textfiles/magazines/DARGONZINE/dargon.v13n12

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 DargonZine                                     Distributed: 11/18/2000
 Volume 13, Number 12                           Circulation:        745
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                                Contents

 Editorial                    Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
 Chains of Freedom            P. Atchley             Vibril 16, 1018
 Surfacing 2                  Bryan Read             Deber 13, 1018

========================================================================
 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 13-12, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright November, 2000 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>

     I hope you read and enjoyed our last issue ... because if you
haven't, we're doing our best to build up a stack of reading material
for you!
     This issue follows our previous issue, DargonZine 13-11, by an
unusually brief two weeks. Why? Well, part of the reason is that we
simply have enough material to put out another issue, so why wait?
Another reason is that we're anxious to print stories from the two
writers who appear in this issue: one of them is our third new writer of
the year, and another one is returning from a short hiatus. But the real
reason for the hurry is because we have the opportunity to bring you a
record thirteenth issue before the end of the year, featuring two more
great writers whose names you haven't seen in a while.
     Our first story is from P. Atchley. Despite having been with the
project since January, "Chains of Freedom" is her first appearance in
the magazine. However, you can look forward to seeing more of her work
in coming months, as she's currently working on a three-part
collaboration with Rhonda Gomez, and another three-part storyline of her
own.
     The other story in this issue is Bryan Read's sequel to his first
story, "Surfacing", which appeared in DargonZine 12-7 nearly 18 months
ago. Bryan left the project for about half a year while acclimating to a
new job, but returned in July. He is also currently working on another
chapter of Willis Rithius' story, which will follow this issue's
"Surfacing 2".
     And as I said, you can look forward to one more issue before the
end of the year: Volume 13, Number 13. It should be arriving in your
mailbox in the usual four to six weeks. After that, and our usual brief
pause over the holidays, we'll begin our seventeenth year of publishing
on the Internet with another batch of new stories. I hope you're keeping
up!

========================================================================

                           Chains of Freedom
                             by P. Atchley
                           <dpartha@usa.net>
                            Vibril 16, 1018

     Nila blew through the air tube to cool the small, silver pendant
she was working on. It was a special order by Adrunian Koren, captain of
the town guard, for his niece, and she wanted it to be flawless. She
picked up a tiny pair of forceps that fit her small hand perfectly and
bent the silver a little. The warm metal curved to form the animal face
she was aiming for. The pendant was to be in the shape of a shivaree,
since Koren's niece Tara had one as a pet.
     Koren and Nila had met when the store had been robbed some years
ago, and had become friends. Fazil had been alive then: dearest Fazil,
who had taken her in when she had no one. He had given her a home and
work when he had been alive, and left her his store when he had died.
     The business itself was doing well, as seen by the increase in the
orders that were coming in. She had made a name for herself among the
wealthy as a silversmith of no mean talent. She smiled with pleasure at
the thought. Lately she had been very busy, so much so that she could
afford a visit home ... if she desired. Her smile disappeared at the
thought of home and she sighed, wondering if she really did want to
visit home.
     Home was Segvaarden, one of the one thousand states of Farevlin,
unified by nothing more than a common language, so far away that it took
many sennights by ship to reach. She could go home, but there was
nothing left for her there. Had she made a mistake in choosing exile
over death?
     The tiny bells near the door chimed, breaking into her thoughts.
She had made the bells herself to announce the entrance of visitors. The
pretty, tinkling sound never failed to bring a smile of pleasure to most
of her patrons.
     "Nila, how are you?" The big, bluff man who entered had a rolling
gait that announced his sailorly background to anyone who cared to
notice.
     "Captain Markus, it is so nice to see you again!" Nila set aside
the forceps and the pendant before going around to the front of the
small counter. She did not accept the hug the captain offered, but bowed
with her palms together, holding them chest high. Before the bulky
captain, she looked tiny in comparison. "When did the _Laughing Gale_
dock?"
     Her visitor rolled his eyes at her refusal to accept his hug but
made no direct comment about it. He dropped his hands and said, "Just
this morning, lass. Things are going well, eh? You're looking
prosperous." He gestured to the items on display behind the counter
where there were three necklaces, two hair ornaments and a jeweled
dagger.
     "Please sit, captain." She dragged a small chair from an alcove on
the far side of the store. It was a small room, with the shelf behind
the counter forming the centerpiece of the store. A large window on the
opposite wall allowed sunlight to shine directly on the shelf. At one
corner was her work area, with a short stool set before the counter. On
the countertop lay the pendant she had been working on as well as the
tools. She preferred to do the major part of her work that dealt with
melting silver and the initial parts of an order in the inner room where
she had a small forge, but a lot of the decorative work could be done
with the aid of the air tube and the small lamp she had in the front
room.
     "May I offer you some refreshment?" Nila asked.
     "No thanks. Come sit here with me. Seems like it's been a long time
since I saw you. Last time I came here, it was the fleet blessing, back
in Seber."
     She seated herself on the ground in front of him and he sighed but
made no comment. She knew he found it annoying that she never sat level
with him and always chose to sit at a lower level. All her explanations
that this was due to her respect for him had failed to convince him;
however, he had given up asking her to do otherwise.
     "Well, Captain, that was four months, three sennights and four days
ago."
     He laughed at the answer. "Still the same wizard with numbers, I
see."
     Nila chuckled, the sound almost incongruous from someone usually so
solemn. "You are too kind, sir. How long will you be in town this time?"
     "Oh, I don't know. Maybe three sennights. I'm waiting for a
merchant coming up from Magnus. He owes me money, and I'm a bit early.
Hadn't planned to be here until the beginning of next month, though."
     "Well, I am sure Mayda at the keep will be glad to see you," Nila
offered, looking up at him blandly.
     He reddened slightly and roared with laughter, his jowls shaking
with mirth. "Aye, that she will. I brought her a box of saffron. For
that, my Fat Mayda will ..." he stopped, looking down at her sheepishly.
     She smiled back. "I know, captain, I know. Now, I have something
for you. Wait a moment." Nila rose and went past the alcove into the
inner room. When she came back, she had a small statuette in her hand.
It was no taller than the width of a grown man's palm. Until then, they
had been speaking in Baranurian. Now, she spoke formally in a different
tongue: Farevlin. "Sir, this is for you, with all my gratitude."
     The captain, however, responded in Baranurian. "Nila, you owe me
nothing. You paid me for bringing you to Dargon, and you give me a gift
every time I come to see you. It's not necessary. We're friends; no need
for this."
     "You must take it, Captain. I owe you for my life. Each day that I
live is yours. This is but a poor token, that is all." Nila bowed again.
     "You never listen, do you?" He sighed, and examined the statuette
closely, obviously not expecting an answer. He said formally, in the
same language she had used, "Thank you, High Lady." She bowed again in
response to his use of her title.
     The silver figurine was of Cirrangill, the god of the sea. It was
dressed in a tunic with a stylized fish on the back, every scale
well-defined. Waves jumped around his feet and rose all the way to his
head. "I think this is your best work yet. I have something for you
too," he said, setting the figurine carefully on the counter before
digging into the pockets of his voluminous tunic. "Where is it?" He dug
first into one pocket, then another, while Nila smiled. He grinned at
her. "Ah-hah! Here it is." He held out a small packet.
     She took it almost breathlessly, knowing that it would be something
precious. Sure enough, when she opened the small packet, there was a
small dirty-looking lump in it. "You got it!"
     Markus grinned at her pleasure.
     "Captain, you are too generous," she said. "This is the purest
silver, and blessed too. Did you actually get it from the temple on the
river Navari?"
     "More than that. When I docked in Hadrom, I had a guide take me
inland to the temple. I went all the way to the entrance, but they
wouldn't let me in because I'm too tall."
     The silversmith's smile was strained. She was well aware of the
religious intolerance exhibited by her people towards those whose
physical characteristics did not meet what was laid down in the texts.
She herself had been considered a perfect specimen, physically at least,
at eleven hands.
     "Anyway," the captain continued, face red, "I bribed the guide to
get me a piece of blessed silver, and he tried to cheat me, the --" he
broke off, breathing a bit heavily. "After so many years of trading with
Fazil and your father, think I don't know how to judge silver? He didn't
think a 'vellai' could judge the quality."
     Nila nodded, the word 'vellai' taking her back across the years to
her homeland, where the word was an insult to foreigners, who were
taller, with unflatteringly pale skin. It quite literally meant
light-colored.
     The door bells jingled again, and the silversmith gave a start. A
tall man entered, wearing command like a cloak. It was the captain of
the town guard and to Nila, his entrance made the store seem even
smaller. She greeted him with, "Captain Koren, how nice to see you
again."
     "How are you, Mistress Nila?"
     "I must be going, Nila," Captain Markus stood, a gigantic man,
dwarfing even Captain Koren. "Thank you for the gift." He reached for
the figurine on the counter.
     Both of them saw that Captain Koren's eyes were riveted on the
small statuette, and Markus extended the figurine for the other man to
see. "Look," he said generously. "The lass does beautiful work, doesn't
she?" he asked, with a proprietary air.
     "It's exquisite, lady," Koren breathed.
     "Captain Koren, may I introduce Captain Markus?" Nila began
formally. "Captain Koren is the captain of the town guard. Sir, Captain
Markus is the gentleman who kindly brought me to your shores. I owe him
a debt of gratitude I can never repay."
     Markus rolled his eyes, and Koren, catching sight of him, smiled.
Nila looked at them both with a serious expression. "I am sorry.
Politeness is good," she said helplessly, wondering how to explain that
the formality cloaked her affection. Both men smiled at her.
     "It's all right, Nila, you don't have to apologize," Markus
consoled, still smiling. "I must be going now. I'll be back to see you
before I go."
     "Thank you, captain, for everything. Good-bye." She watched him
step away and turned to Koren. "The pendant is not ready yet, sir. I am
sorry."
     He replied, "That's quite all right. I was on my way home, and I
wanted to stop in and see how you were doing."
     The chimes jingled yet again and a man entered, brushing roughly
past Markus, who was in the act of stepping out.
     "Hey, what's the hurry? Can't you see when a man's leaving?" Markus
began.
     "Nila, it really is you!" The man spoke in Farevlin, amazement in
his voice.
     Markus stopped abruptly, one foot out the door. Koren's eyes
narrowed at the sharpness in the ship captain's posture and he turned to
face the stranger.
     Nila froze, her face the utter picture of surprise. Had her
thoughts of Segvaarden conjured Deven up? She wondered for just a moment
before logic reasserted itself. The man, slender, short, wore his dark
hair in a long, thin braid that hung down over one shoulder. His skin
was the same shiny bronze as Nila's, and his black eyes glittered
angrily as he frowned and laid something on the counter. He continued to
speak, his hands gesticulating wildly. She paled, only half-listening to
his words as she tried to absorb the reality of his presence in Dargon.
     "-- must die. I will assist you. You will die!" His voice rose on
the last sentence and Nila stared at him, bereft of words. She realized
dimly that Captain Markus was glowering as he listened, but her mind in
a tumult, unable to think or even speak, with one thought in her head:
Deven was in Dargon, in her store.
     Captain Markus roared, his hand going to his belt for his dagger,
"Here, what do you think you're saying? Captain Koren, arrest this man
immediately. Why, he's threatening to kill my girl here. Who do you
think you are?" He stepped forward and with one quick move, immobilized
the startled stranger by twisting his arm behind his back.
     "Who are you?" Koren rapped out sharply. When no answer was
forthcoming, he asked, "What did he say?" He looked from Nila to Markus,
and it was Markus who replied concisely, "He wants Nila to die."
     It was beyond Nila to form a coherent sentence since she was
desperately striving for control over her emotions: joy at seeing her
cousin, delight at hearing her own language spoken, sorrow at her own
self-banishment, and fear at what Deven's words meant.
     Koren reached for what the man had laid on the counter and looked
down at what he held. Nila, still standing behind the counter, rose on
tiptoe to see over his shoulders what was in his hands. It was a pair of
rather large ear studs meant for pierced ear lobes. Each stud sported a
design of a horse rearing up, its mane neatly trimmed. She paled as she
recognized it: one of the first pieces she had made on her own, without
the assistance or supervision of her teacher. Hot tears filled her eyes
as she stared at them. She blinked hastily. It would never do to cry in
front of the captains and her cousin, friends and family though they
might be. Her breath came quick and fast as she struggled not to let her
memories overwhelm her.
     "What do you want? What are you doing here?" Koren placed the ear
studs back on the counter absently, still looking at the man. The man
stared back at Koren silently, and then slowly, deliberately, turned his
face away, chin up in the air.
     "Answer him!" Markus gave his arm another twist.
     The man swallowed a gasp of pain, but his chin did not come down,
and he never looked at either of his two questioners. He did answer,
however, in broken Baranurian, his accent execrable. "Die must she. Die
must she. Die must she!"
     "Is that right? Why is that?" Koren asked.
     Deven did not bother to reply to this.
     "Fine. Bring him to the guardhouse, Captain Markus. We can handle
this there. Good day, Mistress Nila," Koren said sharply, not bothering
to look at the silversmith, who, pale and wan, had remained silent and
still throughout the altercation. The two men left the store, holding
their prisoner between them.
     Nila sighed as she watched them go. A tear slipped out of one eye,
and made its way unhindered down her cheek. Had her past caught up with
her? Perhaps it was time to go home. She smiled wistfully at the
thought. Home was a beautiful land with valleys that stayed green
throughout the year, where it was never cold, where the sun shone even
when it rained, and rainbows appeared as often, unlike Dargon, where a
bright sky did not necessarily mean a warm day. She slowly began to put
away her work. When the small needle she had been using poked her
finger, she smiled wryly to herself. A small drop of blood appeared at
the wound. Was she deceiving herself? She knew that the world was just
as beautiful here in Dargon as it was in Segvaarden, one of the thousand
states of Farevlin on the east coast of Duurom.
     The problem was the people. She had no friends here, except for the
two captains. Oh, she had plenty of customers, but there was no one who
understood that she sometimes felt as if she would shatter into
countless pieces like a badly-worked piece of silver. She bent to pick
up the piece she had been working on for Koren. Another tear slipped out
and fell on the back of her hand. She lifted the hand slowly and wiped
the tears from her eyes.
     Nila swallowed as she put her things away carefully, and locked the
inner room where she kept her works-in-progress. The town guard had been
working hard to eliminate the criminal element in Dargon, but she
preferred to be careful. She had a safe place outside the store for the
money she had saved, and the silver she usually had on hand. But now
since she was in a hurry, she put the raw silver that Markus had bought
for her into the little cupboard in the workroom and locked it. Then she
placed a small cup of sand she had obtained years ago from Corambis, the
sage, on the ground directly beneath the lock. He had magicked the sand
for her so that she could use it to protect the silver. She had stopped
doubting its efficacy about four years ago, when the store had been
robbed and Koren had appeared almost instantaneously to apprehend the
thief. After that, she had never left the store without setting the sand
under the lock.
     It was raining lightly as she stepped out of the store onto the
Street of Travellers, but it was only a slight mist. She locked the shop
door behind her, and hurried away in the direction of the keep. The sky
was a deep gray, not the blue-green of the Segvaarden sky, and she was
once again struck by the contrast between her life in Dargon and her
life in Segvaarden. She had worked hard here, and built a life. Old man
Fazil had bequeathed her his store, his business, his customers and his
home. When she had first come here more than five years ago, she had
been glad to get away from Segvaarden. She had not then realized what
she was doing. She had paid a high price for freedom, for life, for ...
exile.

