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 DargonZine                                     Distributed: 10/03/1998
 Volume 11, Number 8                            Circulation:        680
========================================================================

                                Contents

 Editorial                    Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
 For Bronna 2                 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr       Mertz 12-Firil 7,
                                                       1016
 The Fire that Binds          Mark A. Murray         Firil 7, 1016
 A Spell of Rain 3            Stuart Whitby          Firil 7th, 1016

========================================================================
 DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a
 collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
 We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
 Please address all correspondance to <dargon@shore.net> or visit us
 on the World Wide Web at http://www.shore.net/~dargon. Back issues
 are available from ftp.shore.net in members/dargon/. Issues and
 public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.

 DargonZine 11-8, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright October, 1998 by
 the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@shore.net>,
 Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@mnsinc.com>. All rights reserved.
 All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories
 and artwork appearing herein may not be reproduced or redistributed
 without the explicit permission of their creators, except in the case
 of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution.
 Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden.
========================================================================

                               Editorial
                         by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
                           <ornoth@shore.net>

     Welcome to the second half of our special two-issue writing contest
blowout! As I described in the Editorial for DargonZine 11-7, the
DargonZine writers recently concluded a contest where each submission
had to include the manifestation of a comet in the skies over Dargon.
These stories are now seeing print, and this issue contains the best of
the best!
     When the stories were completed and the voting among the writers
was tallied, there were two multi-part storylines that stood well above
the rest: new Dargon writer Stuart Whitby's "A Spell of Rain" took
winning honors, and Dafydd's "For Bronna" was runner-up. I am pleased to
be able to print the climactic episodes of both of these stories in this
issue. However, I strongly encourage you to refer back to the previous
chapters and read these stories from their beginnings, to appreciate the
tales these two writers have woven. At the beginning of each story are
pointers which will tell you which issues those previous episodes
appeared in.
     And while you're looking up those back issues, be sure to check out
our previous issue, DargonZine 11-7, for even more contest stories! And
rest assured that there are still more coming in future issues.
     In addition to the two contest winners, this issue also brings you
Mark Murray's contest entry, "The Fire that Binds", which is another
vignette in his longstanding story arc about Raphael and Megan.
     That's all the news there is this time around, but be on the
lookout for DargonZine 11-9, coming in early November, and expect to see
more significant changes in our Web site in the next couple months.

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

                               For Bronna
                                 Part 2
                          by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr
                        <John.White@drexel.edu>
                         Mertz 12-Firil 7, 1016

          Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 11-7

Dargon
Mertz 12, 1016.

     I stepped away from the posing brace on my seventh day of 'sitting'
for my daughter's wedding gift portrait without help and completely
steady on my feet. I smiled in personal triumph: a friend had told me of
this technique where you could keep your muscles from tightening up in
enforced idle situations by tensing and flexing them -- moving them
without them moving you. It was almost as boring as just leaning there
against the brace, but at least it kept my mind occupied with something,
since I had solved all of the outstanding problems at work that I was
able to with just my imagination. First I tensed one leg, then the
other, then an arm, then the other arm. Those were the easy ones --
trying to exercise the muscles in my torso without moving my torso took
practice. Fortunately, I had plenty of time. I also had the brace itself
to help. And finally, I was able to step out of the brace just as limber
as I had been when stepping into it, despite three bells' worth of being
'motionless'.
     The guest table was scattered with papers and pens, inkwells and
money trays, in a kind of exaggeration of what my desk at work looked
like. Except for the area directly behind the brace where the position
of my body while posing blocked the view of it. In this space was a
nicely sweating pitcher of cool water, and the covered tray I had
brought for lunch. Iocasee and I sat down to the fine meal Margat, my
housekeeper, had prepared and started to eat.
     The painting was progressing wonderfully -- full of detail and
life, even while only half done. My plans to 'cure' Iocasee were not
progressing so well. Simple conversation had proved difficult: he seemed
to hear only the things he wanted to hear at times, and when he involved
Bronna in our conversation, it just got to be too much for me to handle.
It was one thing to decipher where I was supposed to help him move a
table like that first session; it was quite another to have a three
sided conversation when I could only hear two of the sides.
     I thought about trying to get him away from his sanctuary, despite
Rendon's warning. I had invited Iocasee out for a beer after our last
sitting. He had again looked tempted, but declined. But today, I had a
better plan. I was sure he couldn't refuse this one.
     "So how are you enjoying the food, Iocasee?" I began. Iocasee's
response was ignored, automatically answered with a preoccupied, "Good,
good," while I mentally rehearsed my coming proposal.
     "Ah, I was thinking that maybe you could help me with a little
dilemma I have. You see, my companion and I were going to go out to eat
tonight, but Eiliese's friend Shanitral just arrived and will be staying
with us for a few days. Shanitral is a couple of years younger than most
of my friends, and as I was trying to figure out who I could ask to
escort her so she could join us tonight without feeling left out, I
suddenly thought of you. Do you think you would like to meet Shanitral
and have dinner with us?"

     "So how are you enjoying the food, Iocasee?" Percantlin asked.
     "An excellent repast, as usual," Iocasee replied.
     "Good, good."
     Percantlin paused for a moment, then continued, "Ah, I was thinking
that maybe you could help me with a little dilemma I have. You see, my
companion and I were going out to eat tonight, but Eiliese's fr ..." --
>> but Eiliese's friends who were going with us suddenly had to attend
another dinner party. Our reservations are for four people, and as I was
trying to think of another couple who was free, I thought of you and
Bronna. I've wanted you and Eiliese to meet, so do you think you and
Bronna could have di ... << -- "have dinner with us?"

     Iocasee's eyes seemed to glaze for a bit in the middle of my offer,
but when I finished, he sighed and said, "That does sound like a
problem, but I'm afraid that Bronna isn't feeling well and I think we
should stay in tonight. Sorry, I'm sure you'll find someone else to take
your companion's friends' place. Or you could always just let the extra
reservations go."
     I was stunned. I felt like we had been having one of those three
sided conversations, but this time it had been my own words -- or at
least, how Iocasee had heard my words -- that I hadn't heard.
     That was such an unexpected response that I hadn't formulated a
counter to it. I tried to be gracious in accepting his refusal -- it was
the only option left to me. Even spending the rest of the day in the
posing brace doing nothing but trying to think of a way to get around
his selective hearing -- in between flexing -- didn't allow me to come
up with a satisfactory solution.

Dargon
Firil 2, 1016.

     Iocasee actually opened the door this time at my pull of the bell
rope. He said, "Come in, come in, Percantlin. The painting is nearly
finished. I've worked hard on the last details of the background, and it
shouldn't take more than a couple of bells to make sure that I've got
the last of the main body details done." He looked up at the
cloud-covered sky and sighed. "Looks like rain again, does it not? I've
got some candle reflectors set up -- no match for proper sunlight, but
good enough to remind me what it should look like." He stepped aside and
said again, "So, come on."
     I stepped inside, glad that Iocasee wanted to finish the painting
today. It had been raining for the past three days, and my boots were
muddy from the walk through the streets. The last time that it had been
this cloudy on one of our scheduled sitting days, Iocasee had just
postponed the sitting until the next bright day, which had been the next
day, the 21st of last month. I had worried that he would want to
postpone again, even though I knew the portrait was almost finished. I
had set things in motion anyway, just in case, and now I was pretty sure
that everything would happen properly.
     Just to be sure, I asked, "So, do you think that these final
details will stretch until lunch, Iocasee? I have someone bringing it
over later, my housekeeper got a little behind in her duties." Of
course, Margat hadn't gotten behind, but I knew she'd forgive me the
slight to her skills -- it was in a good cause.
     "Probably just beyond, yes. Hard to tell, of course, but even if I
do finish before, I'll be happy to stall long enough for one more of
your Madam Margat's meals." I echoed his grin and went to stand in my
very familiar place at the posing brace.
     Iocasee had already set up half a dozen candle stands of various
heights on either side of the posing brace. Each held a large-wicked
candle, with a shiny reflecting hood behind each lit flame helping to
amplify the light thrown at me in my brace. I was only settled into the
brace for a few moments before I realized that the hoods reflected more
than the light: the heat from all of those candles warmed me to a
comfortable temperature quickly after the miserable rainy day outside,
but just as quickly went well beyond comfortable. The smell of the
burning wicks and wax didn't help my discomfort any, either. Still, I
could put up with it for a little while in the cause of a finished
painting.
     I wasn't the only one subjected to the smelly, hot candles. Two
more stands illuminated the canvas itself, and I could see quite a few
more candle stands set up behind the canvas, but none were lit. I
guessed that he would increase the illumination in either spot, but only
as needed.
     Iocasee worked intently, hardly looking at me for long periods of
time. For the last three sittings, I had wondered why I needed to be
here at all, not that I minded, in principle, the time away from work.
But he seemed to have a very good idea of what effects he was trying to
create with his painting, and I think that he used me more as a
verification that his own mental image was correct, than as a direct
image to copy onto the canvas. But I could have been wrong.
     Twice he came over to redirect the candlelight at specific aspects
of my pose. The rain started about midway through the morning, but that
didn't reduce the light coming through the ceiling windows, only filled
the normal silence of the studio with the patter of raindrops.
     Iocasee stepped back from the painting one last time, looking it
over closely and carefully. He lifted a brush now and again as if to
make a minute change, but always put it down again without touching it
to the canvas. Finally, he put down his brushes and palette with a
satisfied nod. "That would be it, I think. Come over and see, Merchant
Percantlin. I think your daughter will be pleased."
     I walked away from the brace and the heat around it, and went to
stand by Iocasee. I looked at the painting, and I have to say it looked
perfect. There I was in all my finery, standing in front of a glorified
version of my desk. Except for the light -- so very bright and vibrant
in the painting, so muted and dim in the studio -- I could have been
looking into a very fine mirror. And beyond the perfect details, there
was something else about the painting, something that nearly brought it
to life. Whatever that quality was, that was what made Iocasee a great
painter. It was nothing I had ever seen in a Mawdrenas portrait, anyway.
     As if on cue, the door bell rang. I said, "Must be lunch. I'll get
it."
     Iocasee had begun cleaning his brushes as I went to the door and
opened it. A small horse and cart was filling much of Painters outside
Iocasee's door, and its passenger was standing at the door carrying a
wooden tray. I smiled at Shanitral -- who was quite beautiful, but not
one of Eiliese's friends and not from out of town -- and stood aside to
let her enter.
     "Iocasee, I'd like you to meet a friend of my daughter Bronna's,
Shanitral. She was visiting the house and volunteered to bring lunch for
Margat. Shanitral, this is the genius that has painted my portrait for
Bronna's wedding gift."

     Iocasee wiped the excess paint off of his brushes before dropping
them into the cleaning fluid, while the subject of his latest work went
to answer the door. He was proud of the painting he had just completed
-- he had achieved every effect he had intended, and maybe even a few
more that had happened by accident. Like that swirl in the large ruby
earring -- it was just a brush mark, but it looked so much like a flash
of fire and he hadn't even been trying to do that.
     Yes, he had managed to capture his merchant client very well. The
handsome face that wore its 45 or so years well, the dark hair swept
back elegantly under the red hat, the fit body beneath the sumptuous
robes. He had been happy to capture the exact blending of green and
brown in Percantlin's eyes, as well as the character of every individual
gem in the silver bands around almost every finger. Even the detailed
figures adorning the two studs above the ruby earring were clearly
visible. This was probably one of his finest works.
     The door opened, and after a moment Percantlin opened it wide to
let someone in. Iocasee looked up and caught his breath at the beautiful
woman standing in the door. She was a vision, so lovely, almost as
lovely as Bronna. Long brown hair, another goddess' shape. She was
taller, younger, and ... and ... and real ... ...?
     Percantlin was saying something, introducing the vision. "Iocasee,
I'd like you to meet ..." -- >> like you to meet my daughter Bronna.
She's brought us the lunch that Madam Margat has prepared. Bronna, this
is the genius that has painted my portrait for your wed
     ... << -- "wedding gift."

     I was looking at Iocasee as I introduced Shanitral to him, and so I
saw the vacant look that passed over his face for a moment. And so I
almost expected what came next.
     "Bronna, eh? What a coincidence that your nickname is the same as
my dear heart's name, since I remember that your father told me your
given name is Kalibriona. Such a lovely woman! Your husband-to-be is a
very lucky man, very lucky. Come over and see your wedding gift."
     Shanitral looked at me with a stricken expression -- she just
didn't understand what was going on. I had grown more or less used to
Iocasee's delusions, but even though I had tried to explain it to her
earlier, the difference between words and reality was just too great.
     I led her over to the table so she could set down the tray. I was
frantically trying to figure out a graceful way out of this situation --
my plans gone wrong yet again! -- but in the mean time I whispered to
Shanitral, "Just play along, dear. I'm sorry about this, I didn't think
that this would happen. Um, go look at the painting, I need to speak
with Brance. It's all right, I won't be a moment."
     Shanitral walked hesitantly over to Iocasee while I darted out the
front door. Brance was an employee of Fifth I whom I had asked a little
favor of. And now I had another favor to ask.
     "Brance, I want you to take the cart around the block, and return
here. Ring the bell and when I answer, tell me this ..."

     I went back inside, to see Shanitral honestly admiring the
painting, even though she glanced beside her at Iocasee with a wild "I'm
going to bolt any second" look, like a spooked horse. I said, "Sh
     ... uh ... Bronna, why don't we sit down to lunch. You're going to
have forever to stare at that painting. Margat sent enough for three,
right?" Of course she had -- the plan had been for Shanitral to charm
Iocasee over a lunch for three. But it hadn't happened that way, had it?
     Shanitral nodded, and walked over to the table. Iocasee followed as
I uncovered the tray to reveal a soup tureen and three plates of
seasoned chicken. Much fancier than the previous meals which had all
been variations on cold meat leftwiches. "Looks like Margat outdid
herself for this last meal, eh Iocasee?"
     "It looks and smells almost as good as my painting!" Iocasee joked,
and I laughed along with him. Even Shanitral chuckled nervously.
     I timed it perfectly. I was just lowering myself into my seat, the
others having already taken theirs, when the door bell jangled again. I
leapt up and opened the door before Iocasee could move. Of course, it
was Brance. He said, with a delivery that would credit any actor on any
stage in Baranur, "Master Percantlin, there's an emergency at warehouse
two. You gotta come quick!"
     "Thank you, Brance. I'll be right there." I closed the door and
went back over to the table. "I'm sorry, Iocasee, Sh ... Bronna. I'm
surprised that nothing like this has happened before, but I've got an
emergency to deal with. Maybe you should come too, B-Bronna -- I can
drop you at home."
     I cleared the tray of food, leaving it all for Iocasee, then went
to get my cloak. "The painting will be ready by the wedding?"
     "Oh yes. It will be dry enough by then to frame. I'll make sure it
is delivered by the 7th at the latest. I hope the emergency isn't
serious, Percantlin. And thank you for being such a good subject. I hope
you enjoy the portrait, Bronna."
     "Farewell, Iocasee. I will have your fee delivered tomorrow."
     Shanitral waved, smiling weakly, and the door closed behind us. We
both climbed into the cart, and Brance got the horse moving. I certainly
hadn't wanted to leave the studio like that, but I was pretty sure that
Shanitral would not have stood up to an entire afternoon of being Bronna
in front of a madman.
     And I hadn't cured him, either. He still thought his lover was
living with him. I had failed.
     But at least I had gotten the portrait. I was sure it would make a
wonderful wedding gift for Bronna. *My* Bronna.

Dargon
Firil 7, 1016.

     "You promised that it would be delivered by today, dear. And it
*is* getting late."
     "I know, I know. But I don't understand where everyone is." Iocasee
hadn't seen any of his neighbors since yesterday when Rendon delivered
the frame he made for Percantlin's portrait and helped him mount it. He
had said someone would be around to make the delivery, but no one had
come.
     "At least the rain is over." Iocasee looked up through his ceiling
windows at the clearing night sky beyond them. The clouds were slowly
blowing away, and soon it would be clear for the first time in more than
a sennight. The illumination in the studio was dim enough for him to see
a few of the brighter stars beginning to become visible. He loved it
when the moon was in the right place to shine into the studio. He would
put out all the candles and lamps in the room and luxuriate in the
bright white glow that would fill the space. He would drag the couch out
of the bedroom and he and Bronna would lie on it and soak up the
moonlight ...
     Iocasee started pacing across the studio, glancing at the portrait
that was awaiting delivery. He would be glad when it was out of his
studio. Yes, he was proud of it, but there was something about it that
was bothering him. Something disquieting, where everything should have
been perfect happiness. But what was it? Why did Percantlin's picture
disturb him? Maybe he should just deliver it himself? After all, it
really should be there for Bronna's wedding.
     How strange it had been to learn that his client's daughter had the
same name as his own lover. How likely was that? And she was such a
lovely woman -- he was glad he had gotten the chance to meet her.
     "But that wasn't Percantlin's daughter, now was it, love?"
     "What, Bronna? Of course it was. She wanted to meet me. She was
anxious to see the portrait. She ..."
     "That was a friend of Bronna's. Her name was Shanitral. And you
liked her, didn't you, Cas?"
     Iocasee had stopped in front of the portrait, but didn't really see
it. Something was wrong! "No, no love. No, that was the Bronna that this
painting is for. Yes, she was pretty, but ... but not so pretty as my
Bronna. Not so pretty as you!"
     "You want to go to Percantlin's with that picture so that maybe you
can meet her again, don't you? After all this time, just one pretty face
and you don't want me any more!"
     "No, please Bronna. No! It's just that she's getting married
tomorrow, and the portrait should be there. Really!"
     Bronna never got mad at him. There had never been a reason! They
were so happy together. Iocasee grew more and more anxious as he
frantically tried to understand why she was angry with him. Of course he
didn't want to go see Bronna ... Shanitral ... Bronna ...
     Iocasee found himself staring at the ruby earring in the
portrait-Percantlin's ear. At first, he couldn't see the little swirl
that he had noticed before, but slowly the light on the canvas increased
until the swirl, like a bit of fire, was clearly visible. Swirl of fire,
like Bronna's hair. Beautiful Bronna. *His* Bronna.
     "You don't remember what day this is, do you?"
     Day? It was the day to deliver Percantlin's painting, the day
before Bronna's wedding. Day?
     "And?"
     And? And? Wait ... Firil 7 ... wait ... party. Birthday! "It's your
birthday, isn't it, Bronna?" That's right, birthday party! But, usually
the whole street went out to celebrate. So where was everyone? And why
could he suddenly see the portrait so clearly when he hadn't lit any
more lanterns?
     "Yes, Iocasee, it's my birthday. And you haven't mentioned it once
today, until now. You were too busy thinking about that Shanitral,
weren't you? Well, maybe I'll just leave then. If you don't want me,
I'll leave.
     "Again."
     "Bronna? Bronna?! No, don't go! Bronna?!?"
     Iocasee turned, but she was nowhere to be seen. He looked up then,
through his ceiling windows, and saw a streak of fire in the middle of
the sky. It didn't flash by like a shooting star, it just hung there in
the sky, a streak of fire, like the swirl of fire in the ruby earring,
like his love Bronna's hair ...
     "Bronna no, don't go!" Iocasee fell to his knees, arms upraised
toward the streak of fire. "Bronna, come back! Don't leave! Don't leave
me all alone! Again!"
     With a last despairing cry, he collapsed to the floor, wailing his
loss -- all ten years of it -- into the night.

     I walked through the streets of a Dargon gone strange with the
light in the sky. Omen, portent, harbinger of doom -- I didn't think it
was any of those things. My life, my business were run by me, not
statues in a temple, and certainly not by lights in the sky. Sun, moon,
stars had no influence over me. This new light -- mysterious and strange
though it was -- was just another presence in the sky. It was pretty,
but I wasn't afraid of it. My daughter's wedding tomorrow -- that
worried me! That, and the fact that the portrait that was her wedding
gift had not yet arrived.
     I arrived at number 7 on Painters, and pulled the bell. Had
something happened to Iocasee? To the delivery man? Where was the
painting? I waited for some reply from within Iocasee's studio, but I
didn't hear anything. I rang again, and looked around. I didn't see
anyone out on the street, and all of the few windows were dark. Maybe
everyone was in one of those crowded squares I had detoured around,
listening to crazy prophets, or opportunistic scoundrels trying to get
the new light in the sky to make them some money.
     I pulled the bell cord a third time, and put my ear to the door to
listen well. It wasn't all that late -- only about third night bell,
perhaps, but Iocasee may still have gone to bed. But he wouldn't have
done that if the painting was still undelivered, would he?
     The echoes of the door bell died out, and at first there was
silence. But then, I thought I heard crying. Sobbing, really, a
wrenching sound even through the wood of the door. Should I go in? Maybe
he was hurt? Even though I knew that weeping like that didn't come from
a broken bone, I used that as my justification to open the door.
     "Hello, Iocasee? Is everything all right?" I looked around the
studio, and saw the portrait on its easel first. I sighed with relief --
it was okay! And then, the sobbing, much clearer now, intruded and I
looked to see Iocasee crumpled on the floor, crying his heart out.
     My first impulse was to get the painting and leave. Maybe make an
attempt to find one of Iocasee's neighbors and tell them the painter was
upset about something. I was not good at dealing with people -- ledgers
and shipping schedules, warehouses and goods were more my area of
expertise -- and Iocasee's sobbing was making me more uneasy than
sympathetic.
     But I had spent quite a lot of time with the man, and while we
hadn't become friends -- we hadn't spoken nearly enough for that -- I
still knew him. A stranger I could have left like that; someone I knew,
I couldn't. Closing the door behind me, I walked over to the weeping
man.
     Kneeling beside him, I could make out words between the sobs.
"Bronna's gone ... all alone for all these years ... why did you leave?"
I wondered what had made Iocasee see the truth behind his delusions.
     I called, "Iocasee? Cas, can you hear me?" There was no response,
he just kept repeating his litany of sorrow. I reached out and shook his
shoulder, trying to make him aware of me, and eventually his crying
eased, and he opened his eyes and looked at me.
     "Percantlin? What ...?" I helped him sit up, but he hung his head
in sorrow. "Oh, she's gone ... she's gone ..."
     I then helped him to his feet and to a chair, but he was still
slumped down in it, a man with no happiness in him at all, anywhere. I
tried to cheer him up by saying, "The painting looks great! That frame
really works with the piece, colors and proportion and all." I didn't
know what that meant, I had heard one of my more cultured acquaintances
say something like that once.
     Iocasee didn't smile, but he did look up, first at the portrait on
the easel, then at me. "Yes, it's done. Take it, and leave me alone.
Like Bronna."
     Before he could collapse again, I asked insistently, "Cas, what
happened? Why ..." I wanted to ask why he had suddenly realized that he
had been delusional for ten years, but I thought that a little cruel. So
I asked instead, "Why did your Bronna leave?"
     "Your fault," he replied without a shred of anger. "You brought
your daughter ... no, your daughter's friend ... Bronna ... Shanitral
     ... Bronna ... Ah! ... And then today I was worried about your
portrait, and the neighbors didn't come, and I forgot this was my
Bronna's birthday. And Bronna got mad, and said she'd leave, and I
looked up and saw her in the sky ... and she's gone, gone, gone ..." He
pointed, and I looked up to see the streak of fire in the sky through
his ceiling windows.
     He started to cry again, and as I tried to get his attention back,
I thought everything through. Rendon had told me that he and his
neighbors helped Cas celebrate two birthdays every year, but that one of
them was actually the day that Iocasee's Bronna had left him. He'd said
it was in Firil. Apparently, it was today. It also seemed like that
light in the sky had been enough to distract Cas' neighbors from
thoughts of their favorite painter as well, leaving him alone on an
evening when he was normally surrounded by people all helping him
remember that Bronna was still with him. Add in my own clumsy attempts
to lead him out of his madness, come to a delayed fruition at just the
wrong time, coupled with the advent of the mysterious, portentous fire
in the sky, and all of Iocasee's illusions had crumbled around him.
     So, in the end I had succeeded -- with some help. Iocasee was no
longer mad -- he knew Bronna was gone. I had cured him after all. I
chuckled to myself -- I knew that Shanitral would get to him! If I
wasn't committed to Eiliese, I'd make a play for Shanitral myself even
if I was old enough to be her father!
     Iocasee was cured, and I was proud. But not for long. I remembered
Rendon's first tale about the troubled painter, and how he had reacted
so badly the first time Bronna had left. But he would get better with
time, wouldn't he? Didn't they always say that time was the balm for
every hurt? But he hadn't gotten over her ten years ago, he had invented
things to console him in the loss of her. And this time, with such a
visible testament of her leaving -- in his eyes, at least -- as the fire
in the sky, what might he be driven to do? Suicide, maybe?
     I glanced at the painting, marveling again at its perfection in the
light of the fire in the sky. It would be a tragedy if such a genius of
an artist killed himself in the prime of his life. I looked back at
Iocasee, and thought that it would be just as tragic for any one to die
before his time.
     Iocasee had been happy, truly and genuinely happy, even if the
basis for that happiness was a delusion. What did that matter? He wasn't
hurting anyone, and he was a great painter. And since I had had a hand
in the breaking of that happiness, I would have to help him regain it.
If his delusions kept him sane -- or at least, functioning -- then his
delusions had to return.
     I shook him again, and said, "Cas, listen to me!" His tear-blurred
eyes turned to me, and I said, pointing up, "That's not Bronna, Cas."
     "Yes it is," he replied sulkily.
     "No, Cas, it isn't. That is just part of the fire show I have
scheduled for my daughter's wedding. You remember my daughter, who
brought lunch last time I was here? Wasn't she pretty? Isn't Tanjural,
her husband to be, a lucky man?"
     "That *was* your daughter?" he asked tentatively.
     "Yes, of course it was. She wanted to sneak a peek at the portrait
before it got presented at her wedding tomorrow."
     "That was your daughter. And that," looking up, "is for your
daughter's wedding."
     I nodded. "Right."
     He appeared to be thinking. "Who is Sh .. Shanitral?"
     "My daughter's best friend. Short, milk-blonde hair, somewhat
chubby. You've never met her," I lied earnestly.
     "No, she doesn't sound familiar." His words were still tentative,
as if he didn't quite believe yet.
     I decided that I had to try something else. I wasn't very good at
pretending, but I dredged up memories of attending parties my Bronna had
given as a child for her stuffed toys and invisible friends, and took a
stab at it.
     "What was that?" I asked, looking toward the kitchen door. "Did
Bronna just get back from an errand? I've got to get back to the
pre-wedding festivities soon, so could you call her in so I may say
farewell to her before I go?"
     I was gambling that Iocasee was close enough to the edge that it
would take just a little push for him to fall back into his delusions.
He clearly hadn't heard anything from the kitchen -- there hadn't been
anything to hear -- but he called out anyway, "Bronna?"

     Iocasee was more confused than he had ever been in his life. What
was the truth here? Was that light in the sky for Percantlin's daughter
Bronna's wedding? Had his own Bronna left for ever, or just on an
errand? Had there been a noise of his true love Bronna returning? He
looked over toward the kitchen door and called tentatively, "Bronna?"
     Silence. The flame in the sky continued to burn, and maybe it *was*
his lovely, long lost Bronna, and not just some kind of magical effect
from a fire show. Maybe ...
     "Dear, I'm back."
     She wasn't gone! He had misunderstood, she hadn't left him alone,
she had just had an errand to run! "Bronna, could you come out so
Merchant Percantlin can say his farewells? He came for his painting, but
he has to be getting back to his daughter's wedding."
     "Of course, dear." The kitchen door opened, and his Bronna stepped
through, as lovely a vision as she had been that first time he had seen
her. That first portrait he had painted of her was still in the bedroom,
hanging over the bed.
     He turned back to Percantlin with a smile of radiant joy on his
face, and whispered, "She's back. She didn't leave!"

     I waited, worrying, while the silence stretched out after he first
called Bronna's name. I saw doubt begin to creep into his face, reality
drowning out fantasy in his mind. But something -- need, belief, my
unshakeable rhetoric -- swayed that balance, and I saw his face light
up. He seemed to be listening to something, and then he said, "Bronna,
could you come out so Merchant Percantlin can say his farewells? He came
for his painting, but he has to be getting back to his daughter's
wedding."
     I wondered briefly if the legendary Bronna would actually come out
of the kitchen to greet me finally. But she didn't, even though I saw
the reflection of a vision of beauty light up Iocasee's face a moment
after his request as if Bronna had opened the kitchen door and walked
into the studio. He turned back to me, that joy still shining out of his
eyes, and he whispered -- to me, or to himself? -- "She's back. She
didn't leave!"
     I smiled. This time, I really *had* helped the man. I straightened
up next to Iocasee's chair and faced the kitchen door. "I just wanted to
say how much of a pleasure it has been to be in your house, Bronna. I'm
glad that the wedding of my own Bronna brought me to this studio, to
your home, and within the talent of your artistic genius, Iocasee. Thank
you so much." I bowed.
     There was silence for a few moments, but Iocasee's attention was
directed at the kitchen door so I figured he was listening to Bronna's
reply. I started to get that awkward, left-out feeling, but it was a
small price to pay if it made Iocasee happy.
     Iocasee stood and said, "I want to thank you as well, Percantlin.
You have been an exemplary subject, patient and uncomplaining for all
those boring bells. I am sure your daughter will treasure the portrait.
And if you like it, I hope you will recommend me to your friends."
     I assured him that I was more than happy with the portrait, and I
would surely recommend his talents. If my friends couldn't handle his
eccentricities, that was their loss. I thanked him and Bronna again,
before covering the painting in a cloth and lifting it from the easel.
As I walked away from Iocasee's studio and the Street of Painters I
realized that I was glad I had decided to get a portrait done for
Bronna.

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

                          The Fire that Binds
                           by Mark A. Murray
                          <dragonmark@usa.net>
                         Dargon, Firil 7, 1016

     I woke and reached out to hold her. My hand fell through empty air,
slapping the blanket on the bed with a hollow sound that echoed in the
room. My eyes were closed and I squeezed them shut tighter. I did not
want to open them. If I did, I would have no choice but to accept the
realization that she was gone. A scent drifted to me, and I breathed in
her essence. It was a faint smell, mixed with my sweat and the stench of
the unwashed blankets, but it was also her smell and I breathed it in
deeply. My body moved to curl up next to her only to find nothing
against me -- nothing next to me. Sharp pains flared inside me and
spread throughout my chest. I curled tightly into a ball and told the
pain to go away. My nails dug into my palm and I felt that, too. My fist
tightened as I tried to use the pain to shut her out of my thoughts, but
my vision of her only strengthened.
     I opened my eyes, hoping that seeing her gone would somehow make
everything go away -- would somehow show my body that there was no sense
in causing pain for something not here. And my body did see that there
was nothing there. And it cried out even stronger. A moan escaped my
lips, and I crushed them together to prevent another.
     Voices of people outside seeped into my room. Life in the town
continued on, unaware of me. Getting up, I dressed slowly. Each movement
was a labor unto itself. The wool breeches were wrinkled and old. As I
pulled them on, they scratched their way up my legs, clinging to me in
various places. I didn't bother changing my shirt. It was the only one I
had that wasn't falling apart, and I'd gotten used to the smell anyway.
I picked up my cloak and clasped it around my neck. It was patched in
several places, and I wore those patches like a knight wore his shield.
Even though the world battered at me, my cloak protected me. And she had
sewn those patches; she was caring for me still. Sighing, I reached for
my boots. They were the last. Soft, faded, worn leather filled my hands
as I pulled the cold boots over my feet. The day was starting just the
way too many had started before.
     I stepped outside and looked up; the clouds were billowy and
bunched together to cover the entire sky. The hard rain had stopped for
now, but small drops of water fell against my face. A drop landed hard
against my cheek and splattered. Another fell onto my nose, running down
the side. More landed upon my face and became my tears as they traced
their way down my cheek.
     Taking a step forward, I slipped on the wet ground and plopped
heavily into the mud. The cloak lay under me, shielding me from the wet
and cold. Turning, my hand squished into the ground as I tried to stand.
Cold, grainy mud flowed under my hand. As I put more pressure to try to
stand, my hand oozed ever further down; a squeaky sound bubbled up from
the ground.
     "Ol's piss," I hissed as I pushed hard to stand shakily upon weak
and trembling legs. There was a sucking and popping sound as my hand
left the mud. Absently, I started to wipe my hand on my cloak, but
stopped. No, I won't let her shield me any more. I ran my hand down my
wool breeches; the scratchy and old material abrasively brushing the mud
away. Then I ran my hand over my shirt, soft leather smoothly brushing
the rest of the grime away.
     The sun was trying to shine through the clouds on the horizon, but
was failing miserably. Only faint traces of light could be seen. Yes,
another day to muddle through, hoping that some light would appear.
     "Do you think the gods might be angry with us?" a woman asked her
companion as they walked past me.
     "Have you done something to incur the anger of the All Creator?"
her companion asked, a small smile on his lips.
     "No, I just have this feeling. Like something is going to happen. I
can't describe it."
     Her companion's mood was light as he asked, "Something happen? Like
what? The end of the world?"
     "Well, no. Nothing that drastic. I hope."
     I couldn't hear them anymore as they turned a corner onto another
street, but I replayed their conversation in my head. They were both
partially right. Something *had* happened and the end of the world *had*
appeared.
     Looking up at the cloud covered sky, I let the rain fall into my
eyes. The heavens are gone, only mud splattered pain remains. The end of
the world had come and all that it had left is another day of loneliness
and despair.

     I had a Sterling left. That was enough to wash down the bitterness
stuck in my throat with the cheapest ale, and enough to seat me in a
warm, dry place for most of the day. What better place to sit out
another day than the Shattered Spear? It was a small, out of the way inn
that most people avoided -- most decent folk, that is. The Shattered
Spear was known, in certain areas, for less than legal dealings. The
town guard didn't frequent it often, and when they did, it was always
known in advance when they would be there.
     Just one step begins a path to the final step of a journey, my
father had told me. He had never said how many steps it would take to
complete that journey, nor how long each step would take. But step I
did, all the way down the grey and brown alleys to the inn.
     Stepping up to the door to the inn, I grasped the latch. Cold, damp
wood greeted my hand as I lifted the latch and pushed the door inward.
The doorway was more than just a frame for the door; the cold from the
outside seemed to stop its advance and was pushed back by the warmth of
the inside. Yes, it was more than just a frame. It was a doorway into a
warmer, livelier world.
     Voices echoed throughout the room while the fire crackled and spat
embers. The floor creaked and gave a little as I stepped inside, yet no
one bothered to look my way. I wasn't a guard, I wasn't a noble, I
wasn't prey of any kind for the predators here; no, I was just another
ragged, muddy, poor beggar. Oh, father, how far I've fallen on this
journey. I turned and shut the door, letting the latch fall from my
hand. With a clunk, it fell into place and the outside world closed on
me. It was just another closure in my life, only this one wasn't as
painful as the rest. Turning, I looked around for an empty table near
the fire. It was unusually crowded this night. I settled for just an
open table towards the back of the inn.
     The chair creaked and moved as I sat in it. For just a moment, I
thought it was going to break and fall apart, crashing me to the floor,
but it held my weight and wrapped itself somewhat uncomfortably around
me. I wasn't paying attention to anything but the chair and didn't
notice the woman until she cleared her throat.
     "We don't have tables for beggars. You either buy something or
leave," she told me. Ol's blood! She was a large woman. I just stared at
her wondering how I had missed her coming over to my table. She stood a
good hand or two above anyone else in the room, her shoulders were
broader than most men's, and her arms were bigger than my thighs. I
tilted sideways around the table to peer at the rest of her. My mouth
fell open as I saw her legs. Just one leg looked bigger around than my
waist.
     "Staring will cost you more than you'll want to pay," she
threatened, her voice a deep hard sound. Looking up into her face, I saw
brown hair cut short around a stern, square face. The frown on her lips
seemed to be nailed there. There was a slight motion to her cheeks as if
she were clenching and unclenching her jaw. I pulled out my Sterling and
set it on the table.
     "Your cheapest ale until that runs out," I rasped. "And your
pardon. I hadn't meant to stare." She grabbed the coin before I could
see her hand move. Big *and* fast. I watched her go to the bar and
people seemed to just slide out of her way. I imagined that if someone
did get in her way, she wouldn't go around them; no, she'd just walk
over them as if they weren't really there at all.

     I had drunk each ale slowly to make my time here last as long as it
could, but my Sterling was nearly gone. There was still a mug of ale in
front of me and as I reached for it, the room spun and faded out
bringing the table closer to my eyes. There was a dull thunking sound
but it was muffled and far away.

     When I woke, the inn was still crowded. The fire was blazing
brightly. Looking around, I saw an older man trying to get everyone's
attention. He shouted, although I couldn't hear him over the din of
conversations. He waved his hands, he pounded on a table, but nothing he
did made a difference. The people here in the inn were in their own
worlds: talking, laughing, shouting, and drinking. The big woman started
to wend her way through the place, and every table she passed, she *got*
their attention. It didn't take long for the people to focus on the old
man, especially when she joined him.
     "As I said before, I'm Jamis, the new owner of this inn. My
partner, whom most of you have met, is Jahlena." He pointed to the big
woman. Now I had a name to go with the body. "If there is any trouble,
she will be the one to handle it." Jahlena crossed her arms in front of
her and stared at the room, to no one in particular, yet to each one of
us. "And now that I do have your attention, I want to present my
daughter, Tira." A young girl walked over to him. She was short and
plump with curly blond hair. I guessed her to be about ten years old or
so. In her arms, she carried some sort of wooden, stringed instrument. I
couldn't get a good look at it because she was holding it tightly to her
body with both arms. Her eyes darted out at the crowd and then down to
the floor. Her feet shuffled in place when she looked down, then she'd
look up into the crowd again only to sweep her eyes quickly to the
floor. She shifted her instrument a little higher and tighter to her as
her father addressed the crowd.
     "Tira dreams of being a bard. And I know and Jahlena there knows
that you can dream all you want and it won't mean Stevene's blood for
getting anything done. So, I'm bringing her up here to play for all of
you. *And* I don't want no lies coming out of your mouths about her
playing. She won't get anywhere with that. You tell her just what you
think of her singing." He didn't wait for a reply as he walked back to
the bar. Jahlena was close behind him.
     Tira said something, but it was a whisper and I was too far away to
hear her. Someone else must not have heard either.
     "Speak up girl," someone shouted.
     "This is a song I wrote," she said. "I call it Love's Gift." She
moved the instrument and I saw that it was a small lyre. Strumming a few
strings, she hummed before she started singing. Her voice quivered and
cracked as she started singing, and she seemed to miss a string or two
on the lyre. But as she sang, her voice smoothed out and became soft and
serene; her fingers strummed the lyre's strings to produce a flowing
melody that matched her voice.
     I concentrated on the words and pieced together what she was
singing. It was about a boy and a girl who met and fell in love. They
had a beautiful time together until tragedy struck. The girl died,
leaving the boy all alone. He fell into despair and all the light and
life left him.
     I tried to stop listening as it was too close to what had happened
in my life. Each word was a nail and each chord was a hammer driving the
song into my soul. "Why Megan, why?" I wanted to scream! "Why did you
have to leave?" The table resisted my efforts to rise and I stumbled
away from it as I headed for the door. I couldn't control my arms as
they flailed away, trying to keep anything from reaching me, especially
the words of the song.
     The door opened easily, as if it wanted me to leave, as if
something helped me along my way outside. It was night outside and there
was something different. As I stood in the street, it was brighter than
normal. Looking up into the night sky, I expected to see clouds and
maybe some stars. The light that shone down upon me burned its fiery
image into my soul. A bright ball flared in the sky and left a long
trail of fire in its wake. But no, it wasn't a trail of fire as the ball
didn't seem to be moving. I didn't get to stare long.
     I didn't see him coming and I didn't know how he recognized me, but
the pain in my gut from his fist told me he remembered me.
     "You don't look so good, now," Art said as I lay in the mud. "You
don't look good at all." His foot snapped out and caught me in the side.
Lights flared in my head that looked like the ball of fire in the sky,
only more of them. Pain lanced my body. Just when it subsided, Art
kicked me again. And again.
     Some things come full circle and I was meeting my circle's
beginning or end. I'd defeated Art easily the first time I'd met him. He
was a rather large bully who didn't have much skill in fighting. He
fought as he did now: against someone who couldn't fight back.
     "Leave him alone!" a familiar voice yelled, but I couldn't place
it.
     "Who?" Art asked as he turned around. "You! You don't tell me what
to do!"
     "I'm tellin' you now!"
     "You ain't nothin'!"
     "Maybe not, Art, but I'm a shadow boy. You know what that means
Art? It means I got a family. A family that watches out for each other.
You think you'll be *safe* walking down the alleys at night? In your
home? You got to sleep some time."
     "He ain't worth it anyway," Art spat at me as he walked away. My
eyes closed and when I could open them again, someone was kneeling next
to me.
     "Raph?"
     "Who?" I muttered.
     "It's me, Lylle," he replied.
     "Lylle," I whispered. He had grown since I had last seen him. Along
with Art, I'd met Lylle on my first day in Dargon. Lylle had helped me
while Art had hindered. The circle was complete and the fiery ball in
the sky had blazed it shut. Lylle looked up to where I was looking.
     "It's an omen of some kind, isn't it?" he asked.
     "It's a harbinger of doom!" a passing priest replied. "An omen that
the end of the world will come!"
     "No," I whispered. "Not that it will come, but that it has come and
passed."
     Megan was gone.

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

                            A Spell of Rain
                                 Part 3
                            by Stuart Whitby
                          <stu@sysdrill.co.uk>
                            Firil 7th, 1016

          Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 11-5
          Part 2 of this story was printed in DargonZine 11-6

     Martin arrived home with the first bell of evening. The rain now
poured in a slow, steady deluge, and he looked forward to drying himself
in the warmth of the kitchen. Letting himself into the darkened front
room, he surmised that his apprentice must have gone out. He was almost
at the rear of the shop before he noticed the boy sitting in the far
corner of the room. The torch had long since burned out, and there was
little but a glimmer of light on the boy's eyes to give him away.
     "Evening Jason. A bit dark in here, don't you think?" he inquired,
as he passed through, expecting the comment to be acted upon. Flinging
his cloak onto a workbench in the kitchen, Martin cursed as he noticed
the dying embers of the cooking fire, and moved to rekindle it. On
returning to the shop, he was surprised to find that Jason had not
moved.
     Martin crossed the floor towards him, brow creasing with concern as
the boy's features became visible. A glazed, mournful expression showed
on Jason's face, and his stare was fixed on a point somewhere on the
ceiling before him. Martin placed a hand on the boy's forehead, checking
for fever, then stepped in front, sending something skidding across the
floor as he moved to break the boy's gaze. Martin tried waving, then
slapping him, then bent to pick up the debris when there was no
reaction.
     Closer inspection revealed it to be a piece of copo tree leaf,
folded and rolled to keep its contents fresh. Flattening it out across
the table revealed something the netmender had never suspected of the
boy. "Cirangill's perfect net! Weeds! Idiot boy, do you not realise what
these things can do to you?" No response. Martin started to pace the
floor, shaking his head and cursing at the stupidity of anyone who took
these poisons. As he saw it, he had two choices. One: to throw the boy
out in the street; or two: to wait until he came down from his flight
and talk some sense into him. He quickly discarded the first option; the
boy was just too proficient and had too many other skills to make
kicking him out feasible.
     Decision made, he grabbed the boy's arm and hoisted him crossways
over his back, taking hold of his legs for balance. Staggering slightly
under the load, he made his way to the upper floor and, kicking open the
door, dumped the boy unceremoniously on his bed. Jason's expression had
barely changed -- eyes wide in a fixed stare and mouth hanging open.
Martin looked disgustedly at him for a time, then made sure that the
chamber-pot was empty and promptly left, passing a broom through the
looped leather handle and across the door. "Let him think it over a
while," Martin muttered to himself.

     Kilan Rainmaker sat, soaked and grieving, on the rocks at the mouth
of the Coldwell. He still found it hard to comprehend the stupidity of
the blunder he had made. Feeding his son a powder to strengthen his
magical abilities had seemed a wholly justified risk, but now that the
gods had dealt him a Jester, he was not so sure. Now Jason's power
seemed to come from something other than his thinking mind. He had no
real control over the weather he wielded. Rather, it came from deep
inside him. It was not hard to guess Jason's present state of mind --
the skies shared his tears.
     Eventually, the mage raised himself to his feet, the cold from the
rocks forcing him to walk stooped. Fearing the onset of a cold, he
reached to his bag for the herbs which he knew would help, only to
discover them missing. Cursing their loss, he made his way back toward
the centre of Dargon in search of an inn in which to spend the night.
Tomorrow, he would see what he could do to rectify his mistake. Kilan
looked up into the darkened heavens as he walked, letting the drizzle
fall on his face and mask his tears.

     It took Kilan the greater part of the following day to decide on
the best way to proceed, going over and over the options in his mind. To
find a way to reverse individual spells or the spell as a whole would
take more time than he was willing to spend, given that he did not know
what the boy was capable of. He knew of few sages nearby with the
necessary depth of knowledge in this particular field to aid him, but
more importantly, none who would condone the spell he had used. Which
left only the option of breaking the weaves he had created. At this
stage of their influence, that too was a dangerous step, but no more so
than letting loose a weatherweaver who had no control of his power.
     To break the weaves, he would have to get close to Jason. Only
through physical contact could he reverse the things he had done.
However, the childish reactions Jason had showed toward any similar
attempts recently gave Kilan cause for concern. If the fool boy had
allowed him close in the first place, this fiasco might have been
avoided entirely. Frowning, Kilan rose to open the shutters and check on
the current weather. No change. Rain still fell in a steady drizzle from
the skies. The street below was quiet as people took the opportunity to
do any necessary indoor tasks.
     Simply put, he would just have to go and see the boy. Picking up
his cloak, the accustomed frown returned to his face as he found that it
was still wet from the previous night; the damp, still air giving it no
chance to dry out. He swung it around his shoulders anyway, then grabbed
his bag before heading out of the inn.

     Just after sixth bell, as Martin was reaching to tidy the nets
displayed behind the counter, a tall, scrawny man walked in, looking
absent-mindedly around the shop. He knew the man was no fisher, and
thought he was simply sheltering from the rain, but when he asked for
Jason, Martin was immediately reminded of the herbs from the previous
day.
     "What do you want with the boy?" Although Martin's anger was
roused, he did not know for sure that this man had anything to do with
the incident.
     Frowning, the stranger replied, "I am concerned for his welfare.
Now if you would be so kind as to bring him to me?"
     Martin shifted his stance slightly, crossed his arms in front of
him and cocked his head, looking the man over in a cold appraisal.
"Concerned, you say? About what?" A mocking leer appeared on his face as
he mimicked, "If you would be so kind."
     The man's moustaches twitched as he realised that he was being made
a fool of. "I believe that his emotional health may not be the best, at
present."
     "So it was you, you son of a Beinison whore! You are the one who
got that boy weeded!" Martin's face twisted in rage as he jinked around
the counter, cat quick, but lacking the associated agility. His knee
banged hard into a crate of stones, and his leg died beneath him as he
reached for the stranger, who made a panicked retreat. Martin staggered
woodenly after him with no chance of catching, his hands opening and
closing as he reached the door, only to see the man dodging through the
crowd at a brisk, nervous jog.
     Martin watched the man for a while, his face pinched as if from the
first taste of a Mandrakan citron. Unsure of whether he had done the
right thing or not, he sat down on the step to work some life back into
his leg.

     Jason stirred slightly, the cold beginning to register as he moved.
Eventually, it broke through his fugue, and he made his slow way to the
waking world. Thoughts started to creep like rats into his mind, and he
mulled over the somewhat disconnected fact that he was stiff and cold.
Joints popping and muscles starting to tremble, he reached for the
blanket, and woke quickly when he pulled its sodden length atop himself.
     Cursing, he threw the blanket back and reached up to touch the
wooden boards on the incline above him, feeling the water which ran in
slow rivulets down its rough surface. A near blasphemous prayer of
"Cirangill, not in here, please," escaped his lips as he sat up,
shivering, on the edge of the low bed. Easing himself carefully onto
cold feet, Jason stood, and picked a tender way to the window, walking
stooped to avoid the wet ceiling.
     The waxed paper was damp, and the night was deathly quiet outside.
Rain no longer fell, though it had obviously not been dry for long.
Opening the window, Jason looked down onto grey. Thick sea fog crowded
the streets, bringing a bitter tang of salt to the air. The only breaks
in the gloom were the faint, yellow hazes of lanterns which dimpled,
rather than pricked, the cloak of night.
     The boy crouched awhile, comforted by the silence, and thought over
the previous evening's events. He remembered his father's entrance, his
attempts at reconciliation and friendship, then his talk of Jason's
power, and then his admission of betrayal -- that was about all that
Jason remembered. He tried to think of any time that he had shown signs
of influencing the weather since arriving in Dargon, but could think of
none. He had used none of the associated ritual needed for
weatherweaving, so it was not possible that he could have done anything
of that nature. This was something he could try today though, if Martin
allowed him some time to find a place where he would not be disturbed.
Then he could finally prove that he had no mastery over the weather. Or
maybe otherwise.
     Eventually, he smoothed back the waxed paper and stood, as false
dawn lent the night a bluish tinge. Hunger quietly complained in his
belly, so he made his way to the kitchen -- or rather, he tried to. The
door to his room was stiff at the best of times, but tonight it was
immovable. His first attempt at opening it ended with a stubbed toe and
nearly a broken nose as he wrenched himself bodily into the door rather
than pulling it open. Trying again, he tugged harder, thinking that it
was merely the dampness which had swollen the wood, until the looped
leather handle snapped in his hand and he landed on the floor.
     Jason cursed and stood up to examine the handle. The leather was
snapped clean through at the furthest point from the door. He tried
grabbing the remains, but found that the door was still stuck, no matter
how much he pulled. Wind whistled mournfully somewhere outside as Jason
gave up his labours, panting, and started to shout for his master.
     "Martin!" he yelled. "Martin," he tried again. This time, though,
there was some response. In the room next door, noises were being made
as Martin arose. Jason quieted as he waited for the door to be given a
boot from the outside. His wait was shorter than expected.
     "Might as well go back to bed, kid," came a voice through the wall.
"You're not getting out of that room for a while yet." A creak could be
heard as the bed next door once again took the strain.
     Jason stood a while, waiting for Martin to open the door, despite
his words. When nothing further was forthcoming, Jason started to pound
on the wall between the two rooms.
     "I told you, I'm not letting you out for a good while yet!" Martin
sounded annoyed. Jason felt much the same way, and continued to pound,
adding shouts to the dull thud of fist on wood.
     "Get to bed!" Martin was shouting now, and the words were loud
through the wooden walls. "I'm not letting you out until you sweat that
scrud out, so you might as well quit your moaning and go back to bed!
There's water on the dresser if you're thirsty; that might clean out
your head faster too. Now shut your mouth and leave me in peace!"
     Jason stood back from the wall, angry and confused at Martin's
response. He had done nothing to deserve this. All he had wanted was
help in opening the door, nothing more, yet Martin was acting like it
was some terrible crime to be woken early. Jason gave one last tug on
the door handle, then groped his way back toward his bed, pulling out
his blanket as he did so and trying to calculate just how wet it was.
     Sensing that it was not as bad as he had first feared, Jason pulled
the blanket over himself and settled in. He heard the delicate patter of
rain once again, drumming on the wooden roof above him -- he would need
to get that waxed and sealed at some time, but he knew that if he
mentioned it, he would end up having to do the entire roof; a prospect
which he dreaded.
     Jason shuffled his way to the side of his bed furthest from the
ceiling and closed his eyes. He tried without success for some time to
get to sleep, but only succeeded in annoying himself further as he
thought over Martin's responses, the fact that he had no real room to
stretch cold muscles, and that he had nothing to do until Martin
bothered rousing himself in two bells time. It had started to rain
harder too -- occasional splashes were landing directly on one of the
cracks above his face and showering him in cold droplets.

     Eventually, shivering more from impatience than cold, Jason heard
the sounds of Martin getting out of bed and arose himself, making his
way once more to the window. The rain still beat heavily upon the town,
spattering in a haze from the waterlogged streets. "Gods," he thought
disgustedly, and closed the window again.
     Shortly after, he heard Martin leave his room, and made his way to
the door to await its opening. The sound of Martin's footsteps on the
landing made their creaking way toward the door -- then continued past.
Jason rolled his eyes in disbelief.
     Jason spoke in his most pleasant tone. "Martin, can you help me
open this door, please?" The footfalls paused a short while before the
simple answer came.
     "No."
     Jason was dumbstruck. Cirangill's blood, what was the matter with
the man? If Jason had considered himself annoyed before, it did not even
begin to compare with his feelings at that moment. He was hungry, cold
and damp. He had been betrayed by his father, he was stuck in a leaky
room, the rain was beating down harder by the mene, and a rising wind
was starting to drive water through the side of the window. "Gods damn
you, Martin! Let me out of this room!" Jason started to pound on the
door, not only with his fists but adding feet, shoulders and anything
else he could think of to his efforts to separate the door from its
hinges.
     Outside, lightnings crashed and thunder boomed. Rain sheeted down
and the winds howled. Jason continued hammering and yelling, oblivious
to all else.

     As the day wore on, Jason grew more and more resigned. The only
good thing to happen this day was that the weather had slowly improved,
and by eighth bell murky blue sky was starting to show in places, though
the outlook was still rather grey. It was about this time that Jason
heard a scraping of wood on his doorframe as he sat looking morosely out
of the window. He was still getting to his feet as the door opened
towards him, with only the barest rub against the frame or floor. Jason
gaped at Martin, who looked blankly in on him.
     "You ready to come downstairs yet, boy?"
     Jason looked between door, floor and frame a mene before
commenting, "I don't believe this. I pull hard enough to break the
handle, then you come along and just push the door open." His master
shifted slightly and threw a broom into the room. It clattered on the
floor before sliding halfway under the bed.
     "Tends to be easier if one of those isn't looped through the
handle." His face still showed no trace of emotion. Jason just laughed.
     "You had me shut in here? Why? Had you nothing better for me to do
today?"
     "Let's get one thing straight. I won't have any apprentice of mine
losing his head to drink or weed. If I ever again find that you have
been using ... whatever that stuff was, not only will I put you out on
the street, I'll do my best to make sure that no fisher in Dargon will
have anything to do with you. Seafarers are a group who know the
necessities of keeping a head on their shoulders while they work."
     Jason puzzled over this a while. "What stuff? I don't much like
ale, and I haven't been taking anything else." Came his eventual reply.
     "Sure, Jason. Well whatever it was that sent you on that trip three
nights back. The stuff that I found wrapped up in the leaf."
     Jason looked blankly at him. "Nothing to do with me. I don't
remember too much after my father coming in, though."
     "Your father was here?" Martin looked surprised. "I thought he was
dead, or unknown to you. I never asked in respect for your feelings,
since either fact can prove a tender point. What is he, a healer or
something?"
     Jason laughed shortly. "You couldn't be much further from the
truth. My father is Kilan Rainmaker, a weatherweaver from Armand, and he
appeared with the news that he had set a spell on me to speed my
progress as his apprentice. This after I told him that he shouldn't try
any of his magics on me. My mother died because of ..." Jason broke off,
uncertain of whether to mention the fact that magics similar to those
used on him had killed his mother. He was saved from his dilemma by
Martin interrupting.
     "Gods, a runaway apprentice." Martin shook his head, in disgust or
disbelief, Jason could not tell. "So you were bespelled? Is that why I
couldn't rouse you three nights back?"
     "Well, being perfectly honest, I'm not sure. I think I might just
have been so shocked when he told me what he had done that I got a bit,
you know, knotted up." Jason shrugged an apology, then looked sharply
toward Martin. "Hold on, when did you say you found me like that?"
     "The seventh," Martin replied, after a pause.
     "So, what's today?"
     "The tenth."
     "Cirangill's perfect net!" Jason replied. He had thought that
rainwater was all that had soaked his bed that morning. He must have
taken care of his bodily needs though -- he had just assumed that he had
forgotten to empty the chamber pot the previous night when he arose this
morning. No wonder he was famished. "And you couldn't wake me for two
whole days?"
     "I didn't even try. As far as I was concerned, I was just going to
let you come down yourself, then leave you a while to stew." Martin
looked contemplative for a moment. "Speaking of which, I take it you're
hungry."
     Jason let out a moan, and smiled. "Hungry? Oh, you've got to be
joking. My stomach thinks my throat's cut."
     Martin let out a weak laugh. "Guess you'd better come downstairs
then."

     As Jason ate, the skies continued to clear. Day waned to evening,
and as he and Martin talked about the situation, a hubbub could be heard
arising from the surrounding streets. It seemed that this night,
everyone had something to talk about. Jason and Martin ate in the
kitchen, the twin torches providing more light by night than the tightly
packed buildings allowed through by day. That there was something
unusual in the sky was brought to their attention by a passing drunk who
announced the coming of Da'athra'a. It took a while for the significance
of the war god's name to sink in, but the increasing volume of the
furore outside was cause enough for the pair to check on the front of
the building and the state of the street outside.
     On leaving the shop, they both looked around in disbelief. The
street was approaching roughly one third of the capacity of the daytime
crowd who bought and sold goods on the dockside -- a number unheard of
for this time of night. It seemed that everyone had come out of their
homes or off their boats to see the sight from solid ground.
     Attempting to follow the gazes that pointed toward the heavens,
Jason saw nothing until Martin pulled him out from under the
storefront's wooden canopy, holding out his arm as a guide so that Jason
saw the silvery star which left its mark on the heavens. It looked
immobile, yet the thing left a trail across the sky behind it. His eyes
narrowed in worry as the star -- or whatever it was -- continued to
hover like a bright, white falcon over their heads. He glanced around,
open mouthed, at the crowd, and saw some praying, some weeping, some
proclaiming the coming of doom, some who simply stared, and some who
discussed the matter with companions or passing strangers, just sharing
the experience. Martin and Jason stood together, looking in worry and
wonder at this apparition which hung above them, beautiful and terrible
in the night sky.

     Kilan also looked to the heavens for answers that night -- magic
had provided him with none. It was from the window of the inn that he
first saw the new star cutting its way toward Makdiar. Normally, he
would dismiss such things for priests and scholars -- the stars were out
of reach of his magics. Now, though, it seemed that his son's power was
further reaching than he had previously believed possible. Could it be
that Jason's influence stretched beyond the realms of this planet and
into the domain of the gods? He whispered an answer to his own, unspoken
question. "Can I afford to doubt it?"
     Kilan knew that he had to do something, and fast. He did not know
what this thing in the sky was, how long it had been hidden behind the
clouds, what would happen when it arrived, or how long it would take to
do so.
     Breathless and pale faced, he walked to the bed and emptied the
contents of his bag on top of it. He withdrew a dagger from the debris
and placed it carefully in his belt, then repacked and made his way
downstairs, filling his bag with provisions bought from the innkeeper.
Paying his due, he left to collect his horse from the stables.

     Kilan tried to make his best possible speed towards the docks,
though getting the populace to make way for his horse was harder than
usual this night. However, since his horse was never inclined to run
anyway, his journey was only slightly faster than it would have been on
foot. When he reached the harbour area, he tied the beast to the rail in
front of a sailwright's shop, then hefted his bag over his shoulder.
Turning, he started to walk smartly through the gathered crowd, his eyes
jumping from face to face as he searched for his son. He soon saw the
boy, standing by the water with the violent one beside him, occasionally
turning to talk to each other while continuing to look skyward. Kilan
made his way intently toward him, stepping deftly through the throng of
muttering people.
     As he came within a few paces of the boy, Kilan slowed to utter a
short prayer for forgiveness to any gods who may have been listening,
then grabbed the sheath and drew the dagger silently from it. Tears
started to run freely down his face as he neared, but he knew what had
to be done. Somehow, though, the boy sensed his approach, and turned
toward him, just in time to let out a yell as he jumped back and
defended against the dagger which sliced toward his face.
     Taking a gash on the hand, the boy danced backwards, fear and shock
showing openly on his face as he staggered back toward the dock's edge.
Kilan lunged forward, reaching for his son, and knocked him off balance.
Trying again, he grabbed a handful of shirt, and sank the blade under
Jason's ribs before taking them both over the edge, crushing the boy
brutally against a ship's prow on their trip down to the shockingly cold
water.
     It had been Kilan's intention to make sure his son was dead, but as
he sank beneath the icy outflow of the Coldwell, natural survival
instincts took over, and he made his way with spastic strokes to the
surface, desperate for breath as another body hit the water nearby.
Kilan took some splinters in his head from the hull of a berthed boat as
he surfaced, and swallowed water as he immediately went under again. He
came up coughing, only to find himself thrown against the dockside by
the large swell that had seemingly come out of nowhere. The boats tossed
at their berths, stretching their mooring ropes and crashing roughly
into each other as Jason died beneath them.
     Winds whipped around the dock, sending whitecaps and breakers
hammering into the dock wall and putting further strain on the mooring
lines. Kilan looked around for a ladder, then decided quickly that he
should make his way as far as possible up the dock before climbing out.
     However, his initial energy was fading, and he was finding it
harder and harder to stay afloat. He wondered briefly about just
sinking, and joining his son in Cirangill's watery peace, but knew that
would render his life pointless. He went under again, briefly, and
surfaced once more into the keel of the fishing boat, adding further
splinters to his cheek as he struggled to keep his head above water.
     Quickly, he realised the problem he was having keeping afloat with
cloak, bag and boots on, and struggled his way out of them as the crowd
above shouted vague directions of search to the other swimmer. More
buoyant now, Kilan waited, shivering and grieving, and tried to
determine his next course of action.
     Shouts from above broke through his grief and he realised that the
boy had been found. The end of a net hit the water some distance away,
and Kilan saw the outline of boy and man being hefted up the net by the
crowd above. He dared to hope for an instant that the boy still lived,
then resolved himself to the fact that even if it were true, it could
not be allowed.
     Kilan turned and paddled back into the flow of the river, trying
all the while to keep quiet and out of sight from above. Though he may
have wished he could put an end to his life there and then, he still had
work to do. Breathing shallow breaths in order to keep his lungs full,
he pulled his way back along the pilings as one of his calves started to
cramp up. Not stopping to work it out, he eventually reached the end of
cover, then swam jerkily for the next ladder and hauled himself up,
stretching his calf as he did so, and checking carefully for any passing
watch members before scrambling onto the dock.
     Though he would have been happy to just lie and shiver a while,
Kilan forced himself to his feet, and found that his horse was only a
short distance down the street. The crowd had all gathered to watch the
resuscitation attempt, so he was safe for the present. Staggering from
cold, he made his way to his horse and untethered it, as someone gave a
cry behind him.
     He attempted to leap onto the horse's back, but the cramp returned
to defeat him, and he had to pull himself up by saddlehorn and stirrup
instead as the horse decided to start walking away from him. The mob
were charging his way now, and he pulled the horse's head viciously
around, digging his bare feet hard into its ribs. The baulky animal
started to trot away from the crowd, but broke into an unaccustomed run
as both rider and horse started to receive the impact of well aimed
stones. Kilan wailed and grabbed his arm as the rocks pelted into him
before a crack to the back of his skull sent him tumbling from his
mount.
     The street came fast toward him, and his arm broke as he attempted
to save his head from the ground. The breath was knocked from his lungs
before the horse stamped hard on his foot as it ran past, pulping it
into the wet cobblestones. Kilan tried to draw breath to scream as his
body registered intense pain, then someone grabbed him from behind and
threw him over, forcing him to use his broken arm to arrest his fall. He
lay whimpering, eventually opening his eyes to see a circle of people
gathering around him; a circle which opened to make way for a dripping
figure. The violent one from the shop.
     "Is he dead?" Kilan managed to say, looking up at the figure above
him. The man said nothing for a moment, then dropped to his knees behind
the prone magician, shuffling forward to cradle Kilan's head in one hand
and his bloodied dagger in the other.
     "He's dead," the man replied, tight lipped. "And you will be right
behind him when he meets with J'Mirg."
     "But I saved you," Kilan pleaded, grasping weakly with his good arm
at the man's sleeve.
     Tears landed on the Rainmaker's face. The blade sank deep behind
his ear.

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