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1318 lines
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DDDDD ZZZZZZ //
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D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE ||
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D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 14
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-=========================================================+<OOOOOOOOO>|)
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D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 6
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DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE ||
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\\
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\
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========================================================================
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DargonZine Distributed: 7/1/2001
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Volume 14, Number 6 Circulation: 736
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========================================================================
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Contents
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Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
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Last Night I Dreamed I
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Tried to Kiss You Jon Evans Seber 14, 1016
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Triskele: Lorelei P. Atchley and Vibril 21, 1018
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Rhonda Gomez
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Death Has a Pale Face 2 Nicholas Wansbutter Seber, 1017
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========================================================================
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DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a
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collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
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We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
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Please address all correspondence to <dargon@shore.net>or visit us
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on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/, or our FTP site at
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ftp://users.primushost.com/members/d/a/dargon/. Issues and public
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discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.
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DargonZine 14-6, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright July, 2001 by
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the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@shore.net>,
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Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@mnsinc.com>. All rights reserved.
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All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories
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and artwork appearing herein may not be reproduced or redistributed
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without the explicit permission of their creators, except in the case
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of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution.
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Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
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========================================================================
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Editorial
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by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
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<ornoth@shore.net>
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As an Internet-only publication, DargonZine functioned for many
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years without our writers ever meeting one another face-to-face. It
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seems difficult to believe now, but before we started having annual
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gatherings of our writers, we were actually a little concerned about
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meeting in person. Would our fellow writers turn out to be people you
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wouldn't want to be around? Would people get along with one another?
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Would disagreements begun on our discussion list carry over and grow
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into divisive conflicts in person? And even if everything went well,
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would just meeting one another change the healthy group dynamic we'd
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built up over the years?
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For many years, meetings between writers were rare, and mostly
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one-on-one; as Editor, of course, I met more than most, and got along
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well with just about everyone. But it was ten years after the founding
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of FSFnet, later to become DargonZine, before any sizeable or organized
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meetings took place. The change happened gradually over the mid-1990s.
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In 1994 I spent a two week vacation driving from Boston to Austin, and
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met six of our writers who lived along my route. In 1995 and 1996 three
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or four of our more active writers got together (in Boston and Denver,
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respectively), again on personal vacations and also as trial runs for a
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larger gathering.
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Those initial meetings worked out well, so the next year, 1997, we
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planned our first official Dargon Writers' Summit, with attendance open
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to all our writers. Our goals were to have fun, get to know one another,
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set some direction for the magazine, and explore the craft of writing.
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As it happened, we had a lot of fun running around our host city of
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Washington DC, got a lot of valuable work done in focused working
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sessions, and generated a lot of excitement and enthusiasm about
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DargonZine. It was by all measures a resounding success and forever
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dispelled our earlier fears about getting our writers together.
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Five years later, we have just returned from our fifth Summit,
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which took place at the beginning of June. This was our most lightly
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attended gathering, because some people have recently left the project,
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and others had time conflicts. Although only six Dargon writers (and one
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former writer) showed up, we still got a lot done and had a blast, as
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well.
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Each year one of our writers volunteers to take on the
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responsibility of hosting the Summit in their home town. Hosting is a
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big job; it involves not just planning activities, but securing lodging,
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reserving (and paying for) conference space, coordinating (and paying
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for) transportation, planning airport pick-ups and departures, and much
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more, and none of it should be allowed to go wrong.
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This year's host was Rena Deutsch, and she did a superb job as she
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shuttled us between our base in San Jose, California, and San Francisco.
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Typically we try to find things to do that are unique to our host area,
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but which still allow us to socialize with one another. In San Jose, we
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visited the Rosicrucian Egyptian Museum, and also the Winchester Mystery
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House, one of the most ludicrously-built domiciles made by man. In San
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Francisco we crawled around on the rocks at the Cliff House, walked the
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Golden Gate Bridge, and sang with the sea lions at Fisherman's Wharf.
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All that, in addition to Summit standard activities like billiards,
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mini-golf, go-karting, crazy tabletop games, and, of course, plenty of
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eating! Big thanks go to Rena for running one of the smoothest Summits
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we've had to date!
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About a third of our time at each Summit is devoted to serious
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work, and this year's working sessions focused primarily on
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co-authoring, a topic which has come up repeatedly due to several recent
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co-authored stories. We had in-depth discussions about what makes a
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co-authoring experience work, and then followed it up by splitting into
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three pairs and getting some hands-on experience by collaboratively
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drafting some stories. In fact, there's talk about finishing and
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publishing two of the three stories that came out of our writing
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exercise!
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Of course, that wasn't our exclusive focus. We got to learn more
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about DargonZine's history by sharing some project folklore; we
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continued to evolve and refine our mentoring program; we talked about
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how we make more use of the shared elements of the Dargon milieu; we
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reviewed our annual goals; and we had a contest to see who could write
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the best story lead-ins. As you can imagine, the working sessions were
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intense, but among the most productive we've ever had.
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And, looking back on five years of Summits, and after having met 23
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of the 48 published Dargon writers, I continue to be amazed that we were
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concerned about what might happen if we got our writers together in
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person. Each of our Summit meetings has been productive, rewarding,
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exciting, and helped move DargonZine and our writers forward. And more
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than anything else, it's been great fun sharing so many unique and
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interesting experiences with the great people who freely give their time
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and energy to produce stories for DargonZine.
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A write-up and photos from this year's Dargon Writers' Summit can
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be seen on the Web at <http://www.dargonzine.org/summit01.shtml>.
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This issue features a poignant new short piece from Jon Evans, who
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returns to the scene of his 1997 story "Sailor's Homecoming". The issue
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continues with the second installment of P. Atchley and Rhonda Gomez's
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three-part "Triskele", and concludes with the second half of Nick
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Wansbutter's "Death Has a Pale Face".
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That's it for now, but look for us again in another six weeks or
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so. Thanks for your continued interest in DargonZine, and please help us
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stay in business by spreading the word!
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========================================================================
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Last Night I Dreamed I Tried to Kiss You
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by Jon Evans
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<godling@mnsinc.com>
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Seber 14, 1016
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It was a lazy summer afternoon. A perfect blue sky, lightly spotted
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with clouds, reminded Andrew of calm waters in the deep sea. He loved
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Port Sevlin. He just wished it was located on the seashore, rather than
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two hundred leagues inland up the Laraka River. He closed his eyes and
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imagined he could smell the salt air and hear the soliloquies of the
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screegulls as they glided in the cool breeze. Leaving the scent of the
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river behind, Andrew meandered slowly up the street toward his favorite
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port of call, the Lazy Madame Inn.
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Andrew walked into the common room, greeted by the sights and
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sounds of friends and neighbors enjoying each others' company. George
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Kilgreen sat back in his chair, his guard duties a distant thought while
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he sipped mead and chatted with Smitty the blacksmith. Tom McFarley and
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Old Kabula sat in the corner playing at cards with a quiet restraint, in
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contrast to their usual fervent competition.
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The windows in the tavern were wide open, with dust swirls floating
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in the sunlight and the breeze. Despite the room being half full of
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patrons, the noise of the tavern was low: no one wanted to disturb the
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peaceful relaxation of the afternoon. Sandy's red hair and bright smile
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greeted Andrew from the other end of the bar. The waitress was the only
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person in the Lazy Madame who was displaying any energy. But even her
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movements between the tables, refilling mugs and clearing plates, had a
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lackadaisical air. Andrew made his way to an empty stool at the bar, and
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waited for her.
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Sandy returned from the floor with an armful of plates and mugs,
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which she deposited onto the bar. "Hey, haven't seen you in a couple
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days," Sandy said. She leaned over and gave Andrew a hug.
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"Been workin'," he replied.
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"Well, I thought I might see you today. I had a dream about you
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last night."
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Andrew smiled. "I knew you'd come around."
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Faster than he could react, Sandy drew her weapon -- the dish towel
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she kept at her waist -- and whacked his shoulder. "Not like that," she
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added. Kenneth, her father and the owner of the Lazy Madame, entered
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through the door behind the bar, the scents of his cooking following him
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in from the kitchen.
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"Afternoon, Andy!" Kenneth greeted him and shook his hand. "Draw
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you an ale?"
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"Well, I wasn't planning on one yet," he replied. "But I suppose I
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could be convinced -- it being such a beautiful day."
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"Seems like a lot of people have that thought," Kenneth said, and
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nodded at his patrons. "Hot summer day, and instead of being in the
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fields or at the dock, they're coming in here and enjoying an ale."
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Kenneth smiled. "I love my job." He placed his large, aging hand on the
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tap and slowly pulled back, drawing beer into the mug for Andrew.
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Andrew turned to look at Sandy. "So, you had a dream."
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"Yes," she replied. "It was very nice ... it was like the old days,
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before the war. You and Driftwood ... going swimming in the river and
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building a fire at Coleman's field. And that time he stole the lyre from
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the bard who stayed at the inn? And you told him he couldn't have it
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back unless he came out to Coleman's and played in the moonlight."
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Kenneth looked wide-eyed at Andrew. "You two did that?"
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Andrew just smiled with the memory. "Yeah. But he got us back.
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While we were sleeping, he stole a cow and herded it back to the camp.
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We woke up to the insistent boots of the guard, who were very interested
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in talking to us."
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Sandy smiled. "Well, anyway ... that's why I thought you'd come by,
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today."
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"So now you're a sage, predicting events with your dreams?" Andrew
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smiled.
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"Memories is all it was," Kenneth piped in.
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"But that wasn't one specific time we shared," Sandy replied. "That
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dream had elements from several days we spent together."
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"Then jumbled memories, which is even worse," Kenneth replied.
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"Is that all dreams are?" Andrew asked.
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"Sometimes they're wishes." Sandy replied. "Part of me certainly
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wishes I could relive those days."
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"So do I," Andrew softly added. She had promised to marry him,
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once.
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"Useless is what they are," Kenneth put in. "Just a waste of time.
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Although sometimes they're fun," he added, with a far away look in his
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eyes. "Entertaining. But generally useless."
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"I don't know," Andrew replied. "Perhaps they remind us of things
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we would otherwise forget."
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"Or tell us lies," Kenneth countered.
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"Perhaps."
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Later in the evening, as the fire flickered slowly to its end,
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Andrew and Sandy stood by the door. The cool air carried the sounds of
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the river through the night.
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"You know," he said, "one of the reasons I keep hanging around here
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is because Driftwood and I promised each other we'd watch over you. We
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were very much in love with you."
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"And I loved both of you," she replied. She looked up at him then,
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and timidly asked, "And the other reason?"
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He hesitated, gathering his nerve. "Because I'm not quite over
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you," he confessed.
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He met her gaze then, and suddenly his whole vision was encompassed
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by those dark eyes. His breathing became shallow and rapid, and his
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throat went dry. He reached a hand out to stroke her cheek. His stomach
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knotted. His eyes studied every facet of her face: her cheek bones, her
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lips, her chin. He imagined the warmth of her breath, the intoxicating
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musk of desire. But when he looked back into her eyes, he did not see
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desire. He saw fear.
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"Andy ..."
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He looked down, and then at the door. When he turned to her again,
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he avoided her eyes. His voice shook as he spoke, "I should be getting
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--"
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"Yeah, I've gotta finish ... " she said, taking the towel from her
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apron. Suddenly, the bar needed to be wiped.
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When he closed the door behind him, he heard her bar it.
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Sunrise found Sandy and Andrew in the common room, as Kenneth made
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breakfast in the kitchen.
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"How'd you sleep?" Andrew asked. "Any dreams last night?"
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"No," she replied. She still couldn't look Andrew in the eyes. "I
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didn't sleep all that well."
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"I slept wonderfully!" Kenneth exclaimed as he came in from the
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kitchen. "Never slept better! No dreams, though. Not as I could
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remember, anyway." Kenneth placed two plates of eggs on the bar. "But
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you know dreams, they disappear like a spring fog at sunup, and all
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you've got are scattered memories at best. How 'bout you, Andrew?" he
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asked as he stepped back into the kitchen.
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"I dreamed," Andrew replied softly, so softly that only Sandy could
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hear. Finally, she met his gaze. "Last night I dreamed I tried to kiss
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you. I very much wanted to. But I finally understood that you don't love
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me ... not like that." He paused. "And I knew, quite suddenly, that you
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would never be mine."
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"What's that you're saying?" Kenneth asked as he returned from the
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kitchen.
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"Maybe dreams are sometimes lessons," Andrew replied. "They show us
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a part of reality that we refuse to see for ourselves. And while the
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images may fade with the morning sun, the memory of the lesson lingers,
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and we learn by it."
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"In that case," Kenneth conceded, "maybe dreams are useful after
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all."
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========================================================================
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Triskele: Lorelei
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by P. Atchley and Rhonda Gomez
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<dpartha@usa.net> and <RhondaGmz@aol.com>
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Vibril 21, 1018
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Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 14-5
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"Oh, Thyerin!" The words tumbled from her lips before she realized
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they had escaped. "Is it ... can it be a man?" She spoke aloud, though
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no one could have heard her over the waters raging over Thyerin's Falls.
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Viveka remained frozen like a tree in the forest for a mene longer than
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was necessary because she simply couldn't understand the scene before
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her. It was not that the river had never taken a life; it had. But
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Viveka had been so lost in the serenity of the morning that tragedy was
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the last thing on her mind. Then, as she had carefully picked her way
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along the slippery path next to the river, she had seen him: a dead man,
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washed over the rocks and tossed against the bank like driftwood.
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Viveka guessed immediately that he was a soldier; none of the
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villagers, or anyone else around those parts, ever wore their hair
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cropped so short. He also wore, recognizable even at a distance, the
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dark trousers favored by the soldiers of Dargon.
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She tossed her basket to the ground and slid on her bottom the rest
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of the way down the steep path that hugged the falls of the Run. As soon
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as she reached him she realized that he wasn't dead after all; she saw
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his chest slowly rise and fall. He was alive, but his side and his head
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were bleeding sluggishly -- he was terribly wounded. She raced back
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across the river and through the forest to the home that she shared with
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Nessa, the new village herbalist.
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"Nessa, help!" she panted as she ran inside the cottage.
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After Viveka's father died, Nessa had taken over as the village
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herbalist. At first, Viveka had been moderately shocked that such a
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young woman would wear her long, raven hair unbound, but then she
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decided that perhaps Nessa had chosen to wear it thus in order to hide
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the dark brandywine-colored stain that covered the right side of her
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face. At Viveka's sudden entrance, Nessa jerked her head around and all
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her lovely, dark hair fanned out from her upper body like a midnight
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halo.
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"Slow down, Viv. What's wrong?" she asked, and grunted in anger as
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the small pestle that she had been working tumbled to the floor.
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"I found a man by the Run," Viveka said as she began to wring her
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hands. "He fell down the riverfall, and he's hurt. I couldn't pull him
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out, and he's not awake."
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"Is he alive?" Nessa rose and pulled down her medicine basket,
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checking its contents instinctively.
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"Yes," Viveka replied, her voice breaking on the one word. "He's
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breathing. But there's blood all over his head. Scratches everywhere,
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and there's something wrong with his leg." Her voice rose sharply toward
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the end.
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Nessa took some folded fabric squares from an upper shelf against
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the wall and tucked them into her basket. Then she lifted several
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straight, hearty tree limbs from a pile in the corner by the shelf and
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said, "We're going to need help from some of the men to bring him 'ere."
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As if trying to think of something she might have missed, she looked up
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and down at each of the shelves. Finding nothing, she continued,
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"Viveka, go to the village and get Rakti and Jace. Bring 'em to the
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river. Tell me where the man is, and I'll go ahead."
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"Go down the path that leads to the falls. He's there, at the
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bottom." Viveka's voice became shrill yet again as she said, "Hurry,
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Nessa. He looked really bad!"
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Nessa paused while stepping out of the cottage and smiled gently at
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her. "Don't worry. We'll take care of it. Straight?"
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"Straight."
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Viveka ran quickly to the village and collected Rakti and Jace.
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After showing the two young men where Nessa waited with the wounded
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river man, Viveka hurried back to the cottage to make up a cot for their
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new patient. As soon as she entered the cottage, she felt a tremendous
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sense of relief. The familiar comfort of her home and the ready supply
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of healing ingredients quickened her courage, which had been dwindling
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at the thought of the nursing that was sure to be needed.
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With the exception of the common hearth, it was as if the cottage
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had been split in two by an invisible line. One side of the cottage,
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Viveka's side, was neat and orderly with surfaces that were completely
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bare; everything was put properly in its place except for two wooden
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dolls lying on a table aligned snugly against the longest wall. Viveka
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could have sworn that she had placed those dolls in their proper places
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before departing from the cabin that morning, but since she didn't have
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time to worry about dolls at that moment, she quickly gathered them up
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and set them back on the shelf. One doll was a man, the other a lady,
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both unfinished. The top part of the male doll had been fully carved
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with a clean-shaven face and close-cropped hair. The female doll wore
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flowing skirts over a big bustle, but the head was incomplete.
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The left side of the room, Nessa's side, was a riot of plants:
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dried herbs hung from the rafters, large and small bowls of stones and
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herbs lay scattered about, and her unmade cot was shoved carelessly into
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a corner. The clutter normally distracted Viveka, but not that day. She
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quickly made up a cot in front of the hearth and finished just as Nessa
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entered.
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"Gently boys, gently," Nessa remonstrated as the two young men
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clamored through the low doorway, both having to duck. They moved to the
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cot and placed the man on it. "Thank you, Jace, Rakti." Nessa nodded to
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them and said, "Jace, send Sona 'round and Rakti, send yer mum. I'll
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give 'em a couple of days worth of supplies for your 'elp." Then Nessa
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turned her attention to the wounded man.
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"How is he?" Viveka asked, staring down at the patient, knowing
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full well that Nessa would be unable to answer that question
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immediately. The man's hair framed a face with high cheekbones, an
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aquiline nose and thin lips. He had broad shoulders and muscular arms,
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suggesting that he was no stranger to hard labor.
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Nessa catalogued as if she were compiling a list of herbs. "Big
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bump on the head: probably hit hisself against a rock. It's really bad
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-- must've have happened when he went over the falls. Cut on the temple.
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Broken nose. Broken leg. Deep cut on the side. Scrapes and scratches."
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Nessa looked at Viveka then, her countenance troubled, and said firmly,
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"He'll need to be watched and cared for. Yer going to have to help me."
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Viveka's heart filled with dread. When her father, Mushtaq, had
|
|
fallen ill, Nessa had been living with them and working with Mushtaq for
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a year or more and had nursed him in the beginning. But Nessa's growing
|
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duties to the village had taken her away more often than not. Nursing
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her father had fallen to Viveka without warning.
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|
During one of Nessa's absences Viveka's father had died. His last
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rattling breath, the sudden cessation of his life force, the ominous
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silence in the hut, and the certainty that she now had no family left in
|
|
the world had all sunk into Viveka like a freezing Deber wind. She had
|
|
never been able to reconcile herself to the fact that her father, an
|
|
herbalist, had died, even though a corner of her mind realized that
|
|
people did die. He should have been able to cure himself. Yet, in spite
|
|
of her fear, how could she refuse to care for this helpless soldier?
|
|
"Yes, of course," Viveka answered slowly.
|
|
And she had helped. For two days she had nursed and cared for him
|
|
as he lay sleeping. Then one morning, as Nessa was changing the bandage
|
|
on the man's head, he opened his eyes. "I see yer with us," she said in
|
|
her habitually low and steady voice.
|
|
Viveka had been making porridge at the fire. She turned and
|
|
approached the cot. The man's blinding blue eyes wandered to meet hers.
|
|
Viveka stared into them and drowned, her breath suspended in her chest.
|
|
She stood there, like one of her dolls, mesmerized by the brilliance of
|
|
his gaze.
|
|
Dimly, Viveka heard Nessa say, "This is Viveka," as if from a long
|
|
distance away. She realized at some level that Nessa was introducing her
|
|
and she thought it odd because, though the river man and Viveka had
|
|
never been formally introduced, she knew him.
|
|
While caring for him, Viveka had become intimately familiar with
|
|
every part of his body. Never having nursed a helpless a man in the
|
|
prime of his life, Viveka had found the experience unsettling. The
|
|
bodily contact and his dependence on her for such simple tasks as
|
|
bathing and eating had created a strange feeling in Viveka. She knew
|
|
every aspect of him as if he were a doll that she had dispassionately
|
|
fashioned with her own hands. She could trace the map of the scars on
|
|
his back in her head.
|
|
"Who are you, and what were you doing in Thyerin's Run?" Nessa
|
|
asked with her normally abrupt manner. After a long pause his eyes
|
|
turned away from Viveka toward Nessa. Viveka took a deep breath and
|
|
moved closer to the bed, anxious to hear his response.
|
|
He opened his mouth and only air came out. He cleared his throat
|
|
and spoke. It was a nice voice, Viveka thought dreamily, like the honey
|
|
Nessa used to mix some of her herbs.
|
|
"I am ..." his voice trailed off as he met Viveka's eyes.
|
|
Nessa coughed, the sound unusually loud in the silence.
|
|
He began again, "My name is ..." There was a short pause as he
|
|
gazed at Viveka and then he said, "I don't know. I can't remember."
|
|
Nessa raised her brows and asked, "Can't you remember what you were
|
|
doing just before you fell in the Run? You don't even know your name?"
|
|
"Um, well ... "
|
|
"Perhaps the bump on yer head," murmured Nessa. "Would you turn on
|
|
your side, please? I need to look at that bump."
|
|
He obediently turned toward them, still keeping his gaze locked
|
|
with Viveka's.
|
|
"The other side. Turn towards the other side," Nessa said softly.
|
|
He smiled a bit sheepishly at Nessa and turned to the other side,
|
|
letting his amusement touch Viveka as well. She felt her face redden and
|
|
saw his smile widen slightly before he turned away completely.
|
|
Nessa paused for a moment, examining the abrasion on his head
|
|
closely. "You will recover soon enough." She rose and went to the herb
|
|
shelf that took up the entire wall across from Viveka's worktable.
|
|
"Viveka, our patient needs to eat something. Can you give him a helping
|
|
of the porridge, please?"
|
|
Viveka ladled some porridge into a bowl and approached the cot
|
|
cautiously. He was still lying on his side and she walked around to face
|
|
him. When he saw the food, he attempted to sit up but she quickly
|
|
admonished him, "Oh, wait! Don't try to sit up; you've had a nasty
|
|
bump."
|
|
As she leaned over to press her hand against his chest, her hair --
|
|
as yet unbound for the day -- brushed across his face. She heard him
|
|
take a deep breath and she turned to look directly into his eyes. "Um,
|
|
here, let me adjust your pillow and you can lean against the wall. I'll
|
|
feed you." She pulled up a stool and sat down next to the bed.
|
|
"Thank you."
|
|
"You're welcome." Viveka watched his mouth as she slowly began to
|
|
feed him and unconsciously moved her lips to match the movement of his.
|
|
Between bites, he said, "You have a lovely mouth. Do you sing?"
|
|
"Sometimes." Viveka blushed again, suddenly, when a vivid image of
|
|
his broad, naked back flashed in her head. "Do you, um, remember
|
|
anything of what happened?"
|
|
He hesitated for moment and then said in a rush, "I guess it can't
|
|
be that important if I've forgotten." They both smiled at that, and she
|
|
looked away.
|
|
"Don't look away, please."
|
|
Her heart thumped in her chest and she smiled down at him. When her
|
|
eyes again met his, he said, "Perhaps it was my time to journey down
|
|
Thyerin's Run."
|
|
She frowned and said, "Why do you say that?"
|
|
"Let's just say I had cause to be reborn." His eyes fell away from
|
|
hers, letting her imagine that he was suffering greatly with regret,
|
|
undoubtedly associated with his days of war.
|
|
In an attempt to change his mood, she asked in amusement, "Oh, yes?
|
|
You don't even remember your name. How could you possibly know what the
|
|
gods desire for you?"
|
|
The young man laughed and replied with goodwill, "Aye. Well, you
|
|
can call me whatever you like," and his brows arched on the last word.
|
|
"Oooh, is that right, river man? I shall call you," Viveka paused
|
|
dramatically, her eyes wandering to his bright hair. Then she smiled at
|
|
him mischievously, "Yellow."
|
|
"Yellow?" His voice tightened and the smile disappeared from his
|
|
eyes.
|
|
"What did you say?" Nessa asked and Viveka realized that she hadn't
|
|
even noticed the other woman's approach.
|
|
"Nothing," Viveka replied. She cocked her head to one side and
|
|
looked at him questioningly.
|
|
"Viveka has decided to give me a name since I don't remember my
|
|
own." He paused for effect. "She chose 'Yellow'."
|
|
"Viveka, that's rude," Nessa scolded.
|
|
"Not at all." He smiled at Viveka and arched his brows again. "It
|
|
was a natural choice, because of the color of my hair," he said, staring
|
|
up at Nessa this time.
|
|
Nessa looked at Viveka sharply. "Is that so?" she said
|
|
noncommittally. Her gaze dropped slowly away from Viveka's and she
|
|
commanded, "Turn around, Yellow. I need to bandage your head."
|
|
|
|
Yellow was not exactly what he appeared to be; it didn't take a
|
|
healer's instinct to know that. I had known it since the day that we
|
|
found him in the Run and I had seen the lash marks on his back. There
|
|
was something about him that confounded and confused me: he was both
|
|
tragically cruel and bewilderingly compassionate.
|
|
He had been with us longer than usual due to the severity of his
|
|
injuries. As the days grew into sennights my concern for Viveka
|
|
increased. It was obvious from the start that Yellow's attentions toward
|
|
Viveka were not honorable. Viveka was a very pretty woman, with perfect,
|
|
bow-shaped eyebrows crowning green eyes that were fringed with dark
|
|
eyelashes. But most of all, her long, brown hair which she wore in a
|
|
braided coronet, gave her a certain patrician air and changed her from a
|
|
pretty woman to a beautiful one.
|
|
It did not surprise me that Yellow desired her; rather it surprised
|
|
me that he could imagine that anyone of his station would have the right
|
|
to court someone like Viveka, if indeed that was what he wanted to do.
|
|
Her father, the village herbalist from whom I had learned my trade, had
|
|
been a man of great honor and integrity. I doubted that Yellow could
|
|
ever live up to Viveka's expectations. I was determined to bring an end
|
|
to this calamity, if not for Viveka's sake, then for Mushtaq's, for what
|
|
I knew he would have wanted for his daughter.
|
|
Therefore one morning when the three of us had just risen from our
|
|
beds and I was busying myself with the mortar and pestle, I said,
|
|
"Viveka, could you please cease your endless fiddling with those two
|
|
dolls and gather the chamomile that you promised to collect for me?"
|
|
Viveka had -- adding to my already troubled mind -- begun to
|
|
fashion two of her latest efforts into a pair of dolls that I thought
|
|
bore a remarkable resemblance to the doll-maker herself and to Yellow.
|
|
Viveka had never before created her dolls in the image of anyone that we
|
|
knew; even the most ignorant of souls knows that to capture the image of
|
|
a living person within a dead object is very bad magic. Why had she
|
|
started now? I didn't know; I didn't want to find out, and I intended to
|
|
put a stop to it as quickly as I could.
|
|
Viveka opened her mouth and then shut it. I could easily decipher
|
|
the emotions flitting over the other woman's face. She wanted to refuse
|
|
to go, or at least invite Yellow to go with her. Little did she know
|
|
that, in fact, that was the exact thing I wanted to prevent. But habit
|
|
forced Viveka to assent: a habit developed from years of gathering herbs
|
|
for herbalists, first her father and then me. I watched her push the
|
|
last hairpin into her coronet with unnecessary force, pick up a basket
|
|
and leave. This time she did not even look at Yellow.
|
|
I crossed the length of the cottage in a few quick strides, grabbed
|
|
the dolls that Viveka had left on the worktable, and stuffed them into
|
|
her basket. At the hearth, I hastily emptied the contents of the mortar
|
|
into a large pot and bent to pick it up. Yellow was beside me at once.
|
|
As his wounds healed, he had picked up a lot of the heavier work around
|
|
the cottage. I found his apparently genuine offers to help confusing.
|
|
"Let me." He picked up the pot with ease and placed it over the
|
|
wood laid for the fire.