     Nila had been barely fifteen when she was married. Since most girls
in Segvaarden married at that age, it was normal. She had been excited.
She was marrying the son of the ruler of Segvaarden, all because the old
chief was pleased with the work of her father, the silversmith. Or so
she had assumed.
     "Daughter, concentrate," her father chided. "You must finish this
piece before you leave today. I am too busy as it is. I did not want to
lose you so soon. How I'm going to finish all these orders without your
help, I don't know."
     Father and daughter sat on the ground in a small veranda outside
their hut, each with a small lamp before them. Various tools and
implements such as forceps and air tubes littered the area. Since the
weather in Segvaarden was almost always bright and sunny, they tended to
work outside. The veranda was covered by a short outcropping of braided
palm fronds, letting light in without the heat. It was a warm day even
for Segvaarden and her father, like many men in Segvaarden, sat
barechested.
     "But I'm almost fifteen, Father. Shika and Manonmani are already
married. Why, Lilla is already in the family way!" Nila picked up a pair
of forceps and bent to work on the earstuds.
     "Yes, that's all you girls think of. When I was a boy, girls did
not think of marriage until their parents decided it was time." He
laughed, setting down the air tube he had been using to examine the
pendant in his hand closely.
     She laughed with him. "Father, I did not think of it either, until
you decided it was time for me to be married. Besides, I'm getting
married to the son of the chief of Segvaarden. How many girls will be
able to say that their bridal procession had eleven elephants in it? Do
you know what else? The Mother said that he's going to come to the
wedding on a horse. Just imagine, Father. And soon, I'll be called the
Mother too." The fifteen year-old almost whispered the title, the
Mother, with awe. The chief's wife usually received the title in a
formal ceremony that celebrated and venerated her motherhood, about ten
days after the birth of her first son.
     "Is that all you think of, becoming the Mother? And tell me, what
difference does it make if the groom rides on a horse or a donkey?"
     Nila looked up from her work with an expression of bliss. "Because,
Father dear, it's the honor, the prestige. My bridegroom on a horse! How
many girls will be able to say that? Hah, if any of them have actually
seen a horse, I'd be surprised. If they have more than three elephants
in their bridal procession, I'd be surprised as well. Here, Father, all
done." She placed the forceps back on the counter and handed a pair of
ear studs to the old man.
     He looked at them keenly, turning them over. The studs were made of
silver, a bridal present from Nila to her husband-to-be. The face of
each stud was the side-view of a horse, rearing on its hind legs, mane
trimmed, tail long but caught in movement. The eyes were tiny emeralds,
one to each stud.
     It was customary that the bride present a pair of ear studs to the
groom during the wedding, because all men in Segvaarden had pierced
earlobes. Since Nila had apprenticed under her father as a silversmith
from the time she had been old enough to work with fire, he had insisted
that she make them herself. She had chosen a horse design when her
mother-in-law to-be had indicated that they had managed to buy a horse,
an exotic animal imported from the east.
     "Well done, daughter," he said at length. "This is good work. But I
must tell you that the flow of the tail is wrong. What animal has tail
hair that thick? Each individual strand must be seen. The way you have
inset the eyes: careless, very careless. This lump right here, you
should have smoothed it out." He pointed to a tiny blot on one stud.
"The legs: too bulky. Well, you are not going to be a silversmith, so I
will not point out what you could have done better. Concentration is
what you lack. You must be one with the thing you are trying to create,"
he discoursed.
     "Father, you said you won't point out what I could have done
better," she interrupted, grinning.
     "Away with you, silly child," he said. "You must be more
responsible. Now that you're to be wed, you're going to braid your hair.
You cannot behave like a little girl with her hair loose any more."

     Her wedding had been talked of for months: the food, the gifts, the
clothing, the jewelry. She had had seven sets of gowns made, three in
real silk. The chief's family had arranged to give all her female
relatives silk gowns as wedding gifts. Of course, she had had only four
female cousins, so this had not been a real hardship for the chief's
family. At the time, the lavish arrangements had given her so much
pleasure.
     After the marriage she had come to realize that her husband had
wanted to marry her because of his own inadequacies. Her married life
did not bear thinking about: the beatings, the burns, the forced
starvation. The worst part had been the fact that no one in the chief's
household had even acknowledged that her life had been less than
perfect. She had put up with it for fear that her father would be
harmed. Over time, her husband had become chief, and his excesses had
increased. She had accepted it all. The day her father died, she had
become free to curb her husband's excesses. Finally.

     Nila entered the small tavern in Segvaarden with her veil securely
in place. Hidden in the shadows, she searched for the man she had come
to find. This was not hard, since he was the tallest man in the place,
besides being one of only five of the men from the west, with their
strangely uncolored skin. After she spotted him, she slipped between the
tables and approached. She tapped him on the arm, conscious of a frisson
of fear despite her certainty that she was doing the right thing.
     "Message, sir," she said softly.
     "What?"
     She wondered if he was drunk already, this early in the evening.
"Message," she repeated. His eyes sharpened as he caught sight of her
face beneath the veil. Her heart thundered. He was not drunk, after all.
Had he recognized her? She had no clue as he rose and followed her out
of the tavern into the warm night. The full moon was a golden circle in
the heavens, brightening up the street akin to day.
     "You are the daughter of the silversmith. I have not seen you in a
while," he said, staring down at her face as she put her veil away from
her face. "I heard your father died. I'm sorry. He was a good man, and a
good artist. There is no one who does work of his caliber."
     "Thank you, good sir. It has been three years, eleven months, and
two sennights since we last saw one another. I did not think you would
recognize me," she said. Relieved that he had recognized her, she still
knew that this was just the first hurdle in her chosen path.
     "Yes, well, you are a pretty girl," he said grudgingly. "You're
married to the chief of Segvaarden, aren't you? What are you doing here
by yourself?" He looked to either side, as if searching for her retinue.
"What do you want?"
     "Your ship is leaving tomorrow, is it not?"
     "What of it?"
     "I wish to purchase passage on it. I will pay you whatever you
require."
     "Where do you want to go?" he burst out. "What about your husband?"
     A wave of desperation filled her heart, and made its way into her
voice. "Anywhere. Away from here. Wherever you are going. My husband is
none of your concern." Her raised voice caused a passerby to look at
Nila sharply and she turned her face away, pulling down her veil.
     The captain stared down at her. "You're not in any trouble are
you?"
     The expression on his face made her realize that she had allowed
emotion into her voice. She composed herself. "No. There is ... nothing
for me here. I cannot live here any more. Please will you take me, sir?"
     Markus burst out, "But where will you go? I can't just take you on
my ship!"
     "Yes, indeed you can. What prevents you from taking me? You are the
captain of your own ship, are you not?"
     "Of course I am. What does that have to do with anything? The point
is that I'm not about to take on a passenger with no destination!"
     "But I do have a destination: away from here."
     He gave a sudden shout of laughter, and she stared at him, her
whole body stiff with affront.
     "I am sorry, lady --"
     "My title is High Lady," she corrected, frost in her voice.
     He chuckled. "Sorry, High Lady." His voice turned serious again.
"Away from here is not a destination. You simply cannot buy passage on a
ship to 'away from here'. Listen to me," he said persuasively, "Go home
to your family."
     She stared at him for a moment, trying to decide which direction to
continue the argument. It appeared that his main objection was her
destination: she had none. In that case, she would choose one. Her mind
made up, she nodded. "Captain, where are you bound?"
     "Oh, a couple of other stops down the coast, at Hadrom for one.
I'll probably stop at Bichu as well. Why do you ask?"
     "Very well. I will buy passage to Bichu."
     "Gah!" He threw up his hands. "Fine. If you want to go that badly,
I'll take you. But you must pay in gold. Lots of it."
     She wondered for a moment if he thought that by asking for gold, he
could dissuade her from leaving Segvaarden. It would take much more than
that: she would gladly give up every one of her possessions to leave the
place which had once been home, but only remained a shell of itself to
her. She pulled out the small drawstring pouch that hung from her waist
and handed it to him. "Open it."
     He drew in a deep breath. Two heavy chains fell out. They were
patterned like rope, thickly braided, designed to be worn tightly around
the neck, like a collar. The chains were usually worn by men, women
preferring the longer chains that hung down their bosom.
     "I can't help feeling I shouldn't take you," he said slowly, eyes
drifting from the treasure in his hands to her face with concern. "You
don't really want to go to Bichu, do you?"
     He didn't seem to expect an answer, so Nila remained silent. It was
true that she did not want to go to Bichu, but it was also true that she
wanted to get away from Segvaarden.
     "Well, I suppose we can discuss where you want to go once we're on
board."

     Their departure was smooth. Much to her relief, no one pursued
them. Markus stared at her narrowly when she sighed as Segvaarden
disappeared over the horizon, but he said nothing.
     The voyage was a long one, lasting many sennights. The captain had
at first insisted that she stay inside her cabin, but about two
sennights after they had set sail, he relented and allowed her to come
up to the deck. Nila had become tired of seeing the same cabin walls day
after day. Up on deck there was nothing to see in any direction except
blue sky and an even more blue sea.
     Markus suggested that she learn Baranurian, and she agreed. Her
progress was not as fast as she wanted. He only laughed and advised
patience. They dined together frequently. To Nila these were more
opportunities to practise her Baranurian.
     One day the captain saw her standing on the deck and wandered down
to talk to her. "How are you today?"
     "I am fine, thank you. And you?"
     "Good, good." He handed her a tankard. "How do you like the voyage
so far?"
     "It is boring to see the same ocean every day," she said, accepting
it. "How long before we see land?"
     He laughed. "It's only been three days since the last landfall. Our
next stop will be Bichu, but I'm headed toward Dargon, and that's many
more sennights away."
     "Where is Dargon?" she asked, taking a sip.
     "It's on Cherisk. It's where I was born, you know. Nice place."
     "Perhaps I can live there," Nila offered, speaking hesitantly in
Baranurian.
     "Maybe. What are you going to do there, though?"
     "I can work as a silver ... what is the word, 'herder'?"
     Markus shouted with laughter. She looked enquiringly at him.
     "You just said you wanted to work as a silver herder," he
translated into Farevlin. "Well, there's already a silversmith there.
Name's Fazil. I trade with him occasionally. He asks me to bring him
pieces from the east. In fact, the last time I was back there, I brought
him a piece made by your father. Told me he had never seen silver of
that quality."
     "Ah, it must be silver from the river Navari on the temple," she
said, nodding. "The best silver comes from there."
     "Temple on the river Navari," he corrected. "Your Baranurian is
coming along very well, I must say."
     "Thank you, teacher," she bowed.
     "Gah, you westerners. Always so formal," he growled.
     "You are a good man, Captain Makus," she said.
     He laughed. "Markus," he said.
     "What?"
     "You said it wrong. Say it again. Markus."
     "Makus," she said obediently.
     "You'll never get it."

     Another day at dinner she shared her fear about her future.
"Captain Markus, I am worried about Dargon. Do you think I can get work
there as a silversmith?"
     "Well, it depends," he said, puffing on his pipe. "I don't know if
you want to set up shop in Dargon if Fazil is already there. Don't think
you'll get much business."
     "I will work with him," she offered, looking up at him anxiously.
     "He may not want you," Markus pointed out.
     "You said he liked my father's work. I app ... what is the word,"
she lapsed into her own language for the troublesome word, "apprenticed
to my father. He taught me everything I know. I am a good silversmith,
Captain Markus."
     "Well, tell you what. We'll go see Fazil when we dock. I don't have
any of your father's work with me, but ..."
     "I do," she said, leaning forward. "I have a chain hip with me."
     "A what?"
     "A chain that women wear on the skirt, like so," she indicated the
side of her body along the curve of her hip.
     "A hip chain? Strange," the captain murmured.

     When the time came, the _Laughing Gale_ docked at the port of
Dargon, and the two of them went to see Fazil, the silversmith.
     "Hey you old scumbag, how are you?" Captain Markus growled when
they entered the store.
     The old man working behind the counter at the tiny fire looked up.
"Markus, you old dog!" He carefully set aside what he had been working
on, banked the fire and came around the counter. The two men indulged in
a greeting that involved much slapping of each others' backs that Nila
found quite incomprehensible.
     The two men were talking very fast, but she found she could follow
them, somewhat. Every once in a while though, a word escaped her. Markus
was telling the old man about her, that she was an exile. She wondered
why he said that. Did he know the truth about her? Then Markus
introduced her to Fazil.
     "So, you are a silversmith, eh?" the old man asked her.
     "Yes sir. I would like to show you the pieces I have worked on,"
she said, rapidly pulling out the jewelry she wanted to show him. "This
is a chain hip ... I mean, hip chain. These are some of the ear studs I
have made. And this comb, it is the last piece I made before I came. It
is engraved with beads," she said.
     "What? Oh, you mean inset," Fazil murmured.
     "Yes," Nila agreed. Her anxiety combined with her weak command of
Baranurian left her searching for the right words. The old man peered at
the comb. It was a fairly small silver comb, the top part inset with
tiny silver beads. More beads hung loose from the lower part in three
groups of three beads each, so that every movement of the head would
result in a tinkling sound. It was the kind of comb used by young,
unmarried girls in Segvaarden. Walking to Fazil's store from the docks,
she had seen several women with their hair loose. She wondered if this
comb would be attractive to these women. None of them had worn any
jewelry that she could see. This seemed very strange to Nila, because
she had thought that women always wore jewelry.
     "This is good work," he said at length. "But I cannot afford to pay
you."
     "I will work in exchange for food and board," she offered.
     Fazil was already shaking his head negatively. She cast an
imploring glance at Markus. He drew the older man away and began to talk
to him. She could not hear his words, but the cadence and the tone of
his voice told her that he was persuading. Fazil did interrupt every
once in a while, but Markus continued without pause. At length, the two
of them turned to her.
     "All right," Fazil said. "You can stay, for a while. We will see
after three months. If you work out, then we will see."
     "Thank you, sir, thank you." Nila bowed deeply.

     "Who goes there?"
     Nila stopped, one foot raised to step into the captain's office in
the keep, more than a little apprehensive. She stepped back from the
doorway into the corridor and turned to face her questioner. "I wish to
see Captain Koren."
     "He has left for the day," the guard said. "What is it you wish to
see him about?"
     "There was a prisoner arrested this afternoon. I wish to have him
released."
     "I'm afraid that may not be possible. Let me see if Lieutenant
Darklen can help you. Please wait here." The guard returned after a few
moments and led her into another office. A man, much younger than
Captain Koren, sat in front of a large desk. A small window let in some
of the outside light, but it didn't do anything for the room. The dark,
dingy walls made the room seem dreary, and unlit sconces graced the
wall. Still, the room was clean with not a speck of dust to be seen
anywhere.
     "May I help you?"
     "Sir, Captain Koren arrested a man in my store this afternoon," she
began.
     "Are you the silversmith?" he asked. When she nodded, he continued,
"I understood that the prisoner was arrested because he threatened to
kill you. He did not answer any of Captain Koren's questions, but I
haven't interrogated him yet. I don't think that I can release him."
     "There is no need to interrogate him, sir. Captain Markus
misunderstood his words. It has been a long time since the good captain
spoke my language, so it is perhaps understandable."
     He stared at her in silence for a moment. "May I ask why you wish
to have him released? Do you know him?"
     She sighed. Sometimes the people of Dargon were too abrupt. They
did not follow the dictates of formality. They claimed that being direct
saved a lot of time. It might have been true, but it left her feeling
exposed. Formality could save face, and it provided a curtain to hide
one's emotions behind.
     "He is ... known to me, yes. He merely said that he was surprised
to see that I was alive. It appears he thought I died when I left the
shores of my land. Please, release him, sir. He would never hurt me.
There is no need to arrest him," she said solemnly, trying to control
the distress that leaked into her voice despite her control.
     "Very well, madam," he replied. "Please wait here."
     After a few moments, the lieutenant returned with his prisoner.
     "Here is the man arrested this afternoon, madam. Since he refused
to talk, we do not even know his name," Darklen said dryly.
     "Deven, his name is Deven," she swallowed her tumult as the
prisoner glared at her. "Thank you, Lieutenant Darklen." She turned and
left, followed by Deven.

     A long, narrow table lashed together with dryfall stood in the
center of an area cleared of pine needles and grass. A shallow trench
circled the table, and Nila stared at it almost blindly. The table
represented both the end of a life and the beginning of a new one. Deven
and she had spent bells talking, and when he had explained why he had
come seeking her, she had at first been stunned and later resigned.
     "Don't be scared, sister," Deven said gently. "This is your right,
and your duty."
     She looked up at him. Even though she had to look up to meet his
eyes, he seemed shorter than before to her. Perhaps it was the years in
Dargon that made her think so: the people of Dargon were, in general,
taller than those of Segvaarden.
     "I am not scared," she said softly. "I have nothing to fear, Deven.
Only someone who wants to live is afraid. I wish for nothing. Therefore
I feel nothing."
     "Climb on to the dais. It will be time soon." He bent and kissed
her forehead. "I am pleased you have accepted your destiny, sister. It
will be my privilege to light the pyre," he said softly.
     Nila knew he felt the honor keenly. His voice control was perfect
and his face was expressionless, but his eyes glittered. The soft voice
in her mind which still questioned her decision was overwhelmed by his
emotion. She swallowed, aware that over the past years in Dargon she had
relaxed her control and her facial expressions were no longer as
reserved as they ought to have been. Yet Deven said nothing about her
lack of restraint. She let his affection bury her doubts.
     "Climb, Nila," he urged her, laying a gentle hand on her arm and
propelling her toward the dais.
     There was no point in hesitating after she had decided, but still
she knew that a small corner of her mind wavered. She looked at the
ground around her, seeing the intricate patterns made by the sunlight
filtering through the canopy of the trees, allowing the designs to
distract her.
     "Time marches on, sister."
     Nila heard the fondness in his voice. She knew that he was
entreating her to do this because he genuinely believed this was the
right thing to do. She deliberately stilled the voice inside her that
cried halt. This was her choice. In another lifetime she had chosen
freedom. Now she chose her destiny. She climbed up onto the dais, and
lay down. The man lit a torch and approached the dais, chanting softly.
     A huge roar interrupted them. "What's going on here?" Markus
vaulted over the trench and rushed toward the dais, closely followed by
Koren.
     Nila rose, facing them, and the man turned as well. She gasped in
surprise. "Captain Koren! Captain Markus! What are you doing here?"
     "You can tell us what's going on here, lass. What's the dais all
about?"
     "This does not concern you, kind sirs. Please leave," she said
softly, not meeting their eyes. She did not want to explain what she was
doing. She didn't even want to think about what she was doing. Deven had
convinced her that this was better than the utter loneliness of having
no one who understood the part of her that was Farevlin.
     "Look at me, Nila," Markus stepped up to the dais. Slowly her eyes
rose and she looked at him. "I've seen constructions like this before.
What is going on?"
     "Funeral pyre is it," the other man answered in Baranurian.
     "What? Why?" Koren couldn't believe his ears.
     "I am a widow," she said, looking up at the two captains. "I know
you will understand, Captain Markus. I must fulfill the rites of the
Sya."
     Markus stared down at her, silenced momentarily. However he
recovered from his shock almost immediately. "No! I don't believe it.
The rites of the Sya? Have you forgotten that you live in Dargon now?
What need is there to follow the Sya? You --"
     Koren interrupted sternly, "What is the rite of the Sya? What does
it have to do with Mistress Nila being a widow? Markus, explain."
     Unable to stand still, Markus paced up and down in front of the
pyre. "Segvaardens believe that when people die, their mate should
follow them into the afterlife. They enter the funeral pyre together.
The ritual is called the Sya. Apparently Mistress Nila has discovered
that she is a widow, and has decided that she must follow the rite of
the Sya."
     "Knew she this already," Deven shouted in Baranurian.
     "Who is this man?" Koren asked. "What was he doing in your store?
Mistress Nila, you must answer our questions. If what Markus says is
right, then I don't know what to say. This isn't your land: we do things
differently here. This," he gestured at the dais, "would be considered
an act of suicide."
     Nila stared at Koren and then nodded after a moment. "Very well,
Captain, I will explain." She stepped off the dais and came towards the
two captains. "My husband had just died when I left Segvaarden over five
years ago with Captain Markus. We follow the rites of Sya, which Captain
Markus has explained admirably. I was scared; I didn't want to die. I
was wrong. Now I am following the ancient ritual in defense of the honor
of my dynasty. I ask pardon, but I must do the Sya."
     She had left Segvaarden because she had wanted to live and to
experience the joy of life. Five years of exile had taught her that
freedom to live did not necessarily come with the joy of life. Yet
giving up her life did not seem to be as easy as it had been when she
had lived in Segvaarden.
     "This is ridiculous," Koren said. "Captain Markus is right,
Mistress Nila. You are here; you have a life here, a business,
customers, friends. There is no need for you to take your own life."
     She bit her lip in an effort to stop her emotions from showing on
her face. Her decision to undertake the Sya had been easy compared to
answering the questions of the only two men she could count as friends.
     The man spoke again. "Heathens! Pagans! How dare you say that? You
know nothing about honor, you dastardly vellai." He had switched to
Farevlin, and Nila realized that only Captain Markus had understood
Deven's words.
     "Who is he?" Koren asked, frowning at the stranger. "What is he
saying?"
     "This is my cousin, Deven," Nila replied.
     Markus began, "Nila, life is precious, is it not? Isn't that why
you asked to leave Segvaarden all those years ago? What has changed now,
that makes you want to give it up?"
     Nila's face took on a strange expression. She began to wring her
hands, her agitation escaping her control. The arguments tore at her
already shaky resolve. "Captain Markus, I failed in my duty. I did not
go with my husband to the afterlife. He is alone there, because I did
not want to die. I was a coward. I will have to do much penance to
expiate that. Is that what you want for me? If you are truly my friend,
you will let me do this."
     "No! A thousand times no," Markus raged. "I am your friend, lass,
that's why I cannot do this. Let you die? Are you insane? You're not in
Segvaarden anymore, and I'll see who forces you to do the Sya." He
glared at Deven, as if daring him to try.
     Koren placed a hand on Markus' arm. Markus looked at him, and the
other man tilted his head slightly, as if asking Markus to let him try.
     "Enough!" Deven shouted. "Nila, time passes. Ascend the pyre must
you before the next bell. Miss you this time, wait two sennights you
will have to." Deven's heavily accented Baranurian was barely
understandable, and he spoke it as if he were speaking Farevlin.
     Koren replied smoothly, "This is Dargon, in the kingdom of Baranur.
We don't allow self-immolation here."
     "Captain Koren, please do not do this," Nila pleaded. "I have
nothing left to do here. I must go to the afterlife."
     "Mistress Nila, you have customers, friends and unfulfilled orders
you need to finish. If you say you have nothing left to do, that's a
lie."
     "No, sir, it is not a lie. All my orders are completed. This past
sennight, that is what I have been doing. The special piece you ordered
for your niece has been sent to your lodgings. I have completed all my
work here," Nila said, with a note of finality in her voice.
     "That's not good enough, Nila," Markus said softly. "You owe me,
lass. I brought you here, I apprenticed you to Fazil. I gave you a new
life here in Dargon. What's the price for that?"
     "I paid you, captain," she replied sternly.
     Markus' face went red and she winced, knowing she had hurt him. Yet
she had done it deliberately, hoping that he would leave her to her
chosen fate.
     "You paid me," he repeated scornfully. "Yes, you paid me to bring
you here. But what about the apprenticeship? Do you think Fazil would
have taken you if I hadn't persuaded him? You owe me more than money;
you owe me ... your life."
     "What do you want from me?" she almost wailed, twisting her hands.
"Five years ago, I was a coward. I ran away. It is time to face up to my
destiny now."
     "A coward? You?" Markus exclaimed. "Nila, starting a new life takes
courage. Building a home, a life, making friends, it all takes courage.
As for destiny, your destiny was to lead a new life, a second life here
in Dargon.
     "You died a thousand deaths before ever we came to Dargon," he said
softly, persuasively. "The Nila who apprenticed to Fazil was not the
same Nila who left Segvaarden. Do you think giving up your life now will
change the fact that you chose life over death five years ago? Do you
think that these years in Dargon have left no mark on you? Are you the
same person as you were five years ago? Well, are you? Answer me, Nila,
answer me." His voice rose insistently as he piled question upon
question.
     A fat tear rolled down Nila's cheek. Her face crumpled for a
moment, but she rallied herself. Her expression showed just a hint of
her inner turmoil, although her eyes were filling. She blinked trying to
stop the tears from falling. Had she changed? Did she believe in value
of life like these people of Dargon?
     There was silence. A bird twittered, and a tree-rat chittered in
the trees. A few yellowed leaves floated slowly down. Markus took two
steps closer to Nila, and his footsteps sounded unnaturally loud in the
quiet clearing.
     He gripped her arms gently. "Nila, I've known you for twenty years.
I -- we -- Nila, I can't stand by and watch you die. You're like a
daughter to me, lass. Listen to me: I was in Hadrom and Segvaarden only
a few months ago. You're not like them anymore. You're a citizen of
Dargon now. You've never been scared to face the truth before. Don't
start now."
     "Yes," said Koren gently. He stepped forward and patted her
shoulder. "Mistress Nila, I represent the law here, and I can't let you
do this. But more than that, as a friend, I can't let you do this."
     Nila looked up at both the men towering over her, and another tear
followed in the wake of the previous. She hiccupped and bit her lower
lip for control. She exhorted herself to face the truth. The truth was
that even when she had lived in Segvaarden, she had been different. Her
beliefs had not been the same as those of other Segvaardens. She had had
the courage to choose life over death: exile over the Sya. But the price
for her life had been more than exile, and only now had she discovered
that.
     "Nila, you must ascend the pyre, now!" Deven commanded in Farevlin.
     "No," she replied in a quavering voice. "No," she repeated, in a
stronger voice. "I cannot, Deven. They are right. I cannot do this. I
don't believe the Sya is a good thing, even if I can't believe that the
Sya is a bad thing."
     "You cannot turn your back on all our traditions," Deven said, his
voice harsh. "I have searched for you so that you may bring glory to
your family by embracing your responsibility. Why is it so hard to do
this? You must not listen to these strangers. I am your cousin and the
head of your family. You owe duty to me and your dead husband who waits
for you."
     "Does she owe her death to her family? Is that what her duty is?"
Markus interrupted.
     Koren looked blank since they were conversing in Farevlin.
     "Speak to me you not," Deven shouted in Baranurian, pointing at
Markus. He turned to Nila and switched back to his own language. "Well,
what is your decision?"
     Nila responded in Baranurian, feeling that somehow it was more
appropriate. "I owe my death to no one, not even my ... husband." She
stumbled over the word, surprised at the hate that filled her even now.
The thought that the Sya would enable her to join the man who had
tormented her was enough to fan the flickering embers of doubt in her
mind into a flame. "My life is my own. It is a gift that Captain Markus
gave me." She looked at the older man soberly.
     Deven stared at her as if she had suddenly turned into a snake. "Is
that your final word?"
     "Yes. I am a citizen of Dargon now." She took a deep breath,
drawing courage from the approving expression on both the captains'
faces. While a part of her would forever be Farevlin, the truth was that
Baranur was her motherland now, and Dargon her home.
     "Very well," he said sternly in Farevlin. He pulled a small
waterskin from his belt. He poured a few drops into his palm, and let
the water trail to the ground. "I denounce you, Nila. You are my sister
no longer. You are dead to us all. You are forever banished, and your
soul will never be recognized. You are purged from our hearts and our
history. You are," he paused for one dramatic moment, "no more." He
turned and walked away.
     "No!" Tears cascaded down Nila's cheeks. She made no move to wipe
them, and extended one hand uselessly toward the retreating figure from
her past life.

========================================================================

                               Surfacing
                                 Part 2
                             by Bryan Read
                           <bryanr@fuse.net>
                             Deber 13, 1018

          Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 12-7

     Willis stared blankly at the gatehouse of the Rithius estate from
within his deep hood. Ornate black iron bars curled and twisted as they
made up the body of the gate itself, and the family crest was displayed
in vibrant reds and greens in the center of each of the two swinging
doors. The crest itself was the size of a footman's shield, its image a
single war hammer etched beneath a painting of a wingspread eagle over a
red background. Willis concentrated, but nothing stirred within him, no
images or memories.
     He shook his head.
     "It is unfortunate you cannot remember, Willis," said Gizzel from
behind. He sat on a white-speckled gray mare, hood pulled over his bald
head and hands hidden underneath his heavy cloak. "I had hoped you would
come to your senses before we arrived. You should not let any of them
know you have lost your memory, even your father. I can help you that
much, at least."
     "Why is that?" Willis asked. "Couldn't they help me in remembering
things?"
     Gizzel smiled ruefully. "You will find out soon enough, Willis.
Until you understand the way things are here you must keep your
condition a secret from most. Keep your hood up for now."
     Willis nodded absently and looked to the small guardhouse just
beyond the gate where two young men stood in conversation. He did not
recognize them. In fact he did not recognize anything at all. He had
lived here most of his life, Gizzel had told him, but he recalled none
of it.
     Their journey had been an uneventful one since the day Gizzel, the
man sent to bring him back to his family, had found Willis in Dargon.
His memory lost, Willis had begun a new life at the Inn of the Serpent,
with Deserae Tamblebuck and her father Ballard. He had run from his
home, Gizzel had explained, escaping a planned marriage and taking with
him a woman he had loved. But Maura had died on the journey to Dargon.
Willis tried to picture her, but the memory was lost; tried to mourn
her, but nothing stirred inside him. His thoughts constantly drifted to
Deserae Tamblebuck and the nights he spent with her.
     Nearly a month at sea from Dargon had put them at Port Vergindas on
the River Banoss in Pyridain; once a Baranurian duchy, it was now
controlled by the Beinison Empire. Left to Benosian hands after
Baranur's retreat three years ago, Pyridain's noble families had either
fled their holdings or had been executed. Only those few that had sworn
early allegiance to Beinison had been spared. Another three bitter-cold
fortnights in the saddle had carried them on their way deeper into
Pyridain to the holdings of House Rithius. The winter months had come
quickly, it seemed, and a recent light snowfall blanketed much of the
rocky ground of the countryside.
     "Lieutenant Joaja," Gizzel called stiffly as he moved his mount to
the gate, leaving Willis several paces behind. "Open the gate."
     The men at the guardhouse looked through the ironwork of the
gateway and peered at the newcomers a moment before approaching. They
were soldiers, Willis presumed by their attire. Their swords were short
and their chain armor was designed almost ceremonially, but otherwise
they looked dangerous enough. Lieutenant Joaja, the first to reach the
gate, wrapped his gloved fingers about an iron bar, one hand over the
other.
     "Back so soon, Gizzel," Joaja said with a grin. The man's speech
was slurred, not uncommon among the Benosians speaking Baranurian tongue
in Pyridain. His face was thin and pale under a shortly cropped head of
hair, and there were several scars on his forehead. "We thought you
might have run off with some wash-pan whore!"
     The second guard snorted in laughter.
     Gizzel did not reply, but instead tilted his head to one side. The
movement was hardly noticeable under the hood, but Joaja saw something
in it that Willis could not from behind. With a muffled curse the guard
lifted the latch, allowing the gate to split and swing inwards. Willis
kept his hood forward, but he could feel their eyes on his back as he
spurred his mount after Gizzel. The uneasy feeling that he had already
been identified did little to quell the churning of his stomach.
     The roadway leading to the manor through the scrubland was over a
league, and the sun had nearly set when they arrived at the main
courtyard. The stable hands took their horses without comment, but not
without several hesitant looks at Willis. Then Gizzel led Willis into
the main foyer, a wide circular chamber where several house servants
immediately emerged to take their cloaks and scarves. The foyer was
sparsely furnished with high-backed cushioned chairs paired with
cherry-stained smoking tables, and was illumined by wall-mounted
lanterns as well as a massive chandelier hanging from the domed ceiling
that contained several colored windows. A large tapestry depicting lions
and other exotic animals adorned the wood-paneled wall opposite the
entrance to the chamber, and thick rugs covered most of the polished
stone floor.
     "It is so good to see you have returned, Gizzel," a rotund man
called from the opposite end of the chamber, the lengths of his thinning
gray hair wisping about his head like fog.
     "That is Kiska Spael, the manor's steward," whispered Gizzel. "Do
you recognize him?" The steward smoothed his hair with a hand and
approached hastily, his loose-fitting pants swishing with each step.
"And I also bid you welcome home, Sir Willis. I am overjoyed at your
arrival! I will have Mariem prepare your usual if that is to your
liking."
     Willis had no inkling of who this man was, and had absolutely no
idea what 'his usual' could be. He simply nodded and smiled at the
rotund man.
     "I will inform Lady Kay that you have arrived." Kiska turned
lightly on one heel and disappeared into the shadows of the evening.
     "What is my usual?" Willis asked.
     Gizzel nearly smiled. "Just go up to your chambers and have your
bath."
     "Where are my chambers?"
     This time the bald man frowned. "I will walk you there."
     They began climbing a set of steps that arced about the curve of
the wall, eventually winding its way about the entire foyer as it
climbed. Willis felt like a pebble in this grand room, and he wondered
at the rich carpeting and satin drapes. Was this home? He lived here? He
recalled none of it; even the touch of the worn oak railing or the odd
scent of perfume and spice brought no recognition. An image of the Inn
of the Serpent's common room brushed over his mind, and Deserae's smile.
It had been more than two months since he had left Dargon. It seemed
longer, he reflected, and he wanted to return to hear her voice. They
had rescued him, after all: Deserae and her father Ballard Tamblebuck.
He had come to enjoy the familiar faces and places of Dargon, as if he
had lived there all his life.
     "Your *usual* is normally to entertain several ladies of
questionable character accompanied by a large supply of wine," Gizzel
grunted, snapping Willis from his reverie. "I never did see the need for
it."
     Willis frowned. "I am only entertaining them. I don't have to drink
any wine."
     "No, Willis. You *entertain* them."
     The young man halted in his climb. "Entertain ..." His eyes grew
spacious. "But I can't, Gizzel. I won't."
     The older man ushered him up the last few steps. "You truly are not
the same man, Willis. There may be hope for this family yet."
     They came to a door, obviously leading to Willis' quarters.
     "Just dismiss them when they come to your door. They won't persist;
they never enjoy it anyway."
     Willis shot him a questioning glance, but it met with the back of
Gizzel's bald head. The man was already walking back toward the stairs.
Willis entered his chambers and bolted the door behind him. It was a
large room, with several high windows and carpeting. A canopied bed laid
with silk bedding sat in the corner: large and inviting. He was about to
flop down upon it when a woman suddenly entered the room from an
adjoining chamber.
     "Oh ..." she stuttered and stopped in her tracks at the sight of
Willis. "I am very sorry, m'lord. I was going to fetch the soap." She
was a small woman, approaching the middle years of her life. Her hair
was touched by gray and her eye-lines creased, but she stood with a
quiet dignity.
     Willis remained silent, unsure how to reply. Her nervousness was
quite apparent, almost to the point of outright fear, and he wondered if
his was as plain to her. Was she afraid of him? Was Willis Rithius a
cruel man? He walked slowly toward her, and she nearly flinched when he
came to a stop at arms length.
     "Well, then," he replied, picking his words carefully. "You'd
better see to it quickly, Mariem."
     She nodded instantly. "Yes, m'lord." Then she was out the door.
     Willis let out a long breath. He could feel his heart pounding
within his chest. What was he doing here? Was this even his real family?
He glanced down at the tattoo on his palm, its black lines woven like a
web. What did this mean? A family mark? Asking Gizzel on their journey
produced only quick changes in subject of conversation, and he had not
seen the pattern anywhere else in the manor or on the grounds. A light
knock sounded on the door. Mariem entered quickly and continued directly
to the bathing chamber after he opened the door. A moment later she was
passing through the bedroom towards the exit.
     "Mariem," Willis said, causing her to stop. "Would you show me your
hands?"
     She gave him an odd look, but did not hesitate, holding her hands
out before him. He took them and turned them over, revealing small worn
palms, slightly shivering, he noted. No markings. Just an old woman's
hands. He let them go, but they remained held out before him, her eyes
downcast to the carpeting.
     "Do I frighten you?"
     "No, m'lord," she replied hastily, her voice tight. "I am just cold
is all. Just a little cold with the winter here and all."
     Slowly, he nodded. "Thank you, Mariem," he said quietly, and she
backed out the door after a small curtsy.
     The smell of perfumed oils permeated from the room beyond that held
his bath, and he was quick to bolt the door once more and strip down. As
he slid into the hot bathwater of the tub he sighed and closed his eyes.
The only things familiar were the images of Deserae that kept filling
his head.

     The lanterns were dim when Willis descended the stairs to the
circular foyer, the chandelier dark, and the chamber seemed an empty
expanse of shadow. Sounds of conversation echoed softly from several
hallways that spoked from the room, though he could make out nothing of
what was said. A man in black and white livery had knocked on the door
not long after Willis had dressed in the fine silk shirt and breeches
that were spread on the bed when he emerged from the bath. He was to
escort Willis to the Library Hall, the servant had said with a bow, his
voice sullen. All Willis could do was follow.
     As he descended the stairs he wondered how the clothes had managed
to get on his bed. Hadn't he bolted the door? They had not been there
when he first entered the quarters. And then there had been the
*entertainment*, as Gizzel had so casually phrased it.
     "Never enjoy it!" he muttered under his breath. The six women that
had appeared as he was getting dressed had seemed ready to pounce on
him. They surely would have if he had not flushed and herded them out of
the room, slamming the door after them. They must have taken his
reaction for anger, not the flustered embarrassment that it was, for
they were nowhere to be seen presently.
     He was sure he had bolted that lock shut.
     Following the silent servant, Willis moved toward the voices. They
traveled a long hallway that seemed to curve slightly, peering at the
occasional tapestry and an empty suit of armor that stood watching him
pass. Doorways led from the corridor sporadically as they walked, but
the servant stayed his course until the voices were loud enough to make
out.
     Suddenly he emerged into a brightly lit chamber with oak paneled
walls and high ceiling. The gray of pipe smoke hung in the air above a
massive oak table, and several people sat around it engaged in
conversation. What Willis took for a wall at first glance, he realized,
was a bookshelf with only half its lower shelves containing tomes and
bound parchment. A figure moved to his right. A man, gray at the temples
and donning a long golden silk robe, waved a hand as he read a small
tome, beckoning Willis to join him at a small sitting table matched with
a pair of padded lounge chairs.
     "Well, Willis," the man said when Willis approached, his voice deep
and amused, "You have finally decided to come back to your family. I
have been told you were found in Dargon? Mm. Such a dirty city, that
one. I was there as a young lad several times. But that you know, of
course."
     The man barely looked up from the book he was reading as he spoke,
but gestured for Willis to sit. It was a comfortable chair, Willis
thought. But he could think of nothing else.
     "Have you spoken to your mother?" His voice carried deeply, though
his eyes rarely lifted from the book.
     "No," Willis replied with a shake of his head. "Is this my father?"
he wondered to himself.
     "Well, you should not keep her waiting. You know how she gets when
you're late for her sitting. I had young Kindivan fetch you because I
had assumed your mother had already seen you."
     Just then Gizzel entered the library. The brown robes Willis had
grown accustomed to seeing him in were replaced by breeches and tunic.
His sword, as always, was belted at his hip. The bald man's jaw
stiffened when he saw Willis and the gray-haired man seated together,
and he instantly strode over to them.
     "Ah, Gizzel," the man said with a slight smile. "Just in time.
Willis here has been neglecting his mother so it seems. Be so kind as to
escort him to her sitting room."
     Gizzel gave a slight bow -- its level was carefully measured,
Willis noted -- and gestured for Willis to follow. "Do you need
anything, my lord?" he asked the man curtly.
     The man simply smiled and went back to his book.
     "Was that my father?" Willis stammered once they reached the
hallway.
     Gizzel sniffed. "That was your uncle Tavram Bi'shor, Willis. You
were never close to him. He has several ... hobbies I will call them,
that do not agree even with you."
     "Even with you," Willis repeated silently in his mind. What exactly
did 'even with you' mean? What had his hobbies been in this manor?
     By his sour tone Tavram's hobbies did not agree with Gizzel either,
Willis observed as they turned into a slightly narrower corridor.
     "Your mother is not pleased with you, Willis, nor is your father,
though he rarely comes out of his stupor to say so."
     Willis glanced questioningly at the bald man, but Gizzel continued
on.
     "Lady Kay, your mother, runs the household, controls the assets as
well as the guard, and tolerates no insolence. Your father has been
bedridden since the end of the war. House Rithius needs an heir and you
are it. She has not forgotten about the marriage with House Quikuches,
and you are expected to perform your duty. Do not speak of your father;
you never did. To do so now would show Lady Kay you are not yourself.
She has brought the house to power, but at a cost, Willis. Your father
would weep to see it if he were well."
     "What is wrong with him?"
     "... it will have to do. Steps must be taken to assure ..."
     Lady Kay stopped short when Gizzel entered the room, followed by
Willis. Her gaze scoured over her son with silent malevolence, her dark,
green eyes hard and obviously unforgiving. Black hair fell whip-like
down over her powder-paled cheeks, cut in an angular fashion so that it
shortened as it moved to the back of her slender neck. She wore a deep
emerald green velvet gown, cut low in the bosom and frilled with lace,
and her fingers glittered with several rings of silver. A woman in her
mature years, Lady Kay still held the beauty of her youth, with smooth
pale skin and a creaseless face. She gracefully rose to her feet upon
their entry, dismissing with a curt wave a young man in robes who exited
immediately.
     "Are you well, Willis?" she asked. Her voice was softer than the
silk she wore, graceful and elegant, yet seductive and sinister at the
same time. Willis continued toward the small cluster of velvet chairs in
the room only because Gizzel did, and he sat when Lady Kay gestured,
though Gizzel received no such gesture and remained standing.
     "I feel well, Mother," he answered as he sat.
     "You have grown your hair," she said, her lips twitching in a thin
smile. "Do you think Theria will like it?"
     Theria? The bride maybe? "I don't know if she will."
     "Let us hope she does, Willis." Her voice was hard now. "The future
of House Rithius depends on it! Your little ... adventure, has cost us
much. Lord Kipiqin Quikuches is not pleased at the delay. Do you think
he will wait forever?"
     Willis felt the sweat glisten on his face. So he was a pawn, a
piece of her puzzle that would lead to a stronger house. He did not even
know who Theria was, let alone House Quikuches. He was here to discover
himself, to see who he had been. That was all, he reminded himself. His
face remained blank, mainly because he could think of nothing to say.
This was not at all what he had expected of his family. Everything
seemed so tense here, about to snap like some frayed bowstring.
     "At least Maura, that little wretch, is drowned like most of her
kind should be!" It was a moment before he realized she had not meant
Deserae, but the Maura he had left Pyridain with, the girl he could no
longer remember. His face had already formed a glare though, so he let
it linger.
     "Ah," she sneered, though it seemed not to lessen her stature. "You
wish to blame anyone but yourself for that mishap, yes? Well, boy, you
will learn that there are consequences to pay for such inept behavior."
     Willis could not suppress the roll in his stomach. This could not
be his family! He had to get away from here! A glance at Gizzel showed
the bald man studying his boots. Why she had not dismissed him, Willis
did not know, but he was somehow glad of the man's silent company, even
if Gizzel had been the one to take him from his new life in Dargon.
     "I will not marry this Theria," he stated, his voice not all
steady. "I have no wish to live here."
     Lady Kay cackled maniacally.
     "Is everyone here mad?" he thought.
     "You think you have a choice?" she asked, standing from her chair.
"I know about your little whore back in Dargon, Willis! I know more than
you think. No, don't bother to look at Gizzel. I did not even have to
listen to his report. I have other sources more reliable."
     That remark did seem to make Gizzel stiffen.
     "Do not think yourself a hero, Willis. You may be of the Order of
the Dragon, but you are merely a helpless boy against the house. If you
run again, it takes but a pigeon flight to still the heart of your
beloved Deserae!"
     Willis thought he might scream. He stood, toppling the chair,
facing the woman squarely. Anger filled him like a furnace and his fists
were clenched white. Gizzel was looking at him now, his face tight, his
hands twitching.
     "If you harm her you will die," Willis hissed.
     Lady Kay Rithius stepped back, but her composure remained. "You
know me, Willis. You know I will keep my word. You will marry Theria and
no harm will come to Deserae Tamblebuck."
     Willis turned and left the room. Gizzel did not follow.

     Willis blinked at the pale light of the dawn slashing through the
crack in the drapes. Sleep had not come easily the night before, and
when he finally had succumbed he had dreamed of strange things, strange
people, and places he had never seen. Memories or dreams? The morning
made him think of Ballard Tamblebuck. The old innkeeper would be
standing at the window now, watching the sun crest Dargon's cluttered
horizon as he did every day. And Deserae. The blankets at his side were
not warm as they had been so many mornings in Dargon. He could not hear
her soft breathing, could not smell her hair or touch her face.
     "If she is harmed you will die."
     Slowly, he sat up in the canopied bed. Had he said that? He had
never said such words in his life. Or had he? Could it be the real
Willis Rithius breaking the surface? He could not stay here. The vile
feel of this place made him shiver, and his mother ... his mother! Gods,
he would rather have had no mother! Dimly he remembered what Lady Kay
had said.
     "You may be of the Order of the Dragon, but you are merely a
helpless boy against the house."
     The Order of the Dragon. He looked to the web pattern tattooed on
his palm. Could it be the sign of this order? He would make a point to
ask Gizzel before he left this place. Mariem had entered the room,
though he was sure he had bolted the lock before he'd slept, and had
left clean wash water and a breakfast of fruits, cheese, and a fresh
loaf of oddly dark bread. It stirred his hunger and he ate quickly after
dressing in the new clothes that had been left in his cabinet, finishing
the bread as a knock sounded on the door.
     Tavram Bi'Shor entered quietly, a scarlet-colored robe cinched at
the waist by white sash. He looked quite pleasant as he shut the door
behind him, and walked over to the table where Willis sat. The man did
not wait for an invitation to sit. He pulled up a chair and sat down,
crossing his legs at the ankles.
     "You slept well, Willis?"
     Willis shrugged. "I slept fine."
     Tavram nodded slightly. "I want to know why you came back, Willis.
Why did you let Gizzel bring you back?"
     That was a question Willis was not remotely prepared to answer. It
had never occurred to him that someone might want to know why he had
come back. What could he say? That he wanted to see where he had come
from? He couldn't remember his family? Couldn't remember himself? That
would surely bring the vultures of this place down upon him. And he was
sure there were vultures. The fact that his uncle was here gave him that
proof.
     "Would you rather I hadn't returned, uncle?"
     The reply made his uncle smile broadly. It was a fatherly smile,
yet it lacked that genuineness that would have made it legitimate. A
facade, and Willis recognized it instantly, though he could not tell
how. His uncle wanted something. Most likely he had plans for the house,
plans that had been formed to exclude Willis and his birthright. Willis
didn't care about his birthright, but it was obvious that Tavram Bi'Shor
thought he did. Was the Rithius family plotting amongst itself as well?
     "My boy," Tavram began, "I am as glad as anyone that you have
returned to the house. I am simply curious as to why you let Gizzel find
you. I am sure you let him. You are not the type to simply be found when
you are hiding."
     "I am here, uncle," Willis said, hoping to put an end to the
subject. "But I will not marry this Theria."
     "Come now. You speak as if you have never met the girl. You should
have come to me, Willis. You know as well as I do that this marriage is
not good for the house. We will be eaten up by the Quikuches. Slowly at
first, but eventually key members of the Rithius family will disappear
or have sudden accidents. Our line will fade away and leave only the
cursed Quikuches to take what we have built!"
     Tavram Bi'Shor was quite emphatic as he made his ploy to gain
Willis as an ally. His eyes were wide with vigor, and he wrung his hands
as he spoke. The man seemed genuinely distraught, and it was possible,
Willis presumed, that he was not lying. It was only moments, however,
before his uncle had returned to his earlier serenity. He gave a rueful
shrug and smile.
     "Now you know where I stand, Willis. You may go to your mother, who
will only bring ruin to this family, or you can listen to what I have to
say and save your future. You are the only heir. You must realize you
would be Kipiqin's first target in his bid to control the house."
     "Actually makes sense," Willis thought to himself. But he was not
foolish enough to think he could trust this man. He doubted he could
trust anyone in his family, including Gizzel. It was obvious from the
previous evening that his uncle had waited for him to speak to his
mother before approaching, undoubtedly because he knew Lady Kay and
Willis would not have had an agreeable reunion. Then, like the very
vultures Willis had expected, Tavram had come to make his pitch.
     "I will think on your words, uncle," he replied.
     When Willis did not elaborate, Tavram Bi'Shor rose from his chair
and gave his nephew a nod of acquiescence. "I hoped we might continue
our discussion after the evening meal over a pipe."
     Willis gave a quiet nod and his uncle moved to open the door.
     "One other thing, Willis," his uncle said in a low voice. "Joaja
knows you have returned. You must watch where you take yourself after
dark. He has not forgotten your last encounter." Then he was gone.
Joaja? The guard at the front gate? What could he have done to a house
guard? He took a deep breath. His past seemed a dark cesspool of
deception and trickery. Was there no end to the arrogance in his family?
Was everyone of his blood so villainous? No wonder he had run from here.
     He rose from his chair and exited his chambers, passing the
steward, Kiska Spael. The man bowed lightly as Willis passed. Kiska was
an odd character, Willis decided. He was very darkly tanned, not pale
like the people of Baranur, and even darker in skin than the people of
Beinison, and he wore baggy breeches with strange designs sewn down the
sides. Kiska Spael seemed the only normal thing in the manor, as odd as
he was.
     Willis met no one as he made his way to the stairs, though voices
carried from the main foyer below. Stealthily he moved to the stairs and
peered around the corner of the solid railing of the hall that
overlooked the foyer. Three men were receiving orders from Lady Kay,
their garb thick and suited for travel. They wore swords as well. Idly
he wondered where he could get a sword. He could feel his hand twitch
almost involuntarily.
     Willis waited until the men departed and Lady Kay had moved into
the inner corridors of the manor before he descended the wide stairway
into the foyer. The light was bright through a series of stained windows
in the domed ceiling and the manor seemed alive -- a heavy contrast from
they way it had looked when he arrived. Still, he felt as chilled here
as he had on the ride from Port Vergindas on the river. He went out the
main entrance and emerged into a broad courtyard that was lightly
blanketed with new snow. He instantly felt the cold of the winter
morning, and it made him shiver.
     "I don't belong here," he thought to himself after staring at the
pale azure sky for a time. "My family is back in Dargon."
     "I must talk with you, Willis."
     Willis turned to meet Gizzel, who had followed him outside. Oddly
enough he had known that Gizzel had been standing there long before the
man had spoken.
     "You finally want to talk to me, Gizzel? It's been more than two
months and here I am, in the middle of this nightmare. You knew what was
here, Gizzel. You knew all I along what I'd find!"
     The bald man was silent a moment. Then he said, "I thought you had
changed, Willis. I was doing what was best for the house. You should not
have left. You could have brought your mother back from this lunacy of a
marriage. House Rithius will fall under the Quikuches shadow and we will
be worse off than we are now."
     "You should have left me in Dargon. I can't do anything. I don't
remember anything!"
     The bald man rubbed his head. "You must understand, Willis. I am a
defender of the house. Anything that threatens the house answers to me.
I will not put the house in jeopardy, no matter what is happening. I
gave my oath. There were reasons I told you nothing until now, but they
are my reasons. I have helped you as much as I was able."
     "Tell me, then," Willis muttered "Tell me who I am. Or do you have
a scheme like everyone else here?"
     "Just listen to me," Gizzel replied. "You are the son of Lady Kay
and Lord Choendor Rithius. You father fell ill after the war and has
been kept to his bed for years. House Rithius is a noble family of
Pyridain, but has kept much of its power the past three years by allying
itself to certain high-standing Benosian houses. To further solidify
that power, Lady Kay has arranged a marriage to Theria of House
Quikuches. House Quikuches is a high standing family in Beinison. Lady
Kay's want of power has become an obsession, Willis. That is why she is
so adamant."
     "I thought you said I was Baranurian, Gizzel." Willis was
suspicious of anything concerning his family now.
     "That's what makes this even more important to her, Willis. House
Rithius is Baranurian, but during the onset of the war it made its
allegiance to Beinison. Pyridain is no longer in Baranurian hands. This
house has had little standing because of its ancestry, but Lady Kay has
found ways to strengthen us, though I cannot say I agree with her
methods. Being the dog for the larger houses means we carry out the
tasks of more questionable legality."
     Willis felt his anger rising once more. "And you go along with
that, and even bring me here to join in it? I'll have no part of it!"
     Gizzel was quiet a moment. "I want you to bring the house back to
what it was, Willis. Lady Kay will destroy us." The bald man seemed
flustered, even offended "You left because you defied your mother and
refused her wishes. But you should have opposed her."
     "She is not my mother," Willis said faintly. "She will never be my
mother."
     Gizzel remained silent.
     "Back in Dargon you told me I had brothers, Gizzel. Where are
they?"
     Gizzel looked to the horizon. "They have been exiled, Willis. They
tried to oust your mother from the house after it became apparent you
would not return to claim your birthright. Your father was already
bedridden when it happened. They were lucky that Lady Kay did not
execute them."
     Willis shook his head sadly. Just another poison in a pit of
snakes. This was his family, bleak and twisted. "What is the Order of
the Dragon?" he asked.
     The bald man breathed deeply, as if he had been expecting the
question. "We are of the order, you and I, as were your brothers. We
stand for Beinison. We are masters of the blade and soldiers of its army
in the name of the house."
     Willis had no memories of even lifting a sword. "Is this," he held
out his palm, "the mark of the order?"
     Gizzel nodded slightly. "You were pledged to the Emperor. It was
done before he was assassinated, as an oath of allegiance. He demanded
it of all Choendor<6F>s sons. I was also pledged."
     "The old Willis was pledged to the Emperor," Willis muttered. "I am
not that same man, Gizzel."
     The bald man simply nodded again.
     "I am leaving this place."
     Gizzel frowned. "Not wise, Willis. Lady Kay knows of Deserae. She
knows almost everything. She will not let you go."
     "She can't be serious about what she said. Not about what she would
do."
     "Maybe not a pigeon flight. She may have connections that far away,
but certainly not an assassin in Dargon. Though she does have other
means to carry out her threat." Gizzel moved to the doors leading into
the foyer. "I fear Lady Kay is growing desperate, Willis. You draw her
to the edge." Then he was gone.
     Willis ran his hands through his hair. He had to get out of here.
He waited for Gizzel to leave before he moved to the door and stuck his
head into the foyer. A servant was hurrying up the stairs, but he saw no
one else, so made his way through the chamber and into the same hallway
he had traversed the previous night. He walked for several menes before
he found what he sought.
     The standing suit of armor and sword in scabbard were where he
remembered them to be. Willis took the belt and pulled a hand's width of
blade from the scabbard to note it was freshly oiled and not merely
meant for display. As he fastened the belt about his waist so that the
scabbard hung at his hip, the action felt oddly familiar; intimate.
Steeling himself with a deep breath he strode back toward the foyer,
intent on reaching the stables.
     "And just what are you doing wandering about the manor with a
sword, Willis?" came a cold voice from behind. Lady Kay stood in the
hallway with Tavram Bi'Shor. They had obviously stumbled upon him during
a morning discussion.
     "I am leaving," he announced as he turned back from the archway of
the main foyer to face them.
     Lady Kay raised her thin brows while Tavram chuckled.
     "No one simply leaves the house, boy," Tavram said. "You of all
people should know that now. Come, sit and share a pipe. We can discuss
your wedding."
     Willis knew his uncle's words were said merely for Lady Kay; he
could see the sparkle of glee in the man's eyes. Tavram Bi'Shor would be
able to resume his plans -- whatever dark plans they were -- with Willis
gone and his brothers exiled.
     "You will let me leave, Lady Kay," Willis stated flatly. He would
not say 'mother'. Never 'mother'. "You will let me leave and live my
life." The way the woman smiled made Willis fume. He nearly drew his
blade then and there. Instead he clenched his fists. "If you think to
hurt Deserae you will have to kill me."
     "But, my dear Willis," she said with mock sincerity, "I have
already arranged for her to meet three of your cousins. Dargon holds
nothing for you now."
     The possibilities in such a statement did not take long to settle
upon him. Deserae flashed in his mind. The men in the foyer that
morning!
     "Damn you!" Willis roared. "Damn you to Eilli-Syk!" He ran. He ran
through the foyer, past servants he did not recognize, and into the
inner-courtyard that was bitter cold. The winter air made him draw a
breath, and in his silk shirt he stood trembling; from cold or rage he
could not tell. He looked about and saw the stables he had came to on
their arrival. He had to get out of here! Had to stop them!
     The stable hand was standing in the open gateway of the stables,
and his eyes grew wide as Willis glared at him. Joaja, the guard he had
seen at the gate, stood behind the boy, arms folded over his chest. He
stood in an iron breastplate and gauntlets, a thick cloak draped over
his shoulders.
     "Out of the way, boy," he said and pushed the stable hand to one
side roughly. "He is not permitted to leave the manor." Then he grinned
mirthlessly. "I have been waiting for this."
     Willis had a hand to the hilt of his sword before he realized what
he was doing. "I have no fight with you. Get out of my way." Something
told him to strike, to be finished with this.
     "You have no fight with me?" he replied incredulously. "You have no
fight with me? I will teach you not to walk over me. I told you that
would be the last time you slight me. Baranurian scum!"
     Willis felt a twinge of dark humor in Joaja's words. He was going
to duel this man for something he did not remember doing. But his horse
was within sight. Every moment Lady Kay's assassins moved closer to
Dargon and Deserae.
     Willis snarled and drew his blade, advancing on the guard with
graceful strides. It was like a dance he had stepped to so many times
before. His heart raced, his entire body was poised. The sword felt like
an old friend in his hand: an old trustworthy friend. His mind was
crisp, pulled by the anticipation of combat.
     Strike, something told him. Strike!
     Swords clashed as the two men closed. It was as if he had done this
a thousand times before. Willis parried and struck. He used forms of
attack that came to him only an instant before the act, and defensive
maneuvers that seemed born of habit. Joaja was an adept swordsman, as
well, and the two men were locked in battle for menes before they
parted, glaring at each other and panting.
     Without a word Joaja lunged, his blade sliding in just clear of
Willis' ribs. Willis saw the opportunity as naturally as he would have
seen a door swing wide open. He twirled on the ball of one foot and
brought the blade in a downward swing in one motion. It buried itself in
Joaja's neck with a sickening crunch, but did not sever all the way. The
body fell to the snow, lifeblood spilling a dark stain beneath it.
     "What have you done?" Gizzel cried as he ran to the scene from the
courtyard. "Willis!"
     Willis stood before the body, teetering on the cusp of sanity. His
mind was alive, overwhelmed. Memories flooded into him like a torrent,
washing over everything, burning his soul. He could feel who he had
been; the violence, the dark thoughts that had once flowed though him
were like poison. Images seared through him, of Lady Kay, his father
wasting away from a rotting disease, others of the manor that he now
recognized. And what he knew of himself made him sick to his very core.
The tortures, the killings, all in the name of the house. Corrupt, all
of it. Even him.
     Then Maura screamed at him to save her, to pull her back to the
deck. He tried, gods how he had tried to save her! The salt water stung
his eyes, loosened his grip, made him slip to the deck under a crashing
wave. He saw an empty hand. Gone. He had lost her.
     Joaja glared at him. Glared at Maura as she and Willis fled from
the manor. "You took her from me, Baranurian scum!" he wailed. "The only
thing I had and you took her from me! Never again! You'll die next time
we meet! Hear me, Willis!"
     Willis crumpled to the ground, kneeling numbly at the corpse before
him. It was too much to bear. The evil of his past life held him like
old chains. He would never escape it now. Never escape knowing the
things he had done.
     A hand gripped his shoulder.
     "Willis, get up will you?" Gizzel hauled Willis to his feet. "Get
up and get out of here. Lady Kay has sent the Red Troupe to Dargon,
Willis. I just heard of it! You have to go after them."
     Willis nodded mutely, looking into his old friend's eyes. He saw no
corruption there. He saw a man that had helped him. Recognition flashed
in the young man's gaze.
     "We were friends, damn you! Can't you remember that?" Gizzel
exclaimed.
     Willis looked about, down at the corpse, at the stable hand that
stood terrified only several paces away. Then the boy disappeared into
the shadows of the stables. His head began to clear.
     His horse. He had wanted his horse.
     "You will need a coat and supplies," Gizzel said as he pulled
Willis into the stables and up to his mount. He went deeper into the
stables, emerging several moments later with a thick cloak and gloves,
and a bundle that he tied to the saddle.
     Willis turned and stared at the man who had taken him from Dargon
so many sennights ago. There was something different about him, about
his eyes. Shame. He was betraying the house, betraying his oath by
helping him get away from the manor.
     "You do remember, don't you?" Gizzel said softly.
     With a nod he put a hand to Gizzel's shoulder. "I do, my friend."
     Suddenly he realized he still held the sword and sheathed it
hastily.
     "You are not the same person, Willis. I had hoped you might have
been a changed man when you left with the Maura girl. I see now that you
truly are. Farewell, my friend. I am sorry I cannot help you further."
     "Thank you for everything, Gizzel," Willis said as he donned the
cloak and gloves, and turned to mount his horse. "Do you know which way
they went?"
     His question was met with an empty stable; Gizzel was not there.
     After a brief moment of reflection he spurred his horse and
galloped out onto the roadway, past Joaja's body, past the courtyard and
onto the road to the gatehouse. When he finally approached the manor
gate he found that the men opened the gate without question when they
saw him appear. He thought of Gizzel, and silently thanked him once
more. With a snort of steam his mount bounded to a gallop.
     Willis Rithius reflected on his life -- or rather the life he had
not remembered until now -- and recalled acts and deeds that chilled his
spine. He felt his own blanket of shame, and he was stunned with
chagrin. He would never escape those memories, no matter how hard he
tried. Spurring his horse on, he was oblivious to the cold. Even
oblivious to the tears freezing on his cheeks.
     "They will pay," he thought darkly. He had been a swordsman once.
He could be so again.

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