DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 12 -=========================================================+|) D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 11 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 11/20/1999 Volume 12, Number 11 Circulation: 713 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb Born Leader Stuart Whitby Ober 12, 1016 Talisman Two 1 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Late Spring, G331 ======================================================================== DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet. We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project. Please address all correspondance to or visit us on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/. Back issues are available from ftp.shore.net in members/dargon/. Issues and public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon. DargonZine 12-11, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright November, 1999 by the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb , Assistant Editor: Jon Evans . 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 Frequent visitors to our Web site may have seen our pointer to Donna McDougle's recent review of DargonZine. The review was printed in an October 8th issue of Dark Matter Chronicles, a publication dedicated to reviewing science fiction, fantasy and horror Web sites (http://www.eggplant-productions.com/darkmatter/). The review was unexpectedly effervescent in its praise, and very flattering. While I'd encourage you to check it out, I'm not bringing it up to promote either DargonZine or Dark Matter Chronicles, but to talk about a topic that the review mentioned. In the review, one of the things DargonZine was praised for was the orchestration of the project: our ability to keep "so many threads straight and smooth ... keeping it from becoming a hopelessly knotted jumbled mess". As you can imagine, in a shared world with fifteen years of writing behind it, there's a veritable glacier of Dargon-specific information -- characters, dates, places, events -- which must be managed and integrated. Over the years, we've built up a huge body of information that is highly detailed and must be successfully coordinated, both to present a coherent world to our readers and to serve as a necessary reference for our writers. I thought I'd spend this Editorial telling you a little bit about one aspect of how that has worked. Some readers might imagine that when we started the shared milieu, a bunch of us sat down and hammered out all the details of Dargon, much as a gamemaster might engineer a world for a fantasy roleplaying game. Surely we would define all the continents, the kingdoms and duchies and their rulers, the topography, the cities, the roads, the rivers, the major characters, and the various races, religions, and cultures. For many people (including some writers), having a rigorously-defined environment is the first step toward developing a story. Well, DargonZine has never really worked that way at all. In fact, when the project began, the first Dargon stories were printed based solely on a very brief overview. That initial description was shorter than the three-dozen lines you've read so far in this Editorial! That document briefly introduced just five elements of the milieu: the city and duchy of Dargon, Dargon Keep, Clifton Dargon, Baranur, and Magnus. When we started, that was all there was to know about the world of Dargon. One of the drivers for that decision was simply the level of effort and the time that would be required to do a lot of up-front work. As writers, we wanted to get started writing and printing related stories, not spend a lot of time and energy doing the research that would be necessary to architect all the details of a viable medieval society. And back then, we weren't real sure whether the magazine would continue for very long, either. Furthermore, we came from a very different philosophical standpoint. The gamemaster's task -- defining things beforehand -- is really to create a mental model of the world, exploring and understanding and describing it in depth, so that he can react appropriately when his players take his story in an unexpected direction. In contrast, the writer controls what her characters do, and thus doesn't need to create a setting with the same breadth of detail. In addition, the writer's work is defined by and limited to her stories; any detail which doesn't actually appear in her stories seems like wasted effort, because having never been committed to eternal life in a story, it disappears without having benefited her readers. There are, of course, gamemasters who create their worlds off the cuff, and writers who prefer to develop a rich background before ever setting fingers to keys. However, in DargonZine, we expressly decided to define as little as possible, and allow future writers to add new elements to the milieu -- to create Dargon -- as their stories needed, free of arbitrary constraints. This gave DargonZine an open structure that we could explore and extend over time, and it enabled us to publish stories that might never have seen print if we had begun with a more restrictive idea of what Dargon was. Without that flexibility we might never have seen Dafydd's Fretheod and current Talisman saga, or Max's Eelial, or the Beinison war. Each of our writers has contributed their own elements to the milieu. We have benefited from the knowledge and originality of dozens of people over a decade and a half, and that kind of organic growth has both enriched the setting and helped make it more believable. Looking at Dargon today, I think the result is infinitely better than if we'd let just one or two writers define everything at one point in time so many years ago. As we discussed and wrote stories, we decided that details and ideas that we discussed would not be immutable facts until the readers saw it in a published story. When there was a conflict between an unpublished idea and the real and immediate needs of a good story, we thought the story should always win out. By defining our canon in this way, there really wasn't much point in making lots of reference materials that weren't authoritative and might be superceded by any story's needs. So for most of our history we allowed writers to create the details of our world as needed, building up a body of knowledge derived from the printed works, and only limiting ourselves by a few philosophical maxims and the stories we'd printed to date. Of course, there are also some disadvantages to this decentralized approach. Many of these result from the lack of a single authoritative source to define the milieu. The lack of a central document to describe the world of Dargon makes it more difficult and time-consuming for us to bring new readers and writers up to speed. In order to address this concern and make Dargon more accessible, last year we agreed to break our longstanding reluctance to define things and decided to make the first street map of Dargon, which you can see in the map area of our Web site. Of course, in going back and gathering the information for that map we discovered the second major disadvantage of not defining things up front: the potential for contradictions between stories and inconsistency in our creation. By that time there were dozens of stories with references to streets and markets and districts, and many of those descriptions contradicted one another, or didn't make sense when you looked at the city as a whole. Through some creative cartography and a little revisionist history we were able to put together a map which works pretty well. But we repeated our first mistake: we decided not to assert anything in our maps about the areas that hadn't already been named or described. Just last week we revisited this decision, and for the first time in fifteen years we're going to abandon our longstanding policy of leaving judicious ambiguousness in our description of the milieu. We're going to sit down and make another, more complete, authoritative map of Dargon, including lots of new detail that wouldn't otherwise be considered canon. It's taken us a long time to get to this point, but hopefully the new map will lend more richness to Dargon, and give new readers and writers a better starting point for understanding the town and the stories that take place in it. So that's a little insight into how much of Dargon came about: from intentionally sketchy beginnings, incorporating the original and imaginative contributions of dozens of writers, until now, when we're finally able to conceive of fully defining and depicting at least one small corner of the world. It's been a while between issues, but that's really not surprising. Submissions tend to slow to a trickle during the summer months, which makes autumn a bit thin on material to print. Of course, Dafydd is back once again, with the first chapter of his two-part Talisman Two, which continues the series of stories he began a year ago in DargonZine 12-1. But leading off this issue is a new story by Stuart Whitby, who has been with us almost two years now. At this point, we're still planning on getting one more issue out before the end of the year. It will be distributed in mid-December and should contain four new stories, including the conclusion of Dafydd's Talisman Two and the first story from another new writer. ======================================================================== Born Leader by Stuart Whitby Ober 12, 1016 Jenna was not happy. She had spent much of the afternoon crouched in a streambed on a cold, forested hillside, making sure that the camp she was watching was the one that Roth, Lord Westfahler's third son, had ordered her to go out and find. The water that flowed down the gully was run-off from the first snows in the mountains above, and although she was standing on a boulder, her rabbit skin boots had absorbed first the chill and then the dampness, and she had to struggle not to shiver. The only redeeming point of the day was that she was sure that she had discovered the cattle thieves' camp. It was her sixteenth birthday, normally a cause for some celebration, but spending it shivering in the cold like this was not what she considered "fun". It seemed that moons waxed and waned before twilight closed in enough for Jenna to make her move away from the