|
|
"Let me? Let me! Thyerin be damned, Yellow. Why are you such a
|
|
snupper? You can stop the infernal pretending with me, eh?" I demanded
|
|
abruptly. "I know perfectly well what you are doing." He looked up at me
|
|
warily, and I knew he understood what I meant.
|
|
I sighed and began again. "You cannot do this, Yellow. You will
|
|
heal from your wounds and you will leave this place to go back to your
|
|
... whatever life you've led. Viveka will be left to deal with a broken
|
|
heart. Is that all you can give her?" That Yellow was hiding from
|
|
something in his past, I knew; that the secret was dishonorable, I
|
|
suspected.
|
|
It was his turn to sigh. "What the fark is that supposed to mean?"
|
|
"Don't break her heart, Yellow. She's innocent, but she is also
|
|
very stubborn. She needs the kind of man to whom the means are more
|
|
important than the end. I know who you are, Yellow. Those lash marks did
|
|
a lot more than just flay your skin."
|
|
He frowned, and walked to the window. Although it was almost
|
|
spring, there was still a bite to the air. Bare-chested, he shivered.
|
|
"Wrap a blanket around you. It's on the bed," I said roughly, the
|
|
healer in me concerned about the health of a man who was still
|
|
recuperating from nearly drowning, even though I disapproved of what he
|
|
was doing.
|
|
"Yes. I know who I am. I know who she is," he said, an edge of
|
|
anger in his voice that I was unaccustomed to. "A beautiful woman, too
|
|
good for the likes of me." He lifted the blanket from the cot and turned
|
|
to me then with a look of cold contempt, saying, "And for the likes of
|
|
you, Nessa. I'd venture to guess that, like the scars left on my back,
|
|
the stain on your face has marred more than your skin, eh?" His gaze did
|
|
not waver from mine as he continued, "I made a mistake, a long time ago.
|
|
And I paid for it with several miserable years as a mage's apprentice!"
|
|
He spat the last word out of his mouth as if it were slug of poison.
|
|
"What do you think about me, Nessa? Is that your big secret, that you
|
|
think I'm not good enough for her?" He laughed, and it was a short,
|
|
bitter sound. "I'm actually a thief!"
|
|
I turned my back on him and stirred the pot furiously. When I
|
|
looked back I was surprised to see that he was standing by Viveka's
|
|
workbasket and that he had removed the male doll which now lay at his
|
|
feet. "Gods! Now you're obsessed with those damned dolls as well," I
|
|
snapped, walking toward him.
|
|
He looked down to where my gaze fell and replied, "Huh? What are
|
|
you talking about?"
|
|
"The doll. You took it out of the basket didn't you?" I bent down
|
|
with some annoyance, picked up the doll and set it on the top shelf.
|
|
"No! I never touched the blasted thing." He dismissed the issue
|
|
abruptly and I saw his eyes move to the large dark stain that covered
|
|
the left side of my face. I sighed and stared out of the window,
|
|
remembering the past, stirring the pot absently. "We are not always who
|
|
we think we are, Yellow. I learned something from Viveka and her father.
|
|
Mushtaq was a wonderful man. He taught me to give kindness so that I
|
|
could receive compassion, for that was what I most longed for. What is
|
|
it that you want, Yellow? What is it that you long for, that you want
|
|
above all else?"
|
|
"Those are just words, Nessa," Yellow said scornfully. "I've done
|
|
things that I wasn't ashamed of, but which would horrify you."
|
|
"Stop it!" I interrupted him, shaking my head angrily. "Don't say
|
|
another word. I don't care if you're a part of the robber brotherhood,
|
|
or a part of the town guard. You regret your actions now, don't you?"
|
|
"Yes. No. I don't know, Nessa. I am who I am. I'm not going to
|
|
pretend to be a soldier simply because Viveka thinks soldiers are
|
|
honorable. Not all soldiers are honorable, and not all robbers are
|
|
knaves."
|
|
"That isn't the point, Yellow. The question is, are you an
|
|
honorable man, or are you a knave?"
|
|
Silently he stared out into the forest, until a sound at the
|
|
doorway signaled Viveka's arrival.
|
|
|
|
In the following days, I continued to watch the growing closeness
|
|
between Yellow and Viveka, deeply troubled in more ways than one. I
|
|
wished to stop it, but I didn't know what to do. The medic in me
|
|
rebelled at the thought of sending Yellow away before he was fully
|
|
healed. Finally, in an attempt to divert his mind from the doll-maker, I
|
|
decided to teach him herbal lore. Much to my surprise, he took to it
|
|
like a cheetar to running. I suspected that he knew some of the more
|
|
lethal herbs better than I did, yet I did not ask; there are some things
|
|
better left unasked and unanswered. I taught him the benign qualities of
|
|
the herbs that grew around us, and those that I grew in my own garden.
|
|
To my delight, he had a better manner with patients than Viveka
|
|
did, that I clearly saw in his interaction with one of the village
|
|
children. The little boy had hurt his knees and his mother had brought
|
|
him to the cottage. Most of the mothers in the village did not go
|
|
running to the healer when one of their children fell and scraped a
|
|
knee, but Truus was overly protective. Her daughter, Aliya, was
|
|
sickening with something that I did not recognize. She was fine on some
|
|
days and not so fine on others, but that she was wasting away was
|
|
something that I knew. And so I understood Truus' fears and made
|
|
allowances.
|
|
"Truus, what are you doing here?" I asked, smiling at the
|
|
red-haired woman who entered through the door. A sudden fear struck me.
|
|
"Is Aliya all right?"
|
|
"She's fine, Nessa," Truus hastened to reassure me. "It's Aziz."
|
|
The woman stepped aside to reveal a small boy about four years old.
|
|
I said, "Oh, look who's here: Aziz! Oh, poor baby, are you hurt?" I
|
|
bent and lifted up the small child, whose knee was badly scratched and
|
|
bloodied. He knuckled his eyes, hiccupping. As I petted him, he sat
|
|
trustingly in my arms, for he knew me well from my frequent visits to
|
|
his sister. "There, there, Aziz, we'll fix you up."
|
|
Yellow asked quietly, "May I?" He stood near Viveka's worktable
|
|
with a bowl of water, clean rags and a small pot of one of my decoctions
|
|
spread out before him. I sat Aziz down on the worktable and Yellow began
|
|
to clean the boy's knees.
|
|
"What's your name, little one?" he asked.
|
|
"A-Aziz," the child hiccupped again.
|
|
"Well, Aziz, my name is Yellow. You're going to be fine." He looked
|
|
up at me. "I'm going to clean his knees with the tincture." I
|
|
understood: the tincture he referred to had a sting.
|
|
"Aziz, see, Yellow is going to clean your knees because they're
|
|
full of dirt," I said, patting the child on his back.
|
|
"Aaah, hurts, it h-hurts," Aziz began to cry again.
|
|
"There, there, Aziz, everything is going to be fine now," I
|
|
soothed, hugging the boy. He cried some more into my shoulder before
|
|
subsiding. Truus extended her arms to the boy and he leapt into them.
|
|
"Thank you so much, sir," Truus said to Yellow, smiling at him. He
|
|
returned her smile but I sensed that it was a bit forced. I wondered
|
|
why. It was yet another puzzling contradiction in the river man.
|
|
"You're welcome. Aziz, see, you're going to be fine. I told you,
|
|
didn't I? Now I have something for you, for being such a good boy."
|
|
Yellow brought out a small sweet and popped it into Aziz' mouth. The
|
|
sweet was nothing but some dried apple pieces rolled in honey, but it
|
|
made the child smile.
|
|
"Fank you," Aziz lisped, smiling up at Yellow, his tears magically
|
|
gone.
|
|
"You're welcome," he repeated. "Now be off with you. And be
|
|
careful."
|
|
As we watched the woman leave, still carrying Aziz, he asked me,
|
|
"Should I go with them? Will they be safe alone?"
|
|
I stared at him in surprise. "Yellow, it's the second bell after
|
|
midday; the sun is still out and they're going home. What could possibly
|
|
happen to them?" He stared down at me with a strange expression in his
|
|
eyes but did not respond. I sensed that his question had a deeper
|
|
significance: that in a sense, it was a key to his past.
|
|
|
|
Three sennights later, with a basket of completed dolls on her arm,
|
|
Viveka entered the village common. The peddlar, Ezra Molag, hailed her.
|
|
"Mistress Viveka, how nice to see you again!" Ezra usually made two
|
|
trips a year to the village and he always bought her dolls. Sometimes he
|
|
even sent word requesting a special doll that a wealthy customer wanted.
|
|
She crossed quickly to the other side of the street and stood
|
|
before Ezra's stall. "Hello, Ezra. How are you?"
|
|
"Oh, could be better, could be worse," he offered. With his eyes on
|
|
the basket she carried, he asked, his voice eager, "So, what do you have
|
|
for me this time?"
|
|
Viveka rested the basket on the small makeshift counter he had put
|
|
up, and lifted out the dolls one by one. The first one was a big bear,
|
|
painted in a dark color. She smiled down at it proprietarily,
|
|
remembering how she had achieved that particular shade of blue-black: by
|
|
adding a tincture of blueberry to the basic pigment.
|
|
"Very nice," Ezra murmured. "I like it. I'll give you two Bits."
|
|
"Two Bits? That's robbery," she said, settling down to some hard
|
|
bargaining. Ezra liked to haggle and if she wasn't careful, he would
|
|
send her home with a pat on the back and some loose change. Viveka
|
|
needed to replace at least two of her tools: one of them had been
|
|
begging for a decent burial for a while. The tools wouldn't last for the
|
|
extra dolls she always made for Melrin. As for Nessa, Viveka knew she
|
|
needed another knife.
