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DargonZine Distributed: 2/4/2001
Volume 14, Number 1 Circulation: 771
========================================================================
Contents
Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
The Target that Eludes Me R. F. Niro Naia 1016
A Woman's Fear P. Atchley Naia 1017
Talisman Seven 3 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Yuli 9-11, 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@shore.net> or visit us
on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/. Back issues
are available from ftp.shore.net in members/dargon/. Issues and
public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
DargonZine 14-1, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright February, 2001 by
the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@shore.net>,
Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@mnsinc.com>. All rights reserved.
All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories
and artwork appearing herein may not be reproduced or redistributed
without the explicit permission of their creators, except in the case
of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution.
Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
========================================================================
Editorial
by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
<ornoth@shore.net>
In my previous Editorial, I described some of our major
accomplishments and events in 2000, our sixteenth year on the Internet.
We put out a record number of issues containing more fiction than ever
before, improved our feedback loop by giving you the ability to rate
each story you read, and more. In this Editorial we'll look forward, and
I'll give you an idea what we're planning for 2001, our seventeenth
year.
So what can you look forward to in coming months? We plan on giving
our Web site, which was introduced back in 1995, a substantial overhaul
in the latter half of the year, and prior to that point we'll be
soliciting lots of input from you, our audience. That will be a major
focus this year, and you can expect to hear more regarding that in
forthcoming Editorials.
We're also working on several enhancements that will make
DargonZine's huge body of fiction more accessible to everyone, and
especially to new readers. Toward that end, we're developing a summary
of Dargon's history in the form of a timeline, to help you more easily
understand the background of our stories. We're also just finishing up
adding lots of context to the "references" section of our Online
Glossary, which will make it easier for you to follow the threads of
connection between stories. And this year we will be publishing the
results of our immense effort at mapping the city of Dargon, and that
should give you a much more detailed image of the town we write about.
In recent years we haven't spent much time helping our readers get up to
speed on the extensive setting we've built, and in 2001 we hope to
reverse that trend.
In addition to those efforts, we'll continue doing a lot of
additional work behind the scenes to better serve our contributing
writers. Our push toward incorporation will continue, and we'll once
again gather for our annual Dargon Writers' Summit, this year in San
Jose, California. We're building up a reference library of lessons
learned and revising our FAQs for writers, as well as enhancing the
systems that allow us to keep cranking out fiction for you. And although
DargonZine itself is strictly noncommercial in nature, some of our
authors aspire to commercial success, and they've initiated a
"publishing challenge" amongst the group to see who can be the first to
get paid publishing credits.
This is going to be a pivotal year for us. As you can see, we've
identified a number of very ambitious goals, and are more focused than
ever on improving what we do, both for you, our readers, as well as for
the aspiring authors who are at the heart of this magazine's mission. I
hope you continue to stay with us and enjoy the work we put forth for
you.
This issue is a great snapshot of three representative Dargon
writers, and three different types of stories, all at different points
in their evolution.
Our first story is a standalone tale from a brand-new writer, R. F.
Niro. He joined the group last May, and I hope you'll enjoy his first
effort for DargonZine. It's not uncommon for stories to take nine to
twelve months to go from concept to publication, and "The Target that
Eludes Me" is typical. Although the first draft was essentially done in
July, the story went through five major revisions before it was ready to
print. During that time it was commented on and critiqued dozens of
times, and I'm sure the author would agree that although the process was
lengthy and sometimes frustrating, it has improved both this particular
story and his skills as a writer. Mr. Niro's experience is typical of a
writer who has recently joined the group.
Our second story is the first chapter in a short series. It comes
from a writer who has been with us over a year now: P. Atchley. After
having her first story printed last year, she began working with another
Dargon writer on a joint collaboration. In addition to writing, she has
volunteered for projects that help us better serve our readers and
writers. Ms. Atchley will be using her co-authoring experience as the
basis for assembling a document full of lessons learned that could be
shared with other writers who might be embarking on a collaborative
effort. Like most writers who have been with the project a year or two,
Ms. Atchley isn't just benefiting from the project, but is also thinking
about how she can give back to the group and make it work better for
everyone. DargonZine couldn't work without this kind of "above and
beyond" contribution from our participating writers.
The issue is rounded out with another installment of Dafydd's
"Talisman" series. In contrast to Mr. Niro's standalone tale and Ms.
Atchley's short series, "Talisman" is more like a serialized novel, with
this chapter being the 26th installment. Dafydd also represents our
veterans. He's approaching his fifteenth anniversary with us and has
printed an astonishing 45 stories. His role on the project has changed
over time, including running the show for several years. His knowledge
of the world of Dargon is unsurpassed, and his opinions respected. When
you've been with the project for five or ten years, DargonZine seems
like an integral part of your life, and its community of writers will
include lifelong friendships.
So that's both an introduction to this issue, an overview of some
different types of stories, and a look at the different phases that
Dargon writers go through over time. I hope you enjoy the results of
these writers' hard work, and as always, thanks for your continuing
interest in DargonZine!
========================================================================
The Target that Eludes Me
by R. F. Niro
<OrionFarr@aol.com>
Naia 1016
This is the story of my failure.
Why couldn't it have been a simple test? A contest like archery,
where if I get the most arrows in the center of the target, I win? In
archery the lines are apparent, giving rise to little dispute over who
the winner is. In the case of a tie the archers can always shoot another
quiver of arrows to settle the contest.
I have always been skilled with a bow.
I am getting ahead of myself, though. I am no bard, but I do know
that I should start from the beginning.
It was early Naia and I was in Dargon city for the first time. In
my sixteen winters, I had never been to a city before; my first
experience with any human collection of such magnitude had been viewing
Kenna from the opposite bank of the Coldwell, nearly five days back. Yet
Kenna was a minnow to Dargon's barracuda, so much smaller in size and
sensation as to almost defy comparison of the two. In truth, even Kenna
was significantly larger than Dawnsmist, the valley hamlet that I called
home.
I entered Dargon with the late-morning sun over my right shoulder.
I traveled a stone's throw from the northeast bank of the Coldwell,
walking a dusty track between riverside fields being prepared for
planting. I continued until I reached the point where the river causeway
signaled the southeastern end of the city. As I passed, the farmers and
hands stopped their work for a few moments to gaze at me across the
fields with what I assumed was interest. I was uncomfortable under their
gazes, feeling distinctly alone in a foreign place. Yet, with the
relaxation of their gazes, the tension growing in my chest only seemed
to further increase. I would have expected a man armed with a bow on his
back and a sword at his side to elicit more concern.
I took two deep breaths to control my anxiety. I felt the weight of
responsibility pressing upon my shoulders. This burden was rooted in the
knowledge that there was a void in my village: a void created by the
prolonged absence of the trained and experienced fighters of my clan.
Only the very young and very old remained to defend Dawnsmist. There
were many dangers that threatened a village amid the wilds of the deep
duchy woods and I was determined not to let my people down in any time
of need.
As I walked, my thoughts became dominated by Oyrault's Bald, a
rocky hill a few leagues from our village. The hill held a one-room
shack nestled amid a small grass clearing. My grandfather had built the
shack and because of his labor the hill bore his name. My favorite times
were when I could journey to the bald and practice my target shooting as
wispy clouds passed through the deep azure sky above me.
Attempting to focus on the task at hand I followed the directions
Sybator, my teacher, had given me, soon reaching the edge of the city
proper. As I approached the city, I climbed the side of a small hill,
which offered an elevated perspective for my first glimpse of Dargon. I
paused, breaking the stride that had carried me the sennight's walk from
my home, to gaze at the city in wonder.
Splayed before me to the northwest, the city was a patchwork of
buildings separated by meandering streets that gave the impression of
roots grown by an ancient tree, whimsically choosing their paths through
time. Tall stone spires and steeples paying reverence to the blue sky
marked what I took to be the temple district. Closer, to the west, where
the causeway spanned the Coldwell River, the water sparkled in the early
morning sunlight as it sought its destiny in the Valenfaer Ocean.
The most majestic feature of the city, though, was a stone castle,
set atop a rocky crag on the far side of the river. From what Sybator
had told me, that would be Dargon Keep, seat of Duke Clifton, the ruler
of our lands. I could not believe the power displayed in a building of
that sort. I had to stop and reflect on the labor, time, and the
all-defying might necessary to raise stone to such heights, and then
hold it there against its nature.
I started on my way again, down the gently sloped rocky trail
before me, shortening my usually long stride to a slow shuffle, as I
tried to digest the sight laid before me.
I continued towards the riot of stone and timber dwellings before
me. Part of me began to wonder what necessity would drive the
construction of an unnatural structure like Dargon Keep: an artificial
mountain, yet without the true majesty of the Darst range, only a pale
imitation of the real thing.
With that realization, I quickened my pace again. I was able to put
Dargon city in perspective. Who would want to live in the squalor I saw
before me? People scurried about at a hurried pace, their feet sticking
in the street muddied by the previous day's spring rains. I began to
hear a sickening drone, like that of a swarm of bees, coming from the
marketplace directly in my path. The sticky and unpleasant tang in the
air borne inland from the Valenfaer Ocean assaulted my senses. I could
see filth, like sores on a diseased animal, lining the banks of the
Coldwell. All of that led to one conclusion: this was not my home.
Again, thoughts of Oyrault's Bald crawled into my head and settled,
unbidden. This time I saw my father, pulling back on his bow with power
and grace, and remaining completely still before the subtle movement
that signaled release. He had always seemed so sure when he fired; I had
spent the past two years trying to mimic, from memory, the instinct with
which he shot.
I shook my head to clear the scar-filled reverie. I stopped at the
side of the first road that I came upon and pulled out the map Sybator
had given me. It was a rough sketch of Dargon, with streets depicted as
lines and words scrawled next to them. Underneath I held Sybator's
letter of introduction, cradled against my sweaty palm like the blanket
my young sister favored.
As I stood there on the street's margin, I tried to avoid acting
like an outsider. Yet, it seemed to me that many amid the hordes of
people that passed stared longer than would be normal or altered their
pace to gape at me. I surmised that few of them had ever seen a woodsman
in person, but later I was to realize that more likely they were just
surprised that I could read at all.
Woodsmen have never been known for literacy. I was among the first
generation of our clan to be able to read and write. In our village,
though, Father Tannuay, a Stevenic priest, had made sure that every
child was taught his letters. Some would have called him a religious
zealot, trapped in his passion about reading and writing, an ability
that few elders in our town saw there being much use for, but this
account is a testament to his success.
I found myself standing on the Street of Travellers, glancing
quickly back and forth between the map and the landmarks around me.
Peering once more at the map for good measure, I tried to memorize where
I was. I then proceeded to roll the map and the letter together with
shaking hands and carefully enclose them in the metal carrying tube
Sybator had given me. Placing the tube back amongst the jars and small
pots stowed in my pack, I headed into the city. I found my lungs
laboring, as apprehension constricted my chest.
I passed the edge of the marketplace and walked slowly past dozens
of shops and small houses crammed together like rotted logs in a
blowdown. As I headed down Traders Avenue, I felt long gazes following
me. The attention only heightened my anxiety, adding to the pressure of
attempting to not gawk around me like some kind of country lout.
I finally halted my travel at a shop with a merchant's symbol
underscored by elegant scrawl that read "Abaleen's Traders." Seeing the
door open to the street, I entered the cramped, low-ceilinged shop.
Behind the counter was an old, thin, gray-haired and bearded man peering
squint-eyed at a ledger placed on a pitted and sliced hardwood bench.
Sybator had told me that Abaleen was an old acquaintance. The past
was something that Sybator talked about infrequently. However, his
silence wasn't enough to prevent rumors of his true origins from
circulating within the village. His prowess with the sword and written
word suggested a noble upbringing, but his knowledge of the wilderness
and the bow demonstrated ample time in the wilds. Some said he was a
fallen noble, torn from his lands for a crime he did not commit. Others
said he had served the current duke's father -- his skill with weapons
and tactics lending some credence -- as a general. Some even said he had
walked away from his holdings and title, living on his wits alone in the
wilds for decades before reaching our village fifteen years past, not
long after the end of the Shadow Wars.
No matter what the story, he said Abaleen was one of the few honest
men in a trade of thieves, and that he was the man to whom I should
trade my wares. "May I help you?" the man behind the counter questioned,
without looking up from his reading.
"Errr ... Abaleen?" I began, flustered by his inattention.
As I moved towards the counter, I quickly tried to review what I
should say. I had hoped he would look at the letter before asking too
many questions. His glancing up from his work, prompted by my
noncommittal response, saved me. "Yes, I'm sorry," he answered, looking
at my rough garb, ieonem bow, and laden pack, "You must be another one
of Sybator's students; I wasn't expecting one again, so soon."
"Yes," I responded, handing him the letter that I had pulled out of
its metal case. My older brother Dynhault had undertaken the same
challenge less than a month previous and had come home with little to
report about his journey, but he was Dynhault: the born leader, heir to
the title of Clannac, head of our family. Although only a year older
than I, he had always been the best at everything. He was the fastest in
a foot race, the most skilled swordsman, the quickest with his letters.
Only in skill with the bow, for which he had little interest, was I
better than him. And I had little doubt that if he put his mind to it he
would be the best archer in our village.
Abaleen skimmed quickly through the note and looked up at me with a
friendly smile. "I understand, then, that you have some more goods for
me."
I nodded in agreement, unslinging my pack and placing it on the
dusty floor against the counter. He came around to the front and we
began pulling the poultices and jars of salve out of my pack.
"So, what do you think of our city?" he asked as we set to work.
"Uh ... I'm finding it ... different," I stammered out a reply.
"Yes, I guess you would." He laughed heartily. I only shrugged,
slightly embarrassed by his mirth. I could find no words to really
describe what I felt and even Abaleen's easy manner could not ease my
anxiety.
How could I describe to him the wonder that I felt? I can remember
the two distinct emotions tugging at my body: awe and fear. Both were
twisting and curling together in some kind of hypnotic and sickening
dance inside my gut. It was good that I had eaten little when I had
broken fast that morning. Yet words like wonder and awe are limited in
their scope, and my emotions at that first moment when I had seen the
city spread out before me had been boundless. I had never seen anything
of such magnitude and majesty as the city and it both terrified and
elated me in the same instant.
"Here are the iechyd poultices, foxglove, ieonem blossoms ... " I
had begun pulling the various herbal restoratives and remedies out of my
pack, looking to change the subject back to the task at hand.
Once all of the wares were out, Abaleen went into the back room and
returned shortly with a cloth bundle. He unwrapped it to show the goods
that Sybator had requested. Inside the oil cloth lay two medium-sized
books, bound with leather, the letters on the cover beginning to fade
with age. One of them read "Memoirs of Istabalt, Alchemist to Kings" and
the other "Tales of Magnus." Books were the one luxury that Sybator
seemed to allow himself. He supplied and maintained a small library in
our village.
After we had rewrapped the books, Abaleen reached under the
counter, pulled out a small sack, counted out a half-dozen coins and
placed them into another, smaller sack.
"The last batch sold well; here's some of the extra coin I earned.
Why don't you use it, son, to experience city life? You could stay in an
inn -- possibly the Spirit's Haven -- for the night?"
"Thank you for your generosity," I concluded, reslinging my pack
upon my shoulders. My time with Abaleen had been short, yet seemed long,
perhaps because of the novelty involved. Again, I yearned to be on
Oyrault's Bald, straining against the controlled power of my bow as the
springtime sun warmed my back.
"Take care, son. Give my friend Sybator my best wishes and tell him
he's been away from Dargon too long. Remind him that memories are
shorter than the tides," he said by way of leave-taking. I nodded in
response.
As I exited the shop, I turned to the left and stopped. Looking
back the way that I had come, I saw the edge of the bustle that
surrounded the marketplace. In the other direction, I knew, lay the
docks and seashore, although any chance of seeing them from that spot
was lost in the labyrinth of the city streets. Then, I made what seemed
a simple decision, yet one with unexpected ramifications, like ripples
formed from a stone thrown into a pond.
In the end, I chose to head down towards the wharf, my decision
prompted by two factors: the mystery of the sea drawing me towards the
shore and the press of people pushing me away.
As I walked along Traders Avenue, I wondered what to do with my
extra coin. Should I save it and bring it to Sybator? Should I use it to
sample the life offered by the city, during my first experience in one?
Should I give it away to one of the churches, possibly a Stevenic one,
in honor of Father Tannuay? I could hear my father's advice in my head:
"Trust in yourself, son. Your aim is true." I wished, not for the first
time, for his companionship rather than just his memories.
In truth, I wanted, with all of my being, to leave the city and
return to Dawnsmist as soon as possible, but I felt that I was expected
to spend more time in the city and to learn something more of its ways.
Sybator had given me this task, this journey into town, as one of his
practical tests, probably to challenge my skills at adapting to a new
situation, a strange place. Sybator spent very little time standing,
talking to us of our lessons, as Father Tannuay did. A man of few words,
Sybator much preferred to show us, teach us through experience.
Sometimes these kinds of lessons, I had found, were hardest. My fear was
caused by my desire to not fail him ... and my village.
Again, my thoughts flitted to Oyrault's Bald, calling to mind my
waiting target and the jay that liked to sit on the roof of the shack,
moving his head in jerky motions as he scanned the clearing for food. I
would have much preferred his company to the foreignness I found on the
street around me.
Approaching the wharves on Traders Avenue, I got a better view of
the bustle of the harbor, marveling at a large ship, probably some kind
of merchant vessel, which was entering the harbor under sail. Nearer to
the docks, I could see sailors loading and unloading various cargoes
onto the quays that lined the shore. As I continued, the crashing of the
waves and the salty taste to the air were new, yet not altogether
unpleasant, sensations.
Lost in my wonder, my attention was yanked back to my surroundings
by a yell from further down the street. On the other side of the lane, a
young boy sprinted out of a shop, clutching a bundle to his chest. A
little middle-aged man followed, waving a large pair of shears and
yelling "Thief! Thief!" A sign depicting a scrawled representation of
the shears hung above the shop doorway.
At first, the chaos exhibited in this display kept me rooted in
place as the child raced past me and entered a narrow alley two shops
away. I quickly broke into a lope, my pack pulling taut against my
shoulders and slowing my arm glide. I dared not leave it, though, so I
strode on. Running with a full pack was very similar to some of the
exercises we did for Sybator. As I rounded the corner, the child was
only five cubits away. At the far end of the alley I could see people
walking on another street running roughly parallel to Traders Avenue.
Even hindered, I ate up ground pursuing the short-legged child. He
seemed to be about ten years of age.
The boy looked behind him and shock came over his face. I do not
think he expected the soft-looking tailor to have been able to keep up
with him and judging by the faces I had already seen on many of the
other people on the street, apathy was the way of the city.
In response to the sight of me, the boy quickened his pace just a
little more, his bare feet slapping on the mud, and he turned into
another side-alley, this one seeming to run behind the houses on Traders
Avenue. I turned the corner less than three strides behind and in five
steps was able to close the distance to him. Without slowing my running,
I reached out and grabbed the back of his neck as he began to scale a
rickety wooden fence that ended the alley ten cubits in. He seemed
limber enough to scale it easily, but the package in his arms was
awkward and forced him to climb with only one hand. That was all the aid
I needed to catch him.
"What are you doing, boy?" I growled. I placed him back on the
ground against a wooden wall, where there was no place to run, except
past me. He squirmed in my grasp.
Letting him go, I said, "Very well, we'll have it your way. You can
run, but I'm just going to catch you again, like I did last time. I'm no
soft tailor you can out-run and out-climb." His eyes darted back and
forth looking for an opening to escape through.
Finding none in my wary stance, he appraised me. "Who are you? What
do you want?"
"I'm a woodsman, from the deep forests to the southeast," I
answered. "And what I want is that item you stole."
"Oh, I thought you looked strange," he responded. The diversity of
the city left him less disturbed than I would have expected. He did
realize who had the control over the situation, though, and power was
something he seemed to understand. "What will you do if I give it back?"
"I'll let you go on your way, as long as you promise not to steal
again."
"Straight?" he said.
Not entirely understanding his slang, I said: "Yes, if you mean: am
I telling the truth."
"Why?"
"Because I trust your word and think that getting caught will teach
you a lesson about stealing."
He looked at me in shock, but measured me in a surprisingly shrewd
manner for one so young.
"Straight." He said, handing me the bundle he had held clutched to
his chest throughout the exchange. "I'll be leaving now," he continued,
starting to walk past me.
"*There* he is!" a voice yelled at the entrance to the cul-de-sac.
I looked over to see the tailor standing, pointing accusingly at us.
Behind him came four men in armor, swords at their sides.
Again, I grabbed the boy's arm as he took the first step towards
scaling the fence.
The five men came down the alley and approached the struggling boy
and me. "Who are you?" the tailor asked brusquely.
"My name is Oyreen of clan Deshiels. And I have your cloth." I
answered, not understanding why his voice held such a tone of
accusation. I offered it to him.
"It is not just any cloth," he responded in a starchy tone,
grabbing the bundle out of my outstretched hand. "That dress was
commissioned for Lauren Dargon, the duke's wife, and is very valuable,
bumpkin." He spat out the last word and held out the gown, looking for
some sign of damage. I clenched my jaw in simmering anger. I could not
tell if the boy's touch or mine worried him more. The boy had calmed
down and was standing warily in my grip.
"You are a woodsman?" one of the soldiers said, more as a statement
than a question. He was in the fore of the group and an insignia on his
tunic seemed to indicate he was their leader. "My name is Lieutenant
Kalen Darklen of the Dargon city guard. Did you get the dress from this
boy?"
"Yes to both, lieutenant," I responded. The lieutenant seemed at
ease, but the three guardsmen behind him seemed more wary of my
appearance, shifting their weight back and forth between their feet, as
those ready for immediate action do. None of them bordered on the
outright hostility of the tailor, though.
"How did you come by it?" he then asked. I told him my part of the
story, including my journey into the city on Sybator's errand.
As I finished telling of my covenant with the boy, the tailor burst
in: "Lieutenant, you can't just let that little thief go, on this ...
man's word." He spat the last two words as if they were distasteful in
some way.
At that point, my anger flared. "What did I ever do to deserve this
treatment?" I fumed at the tailor. Sybator had told me many times that
my temper would get me into trouble if I did not control it. But at that
moment, I could not take any more of the man's abuse. "I am as much a
man as you. Just because I don't live in Dargon city, it does not make
me any less of a member of the duchy or the kingdom. My father, uncles,
and cousins still have not returned from the war with Beinison. Do you
think just because the war is over here that the king in Magnus has let
all men return home? You in your safe homes have returned to normal, but
my clan may be involved in fighting every day -- hundreds of leagues
from our home." I stopped to pant in anger, looking down at the muddy
street for focus. Emotion poured out of me like spring runoff
overflowing a river's banks. What I had said was true. My people had
long been employed in the armies of king and dukes alike as scouts and
archers. Skilled soldiers like that were the last to return home.
All around me the city dwellers, guards, tailor, and boy gaped in
shock. The eloquence of my attack seemed to produce most of the response
as opposed to the truths of my statements. I had already seen that few
city dwellers considered woodsmen, wearing rough leathers and simple
clothing, to be completely civilized. I had Father Tannuay to thank for
my ability to orate. For the first time I was thankful for his long
bells of lessons on letters, grammar and discourse.
"Well, I ... are you in league with this boy?" the tailor began. "I
don't care what the king owes your family, the boy is a thief and should
be thrown in the dungeon. Those are the laws of the city -- and of the
kingdom."
"You'll have to excuse Goodman Mudge. While a good tailor, he has
had a difficult day today," Lieutenant Darklen interrupted the beginning
of the tirade. "Ealun, why don't you return home with the dress and see
what you can do with it? I'm sure your amazing talents will have it
repaired even better than it was for the duke's wife."
"He's only a boy," I finished, glaring darkly at the tailor.
"No, he's a thief," Mudge contradicted, "Lieutenant, you are right,
my talents are better served back in my shop. I *trust* you will handle
this matter appropriately." With that the tailor stormed off, back down
the alleyway towards Traders Avenue.
As my attention wandered with the statements of the tailor, the boy
made a sudden move at my side. My grip had relaxed, allowing him to drop
to the ground, breaking my hold with his weight and unbalancing me so
that I fell to the ground as he scuttled out of my way. Before I could
recover my feet or the guards could act, he had climbed the fence and
could be heard running deeper into the alley.
The lieutenant was the first to reach the fence, but as he dropped
to the other side and I reached the top, the boy turned another corner
and was lost from sight heading back towards the wharves.
"We'll never catch him now, and maybe that's for the better," the
lieutenant stated, seemingly disgusted at the situation. "He was too
young for the dungeon, likely has no family, and there is little we can
do for ones that start so early."
At that moment, I felt the worst defeat. Jumping down to stand next
to the lieutenant, I noticed a change in the heft of my equipment.
Reaching up into the side sash of my pack, I realized that two strands
were all that remained of the purse containing the extra coins Abaleen
had given me. "He stole my money!" I said in shock.
The lieutenant turned and looked at me for a moment and said: "Yes,
he probably did." I stood there, jaw agape and wondered how I could have
misread the boy so badly. I had defended him, preventing the judgmental
tailor from getting a hold of him and he had repaid me, by robbing me.
"Where are you staying tonight?" Lieutenant Darklen asked.
"I was to stay at the Spirit's Haven, but I have no coin left, and
think I should be on my way. I'm not sure I care to spend a night in
this city."
"That is probably for the best; Dargon doesn't seem to be your kind
of place," the lieutenant said. "We can help you out by walking you to
the edge of town." He did not seem to be offering a choice. In truth, I
was not sure if he wanted to stay with me in order to protect me, or
more likely, to keep me out of any more trouble. At the time, it did not
matter.
I had already failed.
That night I slept in a copse of trees near the Coldwell and the
next morning was on my way home. In just over a sennight I was home in
our village reporting on my journey to Sybator.
He said nothing upon hearing my story, which seemed right. I did
not feel worth the time or effort after my failure in the city. Instead,
he took me out to the clearing on the edge of the village where we
practiced our archery. Suspended from trees at the far end were straw
targets with an innermost bullseye and a much larger outer circle.
"Get yourself set, but do not draw an arrow," he said in his
traditional no-nonsense tone. Once I had gotten in my stance, he came
behind me and blindfolded me with a dark rag he had taken from inside
his tunic. "Now shoot," he said once he was sufficiently assured that I
could not see.
"But, master, I can't see the target."
"True ... Shoot anyway."
My frustration quickly gave way to acceptance, though. I nocked an
arrow from the quiver by my left knee; an easy feat, even blindfolded,
for someone who had done it thousands of times before. I then followed
the steps I had been taught to take before shooting: the canon all
archers lived by. Sybator and my father had drilled these lessons into
me since I first hefted a bow. I placed my lead arm forward, made sure
my fingers were positioned evenly on the string, pulled back on the bow
until I could anchor my hand against my chin, and aimed where I thought
the target should be. I waited for that feeling of complete rightness I
knew signaled the moment I should release. Even blindfolded I felt
confidence in my technique, if not my aim. I let the arrow slide free.
I heard the dull thunk of it embedding in the straw.
"What did you hit?"
"The target, I think. I heard it hit." I responded with relative
confidence.
"Where on the target?" he continued.
"I don't know, I can't see it."
"Where do you think?"
"High right?" I asked. Every archer has his favorite spot to miss.
"Do you really think so?"
"How could I know where it hit? I can't see it." I answered in
frustration.
"Was it a good shot?" he asked.
"Uh ... I guess so. My form felt good. The shot felt right."
"Good. That is how a great archer shoots: by feel. Pull off your
blindfold," he commanded. I did, finding the arrow lodged in the target
near the outer edge of the smaller circle.
"Could your shot have been better?"
"Yes, I could have hit the center."
"Could you have?"
"Maybe? ... I don't know!?" I became flustered, not really sure
what we were even talking about anymore.
Then, abruptly, without ever a direct word on my trip to the city,
he took my bow and sent me to Oyrault's shack on the bald. He gave me
simple directions: sit alone, write down this story, and return for
archery practice tomorrow morning.
========================================================================
A Woman's Fear
by P. Atchley
<dpartha@usa.net>
Naia 1017
Oriel was running up the stairs as Rasine came back from the
market. She stared down at the blonde ten-year old in surprise. "What
are you doing, Oriel? I thought I told you to make bread while I was at
the market." Rasine followed her daughter into their tiny rooms,
clutching the two bags she had brought back with her.
"Oh, turdation!" the ten year-old snapped, under her breath. "I
wanted to be back before you. I put the dough in the oven, Mama. I was
playing with Briam, and then I just went down the street to see if there
were any mushrooms in that little patch of soil near the --"
"What did you say, young lady?"
"Nothing, Mama, just that I wanted to see if there were any
mushrooms ..." The girl's voice trailed off, her smile dimming as she
caught sight of the expression on Rasine's face.
"I should wash your mouth out with verjuice, using such language.
Where you learn these things, I'll never know." Rasine shook her head as
she took two carrots from one of the bags. "And as punishment for what
you said, you're not to make jelly for another sennight." She took a
small knife and began to cut the carrots.
"But Mama, I love jelly. And you never let me eat any sweets at
all," Oriel objected, bending to take a small cloth-wrapped bundle from
the live coals.
"Be careful, Oriel. How many times have I told you --"
"To use a cloth when you take the bread from the fire," Oriel
finished the sentence for her mother.
"You are becoming very rude. I should punish you." Rasine hid a
smile at the indignant look her daughter gave her. "But, since you're
not making jelly for the next sennight," Rasine chuckled as her daughter
glared daggers at her, "I'll consider that sufficient punishment.
"Tell me, how is that young man, Briam?"
"He's not a young man, Mama. He's just a boy," Oriel said and
snatched a small piece of carrot from her mother's hands. "And he's
fine."
Rasine laughed and batted away the little girl's grasping fingers
as she set some water to boil. "Did you play find-the-rat again?" Her
daughter nodded, mouth full of carrots. Rasine continued, "Can you
recite what I taught you the other day?" She carefully dropped the
remaining pieces of carrot into the water.
"Of course," the little girl said scornfully. "Listen.
"An Herbal Concoction
Verjuice and white pepper for a jelly of fish,
Thyme and mint for a form of tart;
Chamomile for tea, parsley for looks,
Sage for stew, cayenne from the east,
Mustard for sauce, anise for sweets,
Saffron for them dukes, salt for you and me!"
Oriel took a deep breath. "But what does it mean, Mama? And how
come it says verjuice and white pepper for jelly? We use seaweed and
milk for carrageen jelly."
Rasine said, "That's a very good question. Tell me how you make
jelly."
"Boil seaweed and milk.
Stir the side of the pot.
Drink when it's not so hot."
"Straight. And how does it taste? Sweet. But this isn't a sweet
jelly. It's a jelly made with fish. The poem gives you the herbs so that
you can always remember what to put in it. Remember when I taught you
how to make jelly? That's a poem too."
"Oooh, that's easy. Do you know any more, Mama?"
The woman laughed. "Of course I do, and I'll teach them all to you.
There's one about spice powder that I'm going to teach you next, but not
today. It's time to eat now, and then time for you to go to bed."
Rasine tucked Oriel into bed and sat down to wait for Gunnar, a
ducal guard with whom she had a bargain. In exchange for getting Oriel
an apprenticeship with the keep cook, Rasine had agreed to oblige Gunnar
with favors. He usually stopped by every other day, and she expected he
would stop by that night. She stared into the glowing embers of the
coals, letting her mind wander aimlessly. Life had a sameness about it
lately that made even thinking a chore.
She remembered when her husband Lars had been alive. Things had
been different then. He had been a good man, with his own boat and he
used to go fishing almost every day. One day, he never returned. There
had been a sudden squall, and everyone had told her that he must have
drowned. Oriel had been four years old at the time. Lars had made her
laugh, and after he was gone, there was no one to make her laugh.
Rasine could not accept the fact that he was gone. She had borrowed
a lot of money from Jahlena, part-owner of the Shattered Spear, and paid
the other fishermen in Dargon to go and look for him. Of course, when
Jahlena had asked for repayment, Rasine had nothing to return. She had
ended up at the Spear as a general dogsbody in order to pay the debt. To
make matters worse, Jahlena, who was the bouncer at the inn, had rather
forcibly persuaded her to double occasionally as an entertainer of the
more tawdry sort.
But even that did not bother her now. Actually, nothing much
bothered her right now. She couldn't bring herself to believe that
anything mattered. So what if she was an entertainer? She didn't care a
whole lot about that. The only thing which mattered, just a little, was
Oriel. A distant corner of her mind was always aware of her
responsibility to her child. If it hadn't been for Oriel, she would have
gone searching for Lars herself and perhaps, like Lars, never returned
...
Bells sounded faintly in the distance, breaking Rasine's reverie.
The only important thing right now was to make sure Oriel learned a
trade. Rasine had come up with the idea about a month prior. It had been
the early part of Firil when she had made the bargain with Gunnar. But
he hadn't made any progress on meeting the cook, the lazy scum that he
was.
Now it was already five bells after sunset, and that rat hadn't
come yet. Well, she would refuse him and -- a knock sounded at the door.
She jumped, startled, and then rose slowly to open it, gearing herself
to scold him for procrastinating on meeting with the cook. The door
creaked as she opened it, and Gunnar entered without waiting for an
invitation. He smiled down at her and handed her a flower.
"Did you talk to the keep cook about getting Oriel a place there?"
she asked sternly, ignoring his offering. "It's been a month since I
asked you to talk to the cook. I've obliged you every time you come
here, and what have I got in return? Nothing, that's what."
"Rasine, I told you, I'm trying," he began, his smile gone. When
she did not respond but simply stared at him, he started again, "I
tried, but I -- I'll try again tomorrow, I promise."
He touched her shoulder, and offered her the rose again. She glared
up at him. He towered over her, his thin frame reminding her of the
scarecrow farmer Benson used to set in his cornfields. His pale blue
eyes pleaded with her. They glinted in the firelight and she sighed
loudly.
He seemed to realize her displeasure because he said, "Please,
Rasine?"
Finally she nodded, and accepted the rose. A corner of her mind
wondered where he had picked it. She led him to the tiny room that was
hers. It was a long time before he left.
Gunnar stepped lightly down the stairs, whistling under his breath.
He looked up at the sky. Nochturon was in fine fettle that night. It
took him awhile to reach the guards' quarters because Rasine lived in a
house that was near the oceanfront northeast of Dargon city, a good
distance away.
"Ho, Gunnar, been with a woman?" a voice asked as soon as he
entered the barracks. It was Rudy, his partner, and he smiled at Gunnar
nastily. "I know that song. You whistle that every time you've been with
a woman. How much did you pay?"
"Ho, ho, Rudy, some of us actually get what we want without having
to pay," Gunnar retorted. "Only screegull scum like you have to pay."
Rudy laughed at the insult. "And you, you actually think a woman
would give it to you for free?"
"Oh yes. I just got it, didn't I?"
"Who's the mystery woman who doesn't make you pay, eh?" Rudy
mocked.
Gunnar stared at him. "You don't believe me? You think a woman
won't roll with me without getting paid for it? You don't know what
you're talking about. Look at me, man: I wash up, and wear clean clothes
before I go to her. Women like these things, you know. Today I even took
her a flower. Look at you, you ugly mug ..."
"Never mind me," Rudy interrupted. "So who's the woman?"
Gunnar thought for a few moments. Why should he tell Rudy? This was
his secret, his cushy berth. If he told Rudy, would Rudy get it for free
too? Gunnar frowned, unable to think of an answer to that question.
Meanwhile, Rudy was tapping his foot on the floor, staring at him with
that nasty grin that he always got whenever Gunnar tried to think things
through. The grin annoyed him no end. Rudy always said he was stupid
whenever he was thinking about things. He frowned at that.
"Well, stupid, if you've finished thinking about what you're going
to do for the next twenty bells, I'd like to know who the woman is."
"Oh yeah, says who I'm stupid? And what's it to you who the woman
is?"
"Because if you don't tell me, I'll pound you to a pulp."
Gunnar laughed. "You can try."
In a flash, Rudy vaulted over the cot between them, and shoved the
other man to the floor with the force of his momentum, holding him by
the throat.
"Gotcha," he said with satisfaction.
"Not really." Gunnar reached up, and holding Rudy's left elbow with
both hands, pushed it upwards and out in the wrong direction.
With a shout of pain, Rudy released him. Gunnar threw a punch, but
Rudy shoved his wrist aside and attacked furiously. With no space to
maneuver in a room full of cots, Gunnar found himself hard-pressed. And
then Rudy hooked a foot behind his ankle, and down he went again.
"What is going on here?"
Both men looked up guiltily. It was Sergeant Cepero of the town
guard, who had a grudge against Rudy because he had caught the latter
flirting with his niece, Fidelia. Unfortunately for Rudy, Fidelia was
supposed to have been walking out with a town guard at the time.
Needless to say, in Cepero's mind, his niece was the innocent victim,
and Rudy the aggressor. Cepero's temporary assignment to the ducal guard
had given him plenty of opportunities to punish Rudy, which he seized
gladly.
"Nothing," both answered simultaneously.
"Gunnar, your nose is bleeding. Go and have it seen to," Cepero
said sharply. "Rudy, I should have known. This time, I am definitely
going to report you. This is the third time this sennight, and I've
already warned you about the consequences, more than once." He glared at
both miscreants impartially. "What punishment would be fitting for this?
Fighting inside the barracks: serious charges." A faint smile of
satisfaction appeared on his lips. "I shall ask for you to be flogged at
noon inside the keep, in front of all the guards. Next sennight, I
think."
Gunnar looked from the retreating back of the sergeant to the
dismayed look on Rudy's face.
"It's all your fault," Rudy said venomously. "I'm already on
report. And that Cepero is an idiot. He's going to have the lieutenant
flog me; you heard him. And for what? Damn you, Gunnar."
"I'm sorry, Rudy. Never mind, I'll tell you who the woman is,"
Gunnar said, hoping to cajole the other man into a better mood. Seeing
Rudy's expression change, Gunnar continued, "It's Rasine. She works at
the Shattered Spear."
Rudy's bitter mood seemed to lift after Gunnar revealed the name of
the mystery woman, and Gunnar's anxiety eased. Rudy was apt to hit him
simply because he was annoyed, and Gunnar was tired of being the other
man's punching bag.
"Why do we have to put garlic in the soup, and not in the bread,
Mama?" Oriel asked.
Rasine smiled down at her daughter. "Because we're making plain
bread today, not spice bread." She checked the live coals, and poked at
the bread. It hadn't risen fully yet, so she left it to bake a little
longer. "Put the soup on, child."
"Mama, you promised me you'd teach me a poem about spice powder,"
Oriel said, her tone rising. She propped the saucepan on top of the
small stove rather carelessly. The water inside slopped against the
sides and a few drops fell on the coals underneath, sizzling.
"Careful, Oriel," Rasine admonished. She poured the small amount of
barley she had bought that day into the saucepan. The water which had
been boiling merrily, subsided. "You want to learn the poem about spice
powder, eh? Well, this one's easy. Ready?" When the little girl nodded
vigorously, Rasine continued, "It's called Spice Powder.
Pepper as black as night without Nochturon,
Cannell as beautiful as a willow bark tree,
Ginger as harsh as the north wind,
Saffron that comes from across the high seas,
And cloves like little black dames of doom!"
"Doom, doom, doom!" Oriel repeated with relish.
Rasine laughed. "Straight. You powder them all together. Don't
twist your hair like that, Oriel; it will get all tangled up."
The barley was boiling now, and Rasine stirred it.
"How come my hair is so long and yours is so short, Mama? I want to
cut my hair too. I want to have short hair."
"No, Oriel, we are not cutting your hair, because we want your hair
to grow long and beautiful," Rasine said patiently, lifting the saucepan
off the fire with a teacloth. She carefully dropped into the soup the
two basil leaves she had begged from the cook at the Spear. "I've told
you before, we --"
"Are not cutting my hair," the girl repeated, grinning. "But Mama,
does that mean people with short hair aren't beautiful?" When Rasine
looked up with her mouth open, somewhat taken aback at her daughter's
logic, the little girl giggled and continued, "Never mind, Mama, I think
you're beautiful even though you have short hair. My mama is beautiful,
and my papa is ... Are men beautiful, Mama?" Oriel took the bread out
from under the little mud oven, and began to tear it off into pieces.
Rasine swallowed a laugh. "No, men are handsome. Like your father."
"Tell me about my father, Mama. What was he like? You never tell me
anything about him," Oriel pouted.
This time Rasine did laugh. "Enough with the questions, Oriel. Sit
down and eat your dinner."
"But Mama --"
"Your father was tall and handsome. He had hair just like yours, my
little golden girl. Whenever I brush your hair, I think of him." Rasine
sighed, swallowing a mouthful of soup.
She had grown up in Magnus. When she had met Lars, the two of them
had fallen in love with each other instantly. They had married within a
sennight. Whenever she thought about that time, she wondered how
happiness could make people forget about everything. She could never
remember where they had gotten money to pay for a place to stay, or for
food. They had lived in each others' arms, with a smile and a laugh.
Would she ever be able to feel like that again? Would she ever laugh
again? Would she ever again be so happy that she could forget where the
next meal was coming from? Forgetting seemed very attractive these days.
"-- call me golden girl?"
"Hm? Why do I call you golden girl?" Rasine asked. Seeing Oriel
nod, she answered, "Because you have golden hair. That's why I named you
Oriel; it means 'golden'. Now, off to bed." She followed the little girl
into the small bedroom area and tucked her into the stack of hay,
heather and blankets that did duty as a bed. Then she returned to clean
up the little kitchen area. By the time she was done, Oriel was fast
asleep.
Rasine made sure the little girl hadn't kicked off the blankets.
After a last check that the kitchen fire had been totally stamped out,
she slipped out of their rooms and carefully locked the door from the
outside. She stood near the railing and stared out toward the ocean,
breathing in the salty air. It was a clear night and looking at the
ocean, she found herself thinking of Lars again. She savored the
memories for a moment before slipping down the stairs.
She rented the upstairs of the ramshackle house from a man named
Coragen, one of Jahlena's friends. It was near the oceanfront, northeast
of Dargon city past the junction of Traders Avenue and Commercial
Street. There were a few cottages on either side but they had been
rendered unlivable during the Beinison invasion. One lacked a roof;
another was missing one wall and yet another had gaping holes where
there should have been windows and doors. As a result, they remained
empty.
Rasine walked briskly along the ocean front until she reached
Commercial Street; then continued onward down the Street of Travellers
to the Shattered Spear. The inn was located in a rougher section of town
than her lodgings. She sometimes thought it was silly to be so afraid
when she walked to the inn at night, but a few of the customers at the
inn would murder as lightly for a word as for a Round. She knew no one
would grieve if she died the next day, but she had to arrange for Oriel
to be safe and to learn a trade that would keep her in good stead. Until
then she knew it behooved her to be careful.
The roads seemed darker than usual that night, she reflected. She
had almost reached the inn when she realized that someone was walking
towards her. The man must have been waiting for her to arrive because he
approached her swiftly and barred her way.
"Rasine?"
"She's not answering," she said rudely, and tried to brush past him
into the inn through the back door.
"I hear you roll with Gunnar for free," he said, grabbing hold of
her upper arm.
Startled, she froze and stared up at him, fear instantly cramping
her belly. His eyes glinted with menace in the moonlight. The man's salt
and pepper hair was shorn close to his head, and he wore rough clothing
so dark in color as to seem almost, but not quite, black in the light of
Nochturon. She shivered as she met his sooty eyes again.
"Nothing of the sort," she tried to bluster, feeling her mouth dry.
"Who are you, anyway? And let me go," she struggled against his
restraining arm, her heart beginning to pound. He casually backhanded
her. She let out a screech, and stopped abruptly when he slapped her
again.
"Quiet! What you give Gunnar for free, you will give me for free as
well."
"What? Who are you?"
"Rudy," he replied laconically. "Ducal guard."
"If you don't let me go this mene, I'll scream; Jahlena will come
out, and she *will* hurt you," Rasine said, making a huge effort to have
her words come out in a calm voice, despite the fact that her breath was
coming very fast. She had no idea if Jahlena would come out or not; she
also doubted very much if the woman would protect her, but it was worth
a try to get free of this toad. Hopefully he didn't know Jahlena well
enough to call Rasine's bluff. She struggled uselessly again, but
stopped when he immobilized her by the simple expedient of twisting her
arm the wrong way. She whimpered, the sound dragged out of her.
He stared down at her silently for a moment. "I could tell Jahlena
that you gave it to Gunnar for free, and then she'll have your hide," he
responded, smiling nastily at her.
Her eyes widened at the threat, and she moved involuntarily, the
thought of having to face Jahlena in a temper scaring her witless. Her
breath caught in her throat.
"I see that frightens you," he said, his smile widening to reveal a
crooked tooth. "I thought it might. I know Jahlena." He paused, letting
the threat linger in the air, as if he wanted her to think about what
Jahlena would do to her. "All right, I'll give you some time to think
about it. If you don't give me what I want, I'll tell her." He paused
again, this time for what seemed like a very long moment, and then
grinned expansively. "Have you thought about it? Ready to give me what I
want?"
"No!" She began to struggle again, with no thought of the
consequences of denying him -- no thought at all except to get away from
him.
Abruptly he released her arm, and Rasine stumbled away, falling to
the ground with a thump.
"Jahlena, here I come," he said softly in a sing-song voice.
"Jahlena, listen to me. Jahlena, hear what Rasine did. Jahlena --"
"Stop! Stop!" She covered her ears, cringing away from him, still
sitting on the ground. Jahlena would half-kill her if she ever found out
she had been cheated on money.
The sound of voices carried over to them on the night air, and they
both turned. Three figures had just turned into the street and were
headed in their direction.
"Until tomorrow, Rasine. Mind, you give me what I want," he said
softly, smiling down at her, the crooked tooth giving him an ominous
look.
She scrambled up, and moved toward the inn. He began to laugh, and
the sound of his laughter followed her as she slammed the inn's back
door behind her.
The inn was full, the patrons loud and noisy. Rasine peered through
the smoke looking for Jahlena, who worked there as the bouncer, among
other things. They both saw each other at the same time.
"There you are, I've been waiting for you," Jahlena said, scowling.
She was a huge woman, with each arm as wide as a haunch of venison, and
legs the size of small trees. She towered over Rasine, making her feel
very small and very scared. Jahlena's short hair was bright orange
today, and it gleamed like flame in the firelight. A corner of Rasine's
mind noted that Jahlena probably used henna in her hair. That wretched
woman! She took money from others and used it to buy henna for her hair.
Stevene! Rasine cursed mentally, staring blankly up at the other woman.
What she could do if she had money! Why, she would buy a new dress for
Oriel, and then she would -- Abruptly she focused. Jahlena was gripping
her upper arms, and Rasine felt a slight tingle from the metal rings on
the bigger woman's fingers.
"Rasine! You're late. Here, see that man, he's been waiting for
you. Go to the front room upstairs. The keys are at the corner of the
bar, in the soup bowl on the bottom shelf."
Jahlena went away to attend the customers waiting at the bar.
Rasine sighed with relief that the other woman hadn't realized her own
attention was elsewhere. Although Rasine knew that Jahlena wouldn't hit
her in the presence of customers, it was hard not to be scared of her.
Sometimes, Rasine thought that Jahlena liked to hit people. Not that she
ever smiled when she hit Rasine, but she just seemed more quiet, more
calm somehow. Lars had told her that there were people like that: people
who liked to hit others and liked to see them bleed. Jahlena always hit
to draw blood. Rasine's upper arms were a mess of scars, because of the
metal rings with tiny spikes that Jahlena wore. She would wear them and
grip Rasine by the arms to make her bleed. It was Jahlena's favorite way
of punishing people. Rasine knew that the little chimney boy and the
downstairs maid at the Spear bore similar scars.
Rasine walked over behind the bar. While the common room was
well-lit from the fire in the huge fireplace, the area behind the bar
was dark since the counter blocked most of the firelight. The mugs on
the counter threw shadows on the wall and the floor behind the bar. She
bent and pulled a key from the soup bowl Jahlena had mentioned. She had
stepped around the bar before she realized that she had picked up the
wrong key. It was the key to Jahlena's strong box. Rasine wondered what
it had been doing in the soup bowl, but returned it to its spot rather
absently and picked out the correct key this time.
Her customer was having a conversation with another man sitting
next to him at the bar. One was a round man with a large paunch and was
headed toward baldness while the other was thin and dark-haired and had
a pot-belly only slightly smaller than his companion's. Rasine thought
rather scornfully that it was doubtless the result of all the ale they
drank.
"-- and there I was, in Heahun, after ridin' all day, ready for
some good hot food and the man tells me he can't offer me nothin'
because his cook died. And so I says to him, you bugger, I don' care if
your cook died. You give me food, or I'll hurt you, I'll hurt you real
bad."
The two men laughed raucously. Rasine saw her customer's elbow move
and realized he had made an obscene gesture. The men continued to talk.
"He says to me, he got no rooms on account of the merchant's wagon, and
the woman that did the cooking and cleaning had gone off into the forest
that's south of Heahun, and just upped and died. Seems there's a ghost
there."
"Sure, if you believe in them things. There ain't nothin' like
ghosts," the other man said knowledgeably, and belched loudly.
"See, there's this real big tree there, in a clearing near the
forest. He says that the ghost hangs 'em. All the women, I mean. Says
this is the third housekeeper in a year. Now no one will come to work
for him. Went on and on about how the merchant was going to come to stay
on his way back in a sennight, and what was he going to do without a
housekeeper. Said the merchant was his biggest customer every year. Gah!
The man talked and talked until I gave him whatsit." The man thumped the
table in emphasis.
Rasine's wandering eyes met Jahlena's. The big woman glared at her
and pointed to the customer. Grimacing, Rasine interrupted the
conversation and invited the man upstairs.
The following day, Rasine went searching for Gunnar. She took Oriel
with her to the market, and gave her some instructions before going on
toward the keep.
"Oriel, I want you to go to that stall over there. The fishmonger
said that he had some eels he would share with us if I cooked it for
him. Pick up the eels, and also all the spices for the eels. Do you
remember what they are?"
"Of course, Mama," Oriel responded scornfully. "Verjuice, a pat of
butter and some tarragon. This money won't be enough, Mama."
"You don't have to pay for the eels. Tell the spice merchant that
if he'll give you the spices for this price, and also throw in some
garlic, I'll make him some spice bread tomorrow. It's his favorite, so
he'll let you have the spices for free. He might even give you the
verjuice free, too. You can use the money for the butter. When you have
the ingredients, go straight home, peel and chop the eels and boil them
in water with a pinch of salt."
"Yes, Mama. Can I go to search for mushrooms before cooking the
eels?"
Rasine smiled at this. Since she had punished Oriel the last time
she had gone to look for mushrooms, the little girl was being rather
careful.
"Well, well, well, who is this pretty little thing?" A new voice
entered the conversation.
"Jahlena," Rasine pushed Oriel behind her. "What are you doing
here?" Rasine looked nervously at the bigger woman. She could never
decide whether Jahlena looked scarier at night, or during the day. Now,
she wore a bright red tunic with exquisite embroidered panels down the
front, with matching black trousers. She looked like a nobleman's wife,
except for her eyes. In spite of being a beautiful silver color, her
eyes never smiled. It was as if the eyes looked through Rasine, never at
her, and they always made Rasine shiver.
"It's the market place, Rasine. What do people do at markets? They
shop," Jahlena said, smiling genially at the girl peeking out from
behind Rasine.
"Aren't you going to introduce me, Rasine?" she asked again.
"I'm Oriel, and this is my mother," the girl stepped out.
"Oriel, go. Now!" Rasine watched Oriel glance at her doubtfully
before leaving. For some reason, she felt very uneasy at the thought of
Jahlena knowing about Oriel.
"You have a beautiful daughter," Jahlena said, her gaze following
the girl.
"Yes, unfortunately," Rasine retorted.
"Why unfortunately?"
"Because -- because -- I don't know why. Just because. I must go,
Jahlena," Rasine said hurriedly.
"Yes, of course," came the absent-minded answer.
Rasine looked back at Jahlena after going a few steps and saw her
gaze still upon Oriel, who was just entering the spice merchant's tent.
She stopped and decided to wait until Jahlena left. Why was Jahlena so
interested in Oriel? Rasine was almost afraid to think about the answer
to that question as she made her way toward the keep's main gate.
The road that led to the keep was steep, winding and narrow, but it
did widen just a bit near the outer gates. She looked around curiously
as she stepped through. One side of the huge courtyard was empty and
bare, except for two men who were sparring with one another. She turned
to the other side with interest. Here were row after row of rose bushes,
most of them bright and green with healthy leaves, except for the last
plant in the first bed. She gave the tired-looking plant a cursory look
before approaching the castle itself.
This was an imposing edifice, with three towers that could be seen
from the town itself. For a moment, her feet slowed of their own
volition as her eyes took in the grandeur of the structure. She halted,
craning her neck to see as much of the castle as she could. The stone
walls had small windows evenly spaced. A bright spot of color was barely
visible at the top of the tower. It was the pennant. The remaining two
towers were on the other side of the first one. She could hear distant
voices, and realized the wooden door at the base of the tower she was
approaching was half open. She stepped right in. The voices grew louder,
and seemed to be coming from one end of the corridor. A stocky,
broad-shouldered guard came down from the other end. He was an older
man, his hair beginning to silver at the temples, wrinkles beneath his
gray eyes.
"Who are you, and what do you want?" he asked her.
"I'm here to meet Gunnar. Can you help me, captain?" she asked.
"It's sergeant, mistress, Sergeant Cepero. You want to see Gunnar?
He should be getting off-duty right about now. Just go down this
corridor until you come to the second junction, take a left, past the
lieutenant's office and --" he paused, seeing the blank look on her
face. "Straight, mistress, let me take you. I was headed up there
anyway.
"So, you're the reason Gunnar cleans up every evening, eh?" the
sergeant asked jovially. He continued without waiting for an answer,
"Are you two walking out together? Well, Gunnar is a good soldier; he
follows orders. It's good that he's walking out with you. I think a
guard needs a woman in his life; keeps him ship-shape. I've never seen
you here before," he looked down questioningly at her.
"No, I've never been here before," she replied.
"In that case, you probably haven't met any of the ducal guards.
Have you met Gunnar's partner Rudy?" He seemed not to notice her
involuntary shudder, for he kept talking. "Now there's a guard always in
trouble. If ever a guard needed a someone to keep him in line, it's
Rudy," he said, a slight frown in his voice as he mentioned Rudy. "Here
we are. And here's Gunnar."
Gunnar was coming toward them, and looked none too pleased to see
her. "What are you doing here?"
"Is that any way to talk to a lady, Gunnar?" Sergeant Cepero said
sternly. "When she's taken the trouble to come to the keep to see you,
the least you can do is be polite."
"Sorry, sir. Sorry, Rasine," Gunnar apologized shamefacedly.
"That's better. Well, lady, it's always a pleasure to see beautiful
women in the castle. Good day." The sergeant nodded to her and walked
away in the opposite direction.
"I need to talk to you," Rasine began.
"Shh! Not here, not now. Go away, Rasine, do. I'll meet you
tonight," he said sharply.
"No. Now, Gunnar." Rasine glared at him, opening her mouth to begin
a tirade.
"Straight, fine. What do you want to talk about that couldn't wait
until tonight?" he asked grumpily.
"If you don't get Oriel a job with the cook, I won't ever meet you
again," she snapped. "It's been a month, and what have I got from you?
Nothing. Well, this is it, Gunnar, no more. And one more thing. Did you
tell your friend Rudy about our arrangement?" Seeing the sheepish look
on his face, she slapped him.
"Ow! Rasine!"
"That's for telling your friend about our arrangement. You tell him
to stay away from me, do you understand?" He nodded, a hand rubbing his
cheek. She continued, "If he comes near me, I'll tell Jahlena that you
are refusing to pay for services. And we'll see what she'll do to you!"
"But, Rasine --"
"No buts. Jahlena has ways of dealing with people who don't pay, so
you better do what I ask, Gunnar." With that she turned and stalked off.
The following day Rasine made her way to the spice merchant's stall
to deliver the promised bread, and the cooked eels to the fishmonger. As
she was returning from her errand, Jahlena stepped out in front of her.
Today, Jahlena's hair was a sort of blue-black color, and Rasine
wondered absently if the other woman had used blueberry extract to color
it. Dressed in a gray tunic that was surely new, because it looked so
fresh and clean, Jahlena looked the picture of prosperity. Rasine
narrowed her eyes as she realized that the high collar of the tunic was
embroidered with a real pearl.
"Rasine, I want to talk to you."
"This is not the place, Jahlena. Why don't we talk at the Spear?"
Rasine asked anxiously, heart thudding, all thoughts of embroidery far
removed from her mind. She edged away as Jahlena stepped closer to her.
"You didn't charge Gunnar," Jahlena slapped her, hard.
Rasine's legs buckled and she fell to her knees, tears starting
involuntarily. "Don't hit me, please," she begged. "What do you want?"
"You cheated me of my money," Jahlena said fiercely. "I ought to
kill you for that." She slipped something on her hands and pulled Rasine
up.
Rasine swallowed a whimper as the skin on her arms tore. A few
drops of blood rolled down, pooled in her palm and then dripped slowly
to the ground. Her flesh burned, as if splashed with boiling water.
"Let me go, Jahlena, it hurts," Rasine said, struggling.
A crafty look entered Jahlena's eyes as she watched the smaller
woman. "There is a way you can pay me back," she offered, releasing her.
When Rasine took a step back, Jahlena grabbed her shoulder. Now Rasine
could feel the skin on her shoulders crack and begin to bleed through
the thin blouse she wore.
"Let me go," she shouted.
"You owe me, Rasine, and if I don't get my money, I will kill you!"
Jahlena twisted her fingers, and more rivulets of blood ran down her
arm.
"So be it. Kill me then," Rasine cried. "I don't owe you anything,
Jahlena. You forced me to do this, and I won't, not any more."
"Fine, you don't have to come to the Spear any more," Jahlena
offered, loosening her fingers and looking down at Rasine without
expression. "We can do without you."
Rasine stared at her breathlessly and slowly took a step backwards.
"What? Straight, I won't come any more."
"No, just send along that pretty daughter of yours; what's her
name, Oriel?"
What the fear and the pain had not done, Jahlena's words did.
Rasine drew in a long breath, and let the anger consume her.
"No! You just crossed the line, Jahlena. Oriel is not going
anywhere near the Spear, not while there's life in my body," she raged.
"Well then, I'll just have to make sure there isn't, won't I?"
Jahlena smiled quite beautifully at her. "Such a little thing stopping
Oriel from working for me, Rasine. Don't make me do something you won't
live to regret." She laughed, with real delight in her voice. "I'm
looking forward to seeing Oriel work at the Spear. She's going to make a
very beautiful, very expensive entertainer."
Rasine stared as the other woman walked away, and then immediately
buried her face in her hands. She sniffed, trying to swallow her tears.
The debt that she owed Jahlena was not paltry, a sum of some fifty
Rounds incurred when she was searching for Lars. She could not possibly
let Oriel entertain at the Spear. Her daughter! Her baby, her child!
Rasine's mind revolted at the thought. The fog she had lived in for far
too long lifted. She vowed in grim determination that Jahlena would
never get her hands on Oriel. She would do something to prevent it; the
only question was what.
========================================================================
Talisman Seven
Part 3
by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
<John.White@Drexel.Edu>
Yuli 9-11, 1013
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 13-11
Baron Chak Bindrmon stormed through the halls of his own keep. His
jaw was clenched so tightly that his lips were as white as his hair, and
his hands were balled into fists so hard that he could feel his short
nails digging into his palms. He was walking fury, and he was headed
toward his only child's room to teach the boy some sense.
Chak had recently returned from his journey to Fremlow City, the
ducal seat of Welspeare. Every three years, the Duchess of Welspeare
required that all of her barons travel to her castle to deliver their
taxes in person; the other two years, traveling tax collectors handled
those duties. Chak had put his time in Fremlow City to good use: he had
secured a promise of marriage between the only daughter of Baron Groon
Durening, Millicet, and his son, Aldan. The union would benefit Bindrmon
greatly, since Baron Durening had been eager to secure the marriage of
his daughter, who was almost thirty.
The only hitch in the plan was Aldan himself. Chak had just told
his son of the wedding plans, whereupon Aldan had defied his father and
declared that he loved another and would not honor Chak's hard-won
agreement.
Chak intended to do something about that.
He reached the door of his son's room and slammed his open hand
into it with all of the strength of his fury behind it. It wasn't
barred, and the latch snapped like a twig, letting the door swing open
and crash against the wall behind it. Baron Bindrmon stomped into
Aldan's room to find his son standing by the fireplace, staring at a
simple, metal candlestick on the mantelpiece. Aldan's only visible
reaction to his father's entrance was the tension in his shoulders; he
didn't turn around or verbally acknowledge the baron.
Chak stood silently for a moment, waiting for Aldan to turn around.
He almost didn't recognize the candlestick at first, but even when he
realized what it was he refused to let himself be deflected from his
purpose. He recalled giving a pair of candlesticks like that to his
wife, Cyorsa, shortly after their marriage. They had enjoyed pride of
place on their dinner table every evening until the fever claimed her
life a dozen years previously. He had ordered them removed from his
sight and had ceased to think about them.
It didn't surprise him that Aldan had rescued one from wherever
they had been stored. Chak knew that the boy was too soft by far to be a
fit heir. He was going to have to take further measures to toughen his
son up. Maybe the marriage would help.
Aldan still had not turned, so Chak said, "I may be your father,
but I am also the baron. Turn around and show me some respect, son!"
Aldan shuffled himself around to face his father, reluctance in
every motion he made. The sullen look on his face was more suited to a
thwarted child than someone of his score-and-two years.
"Sit!" Chak commanded. Aldan flinched, almost complying, but he
steeled himself and remained standing. Narrowing his eyes, Chak
continued, "Your choice, son. Now, what was that all about downstairs?
Did I hear right: are you rejecting the marriage I've arranged for you?"
Aldan only nodded. The baron thundered on, "You cannot be serious,
Aldan. This marriage is in your best interest. Millicet's dowry will
enrich our coffers by a handsome sum, and Baron Durening has agreed to
cede a portion of his territory along the Renev River to us, which means
increased trade. It is not possible for you to refuse this match after
the negotiations Groon and I have gone through!"
Silence stretched in response to Chak's statement, finally broken
by Aldan's voice, faint but filled with resolve. "I love another,
father."
"What does that matter, eh, boy? Love? All that is good for is
deluding the peasants that their old age won't be spent alone. You're
the son of a baron, Aldan, and that means that marriage has nothing to
do with love for you. Marriage is a tool to the nobility. It cements
alliances, it conjoins bloodlines and inheritances, it is negotiated and
agreed upon, not granted will-ye-nill-ye when the emotion strikes."
"I love another, father," Aldan repeated in a stronger voice. The
sullen expression he wore was deepening into anger, but Chak wasn't
paying attention.
"So, who is it that you love, boy? One of the nobles of our court?
Maybe Northfield's daughter has caught your eye? Or perhaps a foreign
princess has been traveling through our lands and plighted troth with
you?"
"I love a barmaid, father, and Tillna is her name. And it is better
I love her than all the well-bred women you could bring before me. I
have her heart, father, and she mine," said Aldan Bindrmon with some of
the conviction that his father used.
Silence again, but this time it was the baron who was rendered
speechless. Finally, he gasped, "A barmaid? A common bawd? You would
throw away the riches that Durening offers for a tavern wench? How could
you shame me so, Aldan? How could you think that this is acceptable?"
Passion joined growing conviction as Aldan replied, "Father, how
could I not love her? Her hair, it shines like gold, and her eyes are
the blue of crystal stones, Father. Her beauty shines as bright as the
moon, no, bright as the sun! I love her, and will not have another,
father!"
"You are not being given a choice!" shouted Baron Bindrmon. "You