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 DargonZine                                     Distributed:  6/29/2002
 Volume 15, Number 4                            Circulation:        693
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                                Contents

 Editorial                    Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
 Malice 1                     P. Atchley             Firil 1, 1018
 A Matter of Faith 2          Nicholas Wansbutter    Mertz, 1009

========================================================================
 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 15-4, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright June, 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>

     Complete physical, emotional, and sensory overload. There are some
experiences that even writers cannot communicate, that can only be lived
through, and carefully preserved in the sepia-toned vaults of memory. I
could try to relate to you the experience of nine days in Scotland with
six other writers at our annual Dargon Writers' Summit. I might relate
all the sights we saw and things we did, and with skillful wordcraft I
might paint a picture that moves you. But it'd still be like showing you
a fossil and trying to communicate the fragile image of a dragonfly.
     What was it? It was the archetypal whirlwind tour, a thousand-mile
circumnavigation of the country. It was a misty morning on a loch,
framed by half-obscured woodland hills. It was a lush, fertile green
river valley dotted with the ruins of stone farmhouses, set between
implausibly steep mountains, their shoulders adorned with the vivid
yellow of gorse. It was the self-righteous sting of Scotch whisky on
your lips, and the magical lightness of an owl landing on your forearm.
It was standing before the ruins of an abandoned castle, the wind and
spray raging against a nearby seaside cliff, a blood-red full moon
overhead. It was the tenuousness of our grasp on the Earth as we
foolishly ascended into the sky in answer to the irresistible call of an
unscalable mountain. It was the quiet tranquility of a burial cairn
centuries older than human remembering.
     One of the things that fantasy evokes in people is a sense of
wonder, of amazement at the beauty of the worlds we describe. Every so
often, we can connect with that wonder when we find some particularly
evocative place here on Earth: a granite fells, a rocky ocean headland,
or a pine-laden mountaintop. The handful of Dargon writers who came to
Scotland got to live that wonder for nine days running.
     And what's best of all is that we were able to share the experience
of that beauty and wonder with one another. As writers, our goal is to
communicate to others the things that move us. For each of us, Scotland
was profoundly moving, and we were finally able to share those wondrous
moments with others who felt the same appreciation. That sharing brought
us very much closer together, reinforcing our working relationships with
a deeper, more personal connection.
     As you may know, each year a different writer hosts our annual
Dargon Writers' Summit, where we get together to talk about writing, do
some project business, see the local sights, and build closer
friendships with one another. I can speak for all the Summit attendees
when I express our most heartfelt thanks and admiration to Stuart
Whitby, who ran this year's Summit. Stuart was a thoughtful, patient,
and entertaining host. Running a normal Dargon Summit, which have
previously lasted only two or three days, is an immense undertaking;
tirelessly driving us around the country for nine whole days, lining up
lodging and meals and activities, and keeping things going smoothly
throughout was surely a trial that proved Stuart's good-naturedness to
all. Hearty cheers to Stu for an amazing, profoundly moving, and
exhilarating Summit.
     Rather than waste words and your attention in trying to describe
such an immense trip in detail, I'll instead refer you to the
photographs and write-up that appear on our Web site. Debriefs from
Scotland and all our previous Summits can be found on our Writers'
Summit page, at <http://www.dargonzine.org/summit.shtml>.
     Because of the logistics involved in the Summit, this month's issue
was, as advertised, a little delayed. We hope to get back on a regular
publishing schedule now that everyone's home and settled, and the jet
lag has worn off!
     In this issue we begin an excellent new four-part story from P.
Atchley, and we conclude Nick Wansbutter's two-part "A Matter of Faith".
These two will be featured in the following two issues, as well,
"Malice" being paired with another two-part story that Nick has in the
works. I hope you enjoy them, and I hope your summer brings you the kind
of wonder and adventure that we were fortunate enough to experience at
this year's Summit!

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

                                 Malice
                                 Part 1
                             by P. Atchley
                        <dpartha@surfindia.com>
                             Firil 1, 1018

     "Good morning, Father," Ludovic said as he sat down at the table
where his father, Einar, was finishing his breakfast.
     "Well, to what do I owe the honor of your company, and at
breakfast, no less?" Einar asked as he picked up his mug. He was a
merchant who dealt in gems and jewelry, a widower of long standing,
well-known in Dargon for the quality and rarity of the gems he carried.
     Father and son shared a faint resemblance: brown hair and
honey-colored eyes, slender build and medium height. But there the
similarity ended. The clean lines of Ludovic's features, the straight
nose and distinct cheekbones, gave him an ascetic appearance, while
Einar's sharp gaze and beak-like nose bestowed upon him a more vulturine
look.
     "Burian is the one you should say that to, not me," Ludovic
replied, wondering if his father made such comments deliberately to
annoy him. While it was true that he and his twin Burian resembled each
other greatly, there were some who could tell them apart. And their own
father should not have that problem, Ludovic reflected, frowning.
     Isla, the cook who doubled as housekeeper, served his breakfast
silently. As she filled his mug with tea, she said softly, "He knows,
laddie. It just bothers him that Burian won't get up before midday." She
was a hefty woman, barely a finger shorter than Ludovic, with gray hair
going white, and pale blue eyes. She had been with Ludovic's mother
before her marriage, and had practically raised the twins.
     "No, I don't want fried bread," Ludovic said to Isla as she set a
slice on his plate. Then he looked up at his father. "Father, I need
money."
     "What for? To gamble away at cards? Or to spend upon an endless
number of stray animals that ought to be killed in the first place? No
more, Ludovic. I'm not going to give you any more money." Einar threw
down his napkin on the table, and the cloth fell on top of his mug of
mead and slowly began to absorb the liquid which seeped upwards,
staining the fabric.
     Ludovic smiled and said sweetly, "That's not a problem. I can sell
the pin that you ordered for Udele; the silversmith, Nila, delivered it
here yesterday. I'm sure your whore won't mind if I take it." Udele was
Einar's friend, and Ludovic knew that the friendship included bed-play,
just as his mother had known before she died, heartbroken at the thought
of her husband in another woman's arms.
     In what seemed like a single movement, Einar stood up, grabbing the
jug of mead on the table, and flung it at his son. Ludovic had been
waiting for just such a reaction from his father, and he pushed himself
backwards, chair and all. The jug fell harmlessly where he had been
sitting a moment earlier.
     "You will not refer to Udele in that manner," Einar said, his voice
quivering with the force of his feelings. "Do you understand?"
     That was characteristic of Einar, Ludovic thought; his voice always
shook as he got angry. "Very well, Father. What shall I call her then?"
     "She is my friend. You may address her as Mistress Udele. And I'll
be taking that pin from you." Einar's voice had returned to normal. He
pushed away the napkin and, picking up his mug again, drank whatever
remained.
     "No." Ludovic dragged his chair back and began to eat absently.
After two bites he set his fork down, frowning, and pushed away his
plate; he disliked fried bread. He lifted his mug, and after a gulp of
mead said, "I need money. If you care to give me some, I'll consider
returning the pin. It's quite beautiful, you know, all thin silver
threads and --"
     Einar interrupted, "Send Karanat with the pin to the store and I
will." Karanat was Ludovic's manservant and friend, sometimes more the
latter than the former.
     "Nothing less than ten Cues, Father." Ludovic dabbed at his lips
fastidiously with a napkin and pushed away his plate.
     "Fine. What I've ever done to deserve a pair of sons like you two,
I'll never know." Einar put down his mug and turned away. "One's a
gambler and a wastrel and the other a drunken --" the door slammed
behind him, cutting him off.
     "Laddie, why do you do that to him? You know he loves Udele." Isla
frowned at him.
     "Isla, Udele is another man's wife. Father's carrying on with her
broke my mother's heart," Ludovic replied angrily, placing his mug on
the table with a loud thump. "And I don't deserve to be treated the same
way as Burian. I don't roll with a different woman every night, and I
don't start my day with a mug of whiskey."
     Isla sighed and began to clear away the table. "Your mother, the
sweet thing that she was, should never have married young Einar. Before
he met Udele, he carried on with a different woman every few months, so
they said. I told your mother to say no but she wanted to make the old
master happy, and he!" Isla paused to snort scornfully before
continuing, "he didn't care about his own daughter's happiness, and he
didn't even think of whether she could be happy with a man like young
Einar."
     Ludovic ignored the reference to his grandfather. Isla had started
life working for his mother before she was married, and he knew that
Isla would continue to refer to his father as "young Einar" for the rest
of her life, no matter how old they both were.
     "Enough!" Ludovic rose and patted himself off for any stray crumbs.
"Have Karanat come and see me upstairs."

     A few bells later when Karanat had just returned from Einar's store
with the promised money for Ludovic, there was a thundering knock on the
back door of the house. Karanat opened it, and the young man outside,
his cousin Ruarc, smiled sheepishly, his hand raised to knock again.
Ruarc's mother, Francesa, had raised Karanat when his own parents had
died, and he therefore tolerated his cousin for her sake.
     "Ruarc, what're you doing here? Is something wrong with Auntie?"
Ruarc was a young man who had visions of becoming rich through quick and
easy means. About four years younger than he, Karanat knew that Ruarc
had always resented the affection his mother had showered on Karanat.
     "She's fine," Ruarc dismissed the older man's concern. Ruarc's
figure was slender, betraying his youth -- he could be no more than
twenty, if that. His hair was a light, nondescript brown and his face
triangular, giving him a pointed chin. His eyes were watery and his gaze
was erratic. The overall impression was one of mediocrity: it was a
forgettable face. "I need your help."
     Karanat stepped away from the door, opening it wide in silence. His
was an impressive figure, strong and well built, with broad shoulders
that gave graceful way to slender hips and muscular thighs. His face
bore the signs of many past fights: a crooked nose, a thin scar down one
temple, and a wider scar across one cheek. One eyelid dipped lower than
the other, a permanent reminder of some battle in which, presumably, the
other man had fared worse. Dark hair and eyes completed the picture of a
man whom other men approached cautiously and women, not at all.
     Ruarc stepped in and said hesitantly, "I'm doing some business, you
know, and I need your help." They stood in a small alcove that served to
deflect the cold air in the wintertime. Three of the four surrounding
walls had doors leading inside and the fourth side opened onto a
stairwell going both up and down.
     "Tell me what you need," Karanat said.
     "I'm in the ale business, you know." Ruarc leaned back against the
closed door to the outside, his nails tapping rhythmically against it.
His voice was unexpectedly deep for one so young, his only attractive
quality.
     Karanat stared at him, knowing that the nail-tapping was an outward
manifestation of the fear in which Ruarc held him. "Good. I'm glad
you're doing something worthwhile," he said, wondering what Ruarc had
come about that he was so nervous. "Business going well?"
     The tapping increased in tempo and then stopped. Ruarc swallowed
and said hurriedly, "Yes, of course." The tapping commenced again,
slowly this time, and he said, "Well, one of my suppliers ... That
doesn't matter. See, I need you to introduce me to a potential buyer."
     "You're serious." Karanat was surprised. It seemed that Ruarc was
really working hard in his business. After Ruarc's father had died,
Ruarc had come up with one insane scheme after another to make money.
Unfortunately, he was somewhat gullible, which led him into situations
that resolved themselves into a loss, rather than a gain.
     First he had decided he would buy horse droppings from the stables
near the Shattered Spear and sell it for building fires. Of course, he
had not realized that horse droppings had to be dried in the sun before
they could be sold for that purpose, not to mention the fact that only
the poorer folk would buy it since it gave off such a noxious stench.
His next idea had been to collect the dogs and cats that ran loose in
the city and sell them to people as pets. Needless to say, he had been
bitten by the dogs and the cats, and one young woman had hit him with an
umbrella because she thought he was ill-treating the animals. Finally,
he had topped all his foolish ideas by getting caught trying to steal
from an old, blind woman who sold flowers at the marketplace. He had
claimed he was helping her sell the flowers, but even his family had
found that difficult to believe.
     Now, if he was actually doing something realistic and was working
at it, Karanat felt bound to help him for his aunt's sake. "You've
actually bought and sold ale?" he asked.
     Ruarc smiled sheepishly and nodded. "Yes. One of my suppliers told
me that Burian buys a lot of ale, and he said that he's Einar's son, so
I figured you'd know him and so I came here, thinking that you'd
introduce me," he paused for breath, and Karanat swallowed a smile at
the way the younger man had run his sentences together.
     "Of course I'll introduce you. Come on." Karanat turned and led the
way up the stairwell. At the top, it widened into an open area large
enough for three men to stand facing each other. There was a door each
on either side of the stairs, and a skylight on the ceiling let in
sunshine. Karanat knocked on the door on the left side.

     Later that afternoon, Ludovic stumbled and cursed under his breath,
breathing heavily because he was weighed down with a rather large dog.
He stood in the front yard of a cottage on the outskirts of Dargon, his
progress impeded by the large number of creatures that surrounded him:
three dogs, no less than five cats, an awkward-looking animal with sharp
teeth and pointed muzzle reminiscent of a fox, all led by an enormous
pig that looked as if it were the doyen of the front yard.
     On the far side was a small shed, and as he looked up, the door
abruptly swung open and hit against the wall. A woman emerged. Short and
dumpy, she looked like a brown mouse: brown hair tied back efficiently
in a pony-tail, brown eyes, brown tunic, and brown breeches.
     "Iolanthe --"
     "Not another dog," she said, scowling as she approached.
     "I found a kid drowning him. He's hurt. Come and look." Ludovic
turned away to go to the cottage, and she came quickly, overtaking him
and holding the door open for him. He laid the dog on a table that was
kept for exactly such a purpose.
     "Look at those cuts! Hope you belted the boy," she muttered,
picking up a small bottle of herbs.
     "I wanted to, but I had to take care of the dog first," Ludovic
said, bringing her a small cup of water from the pot next to the table.
     He began to mix the poultice as she examined the dog. Iolanthe was
a healer, and she helped people in exchange for food or supplies. But
she was very good with animals, and every stable-master in the city knew
her. When Ludovic had met her, she had helped him with a hurt dog that
subsequently died. But Ludovic was convinced that the two of them shared
the same passionate desire to help animals. She never asked him for
money for anything other than medicinal supplies, although he was paying
the rent for the cottage.
     "Get the cora," she said, her eyes on a large cut on the dog's left
foreleg.
     Ludovic unerringly picked up a small container from the opposite
shelf and opened it. "You're almost out of it."
     "I'm out of money," Iolanthe said. "Each time you bring me another
animal, but not more money. Actually, I don't want money. Let me tell
you the supplies I need, and you can buy them for me."
     Ludovic handed her the small container and then approached the
fireplace to make up the fire to warm the poultice. "Yes, well, I
thought I'd win last night at the Serpent, but I didn't. I did get ten
Cues out of Father, though. That should do you for a while." Ludovic
gambled at the Inn of the Serpent to pay for all the animals he tried to
help; he won a lot, but occasionally he did lose.
     "I'm thinking of selling the pig," she responded.
     "Sell him, why? He's a good pig; he's no trouble to you. And you
know they'll just kill him to eat." Ludovic frowned as he carefully
stirred the warming mixture. "Come on, Iolanthe, please. You know he's a
sweet pig," he begged.
     She chuckled softly. "Mmm, that's the problem: it's a he. If he
were a sow, I could breed her. Ludovic, this is the city, you know, and
I'm not a farmer."
     He rose and brought her the warm mixture for the poultice.
"Careful, it's hot," he cautioned and turned away to pick up fabric
pieces for the bandage.
     "Mmm," was the only response.
     Ludovic watched as she patted the herbs onto the cuts with the
small ladle. She gestured and he slid the fabric piece underneath the
limb and tied it off neatly.
     "I'm going to have to go away for a while soon, Ludovic," Iolanthe
murmured, patting the bandage and checking his fastenings.
     "When? And for how long?" She had occasionally disappeared for a
while, and Ludovic had begged Karanat to take care of his animals, since
he could not stay away from home.
     "I'll be leaving in about ten days, but I'm not sure how long I'll
be gone. Two sennights. Maybe a month."
     "A month?" Ludovic straightened. "But Iolanthe, what about these
animals? Who's going to take care of them?"
     Iolanthe said slowly, "You have to get Karanat to live here until I
get back. Or we could just let them loose."
     "Loose in the city?" Ludovic sighed. "The shadow boys will stone
the poor dogs; someone will slaughter the pig for pork, and who knows
what will happen to the cats?" In Dargon, youngsters without a home who
were thieves and robbers and worse besides were commonly referred to as
shadow boys.
     She did not reply and after a moment, he sighed again. "Oh,
straight, I'll talk to Karanat."

