DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 15 -=========================================================+|) D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 4 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 6/29/2002 Volume 15, Number 4 Circulation: 693 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb Malice 1 P. Atchley Firil 1, 1018 A Matter of Faith 2 Nicholas Wansbutter Mertz, 1009 ======================================================================== DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet. We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project. Please address all correspondence to or visit us on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/, or our FTP site at ftp://users.primushost.com/members/d/a/dargon/. Issues and public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon. DargonZine 15-4, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright June, 2002 by the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb , 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 Complete physical, emotional, and sensory overload. There are some experiences that even writers cannot communicate, that can only be lived through, and carefully preserved in the sepia-toned vaults of memory. I could try to relate to you the experience of nine days in Scotland with six other writers at our annual Dargon Writers' Summit. I might relate all the sights we saw and things we did, and with skillful wordcraft I might paint a picture that moves you. But it'd still be like showing you a fossil and trying to communicate the fragile image of a dragonfly. What was it? It was the archetypal whirlwind tour, a thousand-mile circumnavigation of the country. It was a misty morning on a loch, framed by half-obscured woodland hills. It was a lush, fertile green river valley dotted with the ruins of stone farmhouses, set between implausibly steep mountains, their shoulders adorned with the vivid yellow of gorse. It was the self-righteous sting of Scotch whisky on your lips, and the magical lightness of an owl landing on your forearm. It was standing before the ruins of an abandoned castle, the wind and spray raging against a nearby seaside cliff, a blood-red full moon overhead. It was the tenuousness of our grasp on the Earth as we foolishly ascended into the sky in answer to the irresistible call of an unscalable mountain. It was the quiet tranquility of a burial cairn centuries older than human remembering. One of the things that fantasy evokes in people is a sense of wonder, of amazement at the beauty of the worlds we describe. Every so often, we can connect with that wonder when we find some particularly evocative place here on Earth: a granite fells, a rocky ocean headland, or a pine-laden mountaintop. The handful of Dargon writers who came to Scotland got to live that wonder for nine days running. And what's best of all is that we were able to share the experience of that beauty and wonder with one another. As writers, our goal is to communicate to others the things that move us. For each of us, Scotland was profoundly moving, and we were finally able to share those wondrous moments with others who felt the same appreciation. That sharing brought us very much closer together, reinforcing our working relationships with a deeper, more personal connection. As you may know, each year a different writer hosts our annual Dargon Writers' Summit, where we get together to talk about writing, do some project business, see the local sights, and build closer friendships with one another. I can speak for all the Summit attendees when I express our most heartfelt thanks and admiration to Stuart Whitby, who ran this year's Summit. Stuart was a thoughtful, patient, and entertaining host. Running a normal Dargon Summit, which have previously lasted only two or three days, is an immense undertaking; tirelessly driving us around the country for nine whole days, lining up lodging and meals and activities, and keeping things going smoothly throughout was surely a trial that proved Stuart's good-naturedness to all. Hearty cheers to Stu for an amazing, profoundly moving, and exhilarating Summit. Rather than waste words and your attention in trying to describe such an immense trip in detail, I'll instead refer you to the photographs and write-up that appear on our Web site. Debriefs from Scotland and all our previous Summits can be found on our Writers' Summit page, at . Because of the logistics involved in the Summit, this month's issue was, as advertised, a little delayed. We hope to get back on a regular publishing schedule now that everyone's home and settled, and the jet lag has worn off! In this issue we begin an excellent new four-part story from P. Atchley, and we conclude Nick Wansbutter's two-part "A Matter of Faith". These two will be featured in the following two issues, as well, "Malice" being paired with another two-part story that