camp. It was not with the grace and stealth that she would have liked -- her knees and calves felt barely mobile after bells of supporting her cold body -- but she managed to totter off into the trees without any alarm being raised. Finding her way back to the keep was another matter. It was fully dark by the time she exited the forest, and it was rare that she was able to make out any landmarks, but as night neared its sixth bell the keep came into sight, its torches clearly marking her goal. She arrived at the gates to an exclamation of concern from Devlyn, who was on watch. The other scouts had returned well before the evening meal, and were now enjoying a night in the shelter of the keep's barracks. Jenna was too cold to sleep right now though, and she had information to pass on to her captain, so she made her way through the keep to the family quarters at the rear. The chafe of her woollen breeches seemed loud in the hushed corridors of the watchful keep. When she reached Roth's door though, she shattered that peace by hammering on the metal latch with the tang of her dagger, quickly sheathing it before stepping inside. The bearded, heavyset man who sat blinking on the bed was obviously having a hard time bringing himself to full wakefulness -- a fact which almost brought a wholly inappropriate smile to Jenna's face. "For Cahleyna's sake, Jenna, what do you want at this hour?" he groaned, still trying to rub some life into his eyes. "Sir, forgive me for waking you, but I believe I have found the cattle raiders' campsite. I knew that, given the urgency you placed on this task, you would want to hear about this as soon as possible." Roth groaned and flopped back on the bed. "And you want me to thank you for this?" Jenna continued, only slightly annoyed by his comment. "They have a camp in the hills about ten leagues to the east of here. I counted four raiders during my time watching, though there may be more that I didn't see. There are eight horses, which partly confirms that. They are on a hillside surrounded by forest, which looks to me like a decent defensive position, and one with a couple of good ways out. They also spoke with Comarri accents, which makes me almost certain I was watching the right people. Roth cocked his head in her direction. "And is there anything which couldn't have waited until tomorrow?" "You were the one that sent us out on a three day scouting trip to look for these people. Bearing in mind that they probably won't be there for long, I thought you might like to know now," Jenna replied, defensively. "For what it's worth, I think we should attack close to midnight tomorrow, round up a couple of trappers or hunters from the village to help our numbers. If we only carry light armour, the men will still be fresh for a fight after their journey. There's a stream toward the lower part of the camp, and if we drive them downhill, anyone who tries to run is likely to miss it in the dark and end up falling in there. Have the villagers and two of the guards waiting nearby to capture them, and you should have an easy victory." The contemptuous expression on Roth's face was enough to make Jenna stiffen, offended before he even opened his mouth. "What would you know of tactics, girl?" She felt her blood rise. "Have you never heard of the Westfahler Claw? My grandfather designed that attack, and it has been used to great success in almost any battle that my family has been involved in since he came to power." She couldn't help herself. Her dislike of Roth overcame any sense she may have had when dealing with the nobility. "Aye, *almost* is right. And what happened the last time you were left in charge of the guard while your father was away? You tried it against the Beinison. My brothers found the wisdom in that tactic then. You can ask them about it. They're under a cairn next' my father's farm!" Roth stared at her, now dangerously awake. "I'll forgive that slight for now, but not forever, cur. Just because the Beinison had magic on their side does not make my attack any less valid now. Half of the men attack from below, the other half from above. We catch them at dawn while they're still asleep in their tents, and before they have a chance to get up." Jenna grimaced. "Oh, and they'll still be asleep at dawn at this time of year? If these are cattle raiders, some of them will know cattle. Which means they would be awake to attend them well before then. To ..." "What did you say?" Roth bawled at her. "Do you think that a peasant like yourself can outsmart your betters? Do you think that I know nothing of battle?" She thought of telling him her true opinion, but reined in her temper. It would probably be in her interests to choose her words carefully before replying. "I would never presume to *say* such a thing, Captain. I am simply pointing out that ..." "Oh, so you think it, do you?" Jenna's silence spoke volumes. "When I want your advice, conscript, I'll ask for it. Until then, if you want to pick a fight, pick one with a squire, like you did to get conscripted in the first place. 'Cause I'm more than a match for you. Get out." She pursed her lips, considering one last parting arrow, then resigned herself to her position. She turned and left. Jenna was rudely awakened slightly after dawn when Barros and Tristyn, two of her barracks mates, tried to wrap her up in her own blankets. The surprise was spoiled by Barros giggling as he crept up on her, and they gave up quickly when her foot caught Barros' hard in the stomach. When they had their breath back, and had stopped laughing, they settled down to ask her what she had found. Jenna decided that they weren't about to play any more tricks, so she told them what she could of the camp, its occupants and the surrounding terrain. She went on to tell them of her discussion with Roth, and the plan of attack that he had decided on. "He's cracked." Barros laughed loudly, his permanent grin even wider than normal. "And you think we didn't know that, Jenna?" Tristyn kept his usual quiet counsel. She rolled her eyes, nodding. "Listen," she went on, more quietly. "If they have any guards posted and Roth wants to attack in a pincer movement from above and below, we'll be heard as soon as we start to move. The ground around the camp is rock and thin soil, so if we take horses, they're going to slip everywhere. Besides, there are too many trees to make a downhill attack worthwhile. We'd lose people, horses or both getting through there, and if anyone makes the camp in one piece, they're going to be too unbalanced to be useful." Barros considered this and nodded. "Fair enough. And I take it you have a better idea?" Jenna considered a moment. "Well yes, as it happens, I do. The camp itself is on a relatively flat spot on the hillside ..." The blare of a trumpet broke her musing. "Tell us later," said Barros, before heading out with Tristyn to attend the summons. Jenna hurriedly pulled on her breeches and overshirt, then grabbed her tabard as she headed out to the centre of the courtyard, where the guard were congregating. Roth was waiting for them, pacing unconcernedly. Jenna saw that she was going to be last to arrive, so she picked up her pace to join her fellows. With all twelve assembled, Roth turned to address them. "Men," he began, deliberately excluding Jenna. "Tonight, we attack the cattle raiders' camp. I want to put an end to any ideas they may have that they can get away with stealing our cattle. As I'm sure you all know by now, Jenna found their camp yesterday. She says that there are four bandits, which means that two of you can stay here and guard the keep, and I'll lead the rest in a surprise attack on their camp." Jenna shuffled uneasily at this. "Jenna, you get to stay on guard here with Devlyn -- we couldn't have our prize scout getting injured now, could we?" A gasp of disbelief escaped her lips. She knew Roth didn't like her, but his current idea verged on lunacy. She was the only one who knew exactly where the camp was, the lay of the land, and the only one who could give a rough idea of the bandit hierarchy. "Captain Roth," she said, trying to get his attention. "Enough, Jenna. You've had a long night, and we wouldn't want to wear you out with talking." "But Sir ..." "I said that's enough, Jenna." He turned angrily to face her. "Anything more out of you and I'll have you scrubbing the privies of every keep in the demesne. Straight?" Jenna frowned and kept silent, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at Roth. He just stared back, probably looking on this as a small start to her punishment for her words of the previous night. He started speaking again before breaking eye contact. "As I was saying, Jenna is staying here. I wouldn't want our youngest guard put in any danger. And after her efforts last night, she would be worn out by the time we arrived. And she's still so very young, wouldn't you agree?" The rest of the guard looked almost as ill at ease as Jenna felt. She glowered at Barros, who looked apologetic. Tristyn just chewed his lip nervously as Roth looked around the assembled guard. "Devlyn will stay with her, since he already has the night guard on the keep. The rest of you, make sure your swords are sharp and that you can still use them. We leave at noon." That said, he strode off into the keep, leaving the guard to their own thoughts. Barros made his way over to her, with Tristyn following close behind him. "Jenna ... do you think this is as bad an idea as I do?" he queried. She let out a quick bark of laughter before replying. "It's cracked. I'm the only one that knows the exact location of the camp, I've seen the land around it in the light of day, and know when to slow the approach. I think he's wrong about their numbers. I saw four yesterday, but there were tents and horses for more than that. I don't think he knows what he's getting himself into." A number of other guards had overheard, and nodded in glum agreement. Jenna sighed, then looked up at her audience, one man in particular. "Riddaen," she asked him. "You're the closest thing to a lieutenant that Roth's got at the moment." Riddaen contemplated this and nodded. "He's determined that a pincer movement is the best way to take this camp. It's not. If they decide to break and run, a pincer attack will balk them. We waste our strength dealing with those who don't want to fight rather than tackling