     Night had fallen, and Raizel swore under her breath as she evaded
the wandering hands of Burian, making sure she didn't lose her grip on
the tray of drinks she held. Burian was a frequent customer at Inn of
the Serpent and his wealth made him a favored patron with the owner,
Ballard Tamblebuck, a tall man who seemed rotund because of his bald
pate and large belly.
     "Raizel, c'mon," Burian drawled. "Come sit here for a moment," he
patted his thigh, spreading his legs wide so that she had to take two
steps away to walk around him. He resembled his brother, Ludovic,
greatly; they were, after all, twins. The difference between the two in
physical appearance was slight. Burian's eyes were red-rimmed, with bags
underneath, lending him a faint air of debauchery, and an element of
danger clung to him: it was that which had first attracted Raizel to
him.
     "I'm busy," she said briefly, placing a mug before him before
moving on. Having met him when she started work at the Serpent, she had
developed a fondness for the man, a thing she herself could not
understand. It vexed her when he got drunk; always difficult, Burian was
more so when inebriated. Also,it had been a busy evening and her
patience was at an ebb.
     She reached the hardwood bar and placed her tray on the counter. "I
need two ales for the carders and another rum for that merchant." The
carders were a group of serious gamblers who played cards at the inn
every day. Tamblebuck had three tables set up for them near the far wall
opposite the staircase.
     "You can go, Raizel," Tamblebuck offered. "Things are slowing
down." Raizel liked him; she thought he was a good man, because he took
care of his waitresses. Even though he hired them for their pretty
looks, he made sure that customers did not cross the line with the
girls.
     "But the carders'll be here awhile yet," Raizel objected.
     "It's okay; I'll take care of 'em. You look tired. Go."
     She smiled her thanks and hurried to the back of the inn to the
kitchen. Deserae, Ballard's daughter, had made stew for the evening and
Raizel wanted something to eat before she left. There was no one in the
kitchen and Raizel helped herself. She placed her bowl on the table and
turned to get some mead to drink, when a hand slipped around her waist.
     "Hmph. Who -- let me go!"
     Burian leered down at her, the crinkled lines at the side of his
eyes widening and the dark bags under his eyes lightening as he smiled
down at her. The smell of liquor wafted from him as he spoke. "Come on,
Raizel, be nice. Raizel, Raizel, Raizel," he murmured. "Give us a kiss,
sweet Raizel, pretty rose."
     "Not now, Burian. I'm tired and I'm hungry," Raizel objected,
waving her hand with the mug. She knew he liked her very much, and, Ol
help her, she liked him as well. The truth was that she had ignored her
own rules and indulged in bed-play with him, even though she knew
several reasons against it. Her own brother would half-kill her if he
found out she was bedding Burian, not because he happened to work for
Burian, but because Burian was promiscuous in the extreme.
     "Just a kiss, just a kiss," Burian said in a sing-song voice,
ignoring her words. He bent his head toward hers, and she began to
struggle. But Burian, apparently experienced at subduing unwilling
women, held her wrists and pushed her backwards. With no other choice,
she moved until she hit the wall. The next instant his mouth was upon
hers.
     Raizel concentrated on fighting back, whimpering. She tried to move
her hands, but they were still imprisoned. Her legs! The next instant,
she kneed him, not too hard, but just enough to make him release her.
     He gasped, stepping backwards, and then sat down on the floor.
"Harlot! What did you do that for?" he asked, with a hangdog look in his
eyes.
     "I am not a harlot," Raizel said sharply, breathing heavily. "When
I say not now, I mean not now. I'm tired, Burian, and I'm not in the
mood for your bed games right now." She knew at some level that nothing
would have happened that she didn't want; yet a tendril of fear had
uncoiled in her stomach when he had held her hands immobile.
     "Raizel, all I was trying to do was kiss you," he said, smiling up
at her with a hint of pain in his expression. "Really. I wouldn't have
done anything else, I swear, Raizel. You know that, don't you?" He
stared at her and then said with surprise in his voice, "You were
scared. But Raizel, why? I wouldn't have done anything to hurt you, my
sweet. You know that, don't you?" His voice rose as he repeated the
question.
     "Hasn't anyone ever said 'no' to you, Burian?" Raizel went to the
table and sat down abruptly. "Of course I was scared, you dolt!" She
sighed heavily, feeling the fear recede as quickly as it had come.
     "Don't call me 'dolt'," he said almost absently. "Come on, Raizel,
it'll be fun. After all, it's the first day of Firil. How can you not
lie with me on the first day of Firil?"
     Raizel snapped, "Yes, and tomorrow's the second of Firil and the
day after that's the third. That's no reason."
     "Yes, but you're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. Those blue
eyes, like little sapphires, that red curly hair, like thick ropes of
carnelian, those white teeth, like a strand of --"
     "Stop, stop." She laughed, and was conscious of surprise that she
could laugh when she had been so scared just a few moments past. "I bet
you say that to every girl you want to lie with." Raizel spooned some
stew into her mouth, reflecting that Burian's father being a
gem-merchant had impacted even his speech: his compliments were studded
with precious stones.
     "I always stop when a pretty girl tells me to," Burian grinned at
her lasciviously.
     "Yes, when you're sober. Listen, Burian, if you do that to me one
more time, I swear I'll tell Ballard and he won't let you in here ever
again. Do you understand?"
     "I'm sorry. Forgive me, Raizel," he pouted at her like a little
boy, and she laughed. He took that to indicate she had and rose from the
ground to sit next to her on the bench, sliding his arm around her
waist. She leaned against him, enjoying the feel of his body against
hers.

     Around the fourth bell of the same night, Ludovic sat in his room,
staring upwards blindly at the ceiling. He was drunk and he knew it,
having deliberately shunned sobriety. "Another glass," he drawled. "Pour
me another."
     "You should not have any more. Else tomorrow you will have a sore
head," his companion said dispassionately, pouring a glass of whiskey
and handing it to him.
     Ludovic took a swallow of the rum and asked, "Why me?" He knew he
was wallowing in self-pity but could not bring himself to stop.
     "Will you not tell me what's wrong?" There was a gentle note in
Karanat's gruff voice, and Ludovic sighed.
     The two of them were in Ludovic's room, which was a large one. The
wall directly opposite the door sported twin windows, which, along with
the skylight, provided air and light. A large bed with rich, dark blue
coverlets sat against one wall, and a fireplace was directly opposite.
Some furniture was tastefully arranged around the fireplace: a small
couch, a center-table and two deeply stuffed armchairs, a special
coming-of-age gift from Einar. Ludovic lounged in one of them, his feet
up on the table, and Karanat sat straight-backed in the other, no easy
accomplishment in a seat made for comfort.
     "My friend, Father has arranged a wedding. For me."
     There was a silence and Ludovic lowered his eyes from the skylight
to gaze at the other man. "What? No answer?" He sighed again. "Of
course. What could you possibly say?" Then he put his feet down on the
floor with a thump and sat up. "Well, Karanat, do I get married? To a
woman? Say something!" He threw his glass into the fireplace. It crashed
into innumerable pieces with a satisfying sound. Ludovic wished he had
something else to throw into the fire, like his father's head ... No, it
would be much more satisfying to throw his brother's head into the
fireplace.
     Karanat rose and went to the window, still silent.
     "Nothing to say?" Ludovic mocked. "Never mind, I do. Ludovic, son
of Einar, married to Jessamina, daughter of Udele." He threw back his
head and laughed. When the paroxysm subsided, there was a single tear in
the corner of one eye. He slapped it away with a quick gesture. "Poor
Jessamina. Even Burian would make a better husband than I."
     "Do you want to say no?"
     Ludovic grabbed the jug and poured into the remaining glass. "Hah!
The man is not a statue; he speaks." He lifted the glass and swallowed.
"What do you think? Father has sworn to disown me if I refuse. He
promised to make me his heir, after the wedding." Anger swept through
him again and he lifted his arm to throw the glass into the fireplace.
     "Don't. I will not go downstairs to get another glass for you,"
Karanat said evenly, without turning from the window. "Do you need to
inherit?"
     "What kind of a question is that, Kar? Coragen waits in silence for
payment only because he thinks I'm Einar's heir. What would I be if my
legs were broken? Think, Kar. Me, handsome Ludovic, brown hair, brown
eyes, oh, wait, did I forget to mention he's a cripple?" In the past,
when Einar had refused to provide funds for Ludovic to gamble with, he
had nonchalantly borrowed money from a man named Coragen; his debts had
caught up with him when the man had threatened to "do him wrong" if the
money was not repaid. Ludovic had wondered what it meant, but had heard
stories of people who owed Coragen money disappearing forever.
     Karanat turned sharply from the window and stepped towards the
armchairs. "Stop it, Ludo. Grow up. I've told you often enough not to
gamble with the carders but you did and you still do. What did you think
was going to be the result? And as for the marriage," he paused until he
reached Ludovic and stared down, "you have to do what you need to."
     "But I don't want to. And if it weren't for Burian, I wouldn't have
to." Ludovic brooded upon the injustice of having a twin. No one knew
who was older, Ludovic or his twin Burian, so the heir was Einar's
choice. Ludovic needed to be heir because of his gambling debts, but the
price of that was steep indeed: it was marriage to Jessamina. He writhed
in his armchair, anger and frustration warring within him as he
contemplated that cost. "No!"
     If Burian were not around, there would be no choice for Einar but
to choose Ludovic. He smiled. That meant that he would not have to pawn
his soul to become heir. "Kar, you've got to help me."
     "What are you planning to do?"
     "If I were to arrange things so that Burian is disgraced, Father
would have no choice -- he'd have to choose me," he muttered, thinking
hard. "What if -- no, that wouldn't work, girls wouldn't work. Father
knows already. It has to be something like cheating -- what if I
challenge him to a game? I can make it look like --"
     "Ludovic!"
     "What?" Ludovic brought his gaze to the other man.
     "Ludo, that's wrong!" Karanat stared at him unblinkingly.
     Ludovic met the steadfast gaze and sighed. "You're right. Straight,
I won't do anything wrong. Satisfied?" When Karanat nodded, a slight
smile on his face, Ludovic added, "But that doesn't mean I won't take
advantage of anything he does."

     Two days later, Burian sat silently, waiting for Ruarc. When the
latter had met Burian, he had provided a taste of the Beinisonian ale
that he wanted to sell. Once Burian had tasted it, he coveted it. Since
Einar refused to pay for what he termed excesses, Burian had come up
with a way out: he took what he needed, preferably without the
insignificant little detail of payment. And so Burian had been forced to
create a small masquerade.
     "How do I look, Donato?" he asked his manservant. He patted the
dirty white beard that he had stuck on with the other's help.
     The two men sat in a small room in a lodging house situated on a
small alley off Ramit Street. The house belonged to an old woman who let
out the rooms on the upper floor. Upon Burian's request, Donato had
managed to acquire the use of this room for the latest activity. The
room itself was sparsely furnished, with a shelf against one wall, a
bed, a desk and one chair.
     "Just take care that the beard doesn't fall off," Donato responded.
He was a very good-looking man, with hazel eyes and a neatly trimmed
red-blond beard. He was taller than Burian as well, by the length of one
finger. "And be sure to talk softly. If you speak loudly, Ruarc may
recognize your voice."
     There was a knock that signaled the start of the play, and Donato
slipped under the cot to hide. Burian rose and went to open the door.
Ruarc entered.
     "You must be Ruarc, that Burian said would come to me," Burian
said, trying hard to prevent the excitement he felt from creeping into
his voice.
     "Yes. Are you the alchemist?" Ruarc asked.
     Burian remembered thinking when he had first met Ruarc that the
other's voice was unexpectedly deep and hoped that he himself would not
be recognized.
     "Mmm." Burian nodded, mentally chuckling at the thought that Ruarc
had swallowed the disguise.
     "Can you make ale stronger? I heard you could," Ruarc said eagerly.
     "Who told you that?" Burian asked. "Burian?"
     "Yes, yes, he did. Can you?"
     Burian chuckled aloud. His mouth watered as he thought of the ale
that was the prize for his acting. He had tasted it, and it was, in his
opinion, divine. And soon, it was going to be his. "Yes, I can," he
said. But the price is high, very high."
     "How much?"
     Burian could not believe that he had found someone so gullible as
to believe that he could change the potency of ale by muttering a few
incantations. He said, "Twenty Sovs."
     "What? But -- but I can't. I don't have that much money," Ruarc
almost wailed. "Can't you do it for less? I have a buyer for the ale
already. I'm Burian's friend and he gave me your name. Can't you do it
for less, please?"
     Burian chuckled silently. His plan was working even better than he
had thought. He'd planned to take the ale from Ruarc, but it appeared
that he would be getting twenty Sovereigns as well. "Very well. Since
you're Burian's friend, I'll do it for less. Now, come back tomorrow
with the money."
     "But the ale --" Ruarc began.
     "All you have to do is tell me where you're storing it. I'm going
to prepare some herbs and I will go myself --"
     Ruarc interrupted him, "I can't let you go by yourself. What if
..."
     "What if what?" Burian asked, allowing a note of anger to enter his
soft voice. I have to say some incantations over the ale. If you are
present, it will ruin the alchemy."
     "Fine, fine," Ruarc muttered as he handed a small pouch.
     Burian chuckled gleefully as he watched the retreating back of the
poor sod.

     That afternoon, Donato stared down dispassionately at Burian, who
sat with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He disliked the man he served,
or rather, he disdained the man he served, for Burian had more vices
than two average men combined. Yet serve he did, because his wage was
excellent.
     "You're lying, you dog." Burian threw the glass at Donato, who
stepped aside with the ease of long practice. They were in Burian's
rooms which were similar to Ludovic's, except that the windows faced the
opposite direction. Both chambers had been furnished identically by
Einar for his sons.
     "'tis the truth. The bride is Jessamina, daughter of Udele and
Ingmar Mercer." Donato felt a moment of glee as he said it, knowing that
it would only enrage Burian further.
     "Daughter of Father's whore? Makes sense to me now." Burian looked
at his hand, wondering where the glass had gone, and then looked around
vaguely.
     Donato poured another glass of whiskey and handed it to Burian.
"Ludovic will be named heir after the marriage." Donato knew his
statement would raise the other's anger to its zenith, but there was
nothing else to say.
     "It can't be. I am the heir," Burian shouted.
     Donato winced but remained silent, knowing from experience that
Burian did not conduct conversations with his manservant; he conducted
diatribes that usually ended in instructions accompanied by a payment --
the odder the request, the larger the payment. Donato wondered what he
would be asked to do this time.
     "What will become of me if Ludovic inherits?" Burian swallowed the
contents of the entire glass in one gulp. "I will stop this. I must stop
this."
     "It will not be possible to stop the wedding," Donato said
indifferently. "The ceremony will be held at a church of the bride's
choosing --"
     "If that girl has a choice in the matter, I'll eat my tunic,"
Burian interrupted. "Udele will be arranging it. Do you know what church
she's chosen?"
     "I repeat, the wedding cannot be stopped. Mistress Udele will be
arranging the ceremony, and it will not be possible to do anything to
stop it."
     Burian prowled about the room like a caged cheetar, and Donato
wondered what he was planning.
     "Shuul-damned Ludovic!" Burian swore. "I will kill him, if that's
the way to stop the wedding. I should be marrying that girl, whoever she
is."
     Donato was silent, and Burian turned on him. "What? You don't think
so?" His thoughts apparently jumped to another issue and he said
broodingly, "Father and his precious, precious Ludovic. If only Ludovic
wasn't here, then Father would have no choice but to name me heir." He
continued to pace, chanting, "Ludovic, Ludovic, Ludovic. May Saren's own
curse fall on him." He reached the table and extended his hand toward
Donato, who filled the glass silently and observed the rich, young man.
     Burian stared down at the brown liquid in his glass. "If only
Ludovic were not here ..." His voice trailed off and he took another
swig from his glass. "If only." He laughed aloud, and Donato stared at
him, knowing that Burian had reached some conclusion in his mind; Donato
knew him that well.
     "I have a plan," Burian said, eyes twinkling. "I think I'll do
something so bad that Ludovic will be punished." He threw back his head
and laughed again. "Donato, I need you to steal for me one of Ludovic's
knives. Can you do that?" He looked at his manservant's expressionless
face and then turned and went to the dresser against the wall. Opening a
drawer, he pulled out a small pouch with coins in it. Opening it, he
removed some of the coins, pulled the ties tight and then threw the
pouch carelessly behind him. It landed with a clink on the floor a short
distance away from Donato.
     Burian turned and said, "Oh, that's for you. Steal me a knife, and
I'll get Father's sympathy and put that thrice-cursed Ludovic in gaol at
the same time." And he proceeded to explain his plan with many chuckles.

     The following day, Francesa climbed the stairs that led to
Ludovic's and Burian's rooms, and being a buxom and somewhat heavy
woman, she found this to be a rather difficult exercise. When a young
man exited a door to the right of the stairs, she stopped at the top
step and asked him breathlessly, "Are you Burian?"
     "No, I'm Ludovic. Those are Burian's rooms," Ludovic pointed to the
door across the landing, to the left of the staircase.
     Francesa stared and wondered. Her nephew, Karanat, worked for Einar
but he was manservant to Ludovic; some said more than just manservant.
Ludovic seemed to be a perfectly ordinary young man, just a little
taller than her, of medium build, with brown hair. But she decided that
he did have beautiful eyes: they were honey-colored and dominated the
rest of his very ordinary features.
     "--stress? Mistress?"
     Francesa brought her wandering wits back and saw the look of
concern on Ludovic's face. "It's okay, boy," she said gently. "I wasn't
paying attention."
     "I'm sorry, mistress, is there something I can help you with? It's
close to the sixth bell of the day and Burian ..." Ludovic's voice
trailed off.
     "Don't worry about it," she said, thinking what nice manners the
boy had. "I have to talk to him, that's all. Why don't you run along?"
     He gave her a quizzical look but went obediently down the stairs,
and she realized she'd treated him exactly the way she treated Karanat.
No wonder he'd looked puzzled. Francesa chuckled silently before turning
to knock on the door. After the second knock, there was a loud crash
from inside and then a shout for whoever it was to come in.
     Francesa entered, looking about her. To her left there was a large
bed against the wall and to her right there was a small fireplace with a
couch and chairs arranged around it. On the wall directly across from
the door were two windows. It was a beautiful room, with a nice carpet,
Francesa noted, in a deep purple color. There was a tapestry too, above
the bed: a seascape depicting a ship tossed about on the sea like
marbles in the hand of a boy.
     "Who are you?"
     She stared at the man who was the cause of her disaster. Her heart
almost misgave her, for he looked exactly like Ludovic, but as he
stepped closer, her heart hardened. His eyes were sunken and red-rimmed
with dark bags underneath them; they bore no resemblance to the luminous
brown of his brother's.
     "Woman, I'm asking you a question. Who the fark are you?"
     And he had not one jot of his brother's manners, Francesa decided.
"Burian?"
     "Yes, yes, I'm Burian. You're in my rooms. Now, for the last time,
who are you?" He advanced closer to her, and the smell of liquor wafted
to her nose.
     "I'm Ruarc's mother," she said quietly.
     Burian stared at her for what seemed to be a very long time before
he began to chuckle. "She says she's Ruarc's mother. He went and
complained to his mother! Oh, this is a rich jest," he threw his head
back, still laughing.
     Francesa waited until his mirth began to wane before she spoke.
"Burian, you were the alchemist weren't you? Answer me!"
     "Yes, yes, I was. A priceless joke, to be sure. Ruarc was there,
and he didn't recognize me, and the mother recognizes me from just
listening to the story," he was still chuckling.
     "Burian, you took all the ale without paying Ruarc for it, and not
only that, you took twenty Sovs from him when you were dressed up as the
alchemist. Why?" Francesa could feel her ire rising as she remembered
what had happened.
     He replied, "Why did I do it? Because I could, old woman, because I
could. Ruarc is a codless idiot, that's what he is. What do you want,
anyway? Where's Donato? I can't believe you just came up here."
     "I came up here, Burian, to ask you to do the right thing and give
back the money. You can keep the ale, as far as I'm concerned; maybe
that'll be a good lesson for Ruarc. But the money is mine. Ruarc stole
it from my chest when I was sleeping. Burian, it's an old woman's
savings; give it back, please?"
     Burian only laughed harder.
     When none of Francesa's appeals had any effect, she switched to
threats. "I'll tell the guard. They'll make you give it back."
     "Try. I'm a rich merchant's son, old woman. And Ruarc is already
well-known to the guard. Now, didn't he get caught for trying to steal
from that old, blind woman who has a stall in the market square? What's
her name again?" Burian laughed some more. "I don't remember her name,
but what does that matter? I bet the guard knows her name ... and
Ruarc's name."
     Francesa stared at him, feeling her hopes of getting her life
savings back dwindle and wither away like a rose bush without water. For
the first time, she could feel every day of her life weighing on her and
she turned silently to leave.
     Burian said to her back, with a laugh in his voice, "On your way
out, tell Donato to come up here, will you? Oh, and tell him to bring
some of that wonderful new ale I acquired."

     That night, Donato entered Ludovic's room silently. As manservant
to Burian, he had no right to be in Ludovic's room. He moved silently
toward the dresser in the corner, even though he knew no one would be on
this floor that night. Ludovic was gambling at the Serpent, like he
usually did; Karanat had gone off to visit his family; and Burian, well,
even if Burian did catch him in Ludovic's room, he was unlikely to be
upset, since it was he who had asked Donato to misappropriate this
particular item.
     Burian's room was furnished identically to Ludovic's, so Donato
knew exactly where everything was. Nochturon's light shone through the
large windows and he was able to see what he wanted when he opened the
top drawer. It was a knife that belonged to Ludovic, an ornamental
knife, to be sure, but sharp nonetheless. About two hands long, the hilt
took up little less than half the length. The handle had what appeared
to be silver stretched across in thin lines, allowing the leather
underneath to show through like latticework. At every point where the
silver lines crossed, there was a tiny gem.
     Donato hefted the knife and was surprised to find that the
ornamentation had not weighted it too much. The balance was surprisingly
good for a bejeweled knife. No wonder Ludovic liked it so much. Karanat,
Ludovic's manservant and companion, had gifted the knife to him, and
Donato was sure it had cost him a lot. Briefly he wondered how the other
man had been able to afford it, a mystery that he would never know the
answer to.
     He returned to Burian's room and placed the knife on top of his
dresser where Burian would be sure to see it. Donato knew that Burian
hated his twin and planned something that would discredit Ludovic. While
he had no personal loyalty to Burian like Karanat had towards Ludovic,
he was well paid. And that was all that mattered.

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

                           A Matter of Faith
                                 Part 2
                         by Nicholas Wansbutter
                         <ice_czar@hotmail.com>
                              Mertz, 1009

          Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 15-3

     Lev prodded a mud-covered pig with his walking stick and with a
squeal it scurried away from the gutter in which it had been so
interested. Now that the swine was out of the way, Prior Yaroslav was
able to kneel down next to a man propped up against a timber-framed
house. The alley in which he lay reeked of excrement.
     "Thank, you, Lev," Yaroslav said as he placed a hand on the man's
shoulder. The man's skin was clammy and his face contorted with pain as
he clutched his stomach.
     "C-could you please give me something to drink?" the man whispered,
his voice ragged.
     "Yes," Yaroslav nodded and put a comforting hand on the man's
shoulder. When he looked up at Lev, his face was sombre rather than
smiling as it usually was. "Lev, could you pass me some of the sage and
verbana drink?"
     "Of course, reverend sir," Lev said, moving towards Yaroslav with
the waterskin in hand. Yaroslav was the leader of the group of
Cyruzhians who were visiting Dargon, and second only to the abbot of
Lev's home monastery in authority. Lev knew that if anyone did, Yaroslav
knew what the best treatment would be for this man.
     A barking dog suddenly darted out from around a corner and ran
right where Lev was about to step. Most of his left side paralysed from
when he had received a blow to the head several years ago, so he nearly
fell over trying to avoid the creature. He was able to steady himself
with his walking stick and hand the waterskin to the prior, however.
     "Thank you, novice," Yaroslav said. "I am afraid it looks as if
this man is afflicted by the same bloody flux that many others in this
part of Dargon are suffering from."
     As Yaroslav poured some of the herbal remedy into a cup, the
diseased man spoke again, his voice shakey. "Y-you are monks?"
     "Yes, Cyruzhians from Fennell Keep," Lev said.
     The man managed a weak smile, "It figures that in the end I'd --
J'mirg's blood!" He staggered to his feet and ran down the alley to a
more private part of the gutter and squated. Once he was done, he fell
to the ground exhausted.
     "He is in a bad way," Prior Yaroslav said. "We had better take him
to the monastery. The healers may be able to help him, but I fear we
will only be able to make his passing a little more comfortable."
     Lev nodded. For much of the morning he and his fellow Cyruzhian
brothers who were visiting Dargon had been tending to such unfortunates.
Few of them had been helped much by the monks' ministrations.
     "Get Brother Gregory and a few others to help us carry him to the
monastery." Yaroslav said.
     "Yes, reverend sir," Lev said. He shuffled out of the alleyway and
back onto Coldwell Street. A man with tattoos on his face and a rough
leather jerkin bumped into Lev and almost knocked him over. The street
was packed with all manner of people: a much different version of Dargon
than Lev had seen last night when he had first arrived in the city.
     Directly across from him, two men in side-by-side stalls were
trying to out shout each other with cries of "hot pies" and "good ale".
Not far to Lev's right a peddler was loudly arguing over the price of a
magical potion to produce lust with a sailor. In the distance, the large
bell on the Harbormaster's Building clanged loudly to announce the
passing of another bell.
     Lev had to sweep aside a few rats with his good foot as he slowly
made his way along the muddy street. He could see the white tunics and
black robes of some of his brother Cyruzhians not far away, but in this
crowd he had no hope of them hearing a shouted summons. The noise in
Dargon was one of the differences he noticed most between this place and
his home of Fennell Keep. When he had first seen Fennell Keep, Lev could
scarce believe that there existed more people in one place than there.
Now that he had seen Dargon, he could only shake his head in disbelief
that Magnus, the capital of Baranur, held more than twenty times as many
people.
     Eventually Lev made it to the small group of monks who were
standing in the shade of the overhanging story of a house. They were
putting linseed poultices back into their pouches, after presumably
treating sores on the inhabitant of the house.
     "Brother Gregory," Lev said once he reached the group. "Prior
Yaroslav wants us to help carry another one back to the monastery."
     "You mean, we'll carry him," Gregory scowled. "Not likely you'll do
much work."
     Lev felt his face heat and his muscles tense as they had the
previous day when another of the brothers had insulted him. "Do you
think I chose to lose the use of my left side?"
     "I'm sorry," Brother Gregory said. "It's been a long day and I am
tired."
     Lev nodded. He should not have gotten so angry, but lately such
emotions had come to him very swiftly. Lev felt a little weak now that
the moment had passed. He followed his brothers into the alley where
Prior Yaroslav was waiting. The young, healthy monks picked the man up
and carried him while Lev and Prior Yaroslav followed not far behind.
After leaving the man in the care of the healers in Dargon Abbey, they
returned to north-eastern part of the city near the docks.
     They took to Coldwell Street, and as the sixth bell of day tolled,
Lev found himself in a part of vicinity of the Shattered Spear. Here, he
and his brothers under the Prior Yaroslav had spent the previous night.
Lev shivered involuntarily as he recalled that rain-filled evening when
he had awakened to the weeping of a young girl who worked at the inn.
Samara, he remembered her name was. He felt his heart throb in pity for
the girl who worked as a prostitute and had become pregnant as a result.
Lev wondered if he would be able to recognise her should he see her
again, as it had been very dark last night and he had caught but a
glimpse of her face.
     Prior Yaroslav bade the group stop. "You've worked hard and well
today, brothers. Let us take a few menes of rest."
     They sat down on an number of empty wine casks by the side of the
inn and let the breeze cool them in the shade of the building's
overhanging upper stories. Prior Yaroslav sat on the same cask as Lev,
while the other brothers sat a few feet away, chatting amongst
themselves.
     "So, Lev," Prior Yaroslav said. "I noticed that you left our
company last night."
     "Reverend sir, I am truly sorry."
     "No apologies, Lev," the prior said. "I seek merely to help."
     "I thank you, reverend sir," Lev said. "For indeed, I think I am
out of my depth." He then related the story of his encounter with the
girl the night before, beginning with when he had first heard her
weeping outside the window under which had he slept, even including
their embrace and his shocking feelings towards her.
     The prior nodded several times before speaking. "You have done
well, my son, and I think that only you can help this girl. But tread
carefully. I too, once felt the desires of coming manhood. You must be
ever vigilant of your vows."
     "Yes, of course, reverend sir," Lev lowered his head in
embarrassment. "I often wish that my body were not so ..."
     "It is nothing to be ashamed of, Lev," Yaroslav consoled, resting a
hand on Lev's shoulder. "It is natural, but also distracting, which is
why it is both a great and necessary sacrifice for devotion as a
Cyruzhian brother."
     The door to the inn opened, and one of the serving girls emerged.
As with the others who worked there, she wore neither veil nor wimple,
and her golden locks shone brightly in the sun. The seductive sway of
her hips was not lost on Lev as she carried a bucket of dirty water
towards the gutter. As she turned to pour it out, Lev was able to see
her face in profile, and he caught his breath.
     "Is that the girl you met last night?" Prior Yaroslav whispered.
Lev nodded. "Go talk to her. I will keep an eye out from nearby."
     With that he got up and left, and Lev was left alone with Samara.
At least to him it seemed that way, despite the fact that the street was
filled with people. A little unsteadily, he got off his perch on the
wine cask, and clutching his wooden staff, moved towards the girl. As he
neared her, she looked up with her large blue eyes and made as if to
avoid him. When he called out her name, she stopped and turned toward
him.
     "Do I know you, brother?" she asked. Her face showed signs that she
had been crying the night before, as they were pink and puffy, yet Lev
could think of nothing save how beautiful she was. Given more than a
fleeting moment to see her face, he took careful note of the
heart-shaped face framed by long blonde hair, small lips like roses, and
those large, watery eyes of sky blue.
     "Well, yes," he said. "Uh ... last night --"
     "Lev?" her eyes grew wide in surprise. "You're one of the monks
from the abbey?"
     "Well, no," Lev shuffled his feet in discomfort. "I'm not a monk
yet. I'm still a novice, and I'm from Fennell Keep ..."
     "I see," Samara said, and began walking towards the Shattered Spear
once again. Lev noted a strange edge to her voice, but he could not
decide what it was. Perhaps she was angry at him, but he could think of
no reason why. He hastened after her, seeing that she had darted into
the alley where they had met the night before.
     "Samara?" he cautiously rounded the corner, to find her bent over
with sickness. Not knowing what to do, he patted her on the back.
     "Please hold my hair," she managed between heaves. Lev complied,
and after a few moments the bout of sickness seemed to have passed,
though she was a little more pale than before. Lev offered her some wine
which he carried in a skin that hung from his belt. "Thank you," Samara
mumbled. "I have to get back to work."
     "Yes, of course," Lev said, taking the wineskin back from her. "I'm
sorry, I didn't mean to ..."
     "No," Samara said, "I appreciate that you're trying to help me, but
--"
     The words caught in her throat as the two of them exited the alley
and emerged onto the street. Lev did not know what might be amiss. All
he noticed was a rather large priest ambling up to them. To call him
large was an understatement, and seeing his fleshy jowls and immense
girth, Lev's initial pleasure at seeing a fellow man of the cloth cooled
quickly. Adhering to an austere lifestyle as the Cyruzhians did, they
bore a quiet resentment towards such worldly clerics. What proper man or
woman of God feasted while others around them starved, especially in so
wretched an area as this?
     The fat priest seemed cheerful enough as he approached, however.
"Good morrow to you, brother."
     Lev nodded in acknowledgement of the greeting. "And to you,
father."
     "You must be among those from Fennell Keep, for I do not recognise
you," the fat man said.
     "That is correct," Prior Yaroslav said as he approached the priest.
"I am Prior Yaroslav. This is one of the novices from my order, and
you?"
     "I serve a parish not far from here," the priest tactfully evaded
the prior's question. "And I often come to the Shattered Spear in my
free bells to ... to spread the Stevene's Light."
     "Indeed," Yaroslav said. "Then I wish you well. I must myself be
off to join my brothers and so must this young novice."
     Lev saw Samara flinch when Yaroslav said that. A suspicion was
starting to form in the back of Lev's mind that all was not as it
seemed. The thought was elusive, though, and Lev could not tell what
exactly was wrong. He was disquieted nonetheless. He also noticed that
the obese cleric was eyeing Samara with an odd glint in his eye.

     Over the next several days, Lev and Samara met often, and the young
monk did his best to counsel the unfortunate girl. She spoke often of
wanting to end the pregnancy, but Lev argued vehemently against it, for
he was sure no good could come of it. What troubled Lev more than
Samara's desire to kill her child were the feelings that he had
developed for her. His physical attraction to her had been intense from
his first meetings with her, but as they spoke every day, he could sense
something deeper forming. It was more than friendship, for he had known
many such relationships in his time. This was much different; every time
he saw her, his heart would flutter, and a smile would force his lips
apart. He was excited by her every touch and her every word. He felt
shame that as a monk he would allow himself to feel this way, and pushed
the feelings deep, refusing to admit what they really were.
     This particular day, they sat in the gardens of the Dargon abbey,
resting in the warming rays of a midday sun. In order that he might
spare Samara the ravages of lustful customers, Lev had obtained
permission from Prior Yaroslav and the abbot to hire the girl for a few
bells using the monastery's funds.
     Even so, Lev could not help but feel that she was not entirely free
of any 'lustful customers'. Whenever he was around her, he felt
light-headed and flushed. Even now, as he sat next to her on a bench in
a monastery garden, she entranced him. He stared at her neck; the skin
there was so smooth. It was a beautiful shade of pink. Lev desperately
wanted to kiss her there, take her into his arms and --
     "Lev?" Samara said.
     "Huh?" Lev was startled by the voice, and had to take a few moments
to realise where he was. "I mean ... yes?"
     "What were you thinking about? You looked very far away, just
then."
     "Oh, I ... uh ..." Lev said, thinking quickly for a suitable
answer. "I cannot understand how brothels exist, in truth I don't.
Liriss is not a lord to whom you owe fealty and you are not a slave, yet
men buy you as they might a hot meat pie from a street corner vendor."
     "It is not as simple as you make it sound," Samara said, her eyes
cast towards the ground as they always were whenever conversation moved
to her occupation. "It is true that Liriss does not own me, that I could
leave his employ should I so choose ... I am ashamed of myself that I
cannot. I have no husband, no skills of my own, and I have not the
courage to risk life as a beggar."
     Lev nodded, and felt acutely guilty for making Samara feel badly.
Obviously the first thing that came to mind was not the right thing to
say. "Is it thus for all of those at the Shattered Spear?"
     "No," Samara shook her head, "some of the women are truly wantons.
You musn't be lulled into the trap of thinking we are all forced ..."
     "All the same," Lev said, "you should not feel shame, for *you*
have been forced into this, and I understand why you cannot leave. But
listen to the Stevene's Third Law: The sexual act is a sacrament. It is
a holy gift of pleasure from God. He who violates this gift shall burn,
but she who is violated is as pure as before, by My Holy Word. Let none
gainsay this decree."
     "I remember you said that to me the first time we met," Samara
looked up now, into Lev's eyes, and a surge of excitement charged Lev's
veins. "You're the only person I know who makes me feel like a person,
someone worth loving."
     Lev shifted uncomfortably on the wooden bench, and could feel
colour rising in his face. "Well, uh ... as a child of God ..."
     The edge of Samara's lips quirked up, and she put her hand on
Lev's. "You are nothing like any of the Stevenics I've met before. You
actually believe in what you say."
     "What do you mean?" Lev was taken aback by the remark. He often
doubted himself that he really believed all that he had been taught.
Perhaps, deep down, his faith was stronger than he knew.
     "I wasn't going to tell you, but ..." she paused, and averted her
eyes once again. "At first because I was scared that you'd be the same,
then because ... because ..."
     "Please tell me," Lev said, his voice sounding to him as if it were
spoken by someone else. The atmosphere in the abbey garden suddenly
changed. The songbird that had been chirping was silent and the air
turned cold. Lev feared what he would next hear.
     "The priest you met outside the Shattered Spear a few days ago,"
Samara's speech was broken by sobs, and tears began to roll down her
cheeks, "He doesn't preach there; he ... he lays with me! Pays a coin
just like the rest!"
     Lev drew back from her in horror. He could not believe what he was
hearing. Merciful God, it couldn't be true! But the words poured from
her mouth faster and faster, as if a dike had been broken and a river of
putrid water were gushing through the hole.
     "He lays atop me, his flabby fingers clutching at me, bruising me,
his vile-smelling breath ..." she grabbed the sleeve of Lev's tunic. "Oh
Lev, please don't be mad at me!"
     When she threw herself onto Lev in a desperate embrace, he could
only hug her back, could not even speak. Lev knew that most sects within
the Stevenic Church did not share the Cyruzhians' vow of celibacy, took
wives and sired children -- but this! Cephas' boot, but this was the
most horrible betrayal of the Stevene's Light Lev had ever known! How
could such a thing happen? How could such a thing ever be allowed to
happen? How could God watch from on high and do nothing?
     "Worse still," she whispered into his ear, "I am certain that the
child I bear is his, for in the last several months he has paid extra to
have me saved for him only."
     "How can this be?" Lev shuddered. How could a servant of God
violate holy sacraments thus? And a child born to a prostitute had
little hope in life, for who could prove who the father was?
     "You don't believe me?" Samara drew back quickly.
     "I do believe you," Lev said. "It's just ... I -- I don't know. A
priest? No, it can't be!"
     "Well, it is!" Samara shouted. "I told you because I thought out of
everyone I know, you might understand!"
     She sprang to her feet and ran out of the garden. Lev tried to get
up after her but with his lame left foot, he fell to the ground. The
brother that had been keeping an eye on his and Samara's conversation
from a short distance away hurried over.
     "Lev, are you alright?"
     "I ... don't know," Lev said.

     Lev sat on that same bench a couple of days later, staring down at
the stonework path beneath his feet. He could not keep his hands still;
he ran them through his hair, rubbed his face, and played with his
tunic. What in God's name had happened with his life? He had not prayed
at all in days, his thoughts always on Samara. He would envision her
face, her voice ... her body. The thoughts excited him and shamed him at
the same time. It wasn't proper to think about someone like that, or was
it? What was really wrong with it?
     But then his thoughts would shift to the fat priest, what he had
done with her ... what he might be doing with her that very mene! The
fire in Lev's veins changed in quality, and he balled his hands into
fists.
     "Novice Lev?" a soft voice said.
     Lev looked up to see Prior Yaroslav standing beside the bench.
"Reverend sir, thank God ... I don't know who else to talk to!"
     The prior sat down beside Lev and put a comforting hand on the
young novice's shoulder. "Calm yourself, Lev. Tell me what's wrong."
     Lev chewed at his fingernails nervously, and looked back at the
ground. "Well, you remember the girl from the Shattered Spear I told you
about ... Samara?"
     "Yes, I know of her," Yaroslav said. "I also know you have spent a
fair bit of time with her lately. I also know where this is probably
going."
     "I feel such strange feelings towards her. They are powerful, too.
I ..."
     Yaroslav nodded knowingly and chuckled. "Believe it or not, I was
once your age. I think I have a good idea of how you feel. Would you
believe that before I became a Cyruzhian brother I --"
     "But that's not all," Lev interrupted. "And certainly not the most
important."
     "Oh?"
     Lev took a deep breath before continuing. "One of her 'customers'
is a priest, one of our own. He lies with her, buys her body, and she
now carries his child!"
     Lev could feel his face burning now, and his heartbeat had
quickened. Just thinking of the priest filled him with anger. He looked
up at Yaroslav, whose face was impassive.
     "Those are some serious charges, Lev."
     "You don't believe me?" Lev shouted.
     "Shhh ..." Yaroslav made placating gestures with his hands. "Be
calm. I did not say I did not believe you. In fact, I am rather inclined
to believe you. I can guess who the priest might be."
     "Then what will you do?"
     "Do?" Yaroslav shifted on the bench. "I cannot do anything. And
neither can you."
     "What?" Lev could hear his own voice rising again, but did not
care. "How can we do nothing when something like this is happening?
There must be some kind of justice!"
     "There can be no retribution, if that's what you mean. How can one
wrong undo another? The most I could do is talk to the local prelate of
that priest's sect. I promise you I will do that much. Though I must
admit that I doubt much will come of it. Your charges are purely
hearsay."
     "You'll do that much, will you?" Lev could now feel his anger
turning towards Prior Yaroslav. How could the man he respected so much
be so indifferent to such evil? "That is nothing! And all the while he
-- he ... What of the Third Law?"
     "And what of the Fourth, brother?"
     "What of our religion that is supposed to uphold and teach the
Stevene's Light?"
     Lev got up as quickly as he dared, remembering his fall when he
tried to follow Samara from this very spot a few days before. Taking his
staff, he hobbled away from the prior.
     "Lev!" Yaroslav called. "Where are you going?"
     Lev limped as fast as he could through the inner cloister, through
the outer, and out into the streets of Dargon. He wanted to scream, to
break his staff over someone's head. His whole body was shaking with
rage, but he forced himself to calm down and start breathing again.
After several moments, his head was more or less clear once again. He
looked around at the busy folk of Dargon bustling about, apparently
oblivious to his existence.
     Lev looked pleadingly up to the heavens. No evidence of the sun
could be seen behind dark rain clouds. No evidence of God could be seen
either, as far as Lev could tell. A man who was supposed to be a servant
of God, forcing sex on a girl, and the church that supposedly served the
same God looked on blithely as if nothing were amiss? Indifferent?
Uncaring? Or worse ... false? Was it all lie? But if so, to what end?
     Lev turned and looked at the stone edifice from which he had just
emerged. It held a lot of rock, but he wondered how much love. Thinking
of love, his mind returned to Samara. He had come to the decision that
women were the most beautiful creatures in this world, and Samara
foremost among them. He had to see her; more importantly, he had to
apologise to her for his actions last time he had seen her.

     Samara sat across from Lev at a table in the Shattered Spear. Her
features were passive, her lips held tightly together. Despite the lack
of emotion on her face, Lev could see hurt in her eyes.
     "Lev, I don't really have time to speak with you," she said.
     "I know, but please listen for just a few moments," Lev said. "I
just wanted to apologise for the way I acted the other day. I was caught
off ... no. I have no excuses. I was wrong to doubt you at all. I was
stupid, blind to the truth because I thought this high-up church I
belong to could never be wrong! I was so wrong ..."
     Tears welled up in Samara's eyes. "Oh, Lev, I'm sorry, too. I
should have known --"
     "No," Lev shook his head. "You did nothing wrong. It was I ... and
others. I want to make it right to you. The Cyruzhians, Stevenism, I
don't know what anything means any more. I don't think I can stay a part
of something that's so hypocritical."
     "Lev, what are you saying?"
     "I don't know. All I know is that you mean a great deal to me, and
I want to help you in some way. I work in the scriptorium back in
Heart's Hope; I could get a job as a notary ..."
     "You're not thinking of leaving the Cyruzhians, are you?"
     "Maybe I am," Lev rested his chin in his hand and looked out the
window absently. "Maybe I am. Not much has made sense to me since I
arrived in Dargon, but just now, leaving this all behind me seems to
..."
     "Lev, you can't leave the Cyruzhians just for me!" Samara laughed a
little and touched Lev's hand. "It means so much to you. I know it does.
You've told me so much about your life with them."
     "What life?"
     "As you said, working in the scriptorium, even your prayers. You
told me about how you --"
     "I haven't prayed in days."
     Samara looked down at her stomach. "Is this because you feel guilty
over what happened to me? It's not your fault, Lev."
     No, it wasn't because of that, Lev thought. "It's because I think
I'm falling in love with you."
     He didn't say that out loud, did he? No, apparently not, for
Samara's expression was unchanged when he looked away from the window,
back at her. He couldn't resist studying her face for a few moments:
heart-shaped, framed by golden locks of hair, eyes like the sea ...
     Samara's hand, which was still over Lev's, suddenly grasped him
tightly. Her eyes widened, and the colour drained from her face. Lev
slowly turned in his seat, his gaze falling upon a corpulent body clad
in priestly robes. Above it, several flabby chins and a smirking mouth.
Lev started to feel slightly dizzy as blood rushed to his face and head.
     "Brother monk," the fat priest said. "What a surprise to see you
here. And without another of your order? I'm sure that's not allowed."
     "What would you know of what's allowed and what's not?" Lev
shouted, pulling himself to his feet, using the table as support. His
body was trembling, and everything seemed to be slowing down.
     "I beg your pardon?" the fat priest's jowls jiggled almost
comically as he spoke, indignation in his voice.
     "No, beg *her* pardon!" Lev pointed at Samara.
     "Why you little codswallop!"
     Lev stuttered, unable to think of a proper response, and without
willing his body into motion, he hit the priest squarely in the mouth.
The force of the blow sent both of them sprawling on the floor.
     "Fight! Fight!" one of the inn's patrons shouted. Lev could hear
chairs moving and feet scuffling as everyone scrambled to get a good
view.
     "Ol's balls! They're both Stevenic priests! This'll be good!"
     Lev scrambled towards the mound of flesh lying on the floor not far
away, but was caught by strong arms and pulled to his feet.
     "Cephas' boot, Lev!" Prior Yaroslav exclaimed. "What are you
doing?"
     "That -- that ...!" Lev shouted, and tried to break free of the
prior's grip to attack the priest again, who was struggling to his feet.
     "Help me with him!" Yaroslav shouted to a couple of Cyruzhian monks
who had apparently followed him to the inn. "Lev, this is not helping
anyone!"
     As Lev was dragged from the inn, he looked towards Samara, who was
standing beside the table at which they had been sitting. His temper
cooled a little and he allowed himself to go limp in his brothers' arms.
He kept his eyes on her as long as he could, on her rose-petal lips, her
slender body ... and the child that was growing inside it.

     Rain poured down by the bucketful on Samara's head as she scurried
down the darkened alley towards the old woman's house. She did not know
the lady's name; in fact, she was sure that few did. Many called the old
crone a witch who conspired with evil gods. Some called for her to be
cast out of the city. Samara was not certain that they were wrong, for
the old woman would help her end an unwanted pregnancy this night. Many
would have called such a thing murder, but all the same, Samara knew
that she could not have this child. She could not allow Lev to destroy
the life that he had with the Cyruzhian monks for her, or this child.
More still, she could not give birth to the child of a fat Stevenic
priest.
     She reached a small, dark house that leaned up against the one next
to it like a sickened beggar. After glancing about to be sure that no
one else was around, she knocked on the rickety door. Without a word, an
old crone opened the door and gestured for Samara to enter. The room
into which Samara walked was a small, barren place, adorned only by a
wooden table that bore several pots of strange smelling herbs, and a
bench.
     "Wait here," the woman said, and promptly vanished into another
room. Samara sat down on the bench. She was trembling and clasped her
hands together in an effort to keep them still. She wished Lev were
there; she always felt safer when he was around. Surely if he were there
he'd try to get her to change her mind. He was very kind to her, and
handsome in a plain sort of a way. Samara thought that she probably
loved him. Part of her wished dearly for him to get a job as a notary
and take care of her for all the days of her life. But at the same time,
she knew she could not let him throw away such a promising life for her,
a common whore.
     When the old woman returned, she carried with her a small tub which
she placed before Samara. The woman disappeared again, this time
returning with a steaming bucket of water. She poured it into the tub,
then left again. After three pails of hot water had been poured into the
container, she took some herbs from the table and dropped them in. As
she mixed the contents of the tub, a thick, acrid smell assaulted
Samara's nose and made her eyes water.
     "What is that?" she gasped.
     "Never mind that," the old woman said, still stirring. "Now off
with your shoes, pull up your dress and put your feet in the tub."
     Samara obeyed, and the instant she placed her feet in the water,
screamed with sudden pain. The water was scalding hot.
     "Shush! Lest the neighbours call the guard!" the old woman scolded,
pushing Samara's feet back into the water. "You'll get used to it after
a while. Now stand up."
     As Samara stood she nearly fell over, so great was the pain in her
feet. The old woman caught her, however, and held Samara's arms until
she was steady enough to stand on her own. The old woman pulled Samara's
dress up so that her stomach was exposed, and Samara felt suddenly
vulnerable. The fumes from the water burned her nose and throat, and as
she looked down she saw that not only her feet, but her legs were
turning bright red.
     "You're boiling me," Samara sobbed.
     "Pretty much," the old woman said, pouring more hot water into the
tub.
     The menes crept by slowly. As time passed, the pain in Samara's
feet and legs eventually gave way to a dull ache, then to numbness. She
got used to the smell as well, though tears continued to stream down her
face. When she nearly fainted, the old woman gave her a staff to lean
on, and added more hot water and herbs to the tub. An entire bell passed
-- Samara knew, for she could hear the bells of the Harbormaster's
Building clang twice -- and then she finally passed out.
     She awoke, who knew how much later, to see the old woman spreading
some form of salve on her legs and feet.
     "They'll hurt for a while, but no permanent harm has been done,"
the old woman said.
     "And the baby?" Samara said.
     "You'll know before the sun rises."

     Lev walked alone down the Street of Travellers, a soft rain slowly
soaking through his black cloak. He had snuck away from the group other
monks some time ago, but doubted they had noticed he was gone. Not that
it mattered -- he would never see them again anyway.
     He stopped to let a heavily laden cart pass, then continued on his
way. Looking down at the ground, he contemplated his plight. The
depraved priest, Samara and her child ... he could not understand how
God could allow such a situation to be. He could understand less how the
church could.
     Once the doubt had begun to gnaw at his beliefs like rats on a loaf
of bread, it did not take long before Lev's faith lay in tatters, like
some battle-ravaged banner. He now doubted even the existence of God,
but especially the worth of his vows.
     In all this, the one thing he knew was Samara. He had decided not
to fight his feelings, and in giving them free reign, had realised that
he had fallen deeply in love with the girl. It mattered not at all to
him that she was a prostitute. All that mattered was the way he felt
when he was with her, how beautiful she was, and her child. Lev knew
that he would love the child for being hers; that lecherous priest be
damned!
     Lev approached the now familiar Shattered Spear, not without a bit
of apprehension. What he was about to tell Samara would change his life
completely, in such a way that he had never fathomed. Prayers forgotten,
he looked only to himself for the courage to travel the next few strides
and enter the bawdy tavern.
     Inside it was loud, as always, and warm with the many bodies packed
into the room and the fire raging in the hearth. A small crowd of people
exclaimed over a game of chance in one corner of the room, and a group
of sailors loudly sang a rather vulgar song.
     When he could not find Samara, Lev he asked one of the other
barmaids who he had met during one of his visits to inn, "Where is
Samara?"
     "I dunno," the girl replied. "She wasn't well this morning. She's
probably in the back room."
     "Why would she be there?" Lev asked.
     "That's where us girls stay when we're not working."
     "I see. Where is that?" Lev asked. "I must see her."
     "I guess there's no harm in it. I've seen you with her before; you
seem to be kind to her." She took Lev through the kitchen to a door at
the very rear of the inn. "There, she'll be in there."
     Lev took several deep breaths to calm himself before entering the
room. He had decided at last to cast aside his religious vows to be with
Samara. He would neither wear the habit of a Cyruzhian monk, nor live in
one of their monasteries. With his reading and writing skills, he would
have little problem finding a job. He would marry Samara, and they would
raise the child together.
     Thus fortified, he strode forward and opened the door. He closed it
gently behind him and called softly, "Samara?"
     As he scanned the room, his eyes came to rest on a nearby bed. The
sheets laying over the straw mattress were soaked in blood. Lev took an
uncertain step towards the bed. He dropped his staff and fell to his
knees.
     In the centre of the blood stains lay a tiny shape, smaller than
Lev's fist. It was vaguely human shaped. Lev began to sob
uncontrollably. He could make out the shape of a tiny human hand
sticking in the air as if in a gesture for help.
     "Oh, God!" Lev cried, as tears began streaming down his face. His
vision blurred, and he toppled onto his face. "Oh, God, no!"
     It could only be Samara's baby that lay on the bed in front of him.
He did not know how, but somehow she had miscarried, and now the child
lay there dead, not having seen so much as one mene of the sun's light.
Lev had been willing to love the child as he loved Samara, to take on
the duties of father. He had started to think of it as his own in a
small way even. But now ...
     "Lev?" a weak voice said from a corner of the room.
     Lev looked up towards the voice. He could not make out details, but
saw a shadow huddled in the far corner. The voice had been Samara's,
though much weaker than he had ever heard it. He wiped his nose with the
sleeve of his tunic and crawled over to her.
     "Samara?" He tried to brush the tears from his eyes so he could see
her, but more came to replace them.
     "Lev, I'm sorry ..."
     Lev made it over to her and reached to touch her. She was wet to
the touch. Lev pulled his hand back and found it was covered in blood.
He blinked away the tears, fear suddenly gripping him with icy fingers.
His vision cleared somewhat, and he could see that Samara was covered in
blood. He pulled her into his arms.
     "Samara, you're bleeding!"
     "Yes," Samara whispered. "It came with the baby ... but it never
stopped. I've never had a child before ... I don't know what's happening
..."
     "Don't talk," Lev brushed her hair away from her face. She was very
pale, and her skin was cold to the touch. "I'll get one of the healers
--"
     "No, it's too late," Samara said, grabbing Lev's cloak with
desperately strong hands. "I'm so cold, Lev. Please hold me."
     Lev hugged her as hard as he could. "It's not too late; you'll be
all right!"
     Lev clung to Samara desperately, for how long he did not know. Her
breaths came slower and slower. She was limp in Lev's arms.
     "Samara, no!" Lev pleaded. "I'm going to leave the Cyruzhians! I'll
be your husband, I'll take care of you! Please don't leave me!"
     Finally, she took a breath that was not followed by another. Lev
buried his face in her neck and was wracked by uncontrollable sobbing.
This couldn't be happening! He was going to give everything up to take
care of Samara, she couldn't be dead ...

     One step after another, one foot in front of the next. Lev trudged
slowly along behind the other Cyruzhian monks on their way back to
Fennell Keep. A slow drizzle soaked his cloak and tunic through to the
skin, and mud covered his shoes that dragged though the puddles of the
road. He did not care. What difference did it make?
     He stopped and looked behind him at Dargon. He was now at the crest
of the hill from which he had first seen Dargon, several sennights ago
now. Who knew that what he had then seen as an adventure would lead to
such an end? Lev had watched as Samara was buried in one of the common
graves for thieves and beggars just outside the city. He felt that she
deserved better, but had no money of his own to pay for a burial plot
elsewhere.
     He longed to see her face again, or to hear her voice just one last
time. But he could not escape the truth -- he knew she was lost to him
forever. No more air moved past her beautiful rose-petal lips; her eyes,
the colour of the sky, held no more smiles for him.
     "Come, novice Lev," one of the monks called. "You're falling behind
again."
     Lev turned away from the city, to see that his brother monks were
several paces ahead of him. While they waited, Lev staggered up the hill
to catch up with them. He did not look forward to a lifetime spent in
Heart's Hope Monastery, but what choice did he have now that Samara was
gone? One step after another, one foot in front of the next.

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