|
|
Ezra examined each of the dolls she had brought for him that day.
|
|
Viveka's brows knitted together as she noticed that two of the dolls lay
|
|
side by side a little away from the others, as if they were a pair that
|
|
couldn't be separated. Ezra's pudgy little fingers moved slowly over the
|
|
two dolls and Viveka felt an unexpected wave of fear grip her throat.
|
|
She snatched them away before he could touch them and said, "Not those.
|
|
I'm ... I made a mistake. Those aren't for sale."
|
|
He looked at her pointedly as she shoved them back into her basket,
|
|
and asked as his gaze fell back to the remaining dolls on the table,
|
|
"Only eight? You usually have more than ten for me when I come after
|
|
winter."
|
|
Viveka blushed guiltily. "We have a patient I've been helping to
|
|
take care of," she offered by way of explanation. Finally, he decided to
|
|
buy all of her dolls at a fair price and after making a brief stop to
|
|
deliver some herbs to Truus, she was soon on her way home.
|
|
When she arrived, Yellow was there, standing at the door with
|
|
Rakti. "What's the matter? Where's Nessa?" she asked.
|
|
"Sona's had the baby, and Jace is out in the fields somewhere.
|
|
Nessa asked me to come and get some more herbs, she said she needed
|
|
more; but I can't find them, and even if I did, I wouldn't know what
|
|
they were," Rakti paused for breath, obviously rattled.
|
|
Viveka glanced from him to Yellow, wondering what they had been
|
|
talking about. Rakti didn't get nervous that easily, yet here he was so
|
|
edgy that he was running his sentences together. "What herbs did Nessa
|
|
want?"
|
|
"Thistle down, silver weed and myrrh. The eight-herb decoction, and
|
|
the chamomile." Rakti's speech slowed to its normal cadence under her
|
|
gaze, and once again, Viveka wondered what had upset him.
|
|
Yellow stepped aside to allow Viveka inside the cottage. "I was
|
|
just about finished gathering what he needs, when we heard you coming.
|
|
Nessa's been teaching me some of the lore and I think I've got them all
|
|
straight."
|
|
She glanced into the basket Yellow had placed on the worktable,
|
|
nodded and smiled, "Yes, you seem to have managed quite well."
|
|
With a smile at Viveka, and barely a nod to Yellow, Rakti snatched
|
|
up the basket and muttered, "Aye, I'll be goin' then." He rushed out the
|
|
door only to return immediately, poke his head in the door with a grin
|
|
that stretched from ear to ear and say, "It's a boy! Sona's had a boy!"
|
|
They both smiled for a moment, but Rakti's leaving left a strange
|
|
silence inside the cottage. Viveka pulled out the two rescued dolls from
|
|
her basket and looked up at him. "So you didn't go to Sona's with Nes?"
|
|
"No, I was hoping that you'd make it back soon and that we could
|
|
have a moment alone." The look that he gave her caused the tiny hairs on
|
|
her arms to stand on end and the ball of heat that had been lodged in
|
|
her chest for several sennights slowly spread throughout her body,
|
|
settling with a distinctly pleasant sensation between her thighs. The
|
|
values that her father had given her had kept her, until now, from
|
|
becoming too intimate with Yellow, but values had a way of becoming
|
|
diluted in the face of passion and Viveka knew that she could no longer
|
|
resist Yellow's advances. She didn't want to resist them. And he seemed
|
|
to know that, just by looking at her.
|
|
He was at her side immediately and she found it mildly amusing that
|
|
he knew exactly which of the pins to remove in order to release her hair
|
|
from its coronet. He pushed away the dolls that she was still clutching
|
|
against her chest and buried his face in her neck.
|
|
|
|
Truus' child, Aliya, had taken a turn for the worse and while
|
|
Viveka had been ferrying herbs to the family on my behalf for some time,
|
|
I knew that convincing her to continue doing so in the face of impending
|
|
death would be difficult. Unfortunately, Viveka had rigid ideas about
|
|
lying: she had no tact and no conception of softening the truth so that
|
|
it was bearable. One of my responsibilities as the village healer was to
|
|
make the truth palatable. This quality Viveka lacked. Perhaps this was
|
|
why she had chosen to be a doll-maker rather than a healer, even though
|
|
her herbal lore was quite good.
|
|
"Aliya has worsened," I said softly. "Will you go and give some
|
|
medicines to her mother, Viveka? Aliya asked for you; she wants to see
|
|
you."
|
|
"No! I don't want to. I can't. Don't make me, please, Nessa!"
|
|
I sighed. Viveka had asked me about Aliya's health very pointedly
|
|
one day -- she was a healer's daughter, after all -- and I had told her
|
|
the truth, a truth that I had not told the child's parents; as a result,
|
|
Viveka had begun to avoid the entire family.
|
|
"Why?" I asked gently. "Your visit will give Aliya a lot of
|
|
pleasure." I never failed to try to teach her that facing the truth was
|
|
not like a coin with only two sides; facing the truth was like a
|
|
rainbow, with as many emotions. Thus far I hadn't succeeded.
|
|
Viveka sighed, stirring the contents of the pot hanging over the
|
|
fire. "Every time Aliya's mother sees me, she asks me how Aliya is
|
|
doing. I can't lie any more, Nessa. Every time I lie, something dies
|
|
inside me. I won't lie any more."
|
|
"Viveka, imagine how Aliya's mother will feel if you tell her that
|
|
her daughter is going to die. Is it more important to tell the truth or
|
|
save a mother's feelings?"
|
|
"My father taught me never to lie. A lie isn't something I can live
|
|
with."
|
|
"Didn't Mushtaq ever lie?"
|
|
"No. Even when someone was too hurt to survive, he told the truth,"
|
|
Viveka said with a stubborn jut to her chin.
|
|
I was silent. I knew that Mushtaq had been a diplomatic man who had
|
|
placed the well-being of the living above all else. "Truth and lies are
|
|
not like land and ocean, Viveka. Real life isn't like that. Truth isn't
|
|
a god at whose altar you need to worship. The truth is like clouds:
|
|
sometimes they bring much needed rain and at other times they bring too
|
|
much. Sometimes you have to bend the truth a little so that the living
|
|
can have peace. If you don't learn to relax your truths, Viveka, you
|
|
will be hurt."
|
|
Abruptly Viveka shrugged her shoulders. "We are not going to have
|
|
this argument yet again, Nessa. I--"
|
|
"Lady! Lady! 'elp, 'tis me son. He's taken an arrow in the leg!"
|
|
One of the area woodsmen rushed in through the door, gasping out the
|
|
words, his fear preceding him like noxious fumes.
|
|
Infected by his urgency, I snatched my basket from the shelf and
|
|
rushed to follow the woodsman to his cabin a league away. Fortunately,
|
|
the young man's wound was a lot less serious than his father had led me
|
|
to believe. I completed my task and returned home much quicker than I
|
|
had anticipated.
|
|
Yellow and Viveka had not heard my approach to the cottage. It was
|
|
no wonder really; they were otherwise engaged. I halted abruptly as I
|
|
entered the cabin, the scene before me all the more shocking because I
|
|
had been fearing and imagining the potential dangers of such an event.
|
|
Viveka's skirts were rucked up far too high on her thigh, her head
|
|
was thrown back exposing the soft white flesh of her throat as she
|
|
leaned back against the massive worktable. Yellow was ravishing her
|
|
mouth as if he wanted to devour her bit by bit. He was bent upon
|
|
consumption.
|
|
I stepped back quietly into the shadows as I heard Yellow say,
|
|
"Come on, Viv. Nessa won't be back until sunset, and besides, you know
|
|
you want to roll with me," and some of my suspicions of him were
|
|
confirmed.
|
|
"But I ... can't," Viveka replied as she pushed away his hand,
|
|
which had decided to take on a mind of its own and had begun to crawl up
|
|
her waist like a hungry spider intent upon its dinner. I heard a
|
|
peculiar mix of desire and fear in Viveka's voice, but it was the fear
|
|
that convinced me.
|
|
I stepped fully into the room and cleared my throat. The look that
|
|
Yellow gave me was frightening in its menace, but I wasn't one to back
|
|
down and he quickly moved around until he had placed the huge worktable
|
|
between himself and Viveka.
|
|
I looked directly into his eyes and asked, "So you've told her
|
|
then?"
|
|
|
|
========================================================================
|
|
|
|
Death Has a Pale Face
|
|
Part 2
|
|
by Nicholas Wansbutter
|
|
<ice_czar@hotmail.com>
|
|
Seber, 1017
|
|
|
|
Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 14-5
|
|
|
|
"Don't look back!" Jakob's voice was harsh and raspy. "Death will
|
|
take all of us ... it has no mercy!"
|
|
Tree branches grabbed at his tabard and scratched his face as he
|
|
ran, but Morgan did not need his companion's encouragement to keep
|
|
going. Behind them, in a clearing not far away, four of their fellow
|
|
guardsmen were dead, butchered like pigs. One of them had been his
|
|
friend and lover, Lara. Morgan did not know who or what their assailants
|
|
were; he had only caught a glimpse of one, clothed in flowing black
|
|
robes with great horns protruding from its skull-like face.
|
|
What the attackers wanted, Morgan did not know. Maybe they were
|
|
bandits looking to loot the caravan full of Duke Dargon's annual tribute
|
|
to the king bound for Magnus. Regardless of who they were, the fact
|
|
remained that they had ambushed Morgan's troop once the soldiers were
|
|
inside the great forest dividing northern and southern Baranur, and
|
|
already too many friends were dead.
|
|
Morgan and Jakob burst from the trees onto the road and nearly ran
|
|
headlong into Lord Connall's horse. Connall halted the caravan at the
|
|
sight of the two soldiers. Jakob nudged Lord Connall's horse a little as
|
|
he clutched at the commander's hand. He left a greasy red streak along
|
|
the horse's side, splattered and dripping with the blood of his comrades
|
|
as he was.
|
|
"What on Makdiar has happened?" the young lord demanded.
|
|
"My lord," Jakob's face was ashen and his eyes wild. As he spoke,
|
|
his voice cracked with lunacy. "It is death! It has come for us!"
|
|
"Grab hold of yourself, man!" Lord Connall gripped the soldier's
|
|
arm.
|
|
"D-death has a pale face ..." Jakob stared into Lord Connall's
|
|
eyes, his body shaking. He continued to shout gibberish as Commander
|
|
Connall fought to free his hand from Jakob's grip.
|
|
"Forgive him, my lord," Morgan helped the lord by prying Jakob's
|
|
fingers open. Morgan was embarrassed at his fellow guard's disgraceful
|
|
and undisciplined behaviour, but also glad that he wasn't the gibbering
|
|
idiot.
|
|
"Morgan!" Connall turned his attention to Morgan. "What has
|
|
happened?"
|
|
"Lord Connall," Morgan said. "We were ambushed. They killed the
|
|
others. The scouts were already dead when we got there."
|
|
Once the words were out of his mouth Morgan began to tremble, and
|
|
he felt cold all over. The others had died -- Lara had died! She'd been
|
|
killed horribly by those things. He could still hear her screams, one
|
|
after another, repeating over and over in his head. Why hadn't he saved
|
|
her?
|
|
"Your lordship," the priest Orto approached on his dilapidated
|
|
pony. "There are forces of evil at work here. Certainly, these are
|
|
servants of the underworld, sent to destroy the sacred text we carry
|
|
with us."
|
|
"Bah," Lord Connall scoffed. "They are but a few bandits, trying to
|
|
steal the king's gold. There can be no more than a half dozen men out
|
|
there, and all we need do is chase them out of the trees that we may
|
|
deal with them."
|
|
"No, I beg you, your lordship," Orto pleaded. "You mustn't leave
|
|
the wagons, or the holy artefact we carry! You musn't leave the king's
|
|
gold unprotected!"
|
|
"No, of course not," Lord Connall signalled the caravan to begin
|
|
moving again. "It was but wishful thinking. We move. Keep a close watch,
|
|
troops. We've lost too many this night already."
|
|
"What? Keep a close watch?" Morgan said, guild giving way to anger.
|
|
"That's all?"
|
|
"Save it, Morgan," Griff said. "What else would you have him do?
|
|
Send another group into the woods to be ambushed? Leave the caravan to
|
|
hunt them down?"
|
|
Morgan didn't like any of the answers, but he had to admit that the
|
|
commander had no other options than to carry on. Morgan looked to the
|
|
priest, Orto, who looked similarly dissatisfied, his beefy features
|
|
molded into a frown, and his mouth opening and closing as if about to
|
|
say more, then thinking better of it.
|
|
The column resumed movement along the road, the soldiers nervously
|
|
brandishing their weapons and scanning the forest as they moved. Lord
|
|
Connall maintained a strong face at the head of the column, his back
|
|
straight as ever, his face set into hard lines. He didn't so much as
|
|
flinch when a twig snapped somewhere in the bushes. He would bark at the
|
|
troops to keep proper formation occasionally, his voice never wavering.
|
|
His cool composure reassured Morgan, and was perhaps all that kept the
|
|
more green soldiers from breaking formation and running. The mist grew
|
|
thicker as they moved deeper into the woods, obscuring their view so
|
|
that they could see but a few cubits into the trees. After nearly a bell
|
|
of no contact with the attackers, the soldiers relaxed a little, only to
|
|
be brought violently back into the terror of the forest by a high
|
|
pitched woman's scream.
|
|
Lord Connall's horse reared and he bellowed at the priest Orto, "By
|
|
Cephas, why must I sit idly by now? Those brigands have a woman captive,
|
|
perhaps from a nearby village. God only knows what depravity will befall
|
|
her!"
|
|
"I beseech you not to, your lordship," Orto's husky voice pleaded.
|
|
"You cannot leave the carts unprotected! You could never find the poor
|
|
woman in any case. Not in this fog."
|
|
Morgan shared his commander's sentiment, if only to avenge Lara and
|
|
the others that had been killed. He hoped that Lord Connall would change
|
|
his mind and give the order for the soldiers to head into the forest and
|
|
attack. Now that he was away from the beasts he felt more sure of
|
|
himself and that the assembled soldiers could destroy their enemy.
|
|
"I know this as well as you, father." Lord Connall brandished his
|
|
sword menacingly and fidgeted anxiously in his saddle. "But how it irks
|
|
me that I must stay here when a maiden is in need! By my honour I wish
|
|
it were not so!"
|
|
Orto grabbed Lord Connall's arm. "But of course, that is what they
|
|
intend, my lord! The evil that we face is trying to goad you into
|
|
leaving the sacred scriptures of the Stevene unprotected!"
|
|
"Or the gold and kind unprotected, more likely!" Lord Connall
|
|
scowled.
|
|
The caravan continued on despite the exchange between priest and
|
|
lord. Morgan jumped every time a scream broke through the night, or
|
|
breaking rocks echoed through the forest. The column felt as if it were
|
|
moving impossibly slow as it made its way through the forest. Morgan
|
|
wished that whoever was out there would attack, or begone if that was
|
|
not their plan. Moving along the road through the mist, tormented by the
|
|
sounds coming from the woods, was a thousand times worse than the terror
|
|
of combat. After another bell's travel, the sounds and wind abruptly
|
|
stopped, and the forest became silent. Instinctively, Lord Connall
|
|
signalled for the wagons to stop, and scanned the trees intently.
|
|
"Be ready," he whispered.
|
|
Suddenly, the caravan was under attack. Dark shapes swooped between
|
|
the trees in near silence and descended on the soldiers. Morgan shouted
|
|
in surprise, so suddenly did the attackers appear. Immediately, the
|
|
night sky was filled with the sounds of battle as blades clanged against
|
|
one another, and the fallen cried out in pain.
|
|
The soldiers' formation disintegrated into total chaos. Black
|
|
shapes moved all about Morgan, so quickly that by the time his sword
|
|
swung towards one it only met air. A soldier next to him screamed in
|
|
agony as his arm was hacked off, and blood from it splattered Morgan's
|
|
face. The man's cries were cut short with a gurgling gasp, however, as a
|
|
lance impaled him through the mouth and out the back of his head.
|
|
The creature that had slain the man was gone before Morgan could
|
|
mount an attack of his own. As Morgan dodged a black horse galloping
|
|
past, he caught sight of Bayard pinned to one of the wagons by a spear.
|
|
Morgan rushed to his friend's side, where Jakob was taking refuge. Then
|
|
a blur swooped past Morgan and Jakob's head was off, a dark horseman
|
|
standing beside the body. Morgan held his sword out in front of him as
|
|
if to ward off the creature and thought, "Maybe the priest is right!
|
|
Maybe these are creatures of the dead!"
|
|
"Bastards!" Lord Connall screamed as his horse charged past Morgan
|
|
and towards the creature that had slain Jakob. The lord attacked with
|
|
confidence and zeal, sending the creature flying from its horse. The
|
|
mount promptly fled into the trees.
|
|
"Morgan," Bayard croaked as he weakly clutched at Morgan's tabard,
|
|
pulling his attention from Lord Connall. "I think the priest was right
|
|
about more than one thing ..."
|
|
"Save your breath," Morgan said.
|
|
"No," Bayard continued to speak. "It's too late for me now. But not
|
|
for you ..."
|
|
Bayard's hand slipped from Morgan's tunic and fell limply beside
|
|
him, as he convulsed one last time, and died. Morgan stared in disbelief
|
|
and horror at the body of his friend, eyes rolled into the back of his
|
|
skull and blood trickling from his slackened mouth.
|
|
"Bayard!" Morgan shook his friend. "No!"
|
|
Suddenly a dark shape bore down on Morgan, and he narrowly evaded
|
|
another spear thrust. Regaining his balance, he took a swing of his own.
|
|
This time his blade met something, and he chopped again. Griff rushed to
|
|
Morgan's side brandishing a pike, and drove the weapon into the beast as
|
|
it tried a second time to charge with its spear. The creature made no
|
|
sound, but as Morgan hacked at it again with his blade, the brute
|
|
slumped sideways and began to fall from its horse.
|
|
"Die, you son of a whore!" Griff cried, pulling his pike free then
|
|
stabbing the dark rider with it again, then moving to Morgan's side for
|
|
the next attack.
|
|
Another of the attackers rode past Morgan to the rear, and he
|
|
whirled about to confront it, only to see that the dark riders were
|
|
galloping away from the carts and into the forest.
|
|
"They're broken! After them!" Lord Connall screamed, his sword and
|
|
face streaming with blood. "Derkqvist, you stay here with the standard
|
|
bearer, and three others."
|
|
"Griff grab one other person," Morgan said. "Louen, you'll stay
|
|
here, too."
|
|
"The rest of you, with me!" The lord charged into the woods after
|
|
the fleeing creatures, with several soldiers in his wake.
|
|
"Your lordship!" Orto shouted, but he was not heard.
|
|
In the sudden quiet following the departure of the creatures,
|
|
Morgan scanned the area. The wagons were unharmed, save for the lead
|
|
one, which had obviously been hacked at by an axe. Orto stood next to
|
|
it, clutching his precious book to his chest.
|
|
"I knew they were after the scripture," Orto said, gesturing to the
|
|
wrecked cart. "Look at what they've done!"
|
|
Morgan inspected the cart, and was pleased to see that it was not
|
|
too damaged to travel. "If they sought your precious tome, priest, then
|
|
why didn't they kill *you* for it?"
|
|
Orto muttered something about Stevene's Light and waddled away from
|
|
the damaged wagon.
|
|
"Where are the bodies?" Griff said.
|
|
"What?" Morgan wheeled about to see his friend leaning on his pike
|
|
and looking about the remarkably empty clearing.
|
|
"I'd swear by Ol's blood that we felled at least four of the
|
|
beasts. And they certainly took a few of ours, but look: not one body!"
|
|
Morgan looked about and realised that indeed, there were no bodies
|
|
at all. Even poor Bayard, whose corpse had been pinned to the centre
|
|
wagon by a spear, was gone, only blood and a small hole in the side of
|
|
the cart gave evidence that he had ever been near it.
|
|
"Why Bayard?" Morgan asked no one in particular.
|
|
"There are evil powers afoot here, my children!" Orto shambled back
|
|
into view, bearing his tome as if it were a shield against the
|
|
creatures. "We must pray to God for His protection."
|
|
A loud crack intoned from somewhere deep in the forest, followed by
|
|
screams. It was hard to tell whether they belonged to men or women, but
|
|
they were no less terrifying for it.
|
|
"What do we do now?" Louen cried. "Lord Connall's gone! We're done
|
|
for!"
|
|
"Grab hold of yourself, boy!" Griff shouted.
|
|
"No, he's right Griff," said another of the soldiers with them.
|
|
"We're trapped out here with those things! Alone!"
|
|
Morgan forced the images of Lara's and Bayard's deaths from his
|
|
mind and turned to confront the troops that remained with the caravan.
|
|
"We still have weapons, do we not? We can fend for ourselves."
|
|
"I'm for making a stand here and killing those whoresons when they
|
|
come back!" Griff said.
|
|
"No!" Louen shouted. "Let's just get out of here! Let the demons
|
|
take the wagons!"
|
|
For a moment, Morgan froze. He knew that he had been given command
|
|
of this small group, but did he deserve it? He asked himself the
|
|
question again and again. He had let Lara, then Bayard die. If he
|
|
couldn't even save his friends, how could he save these others? He could
|
|
hear his father's voice in the back of his mind berating him as weak,
|
|
and especially damned for not following God in this predicament.
|
|
Suddenly he realised that he was being as hard on himself as his father
|
|
had been. It filled him with anger. "I was rid of that bastard when I
|
|
left home! I won't let him control me now!"
|
|
The assembled soldiers quarrelled amongst themselves, which did
|
|
little to calm him. "Be silent, all of you! We keep going and get out of
|
|
this bastardly forest as quick as we can! *With* the wagons! Now let's
|
|
get moving."
|
|
|
|
Orto hurried along the road with the caravan that thankfully moved
|
|
through the forest with a sense of urgency. Orto wanted nothing better
|
|
than to get away from the dark trees and ominous mist as swiftly as
|
|
possible. He had seen more bloodshed this one night than any human had
|
|
any need to see in ten lifetimes. When the evil demons had attacked the
|
|
caravan, Orto had hidden inside the wagon bearing the holy scriptures,
|
|
clutching them to himself. He felt ashamed for hiding while the soldiers
|
|
died outside the cart, but he was no soldier, and would have done little
|
|
good.
|
|
He shuddered as he thought of screams that he had heard while
|
|
inside the wagon. They had borne more pain and suffering than any person
|
|
deserved to feel. He felt almost as if he himself had been pierced in
|
|
the heart by one of the demons' lances. He knew fellow priests and monks
|
|
that had accompanied Baranur's armies as healers in the war with the
|
|
Beinison Empire. He could not imagine how immeasurably more horrible
|
|
their experiences must have been.
|
|
A sudden gust of wind made Orto nearly jump from the saddle of his
|
|
pony, and the soldiers around him jerked when the wind was accompanied
|
|
by a snapping twig not far off. The boy Louen broke formation and
|
|
started to run, but Morgan grabbed him and barked some orders that
|
|
appeared to calm the others. It seemed only a matter of time, however,
|
|
before the soldiers' dread would get the best of them, Orto feared. At
|
|
the very least, he knew that he was near his breaking point. But he also
|
|
knew the group would only escape the forest alive with God's blessing,
|
|
so he stayed. As a priest, it was up to Orto to help the soldiers find
|
|
the grace they needed.
|
|
"Only through the Stevene's Light will we survive, my children," he
|
|
piped up. "Let us pray to God for his blessing."
|
|
Louen nodded his head vigorously, but Morgan turned on the priest.
|
|
"Be silent, you! I don't need you making these troops any more scared
|
|
than they are!"
|
|
"I seek to calm them," Orto said.
|
|
"Just be quiet."
|
|
"Your conscience weighs heavily upon you, my son," Orto said. "You
|
|
are not to blame for your friends' deaths, but you must not make their
|
|
loss be in vain."
|
|
"What are you talking about, old man?"
|
|
"May God have mercy on their souls, but I fear they were not ready
|
|
--"
|
|
"Enough of your religious wind, priest!" Morgan grabbed the sacred
|
|
text from Orto's arms and hurled it as far as he could into the forest.
|
|
"Cephas' boot!" Orto exclaimed, his body stiffening with terror. He
|
|
watched the book fly through the air, time seemingly slowing down. As
|
|
the tome slowly twirled in the air into the bushes, Orto could only
|
|
think that this wasn't possibly happening. When he heard the book hit
|
|
the ground some way into the forest, time returned to normal and the
|
|
reality set in. Orto was dismayed that anyone, even Morgan who clearly
|
|
hated the Stevenic faith, could do such a thing. "What have you done?"
|
|
Not waiting for a response, Orto hopped off of Hubris' back, and
|
|
scuttled into the woods as quickly as his stout legs would carry him.
|
|
What had the boy done? By the good God he could still scarcely believe
|
|
it. Didn't he know that they were all done for if the creatures captured
|
|
the Stevene's most sacred words? To say nothing of the indignity that
|
|
Morgan had inflicted upon the holy script.
|
|
The underbrush quickly became very thick once Orto was off the
|
|
road. Hardly a few cubits into the trees and Orto's pace was slowed to a
|
|
crawl, as bushes and burs clutched at his long robes, and rotting logs
|
|
crumbled underfoot. He cursed as his sleeve became hooked on a branch
|
|
that jutted out from a nearby tree. He pulled it free and continued
|
|
through the foliage. The forest seemed to clutch and grab at him,
|
|
holding him back from retrieving the text. Orto began to get frustrated,
|
|
then angry. Of all the things that could have happened! Maybe it was his
|
|
own fault, Orto thought, that Morgan had flung the book into the trees,
|
|
for in his inability to properly say what his intentions were, he had
|
|
insulted the soldier.
|
|
He came to a dense gathering of trees, such that there was no path
|
|
between them without passing through the branches. But there was nothing
|
|
for it -- he had to press on. Lowering his head and covering it with his
|
|
arms, Orto pushed through the tree branches. Every moment counted, and
|
|
he hadn't the time to go around. As far as he knew, the dark riders were
|
|
upon him, moving silently towards the sacred scriptures. Certainly, all
|
|
was going according to their evil plan. They had managed to draw Lord
|
|
Connall away from the caravan, and had hardened Morgan's heart until the
|
|
tome was completely unprotected. Orto himself had perhaps been a pawn in
|
|
their plot even, by accidentally antagonising Morgan.
|
|
"No, not completely unprotected, Lord," Orto prayed aloud. "Your
|
|
humble servant still -- turdation!"
|
|
He tripped over a fallen tree and was sent sprawling right onto his
|
|
face. Fortunately, he landed in a small clearing covered in moss and was
|
|
unhurt. He rolled onto his back and lay there panting. He was unused to
|
|
such physical stress, and his body complained loudly for what he was
|
|
putting it through. His heart thudded painfully in his chest, and his
|
|
breath came out a wheeze. While catching his breath Orto gazed up
|
|
through the clearing in the trees at a sky that now bore a few stars.
|
|
The mist played about him, obscuring his view, but he was still aware of
|
|
the beauty of the night sky. Slowly, his anger seeped out of his mind,
|
|
and was replaced by a renewed sense of purpose.
|
|
"By Stevene's blood, I'll find the text!" he exclaimed, and turned
|
|
on his side to heft himself up. He stopped dead as the sound of large
|
|
creatures crashing through the bushes not far away reached his ears.
|
|
"Cephas! They are upon us!"
|
|
Orto remained on the ground, not daring to breathe as two
|
|
man-shaped shadows tramped within a few cubits of his position. They
|
|
appeared not to notice him however, and continued on. Orto breathed a
|
|
sigh of relief, and was about to get up again when his eye caught a
|
|
strangely angular object lying in a bush nearby. He crawled over to it
|
|
and pulled the thing from the branches.
|
|
"Praise be to God!" he whispered. "The scriptures are here, and
|
|
unharmed. I worship your wondrous ways, lord, that you clouded the
|
|
creatures' minds that they did not find me and your most holy words."
|
|
Orto hefted himself up with the aid of a nearby tree and tried to
|
|
get his bearings once again. He realised that he had no idea which
|
|
direction the road was in. He had gone in several circles while
|
|
searching for the book and had completely lost his bearings. He listened
|
|
intently to the night sounds, but could not hear the clatter of the
|
|
wagons. Clutching the book to his chest, he uttered a quick prayer.
|
|
"Guide me, Cephas."
|
|
He then began stumbling through the forest once again, whispering
|
|
prayers to himself as he did so. He stepped on a rotting tree stump and
|
|
tumbled to the ground when it crumbled beneath his foot, but did not
|
|
pause before getting up, determined as he was to reach the soldiers and
|
|
protect them with the holy aura of the book he carried. Surely the book
|
|
carried supernatural powers, as it had prevented the dark riders from
|
|
detecting him, and had kept Orto safe all this night. After what seemed
|
|
several leagues of travel through the forest, Orto was forced to stop
|
|
for a rest, despite his desire to go on. He leaned up against a tree,
|
|
and forcefully tried to slow his breathing. Not far to his right, he
|
|
heard a loud cry.
|
|
"Ol protect us!"
|
|
Orto stood up abruptly. Surely the servants of darkness would not
|
|
invoke the name of Ol, creator-god to those who believed in the Olean
|
|
pantheon? Pagans, to be sure, but certainly a worshipper of Ol would not
|
|
be in league with such evil. Before continuing, Orto listened some more,
|
|
and his ears were met by the sound of violent retching, and coughing.
|
|
With a deep breath, Orto plunged through the trees in the direction
|
|
of the sounds. He made a horrible racket as he travelled, and when he
|
|
crashed from the forest onto the road he nearly impaled himself on the
|
|
end of a pike, wielded by a pale-faced Dargonian soldier.
|
|
"Illiena's eyes!" the man said. "Father, I thought you were one of
|
|
them!"
|
|
Orto did not reply, however, as he was paralysed at the sight
|
|
before him. On a tree branch that hung over the road, several heads hung
|
|
from ropes, blood forming in a pool darker than the road beneath them. A
|
|
couple of the soldiers still remained at the side of the road, their
|
|
backs to Orto, emptying their bodies of everything their stomachs held.
|
|
Orto thought he himself might vomit, but took solace in the comforting
|
|
weight of the book in his arms. He at least knew why he had not heard
|
|
the carts moving: they had been stopped by this terrible sight.
|
|
The soldier with the pike turned to the others and shouted, "Chins
|
|
up lads! Father Orto has returned to us unharmed! Surely his God is with
|
|
him this night!"
|
|
The soldiers looked up, and Louen crawled over to Orto and embraced
|
|
him. "The Stevene's Light shines on you, father!" he cried.
|
|
Orto patted the boy on the head, but fixed his gaze upon Morgan.
|
|
Orto was not pleased with him, but could not think of anything
|
|
appropriate to say. Morgan fidgeted uncomfortably then turned to look at
|
|
the disembodied heads hanging from the tree branch before him. "Cut
|
|
those down, and let's get moving!"
|
|
"We're through taking orders from you, Morgan," Louen got up
|
|
abruptly and stalked over to the larger soldier. "You left the priest to
|
|
die out there! Luckily for you he lived!"
|
|
"Be silent, you," Morgan said. "You're just a boy, what do you
|
|
know? Besides, you should be grateful I took you with me otherwise you'd
|
|
be dead by now for sure. It's a wonder you've lived this long!"
|
|
"That's enough Morgan," Griff said. "I'm not questioning your
|
|
command here, but the priest did --"
|
|
"Well, I am!" another soldier said, adding her voice to the
|
|
argument. "I'm through with you, too, Morgan! God is with Father Orto;
|
|
we will follow him!"
|
|
Morgan didn't say anything as he got up and cut the heads down from
|
|
the tree himself. Orto felt a pang of guilt at the sight of Morgan's
|
|
treatment at the hands of the other soldiers. He was not an evil lad,
|
|
and Orto bore him no grudge.
|
|
"No, Morgan is your rightful leader," Orto said. "He was appointed
|
|
by Lord Connall thus, and thus he shall stay. I can but give spiritual
|
|
guidance."
|
|
"Guide us out of this forest," Morgan said, his eyes downcast. "I
|
|
will follow."
|
|
|
|
From then on, the caravan moved along at a slower pace with the
|
|
priest, Orto, at its head, brandishing his book like a weapon, and
|
|
chanting loudly. Morgan had to admit that the priest showed a certain
|
|
amount of leadership that was needed in this situation. Morgan had led
|
|
the group the best way he knew: by being honest with them. That had
|
|
worked to keep them in line, but the priest's superstition had another
|
|
effect. His incantations and hymns seemed to make the soldiers less
|
|
scared, and helped keep formation because of that; not because Orto
|
|
would shout at them if they did break. Morgan could see the value in
|
|
that approach. Perhaps spirituality wasn't all bad, for here was an
|
|
aspect he had never seen before. Whether the singing was bringing divine
|
|
protection or not, it would help the soldiers escape the forest.
|
|
There was more to it than just that, though. The hymns the priest
|
|
sang touched something within Morgan, and despite the situation, calmed
|
|
him. Morgan had never heard such incantations in the small church he had
|
|
attended as a boy. Lara had told him of the choruses that would reach
|
|
beyond the walls of the monastery in Fennell, but hearing of and
|
|
experiencing were two totally different things. Poor Lara ...
|
|
Morgan thought at length about his life as the wagons trundled
|
|
along behind the priest and his chants. Lara and Bayard were both dead.
|
|
What was it Bayard had said to Louen? "Youth is for having fun and
|
|
adventure. Go grovelling to Stevene when you're an old man." But what if
|
|
you didn't survive to be an old man? Then you would die as the priest
|
|
had said they had: unprepared. But unprepared for what? *Was* there some
|
|
higher power out there?
|
|
But then what of Morgan's father? He had been so concerned with
|
|
being ready to die that he had never lived, and never let Morgan live
|
|
either. He had been so concerned with living right that he had no love
|
|
left over for Morgan. Morgan decided that was the reason he had hated
|
|
his father so much and the faith that he had adhered to. Morgan had been
|
|
raised without any encouragement or any kindness. Maybe it was time to
|
|
finally put that behind him and stop doing things just because they went
|
|
against what his father would have wanted ...
|
|
Several bells later, Orto and Morgan sat side-by-side on a small
|
|
knoll just less than a league outside the forest. From there, Morgan had
|
|
a good view of that nightmare place from which they had escaped. From
|
|
the outside it looked much less menacing than before. The other soldiers
|
|
milled about the wagons, waiting anxiously for the return of Lord
|
|
Connall and the rest of their fellows.
|
|
It was still night, but outside the forest the stars and the moon
|
|
could cast their light unobstructed, and it seemed a different world
|
|
from the one they had been in not long before. The mists did not
|
|
continue much outside of the forest, and where Morgan rested all was
|
|
clear.
|
|
"Father," Morgan hesitated before continuing on. "I, uh ... want to
|
|
thank you for helping us escape the forest. I think I believe now that
|
|
if it wasn't for you we may have never made it out alive."
|
|
"No, my son," the priest laid a comforting hand on Morgan's
|
|
shoulder. "I did nothing. It was God who protected us."
|
|
"I'm still not sure I believe in God, father."
|
|
"Do not trouble yourself unduly over it, my son. Faith will come in
|
|
time. Like anything, it must be learned. Think of God as a friend you've
|
|
never met, and the Stevene as a friend who will introduce you to him."
|
|
"I know a little of your religion, but the version I was shown was
|
|
a much different one than yours. The only time I ever prayed was when
|
|
forced," Morgan said. "You have shown me a different side. Your patience
|
|
with my insults showed me that. I am sorry for treating you poorly. I
|
|
think I used you as a target for my feelings toward another Stevenic I
|
|
know ..."
|
|
"I fear that there are some sects that are ... rather more strict
|
|
than mine. But when thinking of Stevenism, remember this only: there is
|
|
one God, and the Stevene's Light is the candle that illuminates our path
|
|
to that God. That will get you started, for the rest are details. But
|
|
above all, live a good life. A good pagan is more likely to enter God's
|
|
kingdom than an evil Stevenic."
|
|
Morgan nodded, and contented himself in just sitting in silence
|
|
with the priest a while. He was startled by the sound of hoofs and feet
|
|
approaching, and looked up to see a man on a horse followed by several
|
|
human shapes on foot following behind. Could it be Lord Connall and the
|
|
others?
|
|
The rider quickened the horse's pace to a canter, and approached
|
|
the caravan. Orto stood to greet the approaching warrior, who it was now
|
|
apparent, was indeed Lord Connall. He laughed as he approached, and
|
|
threw down a black cloak and a spear at the priest's feet.
|
|
"Ha ha!" he shouted, a huge grin covering his face. "I told you it
|
|
was but a few bandits, father! Why, we butchered them like cattle! A
|
|
fitting end for those who would try to steal that which rightfully
|
|
belongs to the king!"
|
|
"Your justice was indeed swift and merciless, your lordship," Orto
|
|
said.
|
|
"As befits such dregs," Lord Connall replied. "We lost them
|
|
initially, but we found them again, in their camp no less! What of the
|
|
duke's tribute? Morgan?"
|
|
"It is safe, your lordship," Morgan replied.
|
|
"Good, good!" Lord Connall laughed again, then wheeled his horse
|
|
about to address the troops that had now assembled near the carts.
|
|
"Sleep well, troops. You deserve it. We'll travel to Valdasly on the
|
|
morrow, where we'll rest for a few days before continuing on to Magnus."
|
|
Once the young lord had gone to tend his horse and his armour, Orto
|
|
turned once again to Morgan. "I do not believe the brigands your
|
|
commander so easily overpowered were the same creatures that attacked
|
|
us."
|
|
Morgan wasn't so sure either, and was glad to know that Orto would
|
|
be with them for the rest of the trip.
|
|
|
|
========================================================================
|
|
|