face, trying to recall. She stared back, her brown eyes narrowing, until
she finally pointed at the scroll again. Recollection dawned.
From what Aldan could overhear of the conversation between Nakaz
and Voesh, they were talking about some kind of translation that was
couched in riddles and misdirection. Expecting words on the scroll in
front of him, Aldan was surprised to see only lines and pictures. He sat
up straighter, trying to sharpen the blurry edges of the lines. He
grabbed for a tankard and gulped half of it down. He almost spit the
liquid across the room when he tasted it, and coughed until his eyes
watered once he had swallowed it -- it had been some kind of raw
distilled liquor and not ale as he had expected.
When Aldan turned his somewhat sharper attention to the scroll
under the withering stare of Yera, he realized two things. First, the
lines had not been blurry due to his vision; and second, that though
some effort had been made to make the scroll look aged, it had been
recently done. His training at the hands of Sestik came clearly to mind,
and he could see the signs easily. Both the blurred lines, where the ink
had bled into the rough paper, and a large blot in one corner with just
a hint of still-wet ink at its center, indicated that this was no
centuries-old document.
As he was about to announce his discovery to the frowning woman, he
noticed something else about the lines. Aldan turned his attention back
to the drawings instead of what made them up, and started seeing the
patterns there almost immediately. It was an ability he'd always had, to
find the patterns in things. He'd used it to discern the strategy behind
the movements of game pieces, but it applied to other things as well. He
couldn't have put his finger on exactly how he was able to resolve
meaning from the seemingly random drawings, but the patterns were
present. Hidden within the lines was what looked like a map, with
certain pictures taking on more than decorative significance when taken
as part of the whole.
Aldan started blurting out his findings to Yera with an odd
excitement. She hadn't thought much of his ability to contribute, but he
was proving her wrong. She followed the lines he indicated and her frown
faded, turning instead to a look of concentration as he extracted the
meaning out of the scroll for her. He showed her which designs indicated
the path, and which were just decorations. He revealed the cleverly
hidden clues that indicated traps within the maze of pathways and how to
disarm them. He pointed out the false branches as well as the center of
the maze, though he wasn't able to make any sense out of the glyph that
was drawn there: his gift could extract no special meaning from the
strangely star-shaped leaf. Long before Nakaz and the scarred man were
done talking, Aldan had finished revealing the secrets of the woman's
scroll. She stood and thanked him, and walked away. Aldan was sure there
had been a smile on her face as she turned away; he was sorry he hadn't
been able to see more of it.
Aldan tried to follow the exchange Nakaz was carrying on, but
either he was too drunk to understand what they talked about, or they
were no longer speaking Baranurian. At loose ends, he drained another
tankard -- after making sure it was ale first -- and considered trying
to find his way back to the Yellow Duck or Hen or wherever they were
staying. He had just about levered himself to his feet when the man with
the scar stood and said, "My thanks, Nakaz. My friends and I will be
forever in your debt for helping us to solve this riddle. Fare well."
When they were alone again, Aldan said, "So, you did it too, eh,
Nakaz?"
"Too? What do you mean?" Nakaz responded, looking up and rubbing
his eyes.
"The woman. She had a schrull ... scroll, too. I solved it for her.
Just like you."
"Really? That's nice." Nakaz took a drink from his tankard, and
then peered at Aldan. He continued, "And how much have you had to drink
in the meantime?"
"Almost enough," Aldan said. He belched loudly and laughed,
slapping the table with glee.
"More than enough, more like," Nakaz muttered. "Perhaps --"
Before the bard could continue, Aldan interrupted with, "Look,
look. They're leaving. Farewell! Farewell!" The scarred man and the
white-haired woman were leaving with four other people. Neither of them
acknowledged Aldan's drunken exuberance, but the young man heard a
high-pitched giggle from the only other woman in the group. Nakaz seemed
startled by the sound as well.
There was one other detail Aldan noticed about one of the other
members of the group. Two of the men walked very close to each other.
They were physically dissimilar, but they wore clothing that matched,
and their mustaches were clipped exactly the same. The shorter and
stockier of the pair had his arm around the taller, slimmer one, and
Aldan noticed that the fingers resting on the taller man's hip looked
ink-stained to a familiar light brown.
Nakaz led him back to their inn then. All the way back, and in the
brief moments between being led to his bed and falling asleep, Aldan
tried to work out the significance of that final observation, but he
succumbed to exhaustion before making the vital connection.
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