those who do." Riddaen blinked awhile, and nodded. "Sounds reasonable. Go on." "Well, Roth wants to attack from the trees, above and below the campsite. They will have much less time to run if he does that, and you'll be coming in either unbalanced from the trees upslope, or slowly from the lower end, and in both cases the ground is going to be slippery. If you want to do a pincer attack, it has to be from the sides. You'll be going across turf rather than rock, which means you can use your horses to your advantage. Make sure the fastest of you are toward the uphill side of the flat, and they'll be driven down toward the stream when they try to run." She was stopped in her tracks as Riddaen burst out laughing; a barb which cut Jenna deep. She felt gutted. "If you don't want to hear me, Riddaen, you can just say so." She struggled not to cry as the man whom she knew and respected sat back against a wall, brushing tears of mirth from his eyes. "I'm sorry Jenna, it's just that you sound so much like the captain that I fought under against the Beinison." This wasn't what she expected to hear. "He was killed when his horse fell on him during battle -- just bad luck -- but his advice kept the rest of us alive. I think that's one of the things that I liked most about him: he didn't just give us orders, he gave us reasons. We knew why we were fighting that way. It gave us confidence, and when a fighter thinks he's going to win, he fights better." He paused a moment as another fit of giggles overtook him. "I'm sorry you're not going to be with us tonight, Jenna. You've a head on your shoulders." "Well, thanks, I think." "Yeah. And given the fact that most women's 'battle tactics' extend to gouging your eyes out while trying to bite lumps out of you ..." He burst out laughing again, echoed by the rest of the guard. "Aye, well maybe you'll know to pay the ladies next time," she retorted, starting to laugh herself, and to the continued amusement of her fellows. "Yeah, well I don't think I'll be seeing your mother again," he said with a smile, "But seriously, where did a farmer's daughter like you get a head for battle?" She paused to think a moment, getting serious again. "I don't know. I know what I'd do in a given situation, and I know what I'd do when faced with my response. Working from there, I can figure out someone's reaction to an attack, and decide what gives the best advantage. I think it's common sense than tactics." Jenna spent the next morning single-mindedly sharpening her sword, almost to the point where she could have sewn with it. It kept her from worrying about her colleagues' fate from the attack the previous night. It was almost noon when she received a call from the watchtower that Tristyn was coming. She ran out to meet him, her sword still in her hand. She was out of the gate before he had even reached the village, passing Devlyn at speed as he jogged out as well. If Tristyn was alone, then it was likely that the raid had gone amiss. As she closed the distance to him, she noted that his right hand was caked in blood from a deep gash in his forearm, and the side of his tabard was similarly covered. She halted temporarily as Devlyn caught up. "Devlyn, get your wife to meet us at the keep. And bring her herbs and bandages." He looked like he was about to say something, then nodded and ran back into the village. "What happened?" she opened as she approached Tristyn. Tristyn looked at her. "It was Roth." His voice was cracked and faint, and he wheezed as he breathed. "He decided we should attack from top and bottom. I don't know how many they had, but there were at least eight of them to the ten of us. They must have heard us long before, because they were ready to fight. Riddaen tried to reason Roth into using your ideas, but he mentioned your name and Roth deafened himself to any further comments. Said there was nothing that would make him hold court to the ideas of some ill-bred peasant girl when it came to battle." "What of the others?" she asked, putting his good arm around her shoulder and helping him keep a straight line back to the keep. "From what I know, six are dead or captured for sure. Barros is gone. We rode in from upslope. I was felled by a branch on the way. Their sentry gave a shout as soon as we started to ride, and they came piling out of the tents, armed and ready. Barros must have been one of the first into the camp, and he was dead by the time I was back on my feet." Tristyn sobbed, once. "I always told him not to ride so fast." At this, he broke down, leaning into her and causing her to stagger. They made the rest of the walk in silence as Jenna fumed at Roth's ineptitude. Devlyn's wife came running up behind as they entered the keep, and helped to guide Tristyn onto the bench inside the main gate. Tristyn had composed himself somewhat by this time, and was able to direct her ministrations while Devlyn came in, breathless, and bearing a sackcloth roll of herbs and leaves. Jenna gave him a quick rundown of what had happened as she watched his wife work, reopening and cleaning Tristyn's wound, then binding some iechyd leaf and beth root directly onto it. When the doctoring was finished, Jenna continued her questioning. "What happened to the others?" Tristyn sighed heavily before replying. "I don't know. We attacked at dawn -- a pincer movement from top and bottom. Supposedly. There was no easy way to signal without alerting the raiders, so it ended up being a lopsided attack. Those from the top arrived first, and they were ready for us." Jenna nodded in resignation. She had known something like this might happen. At least Tristyn was sounding better for having sat down, or maybe for the healer's ministrations. "There were at least eight of them," Tristyn continued. "We didn't have a chance, staggered and unbalanced as we were. I ran in after Barros. Killed the first man I met, the second caught my sword on his and the third slashed my arm when I attacked again. I can't move my fingers." He looked at his hand as his fingers flexed slightly. "You might want to rest that for a while," said Devlyn's wife. "You won't be lifting a sword for a while, no how." Tristyn nodded and thanked her, then turned his attention back to Jenna. With movement in his hand once again, he was looking much brighter, if not exactly happy. "Someone from the other group hit them as they were about to kill me. I don't know who it was or what happened to them, because I got up and ran. I looked round when I reached the forest, saw Roth's horse downed and him unarmed and looking confused as two people went for him, then Riddaen falling while trying to reach him." He paused in remembrance of his lost friend. "I think Roth might be the only one left alive. I didn't see anyone else, but I didn't wait around to look. Nehru didn't appear to be with us at the time, despite our prayers." Jenna bowed her head onto his knee, and kept a stony silence as she thought of her companions, her friends, and what she could do to avenge them. There were now two fit guards available: Devlyn and her. There were two hunters who could be rounded up from the village, and two or three farmers' sons who would probably fight if asked. "Do you know how many raiders were killed?" she asked, leaving her head on his knee. "At least two. No more than four." Jenna continued her mental calculations. They could muster a force which would be close to the raiders' in size, but by the sounds of things, not in experience. The hunters could improve those odds with a couple of well placed arrows. They could count on two, maybe three, being incapacitated before they had to get in close. That's when numbers would have to count over experience. There was never any question in her mind as to whether there would be a second attack. Two more of the guard had made it out of the fight alive. They turned up at different times during the day, neither in particularly good health. One had a rough gash across his chest and four cracked ribs -- this through leather armour. The other had taken a nasty blow to the head, but swore he would be able to fight when the time came. That was another body to add to their tally. She had Devlyn round up the hunters from the village as she went to get help from some of the surrounding farms. She came back with three farmboys, all close to her own age. Her main worry was making sure they got back alive. With three bells to go before darkness, they set out for the raiders' camp: three guards, two hunters, and three farmboys. She gave them their orders as they walked. The farmboys were happy to be led, the guards and hunters less so, but they ceded to her when she bluntly asked if they had any better ideas. Once there, the hunters and one of the farmboys would go upslope -- carefully. This would give them a better vantage point for bowshot. The other farmboys would go downslope with the remaining guards, and were not to fight unless attacked. They were to split up and make as much noise as possible on their way toward the camp when the fighting started, staying by a guard or hunter at all times. It was all that Jenna could do to ensure their safety. It was not long after dark when they neared the camp. This evening though, it was a clear, cold night, and Jenna had no problem finding the streambed and following it to the camp, along with Kierann Brooke, the more proficient of the two hunters. As they approached, Jenna slowed their progress to listen for any signs of activity ahead. Her fears were realised when they got within sight of the camp, and found it gone. Her face soured as she mentally chastised herself for not being faster, though in truth she had expected this. "Hope you're as good a tracker as you pretend to be," was her only comment to Kierann on the matter. Jenna left him to scout for a recent trail while she went back to collect the rest of her makeshift regiment. When they arrived back at the campsite, it was to find Kierann sitting at a small fire. He pointed toward the bushes at the back of the campsite. "Bodies are over there. Six dead, which means we are still a guard short. Looks like something has been lunching on a couple already, by the way. They're a bit of a mess. No sign of Roth, which means he's probably been taken with them." Jenna's head bowed a moment in respect for her dead comrades, and she swore a silent oath of revenge on the responsible