DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 12 -=========================================================+|) D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 7 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 7/24/1999 Volume 12, Number 7 Circulation: 715 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb Talisman One 1 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Spring, 2347 ID Winterstorm Mark A. Murray Firil 1016 Surfacing Bryan Read Sy, 1017 ======================================================================== 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 or visit us on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/. Back issues are available from ftp.shore.net in members/dargon/. Issues and public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon. DargonZine 12-7, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright July, 1999 by the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb , Assistant Editor: Jon Evans . 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 An article crossed my desk this week that blew me away. It was about another Web site which publishes fiction: Mind's Eye Fiction, at . Unlike DargonZine, which is very strictly noncommercial and doesn't accept advertising of any kind, Mind's Eye's goal is to make money by selling advertising. To that end, they have installed a program which detects whether a user is running software which blocks banner ads from appearing, and refuses to display the ends of their stories unless the user either turns off their ad-blocking software or pays them a small fee for each story! Now, that in and of itself is pretty compelling evidence of the goals and motivations of the site's owner, Ken Jenks. But I find it even more damning that he has taken these unprecedented steps when a mere 3 percent of Mind's Eye visitors run ad-blocking software! In the article, Jenks' justification for such blatantly mercenary behavior was limited to whining that it's just not fair that Web surfers have the option of avoiding the advertisements which seem to be the most important part of his site. Fortunately, that's not the way DargonZine works. DargonZine has always been free of charge and free of advertising. For more than fifteen years, we've viewed the Internet as a tool for bringing people (in our case, readers and writers) together, not for exercising greed. But beyond serving as an example of what we consider worst about the Internet, what Mind's Eye has done also raises some intriguing questions about this so-called "new medium" we've lived in for a decade and a half. One of these questions is to what extent advertising revenue will become the dominant model of defraying the cost of producing a site, much like the other mass media of television and radio. As Internet advertising revenues have grown, sophisticated blocking software has appeared which allows people to filter out ads. Will we see an escalating software battle break out between large, commercial Web sites who want their ads to be seen, and companies which make and market ad-blocking software? And what does this say about the contempt and lack of respect that commercial companies and Web site owners have for their consumer's rights? Mind's Eye, by attempting to circumvent the ad-blocking software that a mere 1/35th of their readership uses, appears to have taken the lead in disrespecting their readership. Another question raised by this action is the degree to which Internet users should expect to pay for content: the stories, images, and information that companies and individuals provide. Jenks is in good company here, since television and radio customers are used to the idea of "paying" for content by "paying" attention to commercial advertising. However, many knowledgeable people don't think this model will work for the Web. Rich LeFurgy, chairman of the Internet Advertising Bureau, was quoted as follows, "Ultimately, a pay-for-content model is not sustainable on the Web." We wholeheartedly agree with this statement. The power of the Web is that the ability to produce and market content has suddenly been made available and feasible to hundreds of millions of people. In the world of fiction, this means that amateur writers can publish their stories online, either themselves or through Internet-based publications like DargonZine and Mind's Eye. This blurs the line between "professional" and "amateur" writers, and dramatically increases the supply of fiction which is available to readers. And anyone who has taken a microeconomics course can tell you that if the supply of a commodity increases while demand stays constant, prices fall. And given a choice between sites with comparable content, we believe that readers will prefer sites which don't charge for content or ask them to (or, in Mind's Eye's case, force them to) endure commercial advertising. A quick recap of what's in this issue: Dafydd's "Talisman" epic continues with the first installment of a new storyline, Mark Murray returns from an eight-month hiatus with a quick prelude to a new series, and we welcome Bryan Read, whose first Dargon story, "Surfacing", rounds out the issue. Those of you who browse the issue via the Web will note that the Online Glossary, which contains descriptions of everything in Dargon, appears to have changed layout. This is part of a test of our back-end database. If things go well, all Glossary links will soon be converted to using the new database; if things go amiss, please let us know by sending email to telling us the error you received. That's it for now! Thanks for reading the 'zine, and please help us spread the word! ======================================================================== Talisman One Part 1 by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Spring, 2347 ID Author's note: This first tale of the Talisman's rejoining takes place about 120 years after Talisman Zero. As the might of the Fretheod Empire fades in the wake of the destruction of the Yrmenweald and the loss of their primary advantage, the anhekovel, outlying territories of the Empire have become independent in all but name. But not all of these territories are content to let the Empire fade away. Bralidan, heir to the Duchy of Grahk, shone his lantern down the dusty corridor lined with shelves, and groaned. The catacombs under Plethiss, the ducal mansion-turned-castle, seemed to go on forever and even though he had assigned himself the job of thoroughly exploring the ducal archives stored there, he wished that it had turned out to be a smaller job. As he lit another candle and affixed it to a cleared-off shelf, he reflected that this particular task was turning into another failure. Though only twenty two, he was finding the prospect of assuming the ducal coronet more and more of a burden. He was still years from becoming duke, as his father was hale and enjoyed vigorous good health, but he still feared the day that Grahk became his to govern. Ever since turning sixteen and being confirmed as heir according to Fretheodan tradition, Bralidan had been trying to find within himself the makings of the duke he must become. First he had explored the military requirements by learning what it took to be a commander. And he had done well in the traditional training exercises, first leading a single squad of teraehran, and then groups of squads, and finally entire armies. But his satisfaction in his accomplishments was dimmed when he discovered that the skills to command fellow teraehran did not work outside of the structure of the military. He quickly came to see that even the servants employed at Plethiss required different communication and governing skills. He had gained much from the experience, but not what he had been looking for. Next, Bralidan had attempted to learn his father's job by watching Duke Bralevant at work. Unfortunately the effort was undermined by two things. First, the duke seldom announced the reasons behind his actions or decisions, and even though he made a few attempts in order to help his son, he usually forgot quickly and went back to his normal way of doing things. The second problem was that Bralevant took more interest in the details of running both Plethiss and all of Grahk than was normal. At times, he acted more like a castellan than a duke. In fact, Plethiss no longer had a castellan of its own. That only made Bralidan even more worried, as he knew he had no aptitude for that kind of work. He felt that, although he was learning some things from watching his father, he couldn't use Duke Bralevant's methods as a guide for his own actions once he became duke. It was the suggestion of his younger brother, Biralvid, that Bralidan turn his preoccupation with the archives into another learning experience. Bralidan had always spent an inordinate amount of time in the dusty catacombs, an activity encouraged by the former keeper of the archives. Old Norissey had enjoyed his 'young protege', as he called Bralidan, and fed the young heir tome after tome of somewhat sensationalistic histories of the glorious Fretheod Empire. Norissey had died about five years earlier. The new keeper, a young man named Rajath, had no time for the adolescent heir, which didn't stop Bralidan from haunting the catacombs, although he'd had little purpose in doing so until his brother's suggestion. Biralvid's idea was that maybe somewhere within the volumes of information contained in the archives was what Bralidan needed to tell him how to be duke. Systematic exploration of the catacombs and the archives had, oddly enough, not met with Rajath's approval even though Bralidan hadn't requested the keeper's time or assistance in doing so. The mystery of why Rajath didn't want him down here still bothered him, but only in an idle curiosity kind of way: it wasn't among the keeper's powers to bar the heir of Grahk from the catacombs. Intending to be exhaustively thorough, Bralidan set about walking down each and every row of shelving, examining the contents of each shelf and making notes as to what was where. Half map, half index, half almost-travelogue, his notes were getting rather copious. He had started just that winter, about four months ago. Now it was spring, and he hadn't quite explored half of the archives so far. But he had looked at enough scrolls and bound leaves of paper to know that the possibilities of finding some kind of treatise on exactly how to be the best duke possible were very small. All he had found so far were domesday rolls of the populace for every year since long before Grahk was a separate duchy, detailed lists of provisions for each season for almost as many years, and a few dry, boring historical documents about terribly uninteresting times. The sensationalized, and therefore interesting, histories that Norissey had fed him had all been stored near the entrance. He had yet to uncover any lost masterpieces. The current section under scrutiny was five shelves high, just like most of the others in the catacombs. And also like the most of the others, the top two shelves were empty: they were too high off the ground to reach comfortably. It was as if the shelving had been constructed with some kind of portable stair in mind, which had then either been forgotten about, or lost in the ensuing years. Bralidan started on the third shelf, opening plain wooden and metal scroll boxes and leaf cases, and scanning the contents. He was glad that the animal skin used for the parchment had been properly and well cured, since even the oldest scrolls he had found were in excellent condition. Some of the scrolls he was unrolling and scanning presently were two or three hundred years old, yet the ink was clear and dark, and there was no drying or cracking of the parchment itself. Bralidan reached the bottom shelf without finding anything of interest. There were only two scroll boxes down there, but one was different enough to catch his attention. He lifted it onto a higher shelf and looked at it in the light of his lantern. It was wooden, and highly carved, though its decorations were very unlike the simple carving on most of the other wooden scroll boxes he had so far come across. The style was very ... different, somehow not Fretheodan at all. The dominant motif was of foxes, which made him think of his father, who always wore a small, stylized fox pinned to his chest. In fact, these foxes were somewhat similar in style. Bralidan opened the lid of the box, and then lifted out the single scroll it contained. He looked at the band that held the parchment roll closed but instead of foxes, the metal circle bore the insignia of Grahk itself. Bralidan knew that only important documents were banded like this. He carefully extracted the scroll from within the band, and unrolled the document. The title startled him. "Treaty of Rihelbak" was written in an ornate hand across the top of the scroll. The title was surrounded by small, neat decorations -- leaves and vines, mostly -- such as were used on important official documents. If this had been a display copy, the decoration would have been larger and more colorful. It seemed as if this was the original copy of the treaty. Why would this document be almost hidden away in the depths of the catacombs? Bralidan scanned the scroll, and then read it word by word, disturbed by what he thought he had noticed. He read the parchment over carefully for the third time, and he still couldn't believe what it said. But there could really be no doubt; the writing was in perfectly plain Fretheodan. It *was* the Treaty of Rihelbak. And by the terms written in front of him, it was about to be broken by default. Bralidan decided that this had to be brought to his father's attention as soon as possible. He couldn't understand how this could have happened. His father had to know the terms of the treaty -- his signature was the last one displayed. So why weren't they being followed? People had died for this treaty -- including his own great-grandfather! And yet it was being ignored. Something strange was going on, and he wanted to find out what. Bralidan slid the scroll into his carry-sack, somehow forgetting about the fox-carved scroll box completely. He lifted his lantern, blew out the candle he had set, and turned back the way he had come. The candle would stay where it was to indicate how far he had come. He followed the trail he had left of burning, or in some cases guttering, candles back toward the entrance. A dozen paces brought him to the next candle. He plucked it from the shelf -- he would only need the one behind him to mark his place -- but as he lifted it towards himself to blow it out, he accidentally dripped hot wax on his hand. The sting made him flinch and the lit candle flew into the back of one of the shelves. He scrambled after it; the preservation treatment of parchment made it very flammable, and not every document was protected by a case. As he grabbed the candle, which had extinguished itself, his hand pushed against some kind of projection at the back of the shelf. With a click, the entire section of shelves swung away from him. Intrigued, Bralidan lifted his lantern and peeked behind the swung-away shelves. A small room was revealed, lined with more scrolls, scroll boxes, and a few other odds and ends. He lifted a box off of a low shelf and used it to prop open the secret door, and went into the small room. His eyes scanned the supposed treasures in scroll form that lined the shelves within this hidden room. But instead of pulling down a few examples to see what kind of information needed to be hidden away like this, his attention was drawn to one particular shelf that had three objects resting on it. The first object that he picked up he immediately threw into a corner -- it was a dead rat that had probably starved in the sealed room. The second item he lifted from the shelf he knew had to be an anhekova, one of those magical staves that had been the secret to the military superiority of the Fretheod Empire years ago. But no longer: in the aftermath of the civil war and the destruction of the Yrmenweald, it was nothing more than a rather plain wooden staff with an irregular lump of whitish crystal affixed to the top. He wondered who this might have belonged to, since it wasn't the General's Staff, which hung on the wall of the great hall. But his interest in the origins of the staff faded when the light from the lantern fell on the last object on the shelf. Bralidan felt himself drawn somehow to the item. He set his lantern beside it and reached out to touch it tentatively. When it didn't bite him, or send a tingle through him, he lifted it off the shelf and examined it. The object seemed to be a fragment of a sculpture of some kind. It had a single smooth edge that held a slight curve, and two sides that sloped jaggedly towards each other. In fact, it looked like a piece of pie that someone had ripped out of the rest rather than cutting it. The sloped edges were ragged and uneven, and it was broken off well short of where those edges would have come together had it really been a slice of pie. One face of the foot-and-more long pie-slice was as smooth as its curved edge, but the other was an intricate, if fragmentary, piece of art. Most of a carved falcon took up much of the piece, which was an interesting coincidence, since he had taken a falcon as his own personal symbol. Connected to the falcon was a band of glass that ran across the surface of the pie-piece before ending at a jagged edge. Also running across the piece were ribbons of a dull silver metal and a bright brass-like metal. The pattern looked like part of a larger work, probably of Geronlel knot-work, that kind of woven-line decoration that the natives of that north-eastern province favored. The falcon itself was also stylized in Geronlel fashion, and it looked like it had been interwoven with another beast, which might have been a dog; it was hard to tell without the head. "I wonder what this was," Bralidan muttered to himself. "It might have been part of a wall decoration. No, then its back wouldn't be so smooth. Some kind of projection on a statue? Maybe a warrior's shield? That could be it." Bralidan found that he liked the fragment very much, regardless of what it had been. The falcon was exactly what he had tried to describe to the flag maker when having his banner crafted. The result had been acceptable, but now he could actually *show* Diggseth what he wanted. And then he would put the fragment in his room, where he could look at it and explore it. And maybe his survey of the archives would eventually answer his questions about where it had come from and what it was. Bralidan had a moment's pause as he slipped the carving into his shoulder sack. Suppose there was something bad or dangerous about this carving? After all, it had been shut up in this secret room for who knew how long. But he dismissed those thoughts almost immediately. What threat could a stone, glass, and metal sculpture fragment possibly pose? He slipped out of the secret room, and resumed his trek for the entrance to the catacombs. He left a candle stub on the shelf where the secret switch was, and picked up all the rest except one more to tell him which aisle to look in. As Bralidan made his way out of the archives and up floor by floor to his father's quarters, the heir thought about the Treaty of Rihelbak. For hundreds and hundreds of years, Grahk had just been a small administrative division within the Province Krelinlel of the Fretheod Empire. Nominally, it still was, but in the increasing chaos since the civil war more than 120 years ago, Grahk had been forced to do more and more defending of its borders without help from elsewhere in the empire. At the same time Plethiss, the country mansion of the administrator of Grahk, had been turned into a very well fortified castle. Eventually, as the central authority of Province Krelinlel dissolved, the various districts within it took upon themselves more autonomy, and the Duchy of Grahk, among others, was born. To the northeast of Province Krelinlel stretched a vast territory of grasslands and plains called the Great Steppes, which were home to one of the few nations that the mighty Fretheod Empire had never been able to conquer. The Siizhayip, or People of the Grass, were a loose association of nomadic clans who wandered the Great Steppes with complete freedom. At the western edge of the Great Steppes was a vast plain of grassland that, while usually considered part of the steppes, only joined with them along a narrow strait between southward thrusting mountains on the north, and the plateaus and mesas to the south. It was within that plateau land that Grahk was situated, and its northern border encompassed the land adjacent to the narrow neck connecting the Plains of Rihelbak with the rest of the Steppes. Ordinarily, the Siizhayip and the Fretheodan left each other alone. Even after the might of the Fretheod Empire was reduced to what amounted to individual protectorates around the perimeter of the Great Steppes, the two groups of people ignored each other. Until a time seventy years ago, when, for a reason no one had recorded in the histories Bralidan had read, seven small clans of the Siizhayip had banded together and attacked Grahk. The conflict had been bloody and short. Grahk's troops were used to fighting in the terrain of their homeland; incursions by people trying to claim their own piece of the crumbling empire had grown more and more frequent. Not that the Siizhayip were completely unskilled at battle, but they hadn't been able to stand up to the organized tactics of this particular remnant of the empire's might. Within but a single month, the majority of the nomads of the seven clans were dead. Even though the attack of the seven clans had not been sanctioned by the clan council of the Siizhayip, there had still been danger of retaliation by others among the clans. So, the Sun clan had stepped in and called for a truce. The One of the Sun, the person elected by the clan council to speak for all the clans when such was required, had sat down with the duke of the time, and a treaty had been worked out. Duke Branvor had been perfectly willing to cease hostilities as long as the Siizhayip ceased as well. But his father, Duke Bravid, had been killed in the senseless fighting, and Branvor had wanted to make sure that the Siizhayip never thought to attack Grahk again. He had to come up with a penalty that would mean something to them. And that something was land. The treaty that resulted granted the Plains of Rihelbak to Grahk. The histories made mention of the reverence that the Siizhayip had for the land, and that they didn't believe in ownership of land, but did believe in territoriality. However each side understood it, the Plains of Rihelbak had been forbidden to the clans of the Siizhayip forever more. But somehow, an important part of that treaty had been left out of the history that Bralidan had learned: there was supposed to be a confirmation ceremony every five years! The terms of the treaty indicated that a representative of Grahk and of the Sun clan would meet at the boundary of Rihelbak and confirm the treaty at the appointed times. If that confirmation ceremony didn't occur five times in a row, the treaty would be invalidated and the land would return to the control of the Siizhayip. The last time the treaty had been so ratified, as indicated by the dated signatures, was in 2322, twenty-five years ago. The fact that that last signatory for Grahk was Bralevant only made it harder for Bralidan to believe that his father had let the terms of the treaty be forgotten for so long. It was part of the duties of a duke to ensure that things such as this were taken care of, wasn't it? How could Bralevant have just ignored these requirements? Bralidan finally arrived at the door to his father's quarters on the upper floors of the east wing. He pulled the braided rope and heard the bell inside jingle. Almost immediately, Osirek, the duke's personal aide, opened the door, his face stiff and bland in his most businesslike manner. But when the man saw who stood at the duke's door, his face crinkled up with a heartfelt smile and he gestured the youth inside. "Ah, welcome, master Alin! You've been in the catacombs again, haven't you? Just look at all that dust and grime." The old man, who had at least fifteen years on the duke and so was almost like a grandfather to Bralidan, produced a small hand broom from somewhere. "Now, let's get you cleaned up a bit before you see your father. You did come to see him, yes? Something you found in those caves, yes? Good, good, right, just a moment and I'll let the duke know you're here." Osirek fussed about Bralidan for a few moments, brushing dust off of his shoulders, cobwebs out of his hair, neatening up his outfit as much as possible. Then he said, "Now, just a moment, Alin. The duke is reviewing some inventory lists, just checking how Plethiss fared the winter. I'm sure he'll not mind an interruption from that task, but it wouldn't do to startle him and make him lose count or something. I'll be right back." The old man darted quietly through the doors on the other side of the small antechamber, and Bralidan stood, absently fidgeting with the treaty scroll. Osirek poked his head back into the antechamber and beckoned to him. Bralidan stood and walked slowly over to the doorway, while Osirek straightened up, held the door open, and announced in an official voice, "Heir Bralidan to see you, your grace." Bralidan stepped into his father's secondary receiving room. The chamber was outfitted for reception as well as work; an ornate throne stood against one wall, between floor to ceiling windows, curtains, and an impressive collection of all manner of weapons mounted on the wall as a decoration. In another corner stood a desk, its top covered with sheets of ledger-ruled parchment. Bralidan knew the duke spent more time behind that desk he was just rising from than in his throne. Bralevant was a large man, about half a head taller than Bralidan and weighing maybe half again as much. Once the duke had been fit and trim but these days, Bralidan realized, the floor length robe he wore bulged more than a bit in the middle. He wondered what would happen if his father had to take to the field of battle; had his armor been kept matched to his shape? And that robe -- yet another new piece of clothing. The duke never wore the same garment twice, though the cloth of one garment normally became parts of other garments eventually. The only constants in his clothing were the narrow band of gold he wore about his head, and that carved wooden fox-shaped brooch that he always wore on his chest. Bralevant's most striking feature, aside from the paunch of good living, was not his pale skin nor his raven black hair. Rather, it was his eyes. The left one was blue while the right one was brown. Bralidan's eyes were a misty grey, and in most other respects he bore little resemblance to his father. His own hair was reddish brown, not black. His face was narrow, rather than broad and square like the duke's. His skin was a more natural tone, and he was both shorter and thinner than Bralevant. Biralvid, on the other hand, was a little copy of their father, except for his eyes which were both blue. Bralidan had once envied his little brother that resemblance, believing that his father would prefer Biralvid to him. As it turned out, the duke was far more interested in running Plethiss and Grahk, and both his brother and he had been raised by servants. As far as he could tell, both were equally regarded by Bralevant -- when they were regarded at all. Bralevant stood and said, "Well, hello there, son. Osirek tells me you have been poking around in the archives again. I'm glad to see that you're taking your future responsibilities so seriously, though I must say that I never found myself drawn to the catacombs the way you do. I doubt that I could find anything in there without the keeper, a detailed map, and several wilderness guides!" He laughed heartily, then continued, "Osirek also says you have something I need to see. What is it, son? What have you found?" Bralidan said, "Yes, father, I have found something disturbing in the archives: the Treaty of Rihelbak!" The duke frowned. "So, son? The Treaty of Rihelbak was signed years ago. What relevance could it have today?" "But father, what about the confirmation signings?" "Well, ah ..." Bralevant looked confused for a moment. His hand rose to his chest and he stroked the fox brooch with a finger. "I don't ... don't know ... What are you talking about, boy? Have you been breathing spider webs too long?" "Father, you must know. Twenty five years ago, you confirmed the treaty as required. Since then, nothing." "When? Confirmation signing? What?" Bralevant's hand was clutched over the fox-brooch and he was frowning as if he was in pain. "Here, look. Right here. Every five years, the treaty has to be confirmed. If it goes twenty-five years without being confirmed, the treaty is broken. And Father, it was last signed twenty-five years ago this year!" Bralevant squinted at the parchment that Bralidan held up. He scanned the whole thing as if he couldn't see anything written where his son was pointing. He closed his eyes and gasped something that sounded like "Ke ..." His hand jerked, and with a slight tearing sound he pulled the brooch free of his robe. The duke opened his eyes again and seemed able to see the words his son was indicating. He read them closely, mouth gaping. He finished reading, and closed his eyes again, slumping back onto his stool with a short gasp of something like pain. Osirek dashed over to the duke and said, "Alev, are you all right? What's wrong?" Bralevant opened his eyes and reassured his friend. The fox-brooch was laid on the desk, and was promptly forgotten. The duke said, once he had recovered from whatever had gripped him, "Good work, son. I don't know how I could have forgotten about that part of the treaty, or even how the treaty could have ended up in the archives. It should be on that shelf over there, with the other vital documents. "Well, it looks like we have an outing to organize, doesn't it? The treaty signing is in two weeks, and this year I will be there. And so will you, son. And so will you. After all, if not for your squirreling through the catacombs, the treaty would have been broken, right? I just don't know how this could have happened ..." Osirek started to reassure the duke, who was still looking shaky. Bralidan immediately felt left out as the two old friends chatted together, and he turned and left without any ceremony. But he kept hold of the treaty. He knew his father would organize the confirmation signing, but Bralidan was going to see to it that it didn't get forgotten again. Nikorah was riding her horse, Red Mist, when she saw them. Six riders and a wagon were approaching the camp from the Rihelbak. They were coming this year! She rode back to camp and jumped off of Red Mist's back in front of her father, Demahh, the One of the Sun clan and thus the One of the Siizhayip. "Father! They're coming!" "Who's coming, Nika? Who did you see?" "Them, father. The Kuizhack of Grahk. They're going to sign!" Nikorah felt elation; this meeting wouldn't be in vain like the last one. The people from Grahk were going to sign! She saw that her father was frowning, and wondered why. Then, as she thought about it, she realized what the signing meant. "Oh, I apologize, Father. I wasn't thinking. This means that the Rihelbak will be barred to us again. And it was almost ours! I wonder why they didn't sign for so long. Did they do it on purpose? To torture us or something? I hope not. Maybe they just forgot." Demahh's frown softened as his daughter rambled on. When she ran down on her own, he said gently, "Yes, there is more bad than good in your news. But their coming was in the hands of the Anhilizharnoh. And only they, the Lords of the Sky, know why this year was different than those previous." With a heartfelt sigh, he continued, "Go gather the others. The sooner this task is completed, the sooner we can rejoin the clan. Off with you!" Nikorah gave her father a teasing bow, and hurried away to spread the news. She tried to temper her enthusiasm, but it didn't matter what the signing meant ultimately; it was still a ceremony, an event. And she would get to witness it. She quickly gathered the other four members of their delegation, finding the senior herd keeper Kendra last, who was whittling away at a piece of wood as usual. Only Kendra reacted badly to her news, her swarthy features blanching almost white. She got a furtive look in her eyes, and said after a moment, "Nika, dear, ah ... tell Demahh that some of the horses are restless. I had better stay with them, keep them calm. I am not needed at the ceremony." Nikorah shrugged, nodded, and gave Kendra a hug. She had always treated the herd keeper like an aunt, and she wondered what was bothering her. Then she went racing back to the other side of the camp as fast as her feet would carry her. The riders would have arrived by now, and she was eager to see the Kuizhack, these strange people who actually lived in houses of stone. There was a great deal of milling around going on next to the low wall that the Fretheodan Kuizhack had built across the entrance to the Rihelbak Plains. Only two feet high, the wall couldn't physically keep anything out of the Rihelbak, but it served as a symbol of the treaty which had kept the Siizhayip out of those plains. The riders from Grahk were unloading the wagon they had brought with them and, with the help of the four Sun clan members, were getting ready for the ceremony. Large rugs were placed on the ground on the steppe side of the wall, upon which a high table was set. The legs were so tall that Nikorah wondered how they were going to see the top of it as they sat on the ground around it. And then chairs -- strange things all made of wood, not like the mostly canvas or hide chairs the Siizhayip used -- were set all around the table. "That answers that," thought Nikorah. The top of the table was covered with an embroidered cloth, and then a small square of wood was placed on top of that. A scroll was placed on the square of wood, and two quill pens were placed to each side of the scroll. The chairs were jostled around. Strange stands were placed around one side of the table, upon which were hung more rugs. Nikorah realized that the people of Grahk were trying to turn the openness of the steppes into some kind of enclosure with all of their rugs and stands and tables and such. She laughed at their strange quirks. Why close out the horizon? Why cut off long vistas and views? Then again, why live in unmovable houses of stone? Finally everything was ready, at least as far as the people of Grahk were concerned. Nikorah knew that her father would just as readily have squatted on the bare earth, traded a few words, and scratched his mark on the proper line with no more bother than that, but he was going to do whatever the Kuizhack wanted. This ceremony was dictated by the Fretheod Kuizhack, and Nikorah's father saw the need to accommodate them even though the freedom of the Siizhayip was limited by it. Demahh motioned to his people, and Nikorah joined him at the table. The hard wooden chair was uncomfortable, but she wouldn't be here for too long, she hoped. The one in charge, the one with that bright metal band around his head, said, in Fretheodan of course, "Welcome, People of the Grass, to this confirmation signing of the Treaty of Rihelbak. I am Duke Bralevant. This is my eldest son and heir, Bralidan. And this ..." But Nikorah didn't hear anything else the man said, nor any of the words her father traded with the duke person. She didn't notice when the quills were picked up, finally, and the treaty confirmed and witnessed and dated. She noticed none of this because she was too busy noticing the duke, and more importantly, his heir. She found herself fascinated with both of them. There was something familiar about them both, but she had a different feeling about the duke than about the younger Bralidan. She found herself not liking Bralevant, for no reason that she could detect. His pale skin didn't bother her, nor did his very black hair or the tiny moustache and beard he sported just around his mouth and chin. Not even his eyes, one blue and one brown, specifically bothered her. It was something else, something distant, almost a memory. Almost. But nothing at all bothered her about the heir, so she put the duke out of her mind for a time and concentrated on the one called Bralidan. He was good looking, almost handsome but not quite. His reddish brown hair that hung to his shoulders was very enticing, though, as were his mysterious grey eyes. There was something about him as well, but not something unpleasant. Still like a memory or dream, but definitely a pleasant one. She wondered what he looked like in just a tunic, and then she wondered what he looked like in nothing at all. She wondered if these people of Grahk would want to stay for evening meal. She wondered if she might get to talk to Bralidan. She wondered what she might say to him if she did. She didn't know anything about the kind of life he must lead, always in the same place, cut off from nature by walls of stone. But he had been riding a horse. Maybe they would talk about that. Even in the midst of her distraction, she noticed that both the duke and his heir were also looking at her. The heir in particular was spending more time glancing her way than paying attention to her father's -- or his own father's -- words. They only made eye contact once, and it had been so intense, so full of a meaning that she just couldn't quite fathom, that she had made sure not to look into those grey eyes again. At last, everyone was standing up from their chairs. She had been so absorbed that she hadn't even noticed how numb her rear end was now. She leaned on the table and worked the feeling back into her legs, keeping her eyes on Bralidan. But it soon became apparent that the Kuizhack were not staying. They took down their meeting table and its cloth walls, and in far less time than it had taken to set it all up. Soon, the entire collection of table, chairs, rugs, and frames was back in the wagon, and with some courteous words of parting, the Kuizhack rode away. Nikorah stood and watched after them, and she was sure that the heir, Bralidan, looked back several times before details were lost in the distance. She returned to her ghur in the encampment and slipped inside the low, dome shaped structure of hides covering bent poles woven together at the top to form a smoke and air hole. She was glad she had earned her own ghur last year upon reaching her sixteenth summer, because all she wanted to do at the moment was think about Bralidan. Nikorah settled herself on some pillows that were placed atop the rugs that formed her ghur's floor. She reached into a small chest and pulled out her favorite flute, the one with two bells that she had crafted herself. She dug around in another chest, and finally dragged out one of her favorite keepsakes and set it in front of her. While she slipped off her moccasins and rummaged in the first chest for the special hammer, she stared with pleasure at the hunk of rock. The keepsake had been a gift from her father. A tinker, one of those wandering vendors of trinkets and repair work, had happened by the clan's camping ground seven winters ago. Nikorah remembered the stir he had caused; anything different in the middle of winter was a welcome diversion. She also remembered the first time she had seen her little stone cat, lashed to the side of the box wagon the tinker pulled. It was a fragment of something else, since its two straight sides were jagged and broken, and the strips of gold, iron, and glass that ran across its surface looked torn apart where their paths met those irregular sides. The bulk of the foot and a half long fragment was taken up by a stylized cat, out of which a bit of the iron strips seemed to grow. The strips were woven together, almost like a basket, but not as neat and regular. But the best thing about it, aside from the picture of the cat that she used as her personal totem, was that the metal strips clinked musically when tapped. The glass strips didn't, though she often had the thought that they should, somehow. But nothing she hit them with produced a sound that was sufficiently note-like to bother repeating. Even though the cat-rock was a broken instrument, Nikorah had found a way to play it. The few notes it was capable of didn't make up a complete scale, nor were they all even in the same octave. But Nikorah had managed anyway. She clamped the tiny hammer she had grabbed between her toes and slid her foot into position over the cat-rock. Then she placed the end of the flute between her lips, positioned her fingers, and started to play, using the tones of the cat-rock as accompaniment. And as her fingers and toes worked together and the ghur filled up with music, her mind began to weave fantasies about the heir of Grahk. ======================================================================== Winterstorm by Mark A. Murray Firil 1016 The cold winter wind whipped at her face and stung her cheeks. She leaned into it, daring it to freeze her more. The pain in her face still did not compare to the pain in her soul. "Megan?" Laera called in a soft voice. "You shouldn't be out here without a warm coat or cloak." "My soul is colder than this wind will ever be," she whispered. "Please, Megan, come inside. I will be blamed if you should die out here." "All right, Laera," Megan sighed. "For your sake, and May's, I'll come inside." The thought of May and Spirit's Haven almost brought tears to her eyes, but winter had already stolen all of them with its icy touch. May had sent her to Hawksbridge, accompanied by Laera, in the hopes that being away from Dargon, Spirit's Haven, and memories of him would ease the pain in her soul. Laera was May's daughter and being young, she enjoyed the travelling, no matter how cold it got. This was Laera's first trip outside of Dargon. They had stopped at an inn to wait out the blizzard before continuing on their journey. Dargon had been the place where Megan's curse had finally ended. She had been paralyzed from conscious movements. Throughout the long duration of the curse, he had provided for her. He had protected her, and in the end, he had willingly placed his life in danger to save her. Spirit's Haven had been the inn owned by May where she had recovered from the curse. Now she was travelling without him to Hawksbridge and to her family. Raphael was no longer by her side. Megan walked back inside to where the fire crackled and spat embers. Red-orange flames danced and flickered. The shift in temperature stung her skin, but she stayed in front of the fire. It blazed and burned as it tried to engulf her, though she was out of reach of its grasp. Paying no heed to the fire, she thought of Raphael -- of all that he had done for her. Small round tears formed in the corner of her eyes as she tried to stifle a cry. "You shouldn't stand that close to the fire, Megan," Laera said. "I brought you a bowl of soup and some bread. The bread is a bit hard, but if you dunk it in the soup, you won't notice it." Megan only partially heard Laera; she was still thinking of him. At night, he would cover her with a blanket and then crawl under it to settle in beside her. He would always take a little while to get situated next to her. Throughout her curse, she never could tell him how warm and loving he felt beside her. And when the curse was over ... things were not the same. She felt something brush her arm and looked down. A large black wolf stood next to her. It was staring at her with a puzzled look in its eyes. She was glad that she had brought Anam. He had a calming affect on her that she did not understand. "I am alright, Anam," she said. "I was just remembering him." Anam licked her arm. She felt his wet tongue scrape her skin. She lifted her hand and scratched behind his ear. "I miss him." "What was that?" Laera asked. "Nothing Laera. Is my soup hot?" "No, it was just warm when I brought it," Laera replied. "I could heat it up for you." "No. It will be fine." She turned away from the fire and walked over to the table. The inn was fairly nice. There weren't many holes in the walls, most of the tables were solid, and the smoke from the fireplace went out the chimney rather than gathering in the room. The food wasn't as good as the food at Spirit's Haven, but few places could boast that. A blizzard had forced her to stay there longer than planned. Although the blizzard had blown past a day ago, her escort had wanted to wait and make sure it was fully gone. She sat down at the table and started eating her soup. "Your wolf brought back the deer that's in your stew," Laera told her. "Just after the blizzard ended, he went out and returned dragging a deer. I was helping fix dinner. We didn't tell anyone about it 'cause you know how people get. They wouldn't want to eat something a wolf dragged in. But they'll eat something a man's dragged in just fine. It's the same if you ask me. With that one, at least." She pointed to Anam. "He didn't chew on that deer or maul it in any way. Just dragged it back here. "The cook heard a scratching on the back door and when he opened it, there was your wolf with the deer." Laera giggled before continuing her explanation. "He said he nearly went in his pants seeing that wolf at the door. It was funny the way he said that. His voice was a bit higher than normal and he checked himself to make sure that he didn't go in his pants," Laera laughed. "Then he recognized it was yours as it trotted away. He said he never turns down free meals, so he butchered the deer right then and there. He said to thank your wolf for the meal." Megan turned and looked at Anam. He was stretched out on his side on the floor with his eyes closed. "You're just like him, you know that?" she whispered. "Always watching out for me. Did he teach you that?" Anam didn't acknowledge that he had heard her voice. She knew he wasn't asleep; he was just resting there because there was nothing else for him to do. "He's beautiful," Laera said. "Do you think he'd let me pet him?" "I don't know," Megan answered. "He doesn't take to too many people." "I won't try then. I'm too scared he'd bite my hand off. He's so ... oh, I don't know ... majestic, I guess. Where'd you get him, Megan?" "He was just there one day when I woke up," Megan replied. She didn't really lie to Laera, but she couldn't tell her about Raphael ... how he had found the pup in the woods when he was searching for something to break her curse. It was the only one left alive out of the litter; even the mother was dead. He took the pup with him and when the curse was finally lifted, Megan woke to Anam licking her face. "Just there? Where?" Laera asked, curiosity almost blinding her to the expression on Megan's face. "Oh, Megan," Laera blurted when she saw the painful look. "I didn't mean to pry. Really. I get so curious about things, I keep asking questions." "It's okay," Megan replied, wiping the almost fully formed tears from her eyes. "I'll let you know when you're prying." Wanting to turn the girl's attention elsewhere, she forced a small smile on her face. "Now, tell me what you've heard about Hawksbridge. What's it like?" "Oh! It sounds so grand! I'm told it's ..." Laera began, but Megan's mind wasn't on Hawksbridge; it was on Raphael. "I *said* I can't move them!" Raphael yelled, his voice strong and hard. He was stretched out on the bed, his hands curled into fists at his side. "Try," Megan pleaded. She was kneeling beside the bed, hands on the edge, wanting to hold him. "I *have* been! Do you think I like lying here like this?" "What if I help move --" "*No*! It won't matter! It won't work! I can't move my legs and I never will!" he yelled at her. His fists pounded the bed in short strong hits. "Don't yell at me," Megan told him, her voice rising a bit. "I didn't do it!" Raphael turned his face away from her and stared at the wall. "I didn't cause this to happen!" she said, emphasizing the point again. "I can't move my legs and that's all that matters," Raphael replied. "*No* it isn't!" Megan said, her voice getting louder. "Why can't you see that? *We* matter." "And what will *we* do now that I can't move?" Raphael asked, snapping his head around to look at her. "I've been working downstairs," Megan said. "May needs the help." "And I've been on this bed all day. Useless." "No, love," Megan said, taking hold of his hand. "Never useless." "What can I do?" Raphael snapped, pulling his hand out of hers. "I can't walk, I can't move my legs at all, I can't work ... What am I to do?" "I ..." "You don't know," Raphael finished for her. "Useless." "Try to move your legs. Please." "I *have* been trying!" Raphael shouted. "I try every day that you're working. They don't move. I try so hard, I get soaked in sweat. They don't move. I try so hard, I pass out from exhaustion. And they *still* don't move." "You don't have to shout at me!" Megan replied, angrily. "I'm trying to help!" "We've been to healers and mages and priests! Nothing has worked so far; why do you think you can?" "Quit! Quit shouting at me and quit being angry at me!" She got up and started for the door. "Go then. I can't follow you!" Raphael said to her back. Megan stopped and turned around, her hand on the door latch. "You won't make me feel guilty! You *won't*! I didn't do this, that twisted mage did! If you want me, come downstairs and get me." She opened the door, walked out, and slammed it shut. She didn't leave him, though. Instead, she went downstairs and found May. She needed someone to talk to because Raphael only made her angry. She had told May all about what had happened. How Loth had been an evil mage and how he had twisted a spell and had caused her to fall under the curse. She had not been able to move consciously, but she had been able to see and think on her own. Raphael had taken care of her in that state for a long time, all the while searching for a cure. With the help of his childhood friend, he had found the cure and that cure had been killing Loth. The price of the cure had been paralyzation. Loth had paralyzed Raphael before he died. She had been freed from the curse, but Raphael had taken on another. He couldn't move his legs and for him that was the same as death. She understood what it had done to him. He was used to travelling, used to caring for her, used to being able to defend himself and her, and he couldn't do any of those things. No, she hadn't left him that time, but things had grown worse and eventually May had arranged for her to travel back to her family. May said she needed some time away. May also said she'd take care of Raphael. "Megan?" Laera asked, bringing her back to the present. "Yes?" she answered. "Were you listening to me?" "I'm sorry, Laera. My thoughts drifted away." "You look sad." "No," Megan replied, quickly. "I'm just tired. That's all." "It has been a long day." "Yes, it has. I'll see you in the morning, Laera." She stood and started for her room. "Come Anam." Anam lifted his head and looked at Megan. Her back was turned and she was starting to climb the stairs. Anam slowly got to his feet and then followed her. Megan and Laera left with the others the next morning. The snow was piled high in places, but the road was manageable. Dark grey clouds hid the sun. It looked more like dusk than daybreak. Efram, the leader, wanted to make up the time that they had lost, so he pushed ahead, disregarding the gloomy sky. They didn't travel far. Anam was usually well away from the horses as he tended to make them skittish. Megan watched as he loped closer to her wagon. He was headed straight for her. The horses pulling the wagon behind her caught sight of him and started acting up. The wind must have carried his scent as the horses pulling her wagon jumped about, but the blinders kept them from spotting Anam. Someone called a halt and she jumped down. As she went over to Anam, the sky darkened. She looked up and saw black clouds headed their way. The trees in the distance swayed and bent from gusts of wind. The blizzard came upon them suddenly. They were unprepared for the fierceness of the storm and it hammered its rage upon them. Everything went deathly white as the wind howled against them. Megan could hear someone shouting, but couldn't make out the words. The blizzard hid all but Anam from her. He was right by her side. She didn't know where to turn to find anyone. Anam started to move forward and she put her hands on his back and gripped his fur so that she wouldn't lose him, too. The two of them inched forward. She didn't know where Anam was going, but anywhere had to be better than just standing there. The snow and wind assaulted Megan, causing her to stumble and fall several times. Anam would stop and wait for her to stand before moving on. She was cold and her face stung. When she breathed in, it was like daggers filling her insides. She thought about trying to pull a scarf over her nose and mouth, but she didn't think she could with gloves on and she didn't want to lose track of Anam. The blizzard hindered her sight and all she saw was white as she nearly collided with a tree. She hoped Anam knew where he was going. She tried to lift her feet to push through the snow, but stumbled and fell again. Anam stopped to wait for her. The cold was seeping into her and she was afraid she wouldn't be able to continue on for much longer. She moaned from the aching inside her as she stood to continue onward. And then, the white was gone. She stumbled and nearly fell as the snow disappeared from around her legs and she thought she had gone blind because it was now dark. Turning around, she saw the white of the storm. She finally realized that they had entered a cave. Anam moved on ahead. Megan followed; she didn't want to lose him in a cave either. She also didn't want to be left alone. "Anam, wait," she said after taking a few steps. "I can't see." When Anam stopped, she took off her cloak so that she could get to the straps on her pack. "I hope the others find shelter, too," she muttered as she took the pack off and opened it in search of her flint. After finding it, she searched for the dry kindling she carried. Her escort had made her pack it. They had traveled in harsh winters before and knew that dry kindling sometimes made the difference between life and death. She was glad they had helped her pack. Her fingers twitched and shook as she started to build a fire. Using a strip of her scarf and some kindling, she struck the flint and watched it spark. Each spark built hope inside her. If she could get a fire going, she knew she would survive. Another spark and the strip caught on fire. Breathing a sigh of relief, she built a small fire which gave off enough light to see a little deeper into the cave. "It seems as if someone is smiling upon us, Anam," she said when she saw the scattered remnants of dried grass and sticks. Gathering the sticks, she built a slightly larger fire and warmed herself at it. "I don't know what used this cave as a home, but I am glad it brought in what it did." She huddled next to the fire. Anam paced around her, sniffing the cave. "Don't tell me that whatever makes this cave its home is still here?" Anam made his way back into the shadows. "If you're going back there, let me at least make a torch so that we can see." "Anam, wait," she called, afraid to lose her only companion. She wasn't afraid of the cave. If there was any danger in here, Anam would have sensed it. He stopped and turned to look at her. She wrapped a strip of scarf around a branch and lit it. "It won't last long, so I hope this cave isn't very big. Let's go." Anam led the way down a small passage in the cave. Although it was high enough that she didn't have to stoop, there were places where she had to scrape through, and the winter clothing didn't help. At one narrow passage, she lowered the torch as she squeezed through. Looking ahead, she saw a light. It was a soft green glow that lit the passage in front of her. Anam was sniffing and walking toward the light, and she hurried to catch up with him. The narrow passage opened up into a round chamber. Covering the walls was glowing lichen. It gave off a soft green light that lit the whole chamber. She stepped into the circular room and looked around. The floor was covered with dirt and there was a glimmer of something in the middle of the floor. Moving over to it, she knelt and brushed away the dirt. It was shaped like a rectangle, and the more she uncovered, the more it reflected the green light. After removing most of the dirt, she blew onto the square object to clear away the dust. Staring down at the object, she saw her reflection staring back. It was a mirror. She looked at her red face and grimaced. The wind and snow had cold-burned her. Reaching down to pull the mirror out of the ground, she felt a tug. Something was pulling her down to the ground -- no, to the mirror. She fought back. The mirror was sucking her into it and fear flared throughout her. It was magic and it was taking her! Her fear of being cursed again blazed through her, giving her added strength to try to pull away. She raged and shook, her long red hair whipping about her face. Her strength receded slowly and she found herself falling into the mirror -- into another curse. ======================================================================== Surfacing by Bryan Read Sy, 1017 Rain spattered the mud of the roadway and Willis stumbled into a turbid alley as lightning abruptly shattered the dark night sky. Shivering, he thrust himself into an opening between several stacked barrels. It did little to ward off the deluge from above, but he found he could walk no further. He could feel warm blood seeping down his thigh. The city had already been swallowed by the night when the rains began. The rain was unusually heavy and cold for the month of Sy, chilling Willis down to his knuckles. He pulled long, wet strands of hair from his face, hooking them behind his ears with trembling hands, and looked down at the bloody stain on his breeches. All he had wanted was to get to the inn and out of this rain, to sit by the fire, have a last drink and then go quickly. Was that too difficult? "Of course it is," he thought bitterly. "Since when does anything ever go as I want it to?" His vision blurred again. The shadows swirled and melted, and he squeezed his eyes shut. His stomach retched violently but there was nothing left to bring forth, and Willis simply gagged and heaved, leaning against a slick barrel. The seizure lasted only menes, as had the one before, but his strength was failing him even as he sat amongst the barrels. Wincing slightly -- not from the pain, but from what he expected to see -- Willis unsheathed his knife and cut open the already torn legging of his breeches. Fresh blood seeped from the wound, but the rain washed it away quickly so that he could plainly make out the jagged tooth marks on his upper thigh. With a nervous curse, he sliced the woolen leg of his breeches completely free and tied it tightly about the wound. Had it not been for the chill of the rain deadening his senses, he would have cried out. Willis could hear his heart pounding in his ears as he thought of the beast that had attacked him. It had taken him by surprise, and torn into his leg with jaws so strong he had thought his leg might snap under the force. It was a large dog, or so he had thought, but the piercing crimson eyes that had glared with such mad hunger had quickly removed any thoughts of a domestic canine. He had thrashed with the animal for what seemed like an eternity before his knife finally took the beast in the eye, forcing it to back away. It was then that the rains had suddenly fallen, as if God had decided to save him from the terrible fate. It was thick, disorienting, and everything surrounding him had vanished in its depths. He had plunged into the alleyways of the city, seeking shelter from his attacker. It wasn't just the beast that Willis was desperately avoiding. He had heard men in the distance, calling, shouting in pursuit of their pet and its prey. He had no intentions of being caught. He would never go back to that place. He listened for any sound of his pursuers, but the rain consumed all sounds now, except the occasional burst of distant thunder. He saw no one about when a series of lightning strikes illuminated the alley outside his hiding place. Knife in hand, Willis staggered from the cubby in the barrels and back into the alley. The downpour removed all sense of direction, but he chose one anyway and trudged onward. He made his way through a series of dark alleys before falling to his knees in the mud. "Keep moving, Willis," he told himself. He crawled on desperately, emerging onto an open roadway. Nochtur Street was a wide avenue, normally host to an assortment of nightly celebrators and performers. Being so close to the commercial district of the city, it was in good repair with cobbled walks and scattered sitting benches, but tonight the street was empty, save for the sea of spattering rain filling the ruts and holes. Willis found himself crawling onto a stone pathway. Attempting to stand, he looked up into a sudden source of light and his legs seemed to melt away. He fell onto his behind and pulled free a knife, attempting to ward off the giant snake looming above in the strange light. Willis opened his mouth to scream. "You all right, sonny?" came a gruff voice, as strong fingers gripped Willis' shoulder. "You should come in outta the rain, you know." Willis tried to stand. His vision swirled, danced, and finally faded into blackness. "Ballard Tamblebuck's the name, sonny. How do you feel?" Willis blinked. "You're lucky I was up and about," the portly innkeeper continued. "Lucky the shutters came open and I caught a glimpse of you." The innkeeper was tall, but the baldness of his head and roundness of his paunch kept his appearance short and globular. He chuckled and smoothed the dull white apron that hung off his belly. "Where am I?" Willis croaked. "Is this the Shattered Spear? My room?" "Why, you're at the Inn of the Serpent, my boy!" Ballard answered as he straightened his back proudly. "Only the most richly furnished inn of the west side." Willis' eyes darted about the sparsely furnished room. Noticing the young man's glance, the innkeeper chuckled. "You happen to be in the only spare room available tonight. It isn't much but I rarely put anyone in here." Ballard Tamblebuck stood before a closed window, its outer shutters rattling under the rainfall. Another figure stood not far off in the doorway, silhouetted before the soft orange light of the hallway. A small table stood in a far corner of the room, the only furniture other than the bed on which he lay. Willis moved to sit up, but the innkeeper gently pressed him back to the lumpy mattress. Willis looked down in horror upon his torn pantleg, and Ballard peered at him curiously. "What was that thing?" Willis stammered, his eyes suddenly wide with terror. "What was it?" The innkeeper stood back, fists on hips, and cocked his head. "What's wrong with you, boy? That was just the statue. Gotta have a serpent outside the Inn of the Serpent." Willis shook his head violently. "No! It was going to swallow me, it was!" Ballard smiled then, a small rueful smile. "You just take it easy, sonny. I know the problem. Seen it before, I have. You been down on Layman Street, no doubt." Willis looked to his thigh. "Can you help me? Can you fix my leg?" "Of course I can. Done it before, I have." Willis gave a sigh of relief, almost a cackle. "I thought they had me for sure." "You stay here," Ballard remarked as he walked around the bed. "I'll fetch what I need." He left the room, past the figure standing in the doorway. Thunder rolled over the inn. The single candle flickered, as if in response. Willis watched the silent figure that studied him. It was motionless, cloaked in the shadows created by the backlight of the lantern in the hallway. He strained to see through the darkness, his eyes narrowing in a squint, but gave up with a heavy sigh. "She's gone, you know," Willis said to the silhouette in the doorway, his voice distant, eyes vacant. "Left me to die of an empty heart. Have you ever had an empty heart?" There was no reply so he continued. "I paid him all I had. He said I wouldn't feel anything. All I had to do was take the poison and I could be over it." Ballard Tamblebuck brushed into the room and to the side of the bed, a steaming cup in hand. "You must drink this," he urged as he supported Willis' head in one hand. "But ... But my leg," Willis stammered. "How will that help my leg?" "Easy, sonny. You'll be fine. There's nothing wrong with your leg. It's just the ardon, that's all. Comin' off that stuff is worse even than Hanla's Sleep. Fool drug is poison. What're you doing with that stuff in you?" Willis noisily slurped the mixture as Ballard held it to his lips. Then he said, "You have to fix my leg. Please!" "There be nothing wrong with your leg. You got no legging is all." Willis glanced again at his imaginary wound and then pushed his head back into the pillow, as if trying to escape his own body. "Kill me then," he muttered. "It was my intent in the beginning anyhow!" The innkeeper frowned and pinched his fat lower lip in thought. "Bought some black ardon, no? Trying to murder your own self." Ballard was nodding to himself thoughtfully. "Good thing you made a bad purchase. No telling what strange things you be seeing. No worry, though. That tea will help you get to your feet. Drug just needs a way out of the body is all." "Maura," Willis groaned. "I lost my Maura. Let me die." Ballard Tamblebuck looked to the silent shadow in the doorway. Slowly, his face went quiet of expression, and his gaze again fell on the demented boy. He set the tea on the table in the corner and stood at the foot of the bed. "What be your name, sonny?" "Willis. My name is Willis." "Where do you come from?" Willis seemed to think for a moment. "I ... I am not sure," he mumbled. "Somewhere far away." Ballard pinched his lip. Ardon was a vicious drug, illegal within the city. If magicked in one design it could become highly addictive; in another it was deadly poison. The boy had wanted to die, but had foolishly bought it from a street seller. The drug would leave lasting memory loss, Ballard knew, and at this very moment the boy was as malleable as corn paste. He would recover from the delusions of the injury he was seeing, but his mind was barren now. The innkeeper sighed. That memory and spirit could be reforged. Ballard had seen a healer use such methods and give a deranged woman the ardon one time, and she had come to her senses. That had been a long time ago, he admitted. He had come to Dargon to forget those troublesome years of his past. But something could be done here. "It'll be alright, sonny," Ballard said. "I'll see to it. Maura is here. She's come back for you, Willis." Willis peered at the innkeeper, his eyes glazed. "But she was lost on the sea. My Maura is gone." Ballard shook his head softly. "She is here, Willis. Waiting for you. What does she look like?" The young man winced, as if the attempt at remembering brought him physical pain. "I ... I can't. Is ... is she really here?" The innkeeper nodded softly. His insides ached from what he was about to do. But it would be better for Willis, he rationalized, to learn from a loving wife rather than to die ignorant and lonely. And he is a fine looking man, young and strong, no doubt. Willis could make a fine husband for Deserae. Then he gave a bitter inward laugh. Since the accident there wasn't a man in Dargon who failed to look away if Deserae happened by. He had seen it; seen the pity in their eyes, the revulsion. Now he was molding a man from depravity to fill the task. His attention focused on the figure in the doorway as it moved into the room. She was a slight woman, with less curve than the average man would crave, and her hair was long about her shoulders, but somehow lifeless. She smiled hesitantly at Willis with thin lips, and her gray eyes held a hint of sadness, rimming with wetness as they met with the confused young man. Her face was scarred, nearly entirely, from burns, but Willis gazed upon her as if she were his world. Ballard Tamblebuck wiped away a tear that threatened to travel his cheek. "May the gods forgive me if I be acting without their grace," he thought. "Maura?" he heard Willis stammer. "Maura? My leg, Maura. It's hurt bad." Deserae knelt at the bedside, her smooth hand on his forehead. She smiled knowingly. "I know, Willis," she replied, her voice a soothing whisper. "I'll make it all better. We'll be together again." Willis returned her smile. He looked upon her with longing. "Yes," he whispered. "Everything will be all right." Ballard lifted his face from thick hands to gaze into the warm coals. The fire was nearly dead. For a fleeting moment he considered re-stocking the smoldering pit, but let the thought fade. His mind was elsewhere on this frosted morning. The pale sun had broken the horizon behind silver-gray clouds only a half bell earlier, and to Ballard Tamblebuck, it was a fitting start to what promised to be an unpleasant day. "What would you think of me now, my sweet?" he whispered to a tiny flame that struggled to breathe. "Would you have done the same for your daughter?" The flame flickered and died. Ballard gave a sad sigh. "I thought not." "Talking to the fire again, Father?" sounded a smooth voice from behind him. He looked back over his shoulder from where he sat on a wooden chair before the fire pit. Deserae stood at the foot of the carpeted stairs, her hand lightly touching the railing. She wore her typical daily clothes: a plain brown dress and low cut leather boots. She appeared as she did everyday, with the exception of a new smile, and it seemed to scatter the misgivings he carried inside him from the previous night. The chamber they occupied was a large one, the common room of the inn. A dark hardwood bar trimmed with brass corners stood along the wall opposite the entrance, and an array of tables with accompanying chairs were neatly placed around a central fire pit. The stairs climbed the wall next to the bar, leading to the rented rooms, and continued upward to those of Ballard Tamblebuck and his daughter. And now Willis. "Has the boy remembered anything more?" he asked quietly. Deserae crossed the room to stand next to her father. She put a hand to his slumped shoulder. "He remembers what I tell him he remembers. He is a nice man, and smiles at me." "He won't always listen to what you tell him. The drug will completely leave his body by evening. He'll still want answers, but will be open to your suggestions no longer." "So you have told me," she remarked, her voice calm and quiet. "I have told him most of what he will want to know." "Did you tell him how he came to lose his memory? Surely he's asked that." She nodded softly. "I told him he had been gone away for some time, and that we had not seen him until last night when he arrived in that condition." Ballard released a slow breath, pinching his lip, and brought his eyes back to the smoldering coals. "He will be fine, then." "How will you explain to everyone about me changing my name?" she asked. Her father smiled. "I have been thinking that maybe you could get baptized into Stevenism, like you've always wanted. It is customary for many people to take another name to symbolize their new path in life." "You would really let me do that? You have always said --" Ballard waved his hand. "I know what I've said. But things have changed my mind. We will have you baptized. I just wish I could get some sign I've done the right thing." She gently squeezed his shoulder. "I know you did this for me, Father. I know it was hard for you, and I would never have asked you to do this. But do not fault yourself for this man's loss. You have given him life in place of death. He will thank you for it some day. Mother would say the same." He looked back to her with a faint smile, thankful for the comforting words. It seemed to restore his usual verve, and he stood, stretching. He threw several pieces of wood in the pit. "The roomers will soon be wandering down. Could you fetch the pot of stew? Need it hot or they'll be grumbling." Deserae smiled pleasantly and entered the kitchen. A wide, low table stood in the center of the room flourishing a thick cutting plank and a cleaver. On the surrounding walls an assortment of iron pots occupied a shelf that circled the room. In the rear of the kitchen was a door leading outside and next to it stood two large casks, suspended by thick oak beams several feet off the floor. "Hail to you, young man," she heard from the common room. "What brings you down here?" "Good morning, Master Tamblebuck," Willis replied. "I am feeling rather thirsty. Might I fetch a drink of water?" Deserae stiffened. Was he coming in here? Although she had done her best to be his Maura, to fill that empty memory, she never lost the uncertainty of her situation. "Will he suddenly remember that he has never known me?" she thought. "Will he know I am not his Maura?" She had asked herself other questions as well, but they all danced around one lingering fear. "Will he look on me like other men do?" Willis swung wide the door and sauntered in, barefoot and obviously enjoying it. He peered at this object or that as he moved near the meat table at which Deserae stood. She smiled as she watched him approach; she noticed the smile came easily. His eyes were bright beneath a head of loose brown wavy hair, and his face had regained its color. Leaf-green eyes gazed into hers, and she felt lost in them, enjoying the stare of another for the first time that she could remember. "I'll get your water," she managed. He placed his hands on her shoulders gently. "I can get my water," he returned, smiling. "You have tended to me enough." He spied about the room and spotted several large casks resting on a shelf in the back of the kitchen. "Ah," he said, and approached them. She handed him a mug before he had a chance to ask. He hastily pulled the peg from the cask, letting the liquid tinkle into the tin mug. He turned, held it up to her in good cheer and downed a gulp. Rum sprayed about the room, over the pots and pans and beef and everything else. "By Stevene's Light!" he howled amid a fit of coughing, his eyes wide. "What manner of water is this?" Deserae's laughter nearly toppled her over, and she grasped the table's end for support. He stood there as she tried to catch her breath, a grin slowly hooking his face. Soon, he too was chuckling. "You've never had rum, Willis?" "I don't recall. Have you ever seen me drink it?" "No," she answered, her smile wavering. "No, I haven't." Willis studied the liquid in the mug. "Still, I think it agrees with me." Then, after a quiet moment, he sighed. "I wish I could remember. What did I do? Where did I come from? Who am I?" He took the cloth from Deserae's hand and wiped the rum from her face. "I know what you have told me, Maura, but I wish I could remember it all." Deserae put a hand on his arm. "It will come back to you eventually, Willis." He softly touched her cheek with back of his fingers. She nearly flinched, at the strange feel of it, and fear began to grip her. Would he realize? "I know it, my love," he whispered. He kissed her then, and something within her dissolved. Her frustrations, her anger, her shame; all of it was washed clean as hope flooded through her. She was dizzy when he pulled his lips from hers, and she opened her eyes slowly, praying that it was not a dream. "Maura!" Ballard called from the common room. "I be needing the stew, girl!" "Go ahead," Willis said. "Just tell me where the water is and I'll clean up this mess." With a giggle she pointed to the door leading out back. "The water keg is out in the barn," she said and then slipped around Willis, fetching the heavy pot of stew. As she exited the kitchen she could feel his gaze upon her, and she reveled in it, even dared to sway her hips as she had seen other women do in front of men. "Ah," Ballard Tamblebuck sighed as his daughter hooked the pot handle over the fire pit. He sat next to another man. The guest was tall, sitting a full head higher than Ballard, and was dressed in drab brown robes, the sleeves hanging low over his hands. He was bald and clean-shaven, though his face was deeply tanned and leathery, creased with middle age. "It won't be long, traveler." The man gave a slow, pleasant nod. "It will be good to eat a rich meal after so many days walk." "You must have been walking in the rain the past few days." Another pleasant nod. "You come far?" "I have traveled for nearly a full cycle of the moon." Ballard whistled. "A full month, eh? Long time to be on your feet. Be needing a room while you're in Dargon?" The man smiled and shook his head. "There are people I have to meet. They will provide for me once I find them." Ballard nodded. "But I have been visiting the various rooming establishments in the city. I am looking for a young man named Willis." Deserae stiffened, but continued to wipe the surface of the table. "Can't say I know of any Willis," her father replied offhandedly. "What's he look like?" The stranger paused a moment. "I am not sure. He may have grown his hair, but he does have very green eyes." Ballard's frown made him continue. "We live in an isolated area, and he is the son of my employer. I have been instructed to bring him home at once." "I see," replied the portly innkeeper, pinching his lip. "If I do happen to find a Willis in my establishment, who might I contact?" "There is a man. Ask for Podras at the Spirit's Haven. He will see to you." The stranger in the robes ate his stew in silence, preferring a corner table and a drink of water. He tipped well, paying with a silver coin, marked with a mint that Ballard did not recognize, and left without another word being spoken. Shortly after, Heidi bounced through the entrance, humming a light-hearted tune. "You're late," Ballard chided. "Do you think I pay you to flirt with the boys on the street?" "Sorry," she squeaked as she removed her coat. "We have a guest," Ballard continued. "A friend of Deserae's who used to live here a short while ago, before you started here." "What's her name?" "*His* name is Willis." "Willis?" Heidi giggled. "Found a man have you, Deserae?" "He had a touch of fever last night and is a bit confused this morning," said Ballard. "Be nice." Willis emerged from the kitchen, mug in hand. "You know," he said. "I rather like this rum. Makes me feel all warm." Heidi smirked. "Looks more drunk than confused to me." Deserae stifled a laugh as she finished polishing the last of the tables. Willis opened his eyes. It was dawn. The shutters were closed to the outside world, but he knew the sun was cresting the horizon. He had no idea how he could know such a thing, and had been amazed during the first few weeks of his stay at the Inn of the Serpent, but now he was accustomed to his unfaltering ability to wake precisely at the dawning of the sun each new day. He was usually awake before Maura, and took pleasure in watching her sleep. He listened to her quiet breathing, took in her form in the quiet of the morning. Many times he wondered about her scars. He could not remember how she had been so badly burned, but he would not ask her, not wanting to stir up painful memories. While the burns had been serious, they had healed relatively well, he knew, and her features were hardly as grotesque as she had grown to think of them. He knew that she deemed herself ugly, that she looked at other women with envy, sometimes with anger. The years of repeated comments, laughter, and general disdain she suffered from many of the inn's visitors had broken her spirit. He had seen that spirit grow every day since he had awoke that first day of his *new* life. He found it pleasantly odd that even though he could not remember any of their early days together, he knew that he loved this woman, and always would. He had his own scars, of course. He could spot several areas about his arms and chest that looked to be old wounds of some sort, but the most pronounced was the scar on the palm of his left hand. Or rather, it was a marking. The strange inky-black pattern brought a familiar tingle to his stomach, but he could not grasp the memory. It had been there since the first morning at the inn, or at least that was the earliest he could remember it being there -- it was the earliest he could remember anything -- and he could not understand how it had come to be there. Maura stirred, a soft moan escaping her lips. Today was her day away from working the inn, and he had no intentions of rousing her from her slumber. He softly rose from their bed and pulled on his trousers and tunic, leaving his feet bare. When he reached the base of the steps, the polished hardwood cold at his feet, he received a good morning nod from Ballard, who had glanced back over his shoulder. The innkeeper was staring out the window, the same window from which they both watched the dawn every morning. It made Willis feel somehow at home, knowing he and Ballard shared at least something in common. He approached the large man and leaned on the wall next to him. "Can I ask you something?" Ballard put his eyes on Willis. "About Maura?" The very mention of her name made him smile. "Yes." "You want to know how she got her scars, no?" Willis nodded. "I don't want to cause her pain with such questions. It's just that I've been here so long and I feel that I know nothing of anybody, including myself." Ballard dropped a heavy sigh in the silent morning. "It was a kitchen incident. A pot was boiling over; its lid was stuck somehow, but it blew. Scalded her face, it did. She was such a pretty girl. She used to laugh and have fun until that day. Three years now that was. "She had been seeing you for that entire summer," he lied, silently pleading for forgiveness from the gods. "You were on an errand for me when it happened. The only comfort she had was in you." Willis nodded silently, his eyes teary at the thought of her pain. "But you've changed, Willis. You've made her smile every day since your accident. You're a different man. A better man. And I'll show you something that hasn't seen the light of day for three years." Willis followed him down a flight of stairs into the wine cellar, past the racks of wine and deep into the back of the bricked basement. The lamp he held threw light about the room, and he saw a series of different racks, these holding empty wine bottles. Standing against the nearest was a large picture frame, nearly as large as the windows upstairs, its face turned away from view. Ballard motioned for him to turn it around. Willis caught his breath as he gazed at the portrait, not because of the masterful painting that it was, but from the fact that he knew exactly whose face it was the instant he saw it. Her cheeks were smooth and flawless, her lips pursed in a tight smile, and her eyes beaming with exuberance. "She is beautiful," he breathed. "By the light of day, she is beautiful. But why is the name Deserae painted in the corner?" "That was her birth name," the innkeeper answered. "She took Maura as her new name when she was baptized into Stevenism, shortly after you met those years ago." Another lie. He was beginning to feel criminal. "Hellooo," rang Heidi's voice from atop the stairs. "There's a man here! He says he'd like to see Willis." Ballard felt his stomach churn and threaten to retch. "For me?" Willis asked in surprise. "You're the only Willis I know, silly," she retorted. He started for the stairs before Ballard could grab him, and ascended into the common room even before the bigger innkeeper could reach the steps. When Ballard did manage to emerge into the common room his fears had become realities. It was the same man that had visited him four months earlier, dressed in the same drab brown robes with the same bald head. He gave a silent cuss, but quickly recanted. It would do no good to curse the gods now. He was being punished for acting so vainly, for thinking he could create another man's life. "Willis," the stranger said softly. "Willis?" he heard Deserae whimper from atop the stairs. "Willis," Ballard heard himself say. The young man named Willis simply stared at the strange man in the strange robes. "I can help you, Willis," he said. "I have been searching for you for a year now. Where is Maura?" Willis glanced to a woman on the stairs. The man frowned. "Who ... Who are you?" Willis stammered. "You do not know me?" His gaze fell on Ballard Tamblebuck. "You told me you did not know Willis. Why did you lie? Why did you make me spend such a long time here in your filthy city? Did you think I would not find him?" Ballard swallowed hard. "I found him only a day before your first visit, raving in the rain outside the inn. He was near death from a drug. Ardon, it was. Made him see things that weren't there. Lost his memory. I didn't know if you would hurt him." "Hurt him?" The man rubbed his bald head, his temper cooling. "I am Gizzel, representative of the Rithius Family. Willis Rithius has been missing for some time. He was never supposed to be here. He should be at his father's side." His eyes fell back on Willis. "You should not have run, Willis. Maura was not meant for you. You have been arranged with another." Gizzel paused a moment, glancing again to Deserae atop the stairs. "No matter. She is no longer an issue." "What are you talking about?" Willis stammered, regaining part of his composure. "Maura is standing right there!" Gizzel peered again at the girl atop the stairs. "I was told of the death of a girl on the ship you took here. I had assumed it was Maura." Ballard gripped his apron, desperate to gain some control of the situation. "There was an accident and she was burned." The stranger shook his head. "As I said, it matters not. I have come to take you home, Willis. Your father and brothers feel your absence strongly." Willis shook his head silently, awestruck. Gizzel brushed aside his robe to reveal an ornate sword hilt. "I have been given strict orders, Willis. I will use any methods necessary." He waved his hand toward the door. The tattoo on Gizzel's palm flashed for only an instant, but Willis recognized the dark pattern. It was the same mysterious mark that scarred his own hand. Some faint recollection sparked within him. Images flashed in his mind: the fall of a blade, a flapping banner, the crashing waves about the deck of some vessel. There was blood, fire, chaos. The past invaded like cold steel. Then there was a face, smooth and pale. Willis clenched his fists. "I ... I need some time," he stammered. Gizzel shook his head, only slightly. "You spent your time running, Willis. We leave now." Deserae stumbled down a step as she called Willis' name. She watched as his green eyes turned to connect with hers. His face was ashen, his knuckles white. Still, he did not speak. She fell to her knees against the railing and buried her face in trembling hands as she sobbed. There was nothing left, nothing at all. She would lose the only man who had ever loved her, the only man to see beneath the curse of her scars. Now he would hate her for what she had done to him. He would know how they had deceived him. A touch caused her head to lift. Willis took her hands in his. "You should not cry," Willis whispered. He was kneeling from a step below, his face close to hers. "I understand it all, Deserae. You saved my life that night, and in doing so you set yourself on the path to your own healing. I am grateful I was the tool in Stevene's hands used to heal your spirit. But I know something of who I am now, and I must know the rest. "And I feel no joy in leaving, but my place is not here any longer. I must find myself, Deserae, as I have helped you find yourself. You can start a new life. The world waits for you now." "You can't go, Willis. You can't!" she whispered fiercely. He kissed her forehead as a tear traveled his cheek. "I do love you, Deserae. And I wish I was simply this man at this inn, but I remember things now. I have to find out who I am. I have to leave with this man. He has the same mark, Deserae. It means something, I can feel it. He can show me who I am." Deserae traced the strange lines in his palm with her finger. "Will you come back, Willis? Will you come back to me?" He released a trembling breath. "I will send word, my love." Then his hand slipped away. She could not reply, fearing she might be sick. She watched him descend the stairs slowly. Gizzel took him by the arm as he reached the bottom of the stairs. Ballard spread his arms helplessly. "Where are you taking him?" "It is not your concern, innkeeper," replied Gizzel flatly. "Just be content that no harm will come to you or your daughter." Ballard frowned at the shrouded threat, but still watched with wide eyes as the two exited the inn and softly closed the door behind them. Deserae let herself cry unabated then, pulling her knees close and dropping her head to rest on them. She felt her father's arm about her shoulders, but it made nothing easier. Nothing would ever be easier. Ballard Tamblebuck stared out the open window. It was dawn. Light snow feathered to the ground in a silent dance as the innkeeper gazed into the clouds above. Many days he had stood here with Willis to watch the day's new sun light the sky. It had been several months since he had last done so. He had been content then. He had brought his daughter some measure of happiness, a life in which she deserved. He had given her a man who loved her. A snowflake drifted onto his face. It had been a terrible mistake. He had taken a man's life and replaced it with one built on deceit and trickery. He had kept a man from his family. Worse yet, he had given his daughter a taste of a life she could never have. He had betrayed everyone. Even himself. He had always wanted a son. "I'm going to the market, Father," Deserae said as she stepped off the stairs. She was pulling on a coat. Ballard looked to his daughter. Long brown hair fell over her shoulders, and her eyes glittered in the new sunlight. She looked as she always had before this terrible mess, he thought. She turned and waved as she reached the door, a smile touching her lips. Then she was gone, strolling down a wakening Nochtur Street, basket in hand. "Well, almost as she always had," he thought. "Almost." ========================================================================