Nick has in the works. I hope you enjoy them, and I hope your summer brings you the kind of wonder and adventure that we were fortunate enough to experience at this year's Summit! ======================================================================== Malice Part 1 by P. Atchley Firil 1, 1018 "Good morning, Father," Ludovic said as he sat down at the table where his father, Einar, was finishing his breakfast. "Well, to what do I owe the honor of your company, and at breakfast, no less?" Einar asked as he picked up his mug. He was a merchant who dealt in gems and jewelry, a widower of long standing, well-known in Dargon for the quality and rarity of the gems he carried. Father and son shared a faint resemblance: brown hair and honey-colored eyes, slender build and medium height. But there the similarity ended. The clean lines of Ludovic's features, the straight nose and distinct cheekbones, gave him an ascetic appearance, while Einar's sharp gaze and beak-like nose bestowed upon him a more vulturine look. "Burian is the one you should say that to, not me," Ludovic replied, wondering if his father made such comments deliberately to annoy him. While it was true that he and his twin Burian resembled each other greatly, there were some who could tell them apart. And their own father should not have that problem, Ludovic reflected, frowning. Isla, the cook who doubled as housekeeper, served his breakfast silently. As she filled his mug with tea, she said softly, "He knows, laddie. It just bothers him that Burian won't get up before midday." She was a hefty woman, barely a finger shorter than Ludovic, with gray hair going white, and pale blue eyes. She had been with Ludovic's mother before her marriage, and had practically raised the twins. "No, I don't want fried bread," Ludovic said to Isla as she set a slice on his plate. Then he looked up at his father. "Father, I need money." "What for? To gamble away at cards? Or to spend upon an endless number of stray animals that ought to be killed in the first place? No more, Ludovic. I'm not going to give you any more money." Einar threw down his napkin on the table, and the cloth fell on top of his mug of mead and slowly began to absorb the liquid which seeped upwards, staining the fabric. Ludovic smiled and said sweetly, "That's not a problem. I can sell the pin that you ordered for Udele; the silversmith, Nila, delivered it here yesterday. I'm sure your whore won't mind if I take it." Udele was Einar's friend, and Ludovic knew that the friendship included bed-play, just as his mother had known before she died, heartbroken at the thought of her husband in another woman's arms. In what seemed like a single movement, Einar stood up, grabbing the jug of mead on the table, and flung it at his son. Ludovic had been waiting for just such a reaction from his father, and he pushed himself backwards, chair and all. The jug fell harmlessly where he had been sitting a moment earlier. "You will not refer to Udele in that manner," Einar said, his voice quivering with the force of his feelings. "Do you understand?" That was characteristic of Einar, Ludovic thought; his voice always shook as he got angry. "Very well, Father. What shall I call her then?" "She is my friend. You may address her as Mistress Udele. And I'll be taking that pin from you." Einar's voice had returned to normal. He pushed away the napkin and, picking up his mug again, drank whatever remained. "No." Ludovic dragged his chair back and began to eat absently. After two bites he set his fork down, frowning, and pushed away his plate; he disliked fried bread. He lifted his mug, and after a gulp of mead said, "I need money. If you care to give me some, I'll consider returning the pin. It's quite beautiful, you know, all thin silver threads and --" Einar interrupted, "Send Karanat with the pin to the store and I will." Karanat was Ludovic's manservant and friend, sometimes more the latter than the former. "Nothing less than ten Cues, Father." Ludovic dabbed at his lips fastidiously with a napkin and pushed away his plate. "Fine. What I've ever done to deserve a pair of sons like you two, I'll never know." Einar put down his mug and turned away. "One's a gambler and a wastrel and the other a drunken --" the door slammed behind him, cutting him off. "Laddie, why do you do that to him? You know he loves Udele." Isla frowned at him. "Isla, Udele is another man's wife. Father's carrying on with her broke my mother's heart," Ludovic replied angrily, placing his mug on the table with a loud thump. "And I don't deserve to be treated the same way as Burian. I don't roll with a different woman every night, and I don't start my day with a mug of whiskey." Isla sighed and began to clear away the table. "Your mother, the sweet thing that she was, should never have married young Einar. Before he met Udele, he carried on with a different woman every few months, so they said. I told your mother to say no but she wanted to make the old master happy, and he!" Isla paused to snort scornfully before continuing, "he didn't care about his own daughter's happiness, and he didn't even think of whether she could be happy with a man like young Einar." Ludovic ignored the reference to his grandfather. Isla had started life working for his mother before she was married, and he knew that Isla would continue to refer to his father as "young Einar" for the rest of her life, no matter how old they both were. "Enough!" Ludovic rose and patted himself off for any stray crumbs. "Have Karanat come and see me upstairs." A few bells later when Karanat had just returned from Einar's store with the promised money for Ludovic, there was a thundering knock on the back door of the house. Karanat opened it, and the young man outside, his cousin Ruarc, smiled sheepishly, his hand raised to knock again. Ruarc's mother, Francesa, had raised Karanat when his own parents had died, and he therefore tolerated his cousin for her sake. "Ruarc, what're you doing here? Is something wrong with Auntie?" Ruarc was a young man who had visions of becoming rich through quick and easy means. About four years younger than he, Karanat knew that Ruarc had always resented the affection his mother had showered on Karanat. "She's fine," Ruarc dismissed the older man's concern. Ruarc's figure was slender, betraying his youth -- he could be no more than twenty, if that. His hair was a light, nondescript brown and his face triangular, giving him a pointed chin. His eyes were watery and his gaze was erratic. The overall impression was one of mediocrity: it was a forgettable face. "I need your help." Karanat stepped away from the door, opening it wide in silence. His was an impressive figure, strong and well built, with broad shoulders that gave graceful way to slender hips and muscular thighs. His face bore the signs of many past fights: a crooked nose, a thin scar down one temple, and a wider scar across one cheek. One eyelid dipped lower than the other, a permanent reminder of some battle in which, presumably, the other man had fared worse. Dark hair and eyes completed the picture of a man whom other men approached cautiously and women, not at all. Ruarc stepped in and said hesitantly, "I'm doing some business, you know, and I need your help." They stood in a small alcove that served to deflect the cold air in the wintertime. Three of the four surrounding walls had doors leading inside and the fourth side opened onto a stairwell going both up and down. "Tell me what you need," Karanat said. "I'm in the ale business, you know." Ruarc leaned back against the closed door to the outside, his nails tapping rhythmically against it. His voice was unexpectedly deep for one so young, his only attractive quality. Karanat stared at him, knowing that the nail-tapping was an outward manifestation of the fear in which Ruarc held him. "Good. I'm glad you're doing something worthwhile," he said, wondering what Ruarc had come about that he was so nervous. "Business going well?" The tapping increased in tempo and then stopped. Ruarc swallowed and said hurriedly, "Yes, of course." The tapping commenced again, slowly this time, and he said, "Well, one of my suppliers ... That doesn't matter. See, I need you to introduce me to a potential buyer." "You're serious." Karanat was surprised. It seemed that Ruarc was really working hard in his business. After Ruarc's father had died, Ruarc had come up with one insane scheme after another to make money. Unfortunately, he was somewhat gullible, which led him into situations that resolved themselves into a loss, rather than a gain. First he had decided he would buy horse droppings from the stables near the Shattered Spear and sell it for building fires. Of course, he had not realized that horse droppings had to be dried in the sun before they could be sold for that purpose, not to mention the fact that only the poorer folk would buy it since it gave off such a noxious stench. His next idea had been to collect the dogs and cats that ran loose in the city and sell them to people as pets. Needless to say, he had been bitten by the dogs and the cats, and one young woman had hit him with an umbrella because she thought he was ill-treating the animals. Finally, he had topped all his foolish ideas by getting caught trying to steal from an old, blind woman who sold flowers at the marketplace. He had claimed he was helping her sell the flowers, but even his family had found that difficult to believe. Now, if he was actually doing something realistic and was working at it, Karanat felt bound to help him for his aunt's sake. "You've actually bought and sold ale?" he asked. Ruarc smiled sheepishly and nodded. "Yes. One of my suppliers told me that Burian buys a lot of ale, and he said that he's Einar's son, so I figured you'd know him and so I came here, thinking that you'd introduce me," he paused for breath, and Karanat swallowed a smile at the way the younger man had run his sentences together. "Of course I'll introduce you. Come on." Karanat turned and led the way up the stairwell. At the top, it widened into an open area large enough for three men to stand facing each other. There was a door each on either side of the stairs, and a skylight on the ceiling let in sunshine. Karanat knocked on the door on the left side. Later that afternoon, Ludovic stumbled and cursed under his breath, breathing heavily because he was weighed down with a rather large dog. He stood in the front yard of a cottage on the outskirts of Dargon, his progress impeded by the large number of creatures that surrounded him: three dogs, no less than five cats, an awkward-looking animal with sharp teeth and pointed muzzle reminiscent of a fox, all led by an enormous pig that looked as if it were the doyen of the front yard. On the far side was a small shed, and as he looked up, the door abruptly swung open and hit against the wall. A woman emerged. Short and dumpy, she looked like a brown mouse: brown hair tied back efficiently in a pony-tail, brown eyes, brown tunic, and brown breeches. "Iolanthe --" "Not another dog," she said, scowling as she approached. "I found a kid drowning him. He's hurt. Come and look." Ludovic turned away to go to the cottage, and she came quickly, overtaking him and holding the door open for him. He laid the dog on a table that was kept for exactly such a purpose. "Look at those cuts! Hope you belted the boy," she muttered, picking up a small bottle of herbs. "I wanted to, but I had to take care of the dog first," Ludovic said, bringing her a small cup of water from the pot next to the table. He began to mix the poultice as she examined the dog. Iolanthe was a healer, and she helped people in exchange for food or supplies. But she was very good with animals, and every stable-master in the city knew her. When Ludovic had met her, she had helped him with a hurt dog that subsequently died. But Ludovic was convinced that the two of them shared the same passionate desire to help animals. She never asked him for money for anything other than medicinal supplies, although he was paying the rent for the cottage. "Get the cora," she said, her eyes on a large cut on the dog's left foreleg. Ludovic unerringly picked up a small container from the opposite shelf and opened it. "You're almost out of it." "I'm out of money," Iolanthe said. "Each time you bring me another animal, but not more money. Actually, I don't want money. Let me tell you the supplies I need, and you can buy them for me." Ludovic handed her the small container and then approached the fireplace to make up the fire to warm the poultice. "Yes, well, I thought I'd win last night at the Serpent, but I didn't. I did get ten Cues out of Father, though. That should do you for a while." Ludovic gambled at the Inn of the Serpent to pay for all the animals he tried to help; he won a lot, but occasionally he did lose. "I'm thinking of selling the pig," she responded. "Sell him, why? He's a good pig; he's no trouble to you. And you know they'll just kill him to eat." Ludovic frowned as he carefully stirred the warming mixture. "Come on, Iolanthe, please. You know he's a sweet pig," he begged. She chuckled softly. "Mmm, that's the problem: it's a he. If he were a sow, I could breed her. Ludovic, this is the city, you know, and I'm not a farmer." He rose and brought her the warm mixture for the poultice. "Careful, it's hot," he cautioned and turned away to pick up fabric pieces for the bandage. "Mmm," was the only response. Ludovic watched as she patted the herbs onto the cuts with the small ladle. She gestured and he slid the fabric piece underneath the limb and tied it off neatly. "I'm going to have to go away for a while soon, Ludovic," Iolanthe murmured, patting the bandage and checking his fastenings. "When? And for how long?" She had occasionally disappeared for a while, and Ludovic had begged Karanat to take care of his animals, since he could not stay away from home. "I'll be leaving in about ten days, but I'm not sure how long I'll be gone. Two sennights. Maybe a month." "A month?" Ludovic straightened. "But Iolanthe, what about these animals? Who's going to take care of them?" Iolanthe said slowly, "You have to get Karanat to live here until I get back. Or we could just let them loose." "Loose in the city?" Ludovic sighed. "The shadow boys will stone the poor dogs; someone will slaughter the pig for pork, and who knows what will happen to the cats?" In Dargon, youngsters without a home who were thieves and robbers and worse besides were commonly referred to as shadow boys. She did not reply and after a moment, he sighed again. "Oh, straight, I'll talk to Karanat." Night had fallen, and Raizel swore under her breath as she evaded the wandering hands of Burian, making sure she didn't lose her grip on the tray of drinks she held. