textfiles/magazines/DARGONZINE/dargonz.152.txt

  DDDDD                              ZZZZZZ                //
  D    D  AAAA RRR  GGGG OOOO NN  N      Z  I NN  N EEEE  ||
  D     D A  A R  R G    O  O N N N     Z   I N N N E     || Volume 15
-=========================================================+<OOOOOOOOO>|)
  D    D  AAAA RRR  G GG O  O N N N   Z     I N N N E     || Number  2
  DDDDD   A  A R  R GGGG OOOO N  NN  ZZZZZZ I N  NN EEEE  ||
                                                           \\
                                                             \
========================================================================
 DargonZine                                     Distributed:   4/7/2002
 Volume 15, Number 2                            Circulation:        734
========================================================================

                                Contents

 Editorial                    Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
 Sy Burns                     P. Atchley             Sy 4, 1017
 Jakob Sings of Monstrous
   Things 2                   Victor M. Cardoso      Ober 4, 1018

========================================================================
 DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a
 collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
 We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
 Please address all correspondence to <dargon@dargonzine.org> or visit
 us on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/, or our FTP site
 at ftp://users.primushost.com/members/d/a/dargon/. Issues and public
 discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.

 DargonZine 15-2, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright April, 2002 by
 the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@rcn.com>,
 Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@covad.net>. All rights reserved.
 All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories
 and artwork appearing herein may not be reproduced or redistributed
 without the explicit permission of their creators, except in the case
 of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution.
 Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
========================================================================

                               Editorial
                         by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
                            <ornoth@rcn.com>

     Although DargonZine gets a lot of email of various kinds, one of
the most interesting classes of correspondence we receive often begins
something like this: "I'd like to know how you happened to pick the name
'Dargon', because it's my surname!" Over the years, we've received a
handful of email from people who share names with characters, places,
and things that we've written about.
     Most often, the inquiry has been about the surname "Dargon", which
is so rare (as a last name) that it doesn't even appear in a list of the
89,000 most common surnames compiled from a sample of 6.3 million
respondents to the 1990 US Census. I also recently received an inquiry
from someone with the last name "Asbridge". Asbridge is the 41,447th
most common surname in the US, according to the Census Bureau, but it's
also a rarely-referenced Dargon place name. Of course, now that it's
appeared as a topic in a DargonZine Editorial, the chances are even
higher that a random search for "Asbridge" will bring up a link to our
site!
     Generally, the people who contact us in this manner are interested
in one or both of two simple questions: how we came up with the name,
and whether we have any genealogical or contact information about other
people who share the surname.
     Much of the time, there's not much we can say about how the names
we use have been chosen. Picking names for characters and places is
often a very personal thing for most writers, and that's something our
writers haven't discussed very often. Furthermore, since the names most
likely to appear at the top of search engine listings are those that
we've used the longest, it's very likely that any inquiries we receive
about them could only be answered by writers who have long since left
the project. And "Dargon", in particular, is one name we don't have a
good answer for; it just happened.
     As for putting people in touch with others who share their surname,
that's pretty far outside our area of expertise. Most of the names you
see in Dargon aren't derived from the names of people we know; we
consider that a dubious practice at best. So it's very unlikely that we
can offer any assistance to folks who put their surnames into a search
engine and wonder why a DargonZine story appears in their search
results.
     Given the thousands of names that Dargon stories have generated
over the years, it's not surprising that there are "collisions" between
real surnames and the names we've created to populate the world of
Dargon. I wish we could offer a better response to those folks who see
their names and wonder how the link from one to the other happened. But
I also wonder how often this kind of thing must happen to other writers,
as well. Do you think anyone named "Beren" ever wrote J.R.R. Tolkien, or
anyone named "Garion" wrote to David Eddings, inquiring about their use
of the name?
     It's a small world -- or set of worlds -- indeed!

     In this issue, P. Atchley resumes the impressive run of great
stories she began 18 months ago. The original outline for this month's
"Sy Burns" was actually written two years ago, but the story ran into
numerous roadblocks along the way to publication. Expect to continue to
see lots of work from her this year, as she has become one of our most
active writers.
     This issue also features the conclusion to Victor Cardoso's "Jakob
Sings of Monstrous Things", which began in DargonZine 14-9. If you
enjoyed this story, please drop Victor a note to encourage him to keep
up the good work!
     After delivering on my promise that you wouldn't have to wait three
months for this issue to arrive, now I have even better news. After our
pipeline of submissions ran dry last year, our veteran writers have
gotten back on track, and we've had a number of new writers come on
board who have also begun cranking out stories. We have more than a
dozen tales nearing completion, and that will keep us in business for
the foreseeable future. As you can see on our recently-updated
Publication Schedule page, we've planned out the contents and dates for
our next six issues, and should easily be able to stick to our goal of
distributing a new issue every four to six weeks.
     Thanks for bearing with us during the somewhat irregular schedule
we had for the past six months; however, we've got plenty more stories
to share, containing names both familiar and new, and we will have a
regular and predictable presence in your inbox for the rest of the year.

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

                                Sy Burns
                             by P. Atchley
                           <dpartha@usa.net>
                               Sy 4, 1017

     "Stop, thief! Help!"
     My partner, Aolani, sprinted after the miscreant before the cry
stopped. The robber twisted and turned, apparently hoping to lose us in
the dusk. But Aolani had been born and raised in Dargon, and she knew
the streets very well indeed. A fast runner, she had helped run messages
during the war and, in fact, had received a commendation for her feats
of running endurance. I knew that the thief did not have a chance.
     By this time the culprit had reached a small alley that turned away
from the main street. At the corner, he glanced back for a moment before
tucking the little purse inside his tunic. He grabbed something shiny
from his belt and rushed into the alley. We were close behind, and as I
reached the turning moments after Aolani, I saw her throw herself at him
with a flying tackle; they both fell in a tangled mess of feet and arms.
The two of them rolled on the ground, and then my partner groaned. The
thief dragged himself up, gasping for breath, and staggered away in a
quick shuffle just before I reached them. It did not even occur to me to
follow the robber when my partner was lying wounded. The young cutpurse
had already gone half-way down the street, and although I felt a twinge
of guilt for letting him get away, my attention was on Aolani.
     Breathing heavily, I knelt next to her. She was lying on the ground
with her eyes closed as rivulets of blood flowed down her body. I lifted
her up into my lap, my stomach tightening at the sight of so much blood,
something inside of me freezing as I recognized the severity of her
wound.
     "Aolani!" I could not even draw breath to curse.
     "Bleeding mongrel got away, eh?" she said in a half-question,
exhaling and closing her eyes.
     I looked down at her in pained silence, my heart thundering fit to
be heard at the keep on the other side of the river. When I did not
reply, she opened her eyes and managed a smile that ended in a grimace.
     "Don't, for the sake of the Stevene, lose that control ... I'll
come back to haunt you if you do ..."
     The words trailed away and then her eyes stared up blindly. In that
single moment, I could feel all the sorcerous restraints she had helped
me exert over my emotions begin to erode. The walls within my mind
trembled and I keened as I realized for the first time how alone I was
against the beast inside.

     Ilona Milnor, a lieutenant in the Dargon town guard, was awakened
by a shrill whistle outside her home.
     "What? Not another fire," groaned her husband, Kalen Darklen, also
a lieutenant in the town guard. Over the past two sennights, two of the
warehouses down by the docks had been burned. Luckily, they had been
empty, and the fires had been quenched easily enough because the
warehouses were close to the river.
     "I'll be back soon. Go to sleep." She dressed in a hurry, pulling
her shoulder-length brown hair into a rough ponytail secured by a
ribbon, and was on her way out within a mene. A tall woman, she had
pretty features, although endless time spent outside had resulted in
crow's feet around her eyes.
     As Ilona reached the docks, she saw that this time it was the very
last warehouse on the riverbanks near the marshlands north of the
causeway. Her heart sank as she realized the building was not empty. Her
team of ten guards, all volunteers of the fire guard, was already there.
The water cart had been left near the half-burned warehouse the previous
sennight, and someone had filled it and brought it along.
     One of the guards, Coressa DaVrice, shouted as she saw Milnor,
"Lieutenant, the building has corn and barley in it." A recent volunteer
in the fire guard, DaVrice was a woman who took her work seriously.
Flinging water at the base of the fire, she continued, "I don't know how
much of it we're going to be able to save."
     Milnor grabbed the final bucket and began to help her, noting that
the other guards were engaged in the same activity at different
locations around the building. "We must save it, Coressa," she answered
between buckets of water. "We must save as much as we can."
     The building was not large, and the lookout she had posted had done
a good job and raised the alarm at the first sign of smoke. Milnor
sighed and hoped that DaVrice had overestimated the danger.
     "The cart's almost empty, sir," DaVrice shouted.
     Sergeant Cepero, an older man, came running from the other side of
the building. In spite of the lateness of the bell, he was still in
uniform. He addressed Milnor between gasps, "Garay and Tarb are using
sackcloths to beat down the flames on the other side. Some of the
townspeople are out there on that side -- it's where we need the most
help." The two guards he referred to had been a part of the fire guard
from the day Milnor had created it and were experienced in quenching
fires. She knew that the two of them would guide the civilians' efforts
in the right direction.
     Without waiting for her to reply, Cepero bent and lifted the front
of the cart. "Come on, DaVrice, let's go, let's go," he shouted.
     The front of the cart had two poles extending outward from each
side, and a third pole that connected the two extensions; in effect,
creating a handle. Before Milnor had appropriated the cart, it had been
used for moving horse dung from the stables. She watched as Cepero
dragged the cart behind him and DaVrice pushed it. They ran down the
street past two or three warehouses to the docks where they could get
water from the Coldwell. Milnor dimly saw another guard walking away on
the other side and her eyebrows contracted in perplexity. It looked like
Streed, a town guard, and he was not a volunteer in the fire guard,
unless Cepero had brought him along. Then Espen, another fire guard,
came running from the other side, gasping her name and she returned her
attention to fighting the fire. He threw two sopping-wet sackcloths in
front of her and took off behind the disappearing cart to help them haul
water.
     Milnor began to beat the flames with the damp sacks. The warehouse
was a one-story affair, and roughly rectangular in shape, built from a
combination of wood and brick. The southwest corner of the building
appeared to be where the fire had started. It still burned, although it
was not spreading; Garay and Tarb, along with the help of the
townspeople, had managed to contain the flames from moving further
toward the docks.
     Those who had gone to get more water in the cart returned. DaVrice
came up to her and flung a bucket of water at the base of the fire. The
area Milnor had been working on let out a huge belch of smoke, but the
fire died. She threw down the sackcloths and grabbed a bucket.
     "Cepero, get the others," she gasped, wanting everyone to hit the
area with water at the same time. He understood her intentions
immediately. Moments later, two guards came running from the west side
of the building. They grabbed a bucket each and began to work.
     After what seemed like a long time, perhaps a bell, perhaps two,
Milnor drew in a deep breath, and promptly coughed. The fire itself was
out, but there was smoke everywhere.
     "It's done, Lieutenant," Tarb said, trudging up to her. Garay
followed. Slowly, one by one all the guards came up to her, most of them
coughing. The townspeople had left already, exhausted from their
efforts. The fire guard stood around her, the discipline of reporting
after an assignment carrying over even to this, a volunteer task.
     "Excellent work," she murmured, almost swaying with fatigue. "Thank
you all for helping. Now, go get some rest. Cepero, I want to talk to
you. We need to find out who's behind this. It's by Lord Dargon's own
luck that no one has been seriously hurt so far."
     The others dispersed, grim looks on their faces as they
contemplated what she had just said.
     She and Cepero began walking towards their lodgings, which were
located close together. "Sergeant, you do realize we have someone who is
deliberately setting fire to these warehouses, don't you?" she began.
     "Of course, Lieutenant. One might have been an accident, but this
is the third. We have to double the night shift guard, and have them
walk down the Street of Travellers more often," he responded.
     "Make sure the lookout stays alert. You know as well as I do that
sometimes fires can start again from the embers. And send a page to ask
him to come see me tomorrow after he's rested."
     "Straight. Get some rest, Lieutenant; you're asleep on your feet."
It was said with paternal solicitude and Ilona smiled her thanks. They
had worked closely together for many years and, while he maintained a
respectful distance before the other guards, in private he treated her
like a daughter.

     "What have you done with it, you flea-bitten cur? This is one Round
short!"
     I looked down at my wife, Fidelia. About a hand shorter than me,
she had blond hair that fell in long ringlets past her shoulders, light
blue eyes, a pert nose and rosebud lips with teeth like chips of gray
marble. Everything about her combined to make an almost perfect picture,
marred only by her strident voice and her speech, which was interlaced
with oaths and slang used by the roughest of men.
     "I used it to pay for Aolani's funeral," I said shortly. "The
cremation was a sennight ago." I sat down before the small table and
began to take off my boots.
     "You used our money to pay for her funeral? And a cremation at
that? Kale, a whole Round! Why, is she too good for an ordinary funeral
like the rest of us that you had to go and pay extra for a cremation?"
     The town bell tolled the time, and the sound echoed in the small
room. I sighed. "Aolani was a Stevenic Theosayer and you know they
cremate their dead." While most Stevenics believed that the Stevene had
been hanged, a small group who called themselves the Stevenic Theosayers
believed that Cephas Stevene was killed by fire; therefore they cremated
their dead as a mark of respect.
     "Whatever. They can believe whatever they want. What I want to know
is this: why should you pay for the funeral? I wanted that money, Kale.
I had my eye on this beautiful fabric that Leana Mudge agreed to make
into a dress for me. I was going to use it for that dress, you -- you
pus-ridden worm!" She was breathing hard, glaring at me with her
beautiful blue eyes.
     "Aolani was my partner, Fidelia; I owe her at least this much," I
said wearily.
     "Oho! What the fark did you owe her for? You roll with her?"
     I winced. "Fidelia! Mind your tongue. Aolani was a good woman. She
was a guard and my partner; that's all." I rose and put my boots away
tidily near the door. She had been more than just my partner; she had
been the one who had first realized what was inside me -- her magic had
recognized mine. Another wave of sorrow at Aolani's death joined the
living grief that lived inside of me, a being that kept company with the
monster that already lived within.
     "That queenie! You should have gotten a man as a partner. She stole
my husband, my --"
     I interrupted, "Rubbish, Fidelia. Do be sensible. Aolani was my
partner, nothing more." Partners in the guard and partners in the magic,
we had been friends, a friendship based on years of growing up together,
playing pranks together, and then, as we grew older, searching for
understanding of the magic that lived inside her, and inside me. We had
never been interested in each other that way; she had been my friend,
not a woman I had wanted to have a relationship with.
     "Ha! Partner, my foot! Do I look like a foolish virgin to you, that
you can tell me all these stories? I know you were rolling with her. And
what happened to the dress you bought her? I know you bought her one --
Leana Mudge told me she saw you at Della's shop. You were rolling with
Aolani and I hate you!"
     My breath was in rhythm, synchronized to the incantation I was
muttering under my breath, so holding the fire back was easy. But the
sheer anger that ran through me at Fidelia's uncouth and vulgar words
swept past my control; my hand rose. As if I were watching from outside
of myself, I saw it rise and slap her. There was blissful silence at
last.
     Fidelia was looking at me with tears in her eyes, a hand cradling
her undoubtedly sore cheek. Her lower lip trembled, and I felt guilt
overwhelm me. I should have stopped; I should have reined in the anger;
I should have ... I sighed at my own useless regrets and stretched out a
hand to Fidelia, almost in supplication. She stepped back with a teary
hiccup, the momentary spell broken, and turned to exit the room leaving
me a parting gift of more hateful words. "Scum! I curse the day I
married you! If I were to tell my uncle Roman about you, he would --"
she gave a sob and left.
     I sighed. I agreed with Fidelia in that at least. I wondered why I
had married her: my beautiful wife, Fidelia. More to the point, I
wondered why she had married me. I had, at least, had the excuse of
thinking that the beauty outside reflected what was inside. Now, four
years later, I had yet to discover what I had got from this marriage
other than a shrewish fishwife and days full of acerbic torment.
     "Dada, Mama angry?"
     My little girl, not quite two years old, stood by my leg, tugging
at my trousers for attention.
     "Charity, honey." I bent, lifted up the tow-headed moppet into my
arms and kissed her. "How are you?"
     "Me hungry, Dada," she replied, her lower lip trembling just this
side of a pout.
     I sighed. She was so like her mother in looks that sometimes I
couldn't bear it. "C'mon honey, let's get you something to eat."

     The following afternoon Milnor walked briskly back to the
guardhouse, wanting to reach the guardhouse before Cepero left.
     "Lieutenant, what are you doing back here?" he asked, his voice
rising in surprise as he saw her in the corridor leading to the outer
door of the guardhouse. "I was just leaving."
     "I had a talk with Urs," she said. "Come with me, Cepero, I want to
discuss the fires with you." Urs was a young orphan whom Milnor was
trying to recruit into the guard, but with little success thus far. He
did, however, make a great lookout. As they walked down the dim
corridor, she continued, "Urs told me that he saw a guard outside the
warehouse just before it had started to burn."
     "That's impossible. I don't believe it."
     Milnor sighed. "At first, I couldn't believe it either; yet I've
known the boy for five years and I've never known him to lie. Besides,
why would he lie, and that too about a guard?"
     They had arrived at Cepero's office by then, and Milnor entered the
dark office while Cepero continued down the corridor to where it turned
off abruptly.
     He yelled, "Page! Torch!" and then returned to enter the office,
which was a rather large room with a window overlooking the front
entrance to the building. At the moment a bright moon cast its light
through the window. Three large desks sat in the center of the room;
Cepero shared his office with two others. Soon they heard the sound of
running. A young boy came in and handed a torch to Cepero, who reached
up and lit the two wall sconces.
     "Thank you, boy," he murmured. The boy nodded and left.
     Cepero picked up the conversation where they had left it. "Well,
Urs keeps away from guards; you're the only one he talks to. If I need
him to do something, I have to send a page."
     "That doesn't mean that he lies. Roman, I would know if he lied. He
said that the guard he saw outside the warehouse was a man taller than
me, with fair hair, well-built and muscular."
     "What if he was mistaken? Perhaps in the light he mistook the
uniform. Maybe the guard had been on walk-duty or simply had been going
home after his shift. There could be any number of innocent
explanations. Did Urs recognize the guard?" Cepero's tone was
reasonable.
     "No. He said that the guard was taller than me, with fair hair, and
was well-built. Urs seemed to think that he had seen him before on
walk-duty, probably within the past month."
     Cepero walked around the desk to open a large book, the duty
roster, and began to mutter to himself. "Let's see, someone who came off
walk-duty within the past month. Shall we start from the first of Yuli?
Wait; there was no duty change between the first and tenth of Yuli. I
think we may need to go further back."
     "Let's say the twentieth of Yule," Milnor offered.
     He nodded. "Straight. DaVrice and Espen changed on the eighteenth
of Yuli. Mayandi and Kanchani are still on. Aolani and Streed changed
from walk-duty to guard-duty at the keep on the twenty-eighth of Yule.
They were patrolling with Quot and Westerly, who are still on walk-duty.
I took Streed off when Aolani was killed. Streed was supposed to go back
to patrol on the first of Sy, but ..." his voice trailed off as he
continued to pore over the roster.
     "We haven't found a partner for him yet, have we?" Milnor asked,
tapping her boot against the side of the desk.
     "Not yet. He's going to be on guard duty in the marketplace for a
while. Who's left? Garay and Tarb. They rolled off on the thirtieth of
Yule and went back on, on the second of Sy," Cepero murmured.
     "Streed, Mayandi, Garay and Tarb are the only male guards who came
off walk-duty within the past month. Mayandi has dark hair, and Garay is
barely taller than me. My guess would be Streed or Tarb -- they're both
a good finger taller than me; they're both well-built, and they both
have light hair," Ilona said, staring out of the window at the tallest
of the keep's towers, the one visible from the guardhouse. Between the
moon's gray light and the thin fog that was rising from the Coldwell, it
appeared shrouded in mystery.
     "I don't think we can go on a hunt within the guard, Ilona." Cepero
frowned, his forehead creasing. Ilona looked back at him and realized
that he was upset by the idea; his forehead always creased like that
when he worried.
     "We may not have to." Ilona met his eyes, knowing that she owed him
the truth. "I saw Streed at the corn warehouse last night." Seeing him
frown, she added, as if throwing a lifeline to someone in a swamp, "You
didn't bring him to fight the fire, did you?" If he had, then Streed had
been there to help the fire guard -- an innocent explanation for his
presence at the warehouse.
     He shook his head slowly, absorbing the implications of what she
had said. "Do you think it's him? How can you be sure?"
     "I can't be sure; I'm not sure. He's your niece's husband and he's
worked under you for some time. You tell me: do you think he could have
done it?"
     "But why? Why would anyone do such a thing? It's pointless."
     Ilona sighed. "That's what I can't stop thinking about, that I
don't understand why."
     "Actually, I have a suggestion for you," Cepero paused for a moment
to close the duty roster. "I think we have to understand how this
happened before we can understand why. For that, I think you should
examine the burned warehouses to see what you can find. Westerly -- you
remember him, don't you? He's a fine tracker. Why don't you take him and
see what you can find?"
     "That's an excellent idea, Roman. Where is Westerly? Have him meet
me outside --"
     Cepero interrupted her. "Ilona, you need to get some rest. We
didn't finish with the fire until almost the ninth bell of night, and
here you were at the guardhouse by the second bell this morning. Why
don't you go home, and I'll leave a message for Westerly to meet you
outside your lodgings at, say, the third bell in the morning? What do
you say?" he asked persuasively.
     "Oh, straight, look who's talking," she said, letting out a small
smile. He grinned and opened his mouth to rebut, but she cut in, going
back to the more serious topic. "But, just in case, I think we need to
have someone follow Streed."
     Cepero looked troubled, obviously unwilling to accept the idea.
Ilona wondered if he were against the idea because of his protective
attitude toward Streed, who happened to be his niece's husband, or his
feelings about wrongdoing within the guard.
     He objected, "But he knows almost all the town guards. I'd have to
get someone from the ducal guard to do it, and even then, who knows?
Streed may recognize the guard and realize what's happening."
     "Don't worry about it," she said. "I have an idea." She decided she
would get Urs to follow Streed. That would take care of the annoying
detail of Streed potentially recognizing another guard.
     She slid off the side of the desk and as she reached the door,
threw over her shoulder, "I'll see you later, Roman."

     I walked along the Street of Travellers at a rapid pace, turned
into Ramit Street and made another right turn down a small alley,
praying that my salvation would be available. Stopping at a door on the
left, I raised my hand to knock, when it opened and a figure stood
revealed. The man was clean-shaven and neatly dressed, but his dirty
beard, flecked with blood and spittle, struck a discordant note in his
appearance. As soon as he saw me, he turned and led the way upstairs,
coughing all the while. He was Jak Ylman, a strange man who peddled
herbs and little magical charms to gullible souls. The efficacy of his
charms was questionable; the potency of his herbs was not, herbs which
gave me blessed peace from the monster in my mind.
     The room we entered was small and square, the lone window closed
tightly against the sun. A small desk in a corner, a shelf against one
wall and a bed against another wall were the only pieces of furniture in
the dingy room filled with mephitic odors. I took short breaths, trying
not to gag as my mind identified each smell: sweat, vomit, excretion,
blood, and pungent herbs. Two mortars, a pestle, and a burner sat on the
desk.
     "Jak?" I enquired.
     "Yes. You have money?" Jak Ylman's voice was gravelly, as if he
spoke but rarely.
     "Here." I handed over a fistful of Bits.
     He grabbed it, breathing hard, carefully counted the coins and even
more carefully put them away in the desk, an item that boasted a drawer
with a lock. Then, from a shelf that stood against the far wall, he
pulled a small pouch and handed it to me. I took it thankfully and left
the room.
     As soon as I reached the outside, I breathed in, leaning against
the side of the building. I swallowed the herbs and waited. The fresh,
damp-scented air filled my lungs as I strove to get the noisome stench
of the room out of my nose and out of my mind. Now that I was in the
open, the restraints against the monster wavered dangerously, and each
fetid smell took on a color in my mind; the sweat became stale yellow,
the vomit a rank orange, the blood a putrid brown and the herbs a musty
green. My breathing slowed to the beat that Aolani had taught me as I
strove to contain the images in my mind. The sound of the air through my
throat grew louder and louder in my mind, crowding out everything, until
I could see nothing else and then abruptly the white wall appeared. At
last the herbs started working and the white took on the gentle hues of
the colors of the rainbow; my control grew correspondingly until I
sighed in relief.

     Milnor approached the guardhouse thinking of her activities during
the past two bells. First thing that morning, she had examined the
warehouses with Westerly's help for anything that would point to the
identity of the culprit. While he had measured the boot prints at the
warehouses, she had taken a sieve and sifted through the mounds of ash
at the warehouses. They had searched for anything to indicate how the
fires had been set, but all their efforts had given rise to nothing save
the satisfaction that their examination had been thorough in the
extreme.
     There appeared to be no other avenue except to investigate Urs'
description of Streed's activities during the time he had followed the
guard. Milnor quickened her step, wanting to share the new information
with Cepero.
     He was in his office talking to Streed, and when he saw her at the
doorway, he beckoned her in. At that bell of the day, the other two
sergeants who shared Cepero's office were out patrolling.
     "Come in, Lieutenant," he said formally. "You know Streed? He's
been reported for falling asleep on duty."
     "What? Are we that short-staffed that we're putting people with
insufficient sleep on duty?" she asked sharply.
     "No, ma'am," Cepero answered at once. "Streed has been working
single shifts on compassionate grounds because he lost his partner about
three sennights ago. I have Quot and Westerly and a couple others doing
double shifts, and DaVrice even pulled a triple shift last sennight."
     He sounded indignant, Milnor thought, momentarily amused. Cepero
believed that proper rest was the key to good work.
     Cepero turned to the other guard and continued, "Streed, I can't
condone this simply because I'm Fidelia's uncle. A rule is a rule for
everybody. I'm going to put you on report. You're losing all your
off-duty for the next month and --"
     "Wait, Sergeant," Milnor interrupted, wanting to stop Cepero before
he ordered Streed to work every day for the next thirty days. Also, this
seemed to be the right opportunity to address the doubt in her mind
about Streed's presence at the warehouse that night. She decided to take
a circuitous route to the question. "Why did you fall asleep on duty,
Streed?"
     "I was tired, Lieutenant."
     Milnor looked at him, taking the time to really see the man behind
the anonymous face of the guard. He was tall, taller than both Cepero
and she, and despite his light hair and blue eyes, his face was more
homely than good-looking. A wide forehead gave onto a nose that had been
broken at some point and had healed with a sharp curve, giving it a
rather beakish look. His eyes were rimmed with red, with dark bags
underneath, while his voice was pleasant. Yet she was conscious of
something about him which appealed to her femininity on a certain level.
     She squashed the thought mercilessly, angry with herself for
allowing it to surface at her place of work.
     "Why are you tired? You have been going off-duty, haven't you?" The
guards worked on a rotation of five days on and two days off. Sometimes,
when some guards were sick or injured, other guards had to forego their
two days off, but Cepero had already confirmed that this was not the
case with Streed. Milnor wanted Streed to acknowledge that, despite
being short-staffed, they had treated him with sympathy, allowing him
the time to grieve for his lost partner.
     "Yes, ma'am."
     "Streed, I'm trying to help you. It might be easier if you talk to
me," she said, trying not to show her impatience at his monosyllabic
responses.
     "There's nothing to say, ma'am. My daughter has been ill, and it's
been a hard few days," he said.
     Cepero broke in angrily, "What? Charity is ill? Why didn't you tell
me?" Milnor could understand his concern; she knew that the older guard
was fond of children and especially of his niece's daughter, who was a
charming little girl. Milnor found it amazing that such an ill-tempered
woman as Fidelia could have birthed such a sweet-tempered child.
     For the first time, Streed moved from his stiff posture. His eyes
moved away as well, to the window. "She's fine now, sir."
     Milnor could not shake a feeling of unease when he failed to meet
her eyes. He was rubbing his palms against the side of his tunic, and he
twisted one foot in the direction of the door. It was certain that he
was lying about his daughter.
     She approached the issue directly. "What were you doing at the corn
warehouse the night before last, Streed?"
     "Me? I wasn't there, Lieutenant!"
     "Are you sure?"
     Cepero looked at her, a small crease on his forehead, a sign of his
worry. She didn't know what he saw in her eyes, but when he next spoke,
it was to follow the line of questioning she had started.
     He said grimly, "Don't lie, lad, or it will go the worse for you.
Don't think that just because you've married my niece Fidelia, I'll make
it easy on you. Tell us: what do you remember about the night the third
warehouse burned down?"
     Milnor wondered whether Cepero was merely following her lead, or
whether he truly believed that Streed was lying. Then she realized it
didn't matter; one glance at Streed was enough for any experienced
questioner to conclude that he was indeed lying. Small beads of
perspiration dotted his forehead even though the office was not that
warm. The previous day's fog had not dissipated completely, and there
was a damp chill to the air, despite the sunlight that streamed in
through the open window.
     "Nothing, sir." He still did not meet either of their eyes.
     "Streed," Milnor said, letting a note of implacability enter her
voice. "Start from the morning. What did you do?"
     "I was on guard duty here at the guardhouse. When I went home, I
had another fight with Fidelia and then I went to sleep."
     "You lie." Milnor moved, quick as a cheetar, from her usual
position perching against the side of the desk to face Streed. Even
though he was taller than she was, he cowered before her at the sight of
the fury on her face. "You lie. Tell me the truth, or I will have you
thrown into the dungeons." The lower levels had devices, presently
unused, that were the stuff of nightmares.
     "It wasn't me, I swear, by the Stevene," he began to yell, his eyes
wild.
     "Then tell me the truth!" she shouted.
     As Milnor stared at him, his eyes began to darken and he was
trembling. He seemed to be taking her dungeon threat seriously. She
opened her mouth to disabuse him of the notion when there was a
clattering sound near the door. As she turned toward the door, the wall
sconce blazed up. A boy entered the office. "Lieutenant, the Cap'n wants
you in his office."
     "The sconce ..." Milnor looked back at the sconce and stared, mouth
open. It was unlit, and quite dead. Had she imagined it? She closed her
open mouth and turned back to stare at Streed, who still trembled; but
his eyes were quite normal.
     "What about the sconce?" Cepero asked, glancing at the sconce and
then at her.
     She checked it again, but it remained unlit, making her wonder if
she had imagined it all. "Nothing. Nothing at all," she said, deciding
that she had imagined the whole thing. She had fire on the mind, that
was all. That, combined with seeing the page who usually brought the
torch for light had been why she'd thought the sconce was lit. Turning
to the boy, she continued, "I'll be right there. You can go." She
watched him salute and trot away.
     "I didn't do anything. Let me go, sir," Streed said, his voice
trembling.
     Milnor stared at him, debating whether to hold him or let him go.
     She did not look forward to endless repetitions of the same
questions to be met with the same denials. While she suspected him, she
had no proof, no witnesses and no idea of why, and his denials were
strong.
     She had to make a decision at once; Koren was waiting for her and
no doubt wished to know the progress on this investigation. He would not
be pleased with her if she jailed a man without any proof at all. Urs
was following Streed, so if the latter did do anything that seemed even
remotely suspicious, Urs would let her know. Quelling her instinctive
reaction to put Streed in one of the cells, she said to Cepero, "Send
him home. Get some rest, Streed."
     After he left, she turned to Cepero and said quickly, "Urs told me
that Streed goes to a boarding house off Ramit Street often, to visit a
Jak Ylman. I'm going to see him after I speak with the captain."

     As I entered my home, Fidelia was teaching Charity to eat on her
own. I stopped silently and watched them, smiling as my beautiful
daughter slopped stew all over her face.
     Fidelia laughed and said, "Honeypear, not like that. Slowly. Mmmm.
You like that don't you?"
     Mother and daughter laughed at each other and I laughed too.
     Fidelia looked up and her smile faded. She turned back to the child
and said, "That's enough for today, dearie. Come on." She hefted the
child into her arms and stepped into the next room.
     It was more than a bell later that she returned to the front room,
and later still before she spoke a word to me. "So where were you last
night?" Her voice was soft, and she was folding a tunic and making a
huge task of it.
     I looked at her warily as I spooned stew into my mouth, wondering
what kind of mood she was in. "Right here," I muttered. I'd begun
needing more of Ylman's herbs than before simply to quieten the sound of
the monster as it pounded against the restraints I built. The truth was
that Aolani's incantations no longer had the same strength that they'd
had when she had been alive.
     "Don't lie," she said. "You weren't here for three bells. You think
I don't notice, but I do. What do you think I am, an idiot?" She rose
and put the tunic away on a shelf against the wall and then, without
waiting for my response, continued, "Aolani's dead, so who is she? Tell
me if there's someone else, please, Kale." Her voice trembled.
     "Fidelia, please. There is no one else." I sighed. I felt tired of
trying to convince her that I cared for no other woman save her. I
wondered if that were true any longer, although it had undoubtedly been
true when we had married. The exhaustion in my limbs from lack of sleep
seemed to absorb all conscious thought, leaving me defenseless against
the fire in my mind. It glowed evilly, the banked embers beginning to
spark and flame here and there.
     "I followed you yesterday," she said, standing motionless before
the shelf. "I saw you go down the Street of Travellers. You went to that
whorehouse, the Shattered Spear, I know it."
     I looked at her back and wondered if she was crying. "Did you see
me walk into the Shattered Spear? No," I answered my own question,
"because I didn't. There's more than one place on the Street of
Travellers." The flames in my mind began to leap at my indignation and I
scrambled for control. Fidelia's accusal was an obscenity to one such as
I, who believed strictly in the sanctity of marriage as advocated by the
Stevene.
     "Oh, so there's another whorehouse that you go to? Tell me, Kale, I
want to know. If I were to tell my uncle Roman --"
     I interrupted her, "I am sick of hearing you talk about your uncle
Roman. No more, Fidelia. Why your mouth can't be as sweet as your face,
I will never know. I was fooled by your pretty face when I married you."
I rose and began to pace the small room, the anger inside me demanding
an outlet other than the fire that threatened to overcome my control. I
began to breathe slowly, muttering the incantations under my breath,
desperately hoping that they would work.
     "What are you saying? That I'm not good enough for you? That only
Aolani was good enough for you?" Fidelia's voice began to rise. She
turned to face me and I knew I had been mistaken in thinking she was
crying.
     I snapped, "She was my partner, for Stevene's sake! Can't you at
least be respectful of a dead person?" Dead, dead, dead. Because of me,
me, me. The flames mocked. The colors wavered. The monster beckoned,
grinning at me evilly through the holes in the colored wall.
     "I'll say whatever the fark I want in my own house. Who're you to
stop me? You can have as many women as you want and I'm supposed to stay
at home, chaste? Well, I have news for you, you shitty excuse for a man,
I take my pleasures outside the home just like you. And if you think
Charity's your child, you're more of a fool than I thought you were."
     There was a sudden silence before the sound of a slap filled the
air. The holes in my control were larger! I patched them hurriedly and
painted over and over, but the colors ran, bleeding into the white.
     "That's it! That's the last time you hit me. I'll tell my uncle
Roman -- Ah!" Her voice rose as the hem of her gown caught fire. "Kale,
stop it, stop it!" She began to beat at her dress. "No!" She screamed.
     I gasped and blinked. Horror ran through me as I realized my
control had failed, and in that one instant, the monster escaped. I
needed to protect Fidelia from the beast within, and my breath came in
quick gasps as I struggled to put away the waves of shame and guilt that
threatened. Whispering the incantation, I slowed my breathing to its
rhythm, building up the wall against the beast. I painted quickly, with
thick strokes, darkening each color twice before proceeding to the next
one, but the flames had already diminished and soon there was nothing
but smoke.

     Later that afternoon, Milnor entered Cepero's office deep in
thought. The duty roster lay on his desk, but Cepero himself wore a
strained look, the crease on his forehead back in evidence.
     "Lieutenant," Cepero's voice was formal.
     "Sergeant," she replied just as formally and approached his desk.
     He said, "Westerly stopped by and told me that he looked at each
and every boot print that he found in all three of the warehouses. He
measured them and he drew out the boot prints on sand, and got everyone
from the fire guard to lend a boot for his exercise."
     Milnor nodded, remembering when Westerly had asked for her own
boot.
     "Well, he found Streed's boot print in every warehouse."
     Milnor perched on his desk and said, "I have some news for you too.
I found out that Streed visits someone at a boarding house off Ramit
Street."
     Cepero frowned and opened his mouth to speak but Milnor beat him to
it. "The boarding house that Streed goes to is owned by an old woman and
when I talked to her, she told me that this Ylman is very odd.
Apparently he goes out at all bells, sometimes returning from the docks
smelling of fish, and sometimes returning looking like he had lost a
fight with more than one person. Anyway, she told me that she has seen
Streed buying herbs from this Ylman. Who knows what these herbs are
doing to him? I think Streed's our man, don't you?"
     "I hate to say it, but I think you're right," Cepero said
unhappily.
     She smiled. "You hate to say that I'm right?"
     "You know that's not what I meant." The sergeant chuckled. "Did you
meet this Ylman?"
     Milnor nodded. "Yes, I did. He seemed ordinary, but like the old
woman said, there was something that wasn't quite right about him. He
was clean and neatly dressed, yet there were bruises all down one side
of his face, and from the way he walked, it certainly looked like
someone had given him a good drubbing. And every time he coughed, he
coughed blood.
     "But, about Streed, do you want to go to his house and bring him
in?" Milnor swung a booted foot against the side of Cepero's desk.
     "Straight, I do." He put his feet down with a stomp and rose to put
away the duty roster in the chest that stood against the side wall.
     Cepero reached up on the wall behind him to quench the flame in the
wall sconce. The two of them walked companionably through the darkened
corridors and out the side doors. The moon, Nochturon, was out but its
light was dim in the twilight. It was a pleasant evening, and Milnor
took a deep breath of the air, enjoying the smell of the river and the
few summer roses that had bloomed in the front courtyard of the
guardhouse.
     "How are you and Kalen doing? Baby soon?" Cepero asked paternally.
     Milnor made a sound that was a part-gasp and part-laugh. "Roman!"
she chided, surprise reverberating through her voice.
     "Well, you've been married --"
     "It'll happen when it does. If it does," she said firmly. "What
about you? Who're you seeing now? How about that pretty cook, Mayda?"
     He laughed. "Oh, no. She's devoted to that captain. Besides, I'm
scared of her."
     It was Ilona's turn to laugh.
     Cepero said severely, "It's been a long time since you laughed.
You've let this whole situation with the firebug tie you up in knots.
You've been a guard for a long time, Ilona. How can you function if you
let something worry you like this?"
     "You're right. I won't," she promised. "Back to the firebug: what I
want to know is how Streed burned up the warehouses."
     "You're convinced it was him?" Cepero's voice made the statement a
question.
     She understood why he asked her again; it was better to be sure.
"Aren't you? We didn't find any boot prints that didn't belong to either
the fire guard or any children who may have wandered in. The only
unaccounted boot print was Streed's. Then Urs told me he saw him at the
warehouse before the fire. I myself saw him during the fire. He's been
falling asleep on duty, which means he's not getting enough sleep at
night. Both Urs and the old woman at the boarding house say that he's
been going there to buy herbs from a man who's crazier than anyone I've
ever met -- who knows what he sold Streed?"
     "Hold on a mene here," Cepero objected. "I grant you that we can
place Streed at the warehouses and at the boarding house because Urs saw
him there. Does that mean we know for certain that he bought bad herbs
from that man in the boarding house? Or that Streed set fire to the
warehouse?"
     "Roman, I spoke to Jak Ylman and he said that a guard had been
buying an herbal mixture from him, herbs that he says are innocuous that
he blends himself. When I asked him for the mixture, he said he was out
of them and he would have to go searching for the herbs again. We can go
back and check into it tomorrow, but for now, let's talk to Streed. Who
knows, it may simply have been an accident."

     I walked down Ramit Street, brooding upon the injustice of life.
Aolani had been my stability and my mainstay amongst the pillars of
flame that marked my soul. She had helped me control that which gave
rise to the heat and fire. When she had died, those ties had started to
loosen, until now, when they were finally free.
     The monster laughed at me I crouched in the shadows within my own
mind. Sometimes, the creature wore Aolani's face, and at those times, I
wept tears of fire. Sometimes it took on Fidelia's face and beckoned me
into its embrace, leading me to an ecstasy that I had never known and a
peace that I had never felt before. The only thing that helped was
Ylman's herbs, which gave me sanctuary from the being that dwelt within,
and even that relief was fugacious, temporary. I dared not think what I
would do when the herbs became useless.
     When at last I reached home after my little detour to the boarding
house on an alley off Ramit Street, Fidelia was waiting for me.
     "Well, look who's here," she marveled.
     "What's the matter with you?" I asked shortly. "I came home early
to spend some time with you, and is this the reception I get?"
     "What, didn't the Spear have a woman for you today?"
     "Fidelia ..." What was there to say? Lately she seemed more on edge
than usual. She saw other women in every shadow, and a waste in my every
expense. I did not understand where such thoughts came from. "You know I
don't have any other women," I began in a placating voice. "You're my
wife and Charity is my child."
     "Ha. You remembered that I'm your wife. What's happening to you,
Kale? Why won't you talk to me?"
     There were tears in her voice and I could not bear it, remembering
the tenderness in our life before Aolani had become my partner. Fidelia
had suspected that we had a secret; unfortunately, I could hardly tell
my wife that my partner was a magician who helped me control my monster.
     When I had refused to talk about Aolani, Fidelia had assumed that
we were having an affair.
     "Don't cry, Fidelia," I murmured, approaching her. "Charity -- is
she my child?" I could not even begin to accept that she was not mine.
     The very thought wounded something deep inside of me that was
already fragile; the landscape shook, the tremors starting from the
foundation deep underneath the colored cage that restrained the monster.
     She sighed. "You want to know if I was unfaithful. What about you?
Until Aolani died, at least it was just her. After she died, you've
become a rutting animal." Slowly her voice changed until by the end of
her sentence, her tone had become a weapon.
     "Fidelia, you know that's not true. You take that back, this
instant, or, Ol help me, I will hit you," I threatened, the mention of
Aolani making a mess of any control that I had. The wall would crumble
if I could not shore up the foundation.
     She laughed and it was a brittle sound. "Yes. That's what you will
do. What else are you capable of?" Her voice changed again and there was
a tear at the corner of her eye. "Kale, what's happening to us?"
     I was too angry to respond to the entreaty in her voice. "You told
me that Charity is not my child. Is she or not? Tell me." The vibrations
spread through the wall, cracks going through each level, and the colors
began to bleed into one another.
     "Kale, stop it! Your hands are hot. Stop it!" She began to cry.
     I sensed the real panic within her and took a deep breath to
control my anger. I paced around the small front room, from the table to
the door and back again. "Straight. I'm calm now. Tell me: is Charity my
child?"
     Loud knocking at the door interrupted; we both ignored it.
     "What do you care whether Charity is your child or not? You're a
monster and I hate you and you hate me," wept Fidelia. "I'm pregnant,
and this is what I'm going to tell my second child: your father is
unfaithful, so he isn't really your father."
     "Fidelia, that is the silliest thing you've said in a long time," I
said in a long-suffering voice. I lied without any compunction. "I don't
have any magic and I'm no monster." Her words sank in and I stared at
her. "What? You're preg--"
     The knocks sounded again.
     "I'm coming, I'm coming," Fidelia snapped. She wiped away her tears
with the back of her hand and walked across the room to open the door.
"Uncle Roman! Lieutenant! This is a surprise. Come in."
     "No," I said under my breath. "Not now!" I knew they were here to
arrest me; I knew it as surely as I knew that Charity was my own child.
I felt a hysterical laugh struggling in my throat. If I let it through,
the fire would come with it.
     The lieutenant and the sergeant entered the small room, staring at
me. Each pair of eyes bored into me with accusation. I was guilty; I had
allowed the fire to rise from inside of me; I had permitted the fire to
destroy the warehouses.
     "Kale, no. Kale, stop it! Kale!"
     It was all my fault; I knew that now. I had failed to save my
partner. Aolani, the fastest runner in the guard, was dead because of
me. And Fidelia had said Charity was not mine! Each little guilt piled
up until it swept away my wall of control.
     "No! Kale! Kale!"
     Faintly, I heard someone calling my name; dimly, I felt someone
shake me. But guilt held me in its grip and my doubt tightened the
chains. I heard the rattle of Aolani's last few breaths and I saw the
blood flowing out of her body; I heard Fidelia say Charity was not my
child and I saw Charity smiling at me. I smelled fire and then --
     Fidelia screamed, her arms on fire from where she gripped me. The
long sleeves of her gown were burning, with a bright orange flame.
     "Stevene! No!" I screamed with her, beating at her arms.
     Someone pulled her away. I tried to see who it was, but the flames
rose high, blocking my view. Each flame formed itself into a face, the
same face: Aolani's face, mocking me. My failure to save her stared at
me from the fire, the heat first singeing, then scorching my body. I
embraced it gladly, peace enveloping me even as the thing inside me grew
and grew. It burst through all of my restraints; the control that was a
living wall composed of all the colors of a rainbow bleeding into a
bright yellow, then orange, and red, and then the color of true flame.
     My eyes burned with the effort of seeing it and I closed them; but
the images were imprinted on my eyelids and I could see the thing grow,
consuming what lay in its path.
     "-- not breathing!"
     Someone was talking, but I was past hearing, past listening. It
owned me now, wholly, entirely, completely. I relished being under its
power, having it absolve me of my decisions, my guilt. I was its
faithful devotee, its slave, and it was my master, my owner. It writhed;
my whole body shook with the energy. It consumed me from the inside out,
growing until there was no separate me and no separate it, until the two
of us were united, were one being. It needed more -- I needed more. I
struggled to give it more, to get more. The body was fuel, and we, it
and I, consumed the body eagerly, with relish. The fire was delightful
and the flames were wondrous ... we consumed and were consumed until
only gray ash remained.

     Milnor stared at the pile of ash on the floor. "Is it really him?"
she wondered aloud.
     Fidelia was crying, loud, ugly sobs that were better wept in
private, but her husband had just ... died. Milnor felt her thoughts
stumble over that idea. Cepero had held Fidelia back from going to
Streed, and he had also put out the fire on the sleeves of her dress,
while she, Ilona Milnor, lieutenant of the guard, had just watched the
spectacle before her.
     She crept forward and touched the ashes that remained. They were
warm. Milnor swallowed as it hit her: the investigation was over, and
there was no need to go and question anyone again. She swore. How in the
name of Ol was she going to explain this case to the captain?

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

                    Jakob Sings of Monstrous Things
                                 Part 2
                           by Victor Cardoso
                            <viktor@mac.com>
                              Ober 4, 1018

          Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 14-9

     A sickening feeling grew in the pit of Graham Walker's stomach as
his battered feet catapulted him beyond the edge of the cliff. As he
launched himself into the air, out into the empty space of wind, a
strange sensation of freedom and terror overwhelmed him. He felt his
body tip agonizingly forward and his hands came up, futilely trying to
reestablish balance. Before him spread the autumn grandeur of the Darst
forest and mountain range, the chill wind of its embrace blowing off the
Coldwell River far below and enveloping his body in a thrilling but
deadly kiss. He heard the soft, flapping sound of cloth rippling about
his arms and legs.
     "Graham!"
     He barely heard Feddoran, one of the men from Kenna who had pursued
him, shouting his name. In what could only be a moment, but what
stretched before him like a thousand years, visions of his past
bombarded him: the Hall of Warriors in Magnus, with its larger than life
heroes carved out of solid rock; Port Sevlyn, its docks and streets
still reeking of char from the inferno loosed upon them during the war
with Beinison; the kindly woodsman Wolcott, offering him a job in the
small but prosperous village of Kenna; the angry, jealous stare of the
man Hylan as his girlfriend Naris paid more attention to Graham ...
Naris!
     His feet broke the surface of the water first, a sharp, stinging
pain slapping his legs. He felt himself plunge like a fist into a barrel
of rainwater, a torrent of air bubbles rushing up the sides of his neck
and tickling the back of his head. A sudden impact halted his descent.
His left arm caught on some debris that tore away from him. Graham felt
the bones break somewhere between his wrist and elbow and the pain that
exploded through his body caused him to cry out. The river swallowed his
scream.
     He very nearly passed out, but as he choked on river water, the
panic mounting in his chest demanded his attention. The current wrestled
his body into submission, tumbling him head over heels, sometimes
pushing him into and around submerged rocks that formed a rapids in this
shoulder of the broad Coldwell. He lost his sense of direction in the
tumult.
     Furiously, Graham kicked out with his feet, fighting for his life
in whatever direction the river held him. He vaguely made out light
somewhere above. He kicked further, the lack of air in his lungs burning
his chest.
     As if the hand of the Coldwell uncurled its cold fist, his body
moved upwards, and his face broke the surface of the water. Graham
gasped for air, another slosh of water entering his desperate mouth. The
world disappeared as he submerged again. He felt a hard object brush
against his body and he reached out for it. It was a tree trunk, thick
and solid, and it allowed him to get an anchor to push his head further
out of the water.
     He gulped the air greedily, trying his hardest not to cry out. He
could not scream. He could *not*. The men from Kenna would hear him.
They would hear him. But the pain in his broken bones swelled, and as he
slipped in the water and became more entangled in the branches of the
driftwood, the world shook itself in his head and he blacked out.
     He slipped in and out of consciousness several times on his journey
down the Coldwell, the tree branch serving as his cradle. With each
successive wake he saw the sky darken. So severe was his pain that at
times he wondered if he was truly awake or simply dreaming the stars
glittering white and pure far above him.
     The stars. He remembered looking upon them many times in his
journeys across Baranur. Some nights he would pray to them, asking them
for guidance, for they were the only evidence of beauty in this world.
He did not believe in any god. There could be no god for what he had
seen and done in this land. Deeper memories surfaced: he recalled the
painted face of a whore in Shark's Cove, the look of surprise in her
eyes frozen for eternity ... But Naris had been different. She had been
innocent...
     The memories stirred feelings of revulsion within him, but he was
too weak to push them away. He passed out once again, plagued by dreams
of Naris' beautiful eyes.

     When Graham came to, his muddled conscious realized that the trunk
was not moving. The gnarled wood's tendrils must have grabbed hold of
the river's bank sometime during the night. Graham heard his own humming
barely audible above the sound of the water rushing below and around
him. This time he couldn't find enough strength in him to care. He
finally didn't care who could hear his song or if anyone should ever
come across him again.
     "Hail, stranger!" a voice called.
     A silhouette blocked his vision, backlit by the rising sun.
     "Rose," it said, but its voice sounded deeper than it had in
greeting. "The man's hurt."
     Another silhouette appeared beside the first, a tinge of red in
long hair that spilled about its shoulders. It was smaller and softer
about the edges than its companion. "Imagine that," it remarked. "We go
out looking for my cat and he looks like something Old Carrot might've
dragged back. Is he alive?"
     The first silhouette moved closer to touch Graham's face and brush
the hair away from his forehead.
     "He lives," it declared, "but barely. His arm looks broken and his
legs are more scratched up than our blankets."
     "I wonder where he comes from?" the second shadow, Rose, asked.
     "Dargon," Graham murmured, unsure if he had even spoken aloud.
     "Well the Coldwell doesn't run backwards, stranger," the first
shadow replied. What was its name? "If you're from Dargon, you either
lost your ship or you fell off the mountain trying to get home."
     "He's probably a new hunter out with his friends," Rose chided.
"Got drunk and went to pee at night and fell into the Coldwell. Happened
to Jarrod last Melrin."
     The first shadow chuckled. "I remember that," it answered. "But
what should we do with him?"
     "If we leave him out here, I doubt he'll survive the day. Let's
take him home. Maybe later you can make the ride into town to find out
whom he belongs to. Stranger," she addressed him. "What is your name?"
     "Graham," he replied painfully. "Men call me Graham."

     Wolcott Thyle pulled the rough, homespun shirt over his wet body,
watching the other two men from Kenna who continued the search in the
shallows of the Coldwell. The cold had begun to gnaw on the old hunter's
bones and so he withdrew, leaving the task to the younger men. There was
one from their small group, however, who didn't seem up to the task at
hand. One who sat a little ways up on the bank, watching listlessly.
     Feddoran had been withdrawn since they had caught up with Graham on
the mountaintop yesterday afternoon. The men from Kenna had searched for
the fugitive's body as long as the light held out, but eventually they
had to break at nightfall and resume at dawn. This part of the Coldwell
was littered with fallen trees and meandering shallows. It was taking
time to search the crevices where a body might have gotten trapped.
Feddoran had helped them scour the banks at first but gradually quieted
when some of the others had entered the river to look for the
Dargonian's remains.
     Wolcott approached the boy -- man, he corrected himself. If there
was anything to make a boy into a man, it was what they were doing now.
Feddoran looked up as he approached, the youth's stubbled face
expressionless under a mop of curly brown hair.
     "What's the matter?" Wolcott asked.
     The young man shook his head. "Nothing," he muttered.
     With a grunt the woodsman set himself down, taking the opportunity
to lace his boots. "I dunnit think it's nothing that has you sitting
over here under a dark cloud. There's something you're not telling me,
so speak up."
     Feddoran shrugged.
     He usually wasn't a quiet youth, at least around the hunter. There
were times Wolcott feared that Feddoran held himself back in the
presence of others. Most viewed him as the younger, more inexperienced
man of the village. It was true that the others like Hylan and Willit
got the attention, if not for their looks then for their loud mouths.
While the events of the last few days had shaken everyone up, Wolcott
sensed there was more.
     The hunter leaned back on his elbows and let out a sigh. "Feddoran,
did Graham say anything to you on the mountain? When you found him?"
     Feddoran's shoulders tensed.
     So there had been words spoken. Wolcott was intrigued. He hadn't
poised the question last night while Hylan was present. Better to find
the body and be on their way back rather than continue to rub salt in
old wounds. "What did he say, Feddoran? Did he offer any explanation?"
     "No," the young man whispered harshly. "He said nothing." He looked
up from his feet and into the old man's eyes. "I came upon him at the
cliffside and he simply looked at me, Wolcott. This look ... I dunnit
know if it was regret or sorrow ... He didn't breathe a word but just
looked at me."
     "Did you say anything to him?"
     Feddoran turned back to the river. "What could I have said?" he
asked. "It was only for a few moments. He jumped before I could do
anything else."
     The two of them fell silent and let the sounds of the world fill
the void. Before them, the Coldwell stretched out wide and peaceful, as
if it were oblivious to the drama that had unfolded along its banks just
the other day. Crows echoed in the groves of multi-colored trees behind
them. As if in response, the wind picked up and shook the branches of a
few stately elms, dislodging some of the leaves that had grown too weak
to cling any longer.
     In an effort to soothe his friend, Wolcott reached out a hand and
laid it on the young man's shoulder, but the other winced at the
contact, as if stung.
     "Your shoulder," the woodsman commented. "You've hurt yourself."
     Feddoran shook off the grasp and stood up. "I hurt it during the
chase. We climbed so many farking rocks it's a good thing none of *us*
fell into the river."
     Their conversation was interrupted as one of the other men from
Kenna made his way over to them from the riverbank. It was Hylan, his
blonde hair plastered to his forehead and rivulets of water tracing
their way down his chest. River dredge clung to his arms and waist, as
if the Coldwell refused to cleanse him.
     "There's still no sign of the body," he stated coldly.
     "We'll keep looking," Wolcott sighed. "If we can't find it, we'll
go back to Kenna and get one of the midwives to dowse for it."
     Hylan crossed his arms, immovable. "He could still be alive," he
said. "If we go back home this early we could lose him."
     Feddoran stared in amazement. "Hylan, he couldn't have survived
that fall!"
     Hylan barely glanced at the youth. "I won't have Naris' murderer
slip my grasp twice. The rest of you can go back to Kenna if you like,
but I'll stay here to look for him. Unlike some others, I won't let him
get away."
     Feddoran's back straightened in indignity. Wolcott started to
reprimand Hylan, but Feddoran turned and stalked away into the woods. It
had been an uncomfortable night when they had set camp. Hylan had
disappeared once or twice into the dark of the forest. The hunter
guessed the man had gone down to the river to listen -- to make sure no
one was sneaking along its shores.
     "So you want to stay behind," Wolcott said, getting to his feet. He
walked forward until he stood uncomfortably close to the other man.
Hylan didn't give ground, river water dripping into his dark, inset
eyes. The two men's noses were about a hand's length apart, the old
man's gray eyes piercing a younger man's brown. "What will you do,
Hylan? Will you search these woods alone?"
     Hylan said nothing, his gaze unflinching.
     Wolcott had bested larger men in his time. No matter the grief,
Hylan had been nothing short of obsessive since they started this trip,
and nothing but cruel to Feddoran. "You listen carefully," the hunter
said, lowly. "You can not force any of us to stay with you, so if you're
planning on going on a bloody manhunt, you better be prepared to do it
alone."
     Hylan continued his glare for a moment or two longer, then took in
a deep breath and staggered back, a hand coming up to clench the space
between his eyes. His breath shook for a moment, as he fought to gain
control of himself.
     Wolcott felt a pang in his heart. The old Hylan still existed under
the stone mask and harsh words. The hunter came up to the man who had
brutally lost his love, and put a comforting hand on the back of his
neck.
     "Easy, lad. It will be all right. We'll find him," the hunter
soothed. "We will continue to look around here for a bell. If we can't
find him, we'll go on down the river. Regardless of whether Graham lived
or no, he wouldn't have been in any shape to swim upstream. More likely
we'll find his body further down. And if not there, Kenna won't be able
to miss him if he drifts by."
     Hylan nodded, his hand still covering his eyes, wiping away a few
grudgingly shed tears. Without uttering a response, however, he turned
back to the river, his shoulders knotted in grief.

     Rose watched her husband Herrit lay the stranger gingerly onto
their sleeping pallet. The hearth wasn't far removed, a pot of last
night's stew still sitting over the cold embers. Nothing in their small,
wood-planked home was far removed from anything else. The pallet by the
hearth lay on one side, a pantry of dried herbs and other stores taking
up an adjacent wall. A small table and two chairs, carved by Herrit
himself, stood near the door. The shack was nestled in some of the
steeper climbs of the Darst Range, overlooking the Coldwell far below.
It wasn't fancy, but it served to keep them sheltered from the elements,
provided they closed the door tight.
     "We better not make a habit of bringing people home every time we
go looking for that stupid cat," Herrit said, stretching his shoulder
after carrying the man up the hill.
     The stranger's eyes opened briefly, a glassy, far-off look in their
depths.
     "Pussy-shy, pussy-shy,
     Where have you gone?
     Your master's a-worried
     And home all alone."
     Herrit looked down at the man and snorted. "He's a poet."
     The man named Graham came in and out of consciousness throughout
the entire trip up the mount. At times he had seemed on the verge of
tears, mumbling about the stars or this or that. Rose squatted down to
put her hand on his forehead and found it warm.
     "He has a fever," she declared.
     Herrit nodded. "It's a good thing we found him when we did. It
coulda' been a lot worse. Do you have the herbs for it?"
     Rose went to the corner where two small racks stood, their shelves
crowded with earthen jars of various shapes and sizes. She fished out
the one she was looking for: a squat, blue-tinged clay pot. She undid
the twine around its cloth top and had to look away as the pungent odor
of skunkweed stung her eyes.
     Herrit wrinkled his nose from where he sat. "I guess we do," he
said.
     "We had better get him out of those clothes, though," Rose
answered, pulling out a few straggly roots. "We have some extra blankets
in the chest."
     Her husband leaned over and pulled some old quilts out of their
cedar chest, then started to carefully pull off Graham's shirt. He
treated the broken arm with care, then grabbed a board by the hearth to
use as a splint. But as Herrit lay it by the hearthside, he paused.
"Rose, come look at this."
     "What is it?" she asked, wrapping up the jar in her hands.
     "The man has a mark on him."
     She saw Herrit looking puzzled at the man's waist. Setting the jar
back on its rack, she walked over, placing the skunkweed roots in the
stewpot as she did. On the stranger's waist there was a tattoo about the
size of a man's hand in the semblance of a rose, its colored petals
encircling a decorative initial at the center. Rose grew excited.
     "He's no mercenary," she muttered. "He's a bard. That's the mark of
Gesalde, one of the elite houses in Magnus." She reached out to trace
the delicate pattern of vines. Once, in a time that seemed long past,
she had studied to be a bard, leaving when her father had been killed in
the war with Beinison and all available hands were needed back here,
near Kenna. The mark that the stranger bore was something that she and
all of her studying friends had yearned for: the sigil of a secret
collective who only chose among the best singers to invite into their
group. Whoever this man was, he was recognized as an outstanding
storyteller.
     "Should've figured as much," Herrit said, "the way he's humming all
the time."
     Rose sat back on her heels, quieting her excitement. Examining the
mark more carefully, she realized that there was something wrong here.
     "We're not going to have enough to feed him and us tonight," she
said, trying to sound sincere.
     "We can eat the stew you made yesterday," Herrit replied, gesturing
at the pot. He used his hunting knife to cut up some strands of cloth
and lashed the man's broken arm to the splint.
     "That won't be enough," she answered, reaching over to make sure he
lined it up straight. Graham cried out as they touched it but Rose put a
hand on his chest and tried to quiet him. At least the stranger would
likely forget this whole ordeal when he got better. After the arm was
set, she continued her argument. "You should go out and catch us
something so one of us won't have to go hungry."
     Her husband stopped what he was doing and stared at her. "What, you
want me to leave you alone with him?"
     She rolled her eyes at him, pretending that he hadn't figured out
what she was trying to do. They had been married for too long. But she
felt it was in Herrit's best interests. "I want you to get us some food
so that your belly won't keep us up all night."
     Herrit didn't move.
     "What's he going to do?" she finally exclaimed, pointing at the
stranger in exasperation. "Look at him. Broken arm and he had to lean on
the both of us just to get up the mount. Just go and fetch us something
out of the river. You're always bragging about your fishing. Should take
you no time at all."
     Her husband sighed in disgust. She knew he was only trying to
protect her, but he needn't be so damned possessive. He acted as if she
were going to jump on the man the moment he walked out the door. Herrit
grabbed his net and pole from beside the entrance and stomped out, not
bothering to say goodbye.
     Rose was relieved, even though she felt a twinge of guilt at having
lied to her husband. She needed some time to talk to this stranger --
bard to, well, almost-bard. Herrit got upset whenever she mentioned
anything from that part of her life. Maybe he was afraid she missed it,
which, from time to time, she did.
     If anything, maybe the stranger had news from Magnus to share with
her. The feeling of excitement welled in her again as she struck some
flint against the hearth, making sparks to ignite the kindling. She
wondered if anyone she knew was still in the city.
     "I had a cat once."
     Rose turned. Graham's eyes were narrow slivers of blue in the pale
lump of his face. His breathing was returning to normal. The blanket
that Herrit had wrapped him in was bunched around his shoulders and
neck; he looked small and frail in its embrace.
     The fire caught. She fanned it until it was a little stronger, so
that the flames grew steadier. "What was its name?" she asked, grabbing
some more kindling. When Graham didn't answer, she looked back and saw
that his eyes were closed again. Was he thinking or had he just passed
out? No matter. Herrit wasn't as good a fisher as he bragged. He'd
probably be out for a bell trying to catch something.
     The fire was established. She let it burn on its own while she
stirred the pot to get the skunkweed mixed in with the broth.
     "Horatio."
     Rose heard the answer faintly. Giving the stew one last stir, she
moved away from the pot and went to sit next to him. She realized he was
humming under his breath, a faint tune she didn't recognize. Graham
opened his eyes as she set herself beside him.
     "Did you have your cat during your time in Magnus?" she asked
tentatively.
     The man's head tilted in confusion, but there was a glint of
recognition in his eyes. Maybe he was becoming more lucid?
     "My husband and I saw your mark," she explained, wringing her hands
a little nervously. "Herrit didn't know what it meant -- he thought you
were a mercenary," she laughed. "But I know what it means. I studied in
Magnus for a time. You're a very talented bard if it's genuine."
     Graham tried to look away, but winced as he moved his splinted arm.
"That was a long time ago ..." he croaked.
     She put a hand on his forearm, feeling that now would be a good a
time as any to broach the topic. "You told us your name is Graham," she
said softly, "but that isn't the letter on your mark." Herrit couldn't
read -- nor would he have understood it if he could. But she knew
better. The letter in the mark of Gesalde was supposed to be that of the
first initial of the bard. And it was not a 'G'. "Is Graham your real
name?" she asked.
     His humming grew more strained, but he didn't answer her question.
     "Stranger," she said, trying to sound soothing. "I sent my husband
off. As I said, I studied in Magnus for a while and so owe some fealty
to other bards. I will help you if I can, but only if you're honest with
me. What kind of trouble are you in?"
     Graham's eyes met hers, pools of deep blue filled with a sadness
she couldn't understand. "Let me show you," he whispered, and his hand
reached out from under the blanket to grab her wrist.

     Wolcott and the troupe from Kenna had been walking for a bell along
the banks of the Coldwell, searching its nooks and inlets carefully as
they made their way north. All morning they had continued to look for
evidence of the stranger's demise or his passing, looking for torn bits
of clothing, of places where a body could have been caught. But nothing
was found. In something akin to paranoia, Hylan had insisted on swimming
over to the other side of the Coldwell, to make sure they didn't lose
Graham that way, but Wolcott wasn't going to let the boy out of his
sight. In an effort to appease the lad, the hunter sent Willit over.
     Feddoran returned to the group prior to their departure. Maybe he
had watched them from the forest or on one of the small mounts that
seemed to grow plentiful in this area. The youth made no mention of
Hylan's comment, nor seemed interested in talking further. He kept away
from them, sullen, but occasionally paused to investigate some debris
along the waterside.
     Wolcott wondered what would have happened had they caught Graham.
What would he have said if he had been the one to corner the man at the
cliffside? For an instant he imagined himself up on the mount with the
Dargonian, the wind whipping along its edge. What would a murderer say
to someone who had befriended him? Would Wolcott have recognized the man
who had asked for a job in Kenna, or would he have looked altogether
different?
     He remembered Graham's words: "I have no worldly wisdom to share
... I have stories; stories of men's cruelties, wives' infidelities, and
the world's ideas of justice ..."
     How much of the cruelty had been Graham's doing? How much justice
had the man escaped in other cities? Was Naris his only victim? It
seemed unlikely. But somewhere, the woodsman wondered, somewhere there
is always a first victim. Wolcott recalled Feddoran's enthusiasm only a
sennight ago: "My father says that maybe, at some point soon, Kenna will
be larger than Dargon!"
     The little town on the edge of the Coldwell had crossed a threshold
with this event.
     It's better that the man had jumped.
     "Wolcott," Feddoran called out. "There's someone up ahead."
     Thigh deep in the banks of the Coldwell, a thinly built woodsman
held a pole in his hand and looked to be fishing. On the shore behind
him lay a pile of small fish, glinting in the morning sun. He was
dressed in simple breeches and a tunic, worn with the look of a local.
     "Do you know him?" Hylan asked.
     "I think so ..." Wolcott replied, squinting his eyes. "He lives in
these parts with his wife. I think his name is Herrit."

     As the stranger grabbed her arm, Rose's vision shifted
dramatically. She felt yanked out of her body, the room spinning at wild
angles. Graham's song filled her ears -- she wanted to stomp it out but
found she had no way to do so. It was a horrible, deep tune that turned
her stomach foul -- harmonies full of bloodshed, melodies of pure
murder. But as much as she detested it, however much she wanted to shut
it out, it formed an anchor for her bodiless self. Using it as a beacon,
the room straightened itself and she could make out the fire in the
hearth, lapping greedily at its kindling.
     Sunlight appeared to have been yanked out of the world, replaced by
shadows that ruled the corners and crevices. There was a breathing about
them -- soft and raspy, as if waiting for a moment to come forward.
Graham's tune caressed them in their hiding places, caused them to
shiver in delight. As his song penetrated the dark corners of the room,
it urged the shadows to come to him. A small one in the corner, lithe
and delicate, pranced forward, the excitement of its summons evident in
its trembling limbs. It paused for only a moment, as if recognizing her,
then dashed out of the house. Rose found herself helpless to do anything
but follow, a shadow of a shadow.
     There was light outside, but it was harsh and unyielding -- a
guardian who rapped her on the knuckles for any disobedience and barely
tolerated her presence. In the glare that bleached anything in its
grasp, the light hurt her eyes. She trailed low on the tail of the
smaller shadow, darting from boulder-nook to tree-hollow, under piles of
leaves gone brittle with the coming winter. She heard the wind but could
not feel it as it kicked up small dustclouds and whirlwinds of pebbles.
It was only as she and her shadow-guide leapt across the path leading
down the mountain that she realized they were following tracks.
     Small, feline treads were embedded in the dirt. As they entered
fields the tracks disappeared, but grass stalks were pushed aside with
the passing of a small body.
     She wanted to turn around and look more at the surroundings, to try
and get her bearings, but her vision blurred at the edges. It was as if
the shadow-guide refused to let her notice anything but the path they
followed.
     Through more fields she pounced, down scrags and lees to the
river's edge. The smaller shadow stopped at the water and picked its way
along its edge. Rose felt chills go up her back to not see her
reflection in the pools that gathered there -- as if the world knew
nothing of her existence or that it didn't bother to notice. Perhaps
this was the life of a shadow: to be unnoticed and uncared for, to have
no identity but that of your caster.
     The two of them left the water's edge and headed back into a field
of tall heather, browning in the cooling weather. There was movement
somewhere within -- cautious, tentative movement that seemed to know of
their presence. Rose caught a glimpse of a white tail and furred back
before it bolted further infield. Her shadow-guide gave chase, bounding
in the hare's wake with a fury as if it could possibly catch it.
     But as they moved further inward, away from sheltering brush or
bush, a terrible sound frightened her. Her guide wheeled about in place,
another shadow descending. She saw an opened beak as it came at her,
then a terrible, slashing feeling crossed her chest.

     Rose fell back from the stranger, almost into the hearth,
scattering pots and kindling across the floor between them.
     "Wizard!" she hissed, taking the stew pot off its stand and holding
it like a weapon before her, its broth sizzling inside.
     Graham regarded her through half-lidded eyes. His face was flushed
and sweaty; moisture beaded on his forehead.
     "No," he breathed with some difficulty. "Not wizard."
     She took a moment to calm her beating chest. The house had returned
to its normal state: sunlight streaming in through the open door,
although it entered the house at a lower angle than she remembered. How
long had the vision held her? She licked her lips and tried clearing her
head. The shadows in the room frightened her, although they were nothing
more than shadows now, not living things that breathed or moved.
     "What did I see?" she demanded, raising her voice. "What was that?"
     Graham appeared to try a smile but ended up grimacing. "You tell
me," he replied. "The song is over and I've given it no words. The
vision has to do with you."
     She remembered the small shadow -- its delicate appearance and
single-minded existence. While she didn't glimpse it, she could almost
imagine a tail in its wake. It was a cat she had followed. Carrot? A
lump developed in her throat. Had she followed her pet to its death?
     "I don't understand," she said. "If it wasn't magic -- how did I --
how did you -- " she stuttered.
     "I don't know," he replied simply, closing his eyes. He looked
deceptively peaceful lying there. Graham's wan face and stringy neck
didn't look capable of singing the tune she had heard. "I've done it for
a long time and never known what to make of it," he continued. "Gods,"
he took a sharp intake of breath. "I haven't sung this much in so long."
He raised his trembling, good hand to his face. "I try not to sing," he
continued. "At least I tried for a very long time. And yet it comes back
to me always, to seduce me ..."
     Rose lowered the pot slowly. Graham seemed to be truly in pain, and
he hadn't lifted a finger to harm her. Somehow he had shown her
something that had frightened her, but he hadn't hurt her. She was no
mage, but she was a good judge of character. This man was telling her
the truth.
     "So you don't sing anymore?" she asked.
     Graham shook his head.
     "And Graham isn't your real name?" she pushed, wanting the answer
to her original question. She put the pot back over the hearth. The fire
had nearly died again.
     He paused for a moment, as if deliberating on whether or not to
tell her the truth. Finally, he whispered: "Jakob."
     She couldn't understand his reluctance until the significance of
the name dawned on her. Then she very nearly fell to the floor,
incredulous.
     *The* Jakob. "The one they sing about?" she asked, still unwilling
to believe. The story came back to her across the years. The story of a
bard banished from the College of Bards for his curse. For his ability
to sing dark songs that came true. "But that's just legend," she
countered. "There's no truth to that. It's a story to scare adepts ..."
But she remembered the feel of the vision, and the 'J' on the stranger's
tattoo. Jakob was supposed to have been a top-rate bard, worthy of the
king's audience, and knew it all too well. Until the day the gods cursed
him with a dark prescience.
     "Why were you in the Coldwell?" she demanded, his words worrying
her. "How did you get there?"
     "I was chased," he said thickly. "By men from Kenna. They think I
killed a girl because of one of my songs."
     She took a moment to digest what he said. He hadn't hurt her. And
she knew the legend of Jakob. But could this man be telling her the
truth? She sat down where she stood, still keeping a good distance away
from him. "Why don't you sing them away?" Rose asked. "If you're really
the Jakob they tell of in the songs ... you have the power. You can sing
anything you want to be true."
     "No!" he replied violently at first, then clutched his broken arm.
"No," he repeated, less heatedly. "I can't do that! You better than
anyone else should know that songs are never complete and utter truths.
My songs don't even work like that. They ... they're there, inside of
me. If I let them go they sing themselves. I have no choice in what they
say."
     "Do you know who did kill the girl?" she asked. The vision of the
winged shadow was strong in her memory, but she couldn't recall any
details. Were all of his visions like that?
     Jakob swallowed heavily. "I-I think so," he said.
     "Then why dunnit you tell them!" she pressed.
     "Because they won't listen to me!" he managed to shout. "Stupid
woman, you don't think I've been through this a hundred times before?
You don't think I've nearly lost my head in situations like this in
Shark's Cove or Port Sevlyn?" Jakob lay his head back on the pallet,
chewing his lip. "There was a time," he said, more softly, "that I
thought I could use the songs to my aid. But now, after years of running
from them and of singing them ... Now I don't know if I see things and
sing of them or if I sing of things and cause them to happen. I just
don't know anymore."
     "But Carrot had been gone for days," she replied, "before Herrit
and I even found you!"
     "And I sang of the girl's death before she died," Jakob finished,
resolute. "I heard her cry out that night ..."
     "Rose!"
     Herrit's voice came shouting from down the mountain, frantic. There
were scrambling feet behind it, too many to be her husband alone.
     There was a group of men running up the mountain.
     "They're here," Jakob said.

     Wolcott pushed past Herrit as they approached the house. Hylan was
behind him, running with all the strength he had. It was a combination
of sheer will and the narrow path for Wolcott to keep ahead. Willit had
joined them from across the river and Wolcott had warned him to keep an
eye out. It was likely they were going to have another murder on their
hands if they weren't careful.
     The woodsman ran into the house and found objects strewn across the
floor as if a struggle had occurred. But in the center of the one-roomed
dwelling stood an adamant Rose, just as he remembered her: red-haired
and resolute. She held her head raised high and a pot in her hand like a
weapon.
     Graham lay back in a corner of the room, a blanket clutched around
his pale form, but he was obviously alive and awake, a look of cold
dread on his face.
     Hylan and Herrit pushed their way in, the others crowding outside
the door. As soon as the blonde youth caught sight of Graham, his face
turned an angrier shade of red.
     "You!" Hylan shouted.
     "Stay back!" Rose yelled, her weapon at the ready. "The first man
to come near him will have to get through me first!"
     "Rose!" Herrit spluttered. "What the hell are you about? These men
are from Kenna and are after that man! He's a murderer!"
     "These men think he's a murderer, Herrit," she responded fiercely.
"But I know the truth. Jakob did nothing to that girl!"
     Wolcott stood dumbfounded. Jakob? What stories had the Dargonian
been telling this woman? "His name is Graham, Rose. If he's told you
otherwise, it's a lie."
     Feddoran had stuck his head in, squeezing next to the woodsman. "I
can rush her, Wolcott," the boy said to him earnestly. "I can hold her
down while Hylan goes after Graham."
     "Hold on," Wolcott answered, confused. Since when had Feddoran
become so violent?
     Hylan let out a growl and shot forward towards Rose but Herrit
grabbed his shirt as he passed and took him down to the floor, falling
over a table in the process. Hylan got entangled in some netting and
Herrit stood up, taking a place by his wife. "Dunnit think about
touching my woman!" he shouted.
     Now there were two of them protecting the fugitive. Wolcott stepped
forward, trying to take control of the situation. Hylan had disentangled
himself but sat where he had fallen, his chest rising heavily.
     "What has he told you, Rose?" Wolcott asked.
     "That you're here because of a song," she responded, shifting her
grip on the pot. "A song! You're ready to kill a man over something he
sang to you!"
     "We're here to take him back to Kenna!" Wolcott said. "No one will
be killed, but he will have to answer for his actions." He shot an angry
glance at Hylan.
     "Then why did he describe her death so well?" Hylan countered,
throwing the netting off him. "Why did he run away? If he didn't kill
Naris, why did he run like a felon?"
     "He told me!" Feddoran shouted, interjecting himself into the
conversation. "Graham admitted to killing Naris when we were up on the
mountain!"
     Wolcott rounded on the youth in disbelief. What was Feddoran
saying?
     Hylan sprang from his perch but Herrit met him halfway, taking the
brunt of the attack. The scrawny woodsman was no match for the burly
youth. They both fell to the ground in a pile. "Willit!" Wolcott
shouted. "Get Hylan off of him!"
     Willit scrambled forward through the door and jumped onto the forms
of Herrit and Hylan, helping wrestle the latter into submission.
     Rose lost some of her resolve. She was looking at Graham
questioningly, but the blanket-wrapped stranger's eyes never left
Feddoran. Wolcott turned to the boy.
     "You never said anything about this before!" the woodsman hissed.
     "Because I didn't think it mattered!" Feddoran exclaimed, his own
face gone red. "We thought he was dead! He's a murderer! Let Hylan have
his revenge!
     "Wolcott, let me go by!" Feddoran pushed past the woodsman,
reaching for Herrit's wife. Wolcott caught hold of the youngster's shirt
at the collar, and as he strove to yank him back, the cloth tore. His
shirt split down the front and across the young man's chest and up his
shoulder were bloody scars ... four to five-fingered marks raking across
his flesh.
     For a moment the woodsman saw a flash of Naris' fingernails, bloody
...
     Wolcottt held the boy in his grasp, a knot of cloth in one hand,
looking into Feddoran's eyes with horror and grief.
     "Feddoran ..." he choked. The boy had stopped in his grasp, a look
of shock and surprise in his face. The others were behind him, they had
not yet seen his chest beneath the ruined shirt.
     Wolcott grabbed the youth's head between his hands in a fierce
grip. No wonder the boy avoided the river that morning. They had all
removed their clothes to search for Graham's corpse in the waters of the
Coldwell. But Feddoran had refused to enter the river ... and now the
boy seemed strangely intent on Hylan getting his hands on the Dargonian.
     "Oh, Feddoran," Wolcott said, his voice cracking.
     "Wolcott ..." Feddoran started, his face falling. He stepped back
out of the woodsman's grasp, his shirt falling and the others in the
room seeing the marks on his back and sides which could not have been
made by any chase in the woods.
     Feddoran had killed Naris.
     The boy, now alone by the door, turned and ran. Hylan let out an
anguished shout and rolled Willit off of him. He was out the door before
anyone could stop him. Willit recovered and looked shocked at Wolcott.
The woodsman settled to the floor, a feeling of numb shock growing in
his chest.
     Graham quietly pulled the blanket over himself in the corner.
     "No wonder he's so farking calm," the woodsman thought. "He knows
how this ends."

     Cold, bitter wind sailed off the Coldwell, rushing into the
leafless trees huddled at its bank. Wolcott stood among the rocks, down
the mountain from where Herrit and Rose lived. A month had passed since
the troupe from Kenna had come down this way. Willit had been unable to
catch Hylan, as narrow and dangerous as the path had been down the
mountain. Wolcott never saw fit to ask the blonde man whether Feddoran
had jumped or been pushed, although if they were to believe the bard's
tale, it had been Feddoran's own doing. Elijah Kenna and the whole
village was beside itself, unsure how to treat Hylan when he returned.
The man had likely driven another man to suicide, but could he be
blamed, especially given Feddoran's deceit?
     Rose was standing beside the woodsman, kissing Jakob on the cheek.
The bard looked better than when he had been lying in the cabin, and he
had gained some much-needed weight. His legs had also healed, but his
broken arm was still injured, albeit out of its splint and in a sling.
     "You don't have to go," Rose said, repeating the offer Wolcott had
heard at least a dozen times that morning. "You can wait until next
spring if you need to."
     Jakob shook his dark-locked head. "I have to go," he replied
gently. "There are too many who know about me here. There's too much
pain I've caused. Believe me, Rose, it's best if I seclude myself from
others."
     "Are you sure about that?" Wolcott asked, spitting out a twig that
he'd been chewing on. "Maybe it's better to stay around those who know
what you're capable of."
     Jakob smiled thoughtfully. "Perhaps," he replied. "I can't say I've
ever been given that choice before. But I'd put all of you in too much
danger by remaining here, Wolcott."
     There was no argument to that. What would they do when the man came
down with a fever? Bind and gag him?
     "Where will you go?" Herrit asked, putting an arm around Rose's
waist.
     "Lederia, perhaps," Jakob said, turning to the east where the sun
was poking its head over the Darst Range. "Or maybe I'll find my own
mountain along the way. A place far away from anyone."
     "Take care, Jakob," Rose said, managing a smile despite her obvious
worry. "And know that you'll always be welcome here if you should ever
find your way back."
     Jakob smiled, his blue eyes tearing. With a wave of his hand he
turned, a bag slung over his back. He started going upstream along the
banks of the Coldwell, following directions Wolcott had provided him,
taking along a map and advice on the best passes to follow to get
through the mountains before the really cold weather came. The three of
them watched the bard go for a while, and Wolcott wondered what would
become of the man.
     "I wish him peace," Herrit finally said, hugging Rose tightly. She
nodded in agreement.
     "I wish him silence," Wolcott finished.

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