party. "Which way did they go?" "Not sure. I figured that we'd be spending the night here, so I got a fire started." "Go and take a look now. We need to move tonight." She went to catch up with the others who had gone to see the bodies. Devlyn intercepted her as she approached. "It's not something you need to see, Jenna. Leave it be. I'll see that they're given a decent burial." Jenna looked at him, dry-eyed. The anger burned cold within her. "These are my friends, Devlyn. I want to pay my respects personally. I buried three of my brothers off a cartload of bodies thanks to the Beinison, so I know what death looks like." Devlyn sighed and let her pass. The bodies were laid out side by side, eyes held shut with pebbles, and arms crossed over the chest, hands to the throat in reverence to the Stevene. Whoever had placed them here had done it respectfully, at least. She looked at each one individually, committing them to heart and memory as best she could, so she would know the reason for her quest. Barros. Riddaen. Justin. Arreth. Keither. Lunisk. All friends. All dead. Finally, she lifted her head, looking at the others nearby. "Gather stones. We need to give them some protection until we get back." She looked around at them. "We leave tonight." When they were on the move again, Devlyn took Jenna by the arm and urged her to fall back from the rest of the group. "Are you sure this is a good idea, Jenna?" he asked, once they were out of earshot. She gave him a cold stare. "I mean, we don't know what we're getting into. There's no telling how far they got, or what condition we'll be in by the time we catch up to them." "We still have about seven bells of night left. I don't think they went too far today; they had to travel by daylight, and they wouldn't want to attract any attention. Remember, they probably have Roth with them, had wounded in their midst, and maybe one of the keep guards as well. They were likely up for half the night wondering when the attack would come, which means that they won't be in the best of fighting conditions by the time we reach them. I sent Kierann on ahead to make sure we know when we're close to their camp, and we can see what condition we're in then. We either take them there and then, or ambush them further down the trail. "I don't intend going into this blind, Devlyn, but if we don't catch them tonight, we never will. They're on horse, we're on foot, and we must be getting close to Comarr. If they reach home ground, we lose any position of supremacy that we might have over them. And we can't afford to give them any more advantage than they already have." She looked at him for support. "Straight?" He just nodded. "Right. Let's get back to the group," she said, before increasing her pace to get to the head of the line. She saw Devlyn get a few nervous glances as he returned, but he just nodded in reassurance, saying nothing. With maybe three bells to go before morning, their scout returned. "They're camped on a hillside up ahead. They've got two guards posted, and it's not the kind of place that I'd like to attack." "Show me," Jenna replied. "The rest of you, stay here." The group sat down with a good number of tired groans, which Jenna noted silently. Kierann led her towards the bandit camp, slowing their progress further and further as they neared the edge of cover. He indicated that she should come closer, then moved a bush slightly so that she could see. The camp had two large tents set up, and two cold looking sentries sat shivering outside. Apart from a small fire which the sentries had made, there was no light or indication of wakefulness. Their camp was beside a stream near the bottom of a hillside depression, with little cover on the peaty ground above. Trees avoided the banks of the stream, indicating that it became a torrent in the spring melt. The trickle that ran over the rocks right now, though, would barely be enough to cover the noise of falling straw, never mind a tired regiment of makeshift soldiers. She grimaced slightly, and motioned that it was time to go. She ended up having to hit Kierann to get his attention off a wolf which stared back at him from the far side of the camp. He reluctantly made his way back with her. Two of the group were sleeping by the time they arrived back, and Devlyn looked at her apologetically. He shrugged and nodded toward his sleeping companions. She nodded, nudged them with her foot, and whispered "Come on guys. Up. We need to move." They groaned, and got to their feet. "We can't attack the camp just yet. The risk is too high. We need to circle round them and find a good place for an ambush. There's no reason for them not to stick to the trail from here on, so that's where we're heading. Hold on to anything which might make a noise as you walk and muffle it." She motioned to Kierann. "Lead on." Jenna came awake at a nudge from the hunter whom she had left to watch the camp. By the angle of the sun which shone down through the trees, she guessed it to be around second bell. "That's it," he said. "They're packing up camp. Better get everyone up and ready now, because I don't think it'll be long before they arrive." Jenna sat up, already fully awake. Gods, but she felt alive. Thoughts of the coming battle raced through her mind, with choices to be made and reactions to be judged. Her thoughts held no court to nerves. This was the feeling that made living worthwhile. "Thanks, friend," she said, smiling up at him, and seeing the dark circles beneath his eyes. "Here," she said, passing her blanket. "Try to get a bit of rest. I'll see that everyone knows what they're doing, and wake you in half a bell." He nodded, and lay down in her place. She wished him luck in getting any sleep, and went down to take another look at the ground that she had chosen. She had decided on a patch of ground where the path narrowed and cut across the side of a forested hill. There was good cover on the upslope side of the path, and the elevation would also allow them, quite literally, to get the jump on their enemies. With the aid of Kierann, Jenna ensured that her party were camouflaged as well as possible, and that they all knew what they were doing. She sent Kierann back to wake his friend before settling in, with Kierann at the head of the line and herself at the other end. She hoped for a short wait before her targets appeared, and she was not disappointed. It was bare moments after Kierann checked their cover and settled in that they heard the first sounds of movement from down the trail. Jenna had to force herself to keep breathing. Her instincts told her to hold her breath, but that would mean gulping air when she most needed quiet, so she fought her instincts, breathed, and listened. She heard the sound of the horses approach, but most of the noise on this morning came from the quiver of the blood which ran like ice through her veins. As it was, when the troop passed in front of them, in single file, she couldn't help but hold her breath, knowing that she had to wait for the lead rider to pass Kierann before she could act. She kept her head down as the group passed below her, and it seemed that an age passed before a gurgling cry from the lead rider's pierced throat signaled an end to the peace that lay on the forest. Jenna scrambled to the edge of the path to see a startled man fighting to control a panicked horse in front of her. She gave him no chance to do so before an instinctive stab from her sword caught him in the side of the head, causing him to fall. The rider behind, at the tail of the procession, was in better control, working his mount with one hand while reaching for his sword with the other. Jenna made an instant decision, and jumped toward him. His blade cleared the scabbard, but that was not her main concern. The horse's mouth was foaming, its eyes wide in its panic. She felt her face mimic the horse's wild expression as she kicked out, her foot connecting with the horse's face before she landed: hard, and face down in the dirt. The horse reared and wheeled, dismounting its rider, who landed on his back in front of her. Without rising, she chopped down with her sword, catching him in the gut. He squealed, reaching to stem the leakage of blood and intestine from the hole she had made. She hurriedly rolled aside, parrying air as she struggled to get up and defend herself. But the fight was over. Only two of the Comarri had gone unchallenged in the initial attack, and the rest had been downed before they had had the chance to draw their weapons. Much of the damage had been done by the horses, who had thrown both Roth and one of the Comarri before stampeding, trampling numerous bodies on their way. She had the pleasure of seeing Roth grind his face into the ground as he tried to stand, his arms bound behind him. She walked stiffly over to meet him. "Jenna, I ..." he began as she approached. She grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around to cut the bonds on his wrists. "Thank you," he smiled, rubbing at the rope marks on his arms. The grin was wiped from his face as she dealt him a clubbing roundhouse to the cheek, which landed him squarely on his backside. "You killed my friends, lordling." "Bring her," came the order. Jenna was marched into the lord's presence, her hands tied, her legs chained and weighted. A gentle hand on the shoulder guided her into position in the audience chamber, before a foot in the back of her knee made a show of forcing her to kneel. She glowered up at the dais in front of her defiantly, showing no sign of fear at the various fates which might await her. "I'm told that you were responsible for the deaths of six of my guard two sennights back. According to Roth, you gave false report of both the numbers and location of the raiders, and thereby got half of my men here killed." Jenna quivered with rage at the accusation levelled at her. "I gave only advice on location and possible numbers. I was allowed no say on the attack itself, and if he had listened when I attempted to tell him exactly what the situation was, they might be here with us now. I tried to say my piece on your son's tactics at the time, but was silenced. Tristyn and Devlyn can confirm this." They nodded as she glanced their way. "I was allowed no say, and no part, in the initial attack. That's the only reason that I was able to effect a rescue when I did," she added, quietly. She glared as the lord looked at her awhile. His expression darkened as he mulled over her words "And those that were with you can confirm this?" he asked, looking to Tristyn and Devlyn for confirmation. "Aye, lord, she has it right," said Devlyn, slow and proud, sparing a glance for Roth as he spoke. "Those that were in the yard that day can confirm the truth of her information, and those that fought with us can confirm any details on your son's rescue. Except maybe Kierann Brooke, who hasn't been seen these last few days. His wife may be able to confirm some events though." "As for planting your son in the dust, that charge I admit freely," Jenna interjected, grimly. Sir Westfahler's attention swung back toward her. "If you're looking to blame someone for the deaths of your guard, that's who you should look to." The lord was silent a while, obviously trying to control his well renowned foul temper. Roth, who had been standing nervously to the left while the trial proceeded, leaned to utter something in his father's ear. At this, Sir Westfahler's pent up anger vented itself, and without even looking at his son, he slammed his fist backhanded into Roth's face. Jenna did her best to remain impassive as Roth yelped in pain, blood flowing copiously from his nose and pouring darkly onto the oaken floor. Sir Westfahler jumped up from his chair and grabbed Roth by the shoulders, slamming him into the wall. "You are left in charge for two short months and by the time I return seven -- fully half -- of my guard are dead and the rest injured? I have a farmer's son acting as keep guard, that bloodthirsty shivaree Brooke has gone missing, and the only one left around here with her head in place is stuck in chains? Get out of my sight!" he yelled, before pitching Roth down the steps. Roth tried to blurt something out, but one look from his father had him fleeing the room, leaving a trail of bloody splashmarks behind him. Jenna directed her stare to the lord once again, unable to suppress a slight grin. "And what in Kisil-Doon do I do with you?" he cried at her as he paced. She chose to remain quiet. "I can't easily bring you back into my guard -- or what's left of it. I can't very well kill you now, and yes, I was thinking about it. You're serving as a punishment, so I can't dismiss you. You pose me a problem." Jenna sat silent as he considered, and started to worry as he glanced up, seemingly struck by sudden inspiration. "If I remember rightly, your excuse when I conscripted you for fighting with that squire was that you were in a hurry to get back out of the cold. You like warmer weather, then?" The question, and its conversational tone, took her by surprise. "Well, yes sir." "Hah! Just the answer I was hoping for. You enjoy the sunshine, the warm breeze on your face," a strange smile sat astride his features. Jenna had no need to reply. "Tell me Jenna, have you ever visited Dargon?" "No sir, of course not." Why would she have been there? It was about as far away as it was possible to go in this kingdom, and a cold and dismal place. "Well I think it's about time you did. I hear that Clifton could do with a hand," he quipped, with a cruel grin on his face. "Approach the dais, once you have your irons struck," he continued. Moments later, she tottered toward him. "Kneel," he said when she was close enough. She felt the weight of his eyes on her head as she knelt on the dais, then he leaned toward her and whispered, "As for what happened with my son, I don't know whether to thank you or thump you, so I'll take the noble retreat and promote you to sergeant." He considered a moment, "With my thanks. But I must still punish you for your insolence and affront to my son. From the tales I hear, the sun never shines in Dargon, and the only warm breezes come from too much of the dark ale." Jenna grimaced, keeping her thoughts to herself as he continued, even more quietly. "The truth of what happened goes no further. There are many powerful men in Dargon who count themselves my friends, and if I ever hear of you saying anything against my family, I'm sure I can find somewhere much less pleasant for you." He leaned back in his chair and was quiet awhile. Jenna kept her head bowed until he continued. "Now go, sergeant," he said, for all to hear. "Sleep in a clean bed for a while and enjoy your new rank. You have a long ride ahead of you. In the meantime, I'm going to have to go educate my son," he finished, getting to his feet. For the first time, Jenna almost felt pity for the privileged fool. ======================================================================== Talisman Two Part 1 by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Late Spring-Midsummer, G331 Author's Note: This segment of the Talisman Saga takes place about three hundred and fifty years after Talisman One. The Fretheod Empire has fallen, torn apart by both internal strife and external invaders. Once conquered nations have become sovereign lands again under their own rule. Some returned to their former state, while others banded together to form new kingdoms. Talisman Two takes place in the newly-reformed Gerolevan Kingdom, which was once the north-western province of Geronlel on the continent of Duurom in the Fretheod Empire. Melajoof was straightening up the counter in his shop. His mind whirled with plots and plans, deals both shady and straight, all methods of making a living in the busy city of Sengintol. His shop was called Klenjol's Superior Trinkets. He wasn't Klenjol, and the trinkets he sometimes sold were seldom superior, but the shop was more of a place where people could find him than a source of livelihood. Still, he gained an air of respectability in certain crowds by playing the merchant, and the shop wasn't all that much of a liability to him. Melajoof happened to glance up, and his scattered thoughts became very focused on the woman walking past the open shutter of his display window in the moment before she slammed open his door and shouted his name. The black-haired woman with the odd eyes who was storming into his shop was pure trouble. With a resigned, and quick, sigh, he acknowledged that his previous thought was only sometimes true. When irate former customers like the storming Tironvil needed to find him, it was actually quite a liability to have an easy method of being located. He turned to run into the back room, but the crashing of his back door stopped him. He realized that the back door-crasher must be Tironvil's twin, Maeanat; the two were seldom far apart, which meant that he was trapped. He turned back around to find Tironvil advancing on him. Her sword was in her hand, and her face was twisted in anger. Fear flooded his body, but his mind began working frantically. He knew that there was only one reason that the twins would be invading his shop with murder in their eyes. Only the previous day he had sold them a bauble touted to be a foolproof means of disabling the traps on a local merchant's storeroom. The trinket had been no such thing, and he had hoped that the pair of women would be caught by the merchant's guards, if not more permanently dealt with by the traps they had been attempting to circumvent. It was obvious that his hopes had been ignored by the gods, and the twins were back for revenge. Melajoof's eyes darted around his shop, searching for a way out of his predicament. Plan after plan darted through his mind, until he saw the table he had set up especially for a client that was scheduled to arrive sometime that afternoon. At that moment of decision, he felt a hard point dig into his side and warm breath in his ear. A shiny length of sword blade flashed in front of his eyes, and a silky voice said, "Greetings, *Magister* Melajoof. So nice to find you in. We've come with a complaint about your wares." Tironvil reached the counter then and echoed her sister's comment with, "Yeah, a complaint. It didn't work, you rat-blooded faker! We was chased halfway across the city by Jeniseer's guards, and when they eventually caught us, one nearly blinded my sister before we killed 'em. We paid you good coin for that charm, and now we're going to take our refund out of your innards!" Melajoof looked into Tironvil's mismatched eyes, one blue, one brown, and saw his death there. The woman poked at his stomach with her sword, which only caused him to flinch into Maeanat's dagger in his side. He let out an undignified squeal, and then cleared his throat before starting up the sales pitch that would either earn him his freedom or get him killed. "Wait, wait, wait! Please, ease up on the menace here! I'm a reputable business man, relatively speaking, and I stand behind my wares. I don't know what could have happened with the charm you bought, but magic is a fragile thing you know. You didn't get it wet did you? Or maybe it got too hot in your belt purse? You might even have walked past a negation charm on your way to Jeniseer's vault. In any case, you can see that it wasn't my fault that the charm didn't work, can't you?" Melajoof held his breath and waited. This was the crucial moment. If the twins believed him, he was safe. If not ... well, he probably wouldn't even have time to regret that his flair for fast talking had failed him this time. He shuddered in anticipation of the blades of steel entering his body and ending his life in its prime. Why, he'd never get the chance to see the ocean if ... "You've got a point, I suppose," said Maeanat. Melajoof felt the presence behind him step back, and the knife point withdrew from his side. Tironvil looked sullen, but she stepped back as well. "So, you maybe could have warned us how fragile the charm was, don't you think?" Maeanat asked as she walked around the counter to stand next to her sister. Melajoof looked at the twins standing next to each other and once again marveled at how unalike they looked. Maeanat was shorter than her sister, and very blonde. Her eyes were both the same color, a startling grass green, and she had a beak of a nose. A fresh, livid red wound, which had not been there the day before, trailed down her left cheek from very close to her eye. He wondered whether they were really twins, or even had the same father. Then he put aside such irrelevant questions and set to work turning his breathing room into an actual reprieve. "You're right, Maeanat, I should have warned you two about the delicacy of the charm. I just forgot that you aren't as well versed as I am in the arcane lore of charms and talismans and the like." Both women brightened a little at being mistaken for having more knowledge than they actually did. Melajoof laughed to himself as he noticed the change. He shouldn't have any problems getting out of this particular trouble. The twins were formidable troublemakers, but thinkers they were not. "To make up for your trouble, I'll be happy to give you back double your money," Melajoof said in his best sales-pitch voice. "It was my fault in a sense, after all. Or ..." He paused as if thinking and as expected, Tironvil rather quickly said, "What, what? Or what?" "Or ... I could maybe let you have this other item I've recently come across." Tironvil opened her mouth to say something, an eager expression on her face, but Maeanat elbowed her in the side, and said, "What is it, and why would we be interested?" "If you'll follow me over here, I'll tell you," Melajoof said as he came out from behind his counter and led the women over to the table in the corner. Everything had been prepared for his afternoon appointment, but he wasn't terribly worried about disappointing his prospective client. His immediate peril was more important by far. The table was covered with a richly embroidered cloth. Set around the perimeter of the table were two candles in ornate brass holders, as well as a half-dozen short slats of polished wood, each standing upright in its own carved holder. The upper tip of each of these slats was coated with a clear substance that was just barely visible in the sunlight coming through the front display window. All of these objects surrounded the centerpiece of the table, which was an odd object indeed. It was a wedge of some odd type of stone that was about a foot and a half long, less than a foot wide, and about nine inches thick at its pointed end. The side of the wedge that lay face up was intricately carved and inlaid with precious metals, common metals, and even glass. The inlay formed Gerolevan knot-work, the kind of interlaced work that had been popular in this land since even before the days of the Fretheod conquerors. The carving was of a cat, stylized in Gerolevan fashion, and one of the strands of common-metal inlays originated in the center of the cat-carving. The other face of the stone, Melajoof knew, was smooth, polished, obviously finished that way. The edges, however, were jagged and uneven, as if whatever sculpture the fragment had come from had been smashed apart roughly. Each of the interlaced bands was also jagged where they reached the edge of the piece, revealing the fact that the metal bands were hollow. And even though the glass band was segmented and held to the piece by wooden wedges, none of those segments was even the slightest bit loose -- nothing could persuade the fragment to be further fragmented. Melajoof knew this because he had tried to dismantle it when he had first acquired it from a traveling trader. He took up his position behind the table, leaving the twins standing opposite him. He snapped his fingers and muttered a word, and with a faint *pop,* each candle was suddenly alight. The sisters' eyes bulged a little, and Melajoof smiled confidently. "This is the item I'm offering you," he said as he gestured with a practiced movement of his hands at the stone fragment. He noted with satisfaction that both women started when he spoke, their attention diverted from the mysteriously-aflame candles. He continued his rehearsed speech, prepared to alter it as he went to fit his current customers instead of the one it had been written for. "As you can see, this fragment of stone has been intricately decorated with Gerolevan figures: the cat and the woven bands. It is part of a much larger sculpture that once crowned the gatehouse of an ancient Gerolevan castle, where it served to protect the castle and its occupants for a thousand years, until treachery from within broke the sculpture and ended the castle's protection. "But, the stone retains its magics, as you can see." He pulled one of the slats from its holder and touched the stone with it. The clear substance on the tip ignited, flared with a deep blue light for a moment, and then died out. Melajoof looked at the sisters slyly, but neither had noticed the nearly silent word that had triggered the paste. Things were going well. "Now, I know that you will be wondering how a piece of broken magic is going to be of any use to you, right?" The twins looked startled, as if the thought hadn't yet occurred to them. They quickly nodded, and Melajoof continued, "Of course you are. As you can see, there is still quite a bit of defensive magic in this stone, yes?" He took another slat, touched it to the fragment, muttered the trigger word, and the tip of the stick flared green. "Right. Even beyond that indication, there's the representation on the face. See the way the silver band starts from within the cat-figure and curves up over it? Obviously representing protection, right? Good." The sisters were hanging on his every word, following where he led whether it made any sense or not. Perfect. "And the magic is very strong. See?" Another stick, another word, another flash. Melajoof placed one hand on the table and leaned forward slightly, switching his gaze from sister to sister and trying to communicate sincerity as he gazed into each pair of eyes. He didn't even notice that his hand had come into contact with the stone fragment. "Yes, those who enchanted the stone really knew their business. All that magic still inside this sliver of stone, going to waste. "But it doesn't have to be. At great cost to myself, I have worried the stone's secrets from out of the depths of the ages. And I know how to make it function again. Three things need be done -- only three -- and you will be able to claim the protection of the stone for yourselves." Melajoof wondered as he spoke where these words were coming from. Three things? What three things? But he was still speaking, even as he wondered at the words he was uttering. Where were these words coming from? "First, you must find another fragment. Then, according to the legends, you must find the place where the original sculpture was enchanted. Fear not, for I have discovered that for you: the Veneletri Stones. Take the pieces to the center of the rings, close by the Peace Stone, and then recite the proper incantation. The magic in the stone fragment is so strong that even one without the arts of magic will be able to work this spell. "Let me demonstrate. Tironvil, take these sticks like this and hold them against the stone." He picked up the last of the prepared sticks and held them near their bases in a fan shape. He handed them to Tironvil, who touched their ends against the fragment. Melajoof started his made up incantation. One by one, at appropriate points in the nonsense verse, the slats flared up brightly in different colors, and went out. "There, you see? Anyone can do it. So, is this an acceptable recompense for your trouble, sisters? I admit that a little more work is required to actually make use of it, but just think: when you have keyed and activated the magic, you will be totally protected by the stone! Invulnerable! How about it?" Melajoof waited once again to see whether his fast talking would get him out of this jam. He noticed that while Tironvil was looking a little skeptical, Maeanat was grinning widely and staring at the fragment. This worried him, as of the two, Tironvil was the more gullible. The odd-eyed twin opened her mouth as if to ask more questions, but Maeanat dragged her sister a step away and whispered at her for a few moments. Finally, they both nodded, and returned to the table. Maeanat said, "The item will be acceptable. We'll spare your life in exchange for it. Ah, the chant ... you have that in writing?" Melajoof had to fight to keep from grinning in relief. He said, "I can write it down right now. Ah ... you can read Gerolevanic, right?" Being as dignified as possible, Maeanat said, "I think that Frethevan trade-talk would be preferable." Melajoof simply nodded, and returned to his counter. He produced a piece of parchment, and a quill and ink, and scribbled down the incantation. He had actually written it out already in Gerolevanic, but had no problem translating the syllables into Frethevan letters. After blotting the parchment with sand, he rolled it up and put it into a scroll tube. Then, he took the tube back to the table and picked up the fragment. He handed both to the twins, and said, "Well, I wish you luck finding another piece of the sculpture. I have been asking around about another one, but no one has seen one. However, if I hear anything, I'll be sure to let you know. I'll send a message to your quarters in the duke's residence, or you can stop back here if you want." "Yes, yes, thank you," said Maeanat. The twins clutched their new belongings to themselves and hurried out of the shop. Melajoof walked casually over to the display window, and slowly closed the shutter over it. He puttered around the shop for a while, making sure that the twins weren't going to return and put him to the sword just on general principles. When it was clear that they weren't coming back anytime soon, he started moving with more purpose. He fetched a satchel from the back room and started to pull selected trinkets off of the sparse shelves in the main room of his shop. Then, he retrieved the money box from under the counter, looted the back room in a similar selective way, and hurried out the back door. As he left, he wondered how long it would be before someone noticed that Klenjol's Superior Trinkets was out of business. It was a shame to give up his shop, but Sengintol was no longer safe for him. Eventually, the twins would realize that he had put one over on them again. That fragment was no more magic than his grandmother's grave, and he couldn't trust that Tironvil and Maeanat would die finding that out. He chuckled. Maeanat had called him 'magister'. The title was just as much of a joke as she had meant it to be. Then again, he had certainly managed to turn his single reliable spell into something worthwhile. The ability to ignite something that was primed and ready to light wasn't much of a spell by anyone's reckoning, but with a little imagination and some preparation, he had certainly made it go a long way. That, and a gift for storytelling worthy of a bard had kept him alive all these years. His latest story had certainly been a good one; he almost believed it himself. The part about the ancient castle he had prepared in advance, and he had decided to add the bit about finding another fragment at the last moment to make sure that the sisters took some time before finding out about his falsehoods. But that part about the Veneletri Stones -- where had that idea come from? All in all, it was a good idea, he reflected. If the twins actually did travel all the way to the standing stone site, it would take them even more time to find out the lie, which could only be good for him, right? He walked down the street toward his home, already planning on how much he would be taking from there and wondering where he might end up. He was going to travel light this time, he decided. As for a destination, all he had to do was choose which coast. There was an ocean to the west, and another to the north. Heading for one or the other coast would serve two purposes: he would be far away from Sengintol, and he would finally get to see the ocean. Now all he had to do was choose which one. Tironvil was silent as she and her sister crossed the Middle Market Square away from Klenjol's Superior Trinkets. Maeanat, her twin sister, clutched the fragment that Melajoof, the proprietor of Klenjol's, had given to them. Her first impression of the stone as junk hadn't changed much, even after the demonstration of its supposed magical properties. Melajoof's magical mummery hadn't overly impressed her, possibly because she hadn't been paying all that much attention to it. She had been ready to ask more questions about the supposed enchantment on the stone at the end of the demonstration, but Maeanat had drawn her aside first. Her sister had been very excited about the stone and its magical properties and had said, "What do you think? I think we should take it. I know Melajoof is probably trying to sell us another tin chicken, but I know something he doesn't: I am certain that I've seen one of these fragments before, and it's right near the Veneletri Stones! So I think we should take it, because we will be able to make use of it. Sound good, sister?" It hadn't sounded good to Tironvil, but she had gone along with it anyway, since Maeanat had seemed to really want the stone. It had almost seemed inevitable somehow, like they were meant to have the fragment. And she wasn't sure how much she liked that feeling. The two of them had left the Middle Market Square and traversed the commercial streets beyond it as Tironvil ruminated on the stone and its meaning. She shook off her introspection and looked around, noticing that they had arrived on Parade Avenue, the main street that led through the city of Sengintol from Victory Gate to Fashanol Place, the duke's residence. It was a huge road, made larger by the swath of monument-dotted grassy area in the center and the setbacks between the outer curbs and the front walls of the nobles' estates that lined the prestigious avenue. Each half of the roadway was wide enough that a full company of soldiers could march in formation comfortably in the center of it, leaving plenty of space between the curbs. Tironvil and her sister were walking along the avenue toward Fashanol Place. That edifice, set at the top of an artificial hill, didn't quite fit in with the scale of the avenue leading up to it, but that was an intended effect. Parade Avenue was a tribute to the people of the city and kingdom, whereas the palace was a representation of the office of duke. The builder had wisely decided to minimize the impact of that palace, at least in comparison to the avenue. Tironvil thought it was a good trick. She and her sister lived at the palace -- actually, in the vast array of administrative buildings behind the palace, but within its perimeter walls. Tironvil was one of the court's junior accountants -- she had a gift with numbers -- and her sister was with the palace guards. Neither job paid all that well, which had led them to continue their less-than-legal ways, even after being gainfully employed. And having the palace to hide in was a great boon to their escapades. Tironvil decided to try to coax some details out of her sister, so she said, "Hey, Nati, slow down. I want to talk to you about this stone and all. So, you're sure you've seen another fragment? Where?" Maeanat fell back beside Tironvil and said, "Absolutely. I remember it well, very well. Think back two years, when the duke's summer procession went south. Remember? Sure you do, Ahnev. That was the time when the head ostler vanished, and everyone thought that he had run away with the duke's travel purse, but in the end they found him in a barn with a tavern maid. Right, right. And it wasn't *my* fault if the fellow was just bragging to me over his cups, blowing wind about might-bes. I'm just glad no one remembered who started that rumor. "So, right, that was the trip. Now, can you remember the holdings of Mordairi and Granavil? Yep, Mordairi was that place that even I could tell was built with an eye to excess and with no taste at all. Well, you remember how Mordairi was feuding, more or less, with their neighbors at Granavil, even though Granavil had no troubles with Mordairi? That was why only a small party representing the duke actually went over to the Granavil manor with official greetings and all. Well, I invited myself along with them, and let me tell you that Granavil was just a delight to behold. Everywhere Mordairi showed bad taste and excess, Granavil did just right. It was like the one was the model for the other, and it wouldn't be any meaner than the truth to say that Mordairi got it all wrong, whichever was copying the other. "Yes, yes, you wanted the details, Ahnev. Okay, okay, long story just a little bit less long. I saw another fragment on the mantelpiece in Granavil Keep's main room. It was just like this one here, but with a different animal on it; I think it was a fox. I do know that I was very tempted to just take it right then and there, so I asked a servant about it. Seems that the Granavil folk believe that it has been in their family for over five hundred years, and it is a good luck talisman for them. "I never got the opportunity on that visit to take the sculpture, so it has to still be there. They wouldn't have sold it or anything, with it being their luck and all. So, it's right there for the taking!" Tironvil trusted her sister's memory; if Maeanat had seen a fragment at the Granavil manor house, then it had been there, and probably still was. But they weren't exactly free to travel the hundred miles between here and there, were they? "So, how do we get there to take it, Nati?" "It couldn't be simpler, sister. This is a procession year, yes? Normally, the duke wouldn't take his procession out past the same holdings so soon: you know how the lordlings howl behind his back at the expense of hosting him and his entourage when he doesn't get back to them outside of a decade. But Mordairi has just hired a new songster, an apprentice bard I think. Since the Mordairi are on the edge of the westward loop Duke Arvinsosh's procession made two years ago, they can make it an eastward loop this year and still deliver the bard to the holding with all the proper pomp that Mordairi is insisting on. I know that the duke is less than happy to be returning to that travesty of a holding, but Mordairi has the influence -- and what's more, the inclination to *use* it -- to make sure that their new bard has a proper investing. "And that, sister, is how we get close enough again to Granavil to grab that fragment." Tironvil had a twinge of doubt. This was all very convenient, wasn't it? And she had the feeling that there was something more, something she should be remembering ... "And if you recall, Ahnev," Maeanat continued, "the Veneletri Stones are just to the south of the Granavil holding. It's perfect, no? By the end of the summer festival, we'll have the other fragment and we'll be chanting away in the center of the Veneletri Stones. And then, we'll be perfectly protected forever. I can't wait!" Tironvil's doubt was more than a twinge now. As she and her sister passed under the guard post and into the palace's grounds, she wondered whether buying that charm from Melajoof the day before had really been a good idea. Trying to break into Jeniseer's vaults seemed to be a walk down Parade Avenue compared to the feeling she was getting from this whole stone-fragments thing. She only hoped that she and Maeanat would emerge with nothing worse than her sister's cut cheek by the end of the summer festival. Eilonvil was in the graveyard when the stranger rode up. Even though it was the beginning of the summer festival, and almost everyone else from the holding was gathered around the horse field for the summering ceremonies, she still couldn't bring herself to leave the graveside of her love, her life, Derokein. Eilonvil had come to the Granavil holding just less than two years earlier, and had almost immediately fallen in love with the second son of the Granavil family, Derokein. Even though she was just a servant, albeit an elevated one -- she had been hired to be an artist in residence -- and he was of the landed gentry, Derokein had not only returned her love but had proposed to her with the full approval of his family. The hunting accident that had taken Derokein -- her beloved Kend -- from her had happened more than four months ago, in the middle of the spring. A charging boar had spooked his horse, and his hunting party had brought Kend home draped across that horse with a broken neck. At first, the family had taken time out of their own grief to try to help console her. Even though the marriage hadn't happened yet, they had still considered her part of the family, and had treated her as such. Their efforts had been unsuccessful, and eventually they had decided to leave her alone at the graveside, where she took her meals and sometimes even slept when the summer weather was warm enough. And her thoughts never left that grave even when her body did. Until the stranger rode up. It was early afternoon, and no one was expected, so she was surprised when she heard hooves on the walkway that led around the manor house and down the hill to the graveyard. She looked up and watched the man ride up to the low stone fence around the graveyard, and for the first time in four months forgot about her departed Kend. The man riding the horse was handsome in a pretty way, with dark brown hair, green eyes, and a huge beak of a nose. He wore foppish clothes -- a puffed and slashed tunic with long droopy sleeves ending in dags, tights, and tall riding boots -- which were nothing fit to work in. He carried a lute on his back and had a harp strapped to his saddle, so maybe he was dressed to work, if that work was singing. He swung himself out of the saddle with ease, and stood facing her from the other side of the wall. He doffed his floppy hat, complete with a huge plumed feather, and bowed to her without losing the lute. "Pardon me, mi'lady," he said in a most musical voice. "I knocked at the door, but got no answer. Is no one at all home? Have I not arrived at the Granavil manor?" Eilonvil stood up and started walking toward the man. She said, "You have indeed reached the Granavil manor, but your arrival has coincided with the ceremonies of the summering festival, and the household is down in the horse fields celebrating. Ah, except for myself, of course. And who might you be?" She stopped just the other side of the wall from the stranger and watched the light sparkle in his large green eyes as he spoke. "I am the new bard of the Mordairi holding. I arrived with Duke Arvinsosh's procession two days ago, but decided to go visiting while the duke and Mordairi do their own summer celebrating. I had heard much of the Granavil holding and wanted to see it, but there was little free time to be allotted to me in Dame Mordairi's plans until fall at the earliest. Except for these first few days of the summer festival, which I thought I would use to my advantage. I am called Bonavec." The dashing young man bowed again, this time catching up Eilonvil's hand and touching warm, soft lips to the back of it as he did so. Eilonvil felt herself almost fall into those green eyes as he straightened back up, and she marveled that her own lips were curved up in a smile as they had not for four months. That thought, that remembrance, caused her to take a step back from the dazzling man, and the smile faded swiftly from her lips. How could she be so taken with someone so soon after Kend's death? It wasn't right, it wasn't natural, it wasn't fair! Bonavec said, "My pardon, fair lady, if I have done aught to disturb you. I see that you have forsaken the delights of the summering ceremonies for solitary time in a yard of memory. For whom do you grieve?" "My love, Derokein," she replied almost automatically. Even her answer couldn't keep her from hanging on Bonavec's flowery speech. "He d ... died in the spring. Four months ago." Bonavec's smile was dazzling as he said, "Your love must have been one that the great bards, those who I can only wish to palely imitate, write of, for you to still be grieving after so long. But surely your Derokein would not want to see you alone at the summer festival? This is a time of rejoicing, of celebration. Surely you owe it to his memory to enjoy at least this brief festival time. And maybe if you can undertake to give up your grief for this short time, you will come to see the waste of spending the only life the two of you still have alone in a graveyard." "I ... I ..." Eilonvil could think of no proper reply. She thought she should probably be furious with this Bonavec for such blasphemy of her Kend, but she felt nothing of the kind. She knew that she had heard his words before, that her employers -- nay, her new family -- had used them, or similar, to try to rouse her from her grief. But not until she heard them from the lips of this bard did she really understand them. That did not mean that she was quite ready to just abandon Kend to be forgotten in the graveyard, while she went and enjoyed the summering ceremonies. Did it? "Say yes, lovely lady who has not yet given me her name," said Bonavec, with a teasing, almost musical lilt to his voice. "Eilonvil," she said. "That's not 'yes', Eilonvil. Say yes." After a moment, she said, "Yes." "Good, good. Now, give me your hand, and let me help you over this wall. Good. Now, should we go join the household, or perhaps have our own summering ceremonies?" As Eilonvil and Bonavec returned to the manor house late in the afternoon, she reflected that she had not been so happy since before Derokein's death. And even the thought of that tragic day, the day Kend had left her, was no longer debilitating. Perhaps they had been right all along, the Granavils and Bonavec -- her daily grieving had not been helping her, and nothing could help Kend any more. She and Bonavec had spent the afternoon together, first participating in an improvised summering ceremony, and then just walking around the holding and talking. Even though she had felt an attraction to the young man, she had tried to keep her distance from him emotionally, and he had been the perfect gentleman as well. Their time together had been enjoyable, a day of friendship and companionship, and she felt infinitely better for it than she had upon waking up that morning. The Granavil family, employees and servants, had returned from their own ceremonies by the time Eilonvil arrived back at the manor house, so she introduced Bonavec to them as Mordairi's new bard. As she introduced him to them, she noticed that something about Bonavec's face had changed. She looked closely, and then spotted it. He had a scar on his left cheek, running from just under his eye to just below the cheek bone. It had been covered by makeup of some kind, which had run in the heat of the day. She wondered why he had covered it up, but figured that he was probably self-conscious about it. So she didn't mention it, not wanting to embarrass him and not knowing if he had any of that makeup with him to fix it. As Eilonvil had expected, the Granavils had made Bonavec feel welcome immediately. They asked him about his training in Sengintol, and how he liked the Mordairi holding so far. They invited him to dinner, and continued to question him, but were gracious when he started to question them back. Eilonvil listened as her new friend asked about the Granavil's history, and even managed to keep her composure when her employers told Bonavec about the fox-stone on the mantel. That strange piece of stone, carved with a fox and inlaid with bands of silver, gold, and glass, had been a favorite of Derokein's, and she knew it would always remind her of him. But that memory was no longer too heavy to bear, and she knew that she would continue her life here in Granavil hold as part of their family, made better by her experience of Kend. As the evening wore on, Bonavec, of his own volition, got up and performed a few musical pieces. Eilonvil thought that his voice could have used some more training, but his playing was flawless and clearly made up for whatever deficiencies his singing possessed. She was struck by one of his melodies, and as he played it over and over, she began to see a dance start to form out of it. She got a charcoal and parchment and started sketching out the steps in a shorthand common to dance masters where she had grown up. She could see segments of the dance like mosaic stones in her head. Common steps arranged into verses, less common steps becoming the choruses, all interlocking with each other and with the music and forming a separate whole that was more than the sum of its parts. By the end of the song, she knew that the dance would be a good one. She resolved to spend some time the next day with Bonavec to work out the nuances of the steps. She wondered whether to call the dance the Granavil Paces, or Derokein's Memory. Maybe she should leave those details up to her patrons. As the ride back to Mordairi was at least half a day, Bonavec was offered the bed of the youngest Granavil, which he accepted with humility and reluctance. The family retired as the servants cleaned up the evening's mess. Eilonvil retired to her own pallet in the servants' room, a bed she hadn't slept in for quite a few weeks. Even though her straw-and-quilt bedding was far more comfortable than Kend's graveside, she found herself unable to sleep; the dance kept running through her head and she found herself eager to plot it out to the very last step. She decided to go see if Bonavec was still awake -- she wanted to get each and every nuance of his tune and match the dance to it perfectly. And if something else ended up transpiring ... well, Kend had been mourned long enough. Her way to the family's quarters led through the main room of the manor. As she approached it, she was surprised to see a faint light within. She wondered who else had found sleep difficult to achieve and what they might be doing in the main room. She strode boldly through the door, her candle in front of her, and was shocked to see Bonavec standing in front of the fireplace, his back to her. A candle rested on the mantelpiece, and the bard was lifting the fox-stone from its place of honor there. "What are you doing, Bonavec?" she asked. The bard turned, clutching the stone to his chest. His handsome face now wore a sneer that made the scar seem fitting. "Just getting my due, lovely Aelon. I'm sorry you had to catch me at it." She was completely unprepared for the way Bonavec's manner had changed, and the way he used Kend's nickname for her, which she had told him that afternoon, made it even worse. When the young man drew his dagger and started striding across the room toward her, fox-stone still clutched in his other arm, she just stood staring stupidly. Just as he drew close enough to use the dagger, she managed to collect her wits enough to stumble backward a step and whimper, "What ... ?" Her cry when the dagger entered her chest sounded faint even to her. She crumpled to the ground, barely even feeling the pain of the dagger in her heart. Everything was growing dim, and not just because her candle had fallen from her hand and gone out. The last thing she knew was Bonavec's voice saying, "I regret having to do that, dear Aelon. You were an unexpectedly pleasing diversion, but I guess one I'll have to leave behind. Farewell, Eilonvil ... I hope you are reunited with your Derokein." And then, she knew nothing more. ========================================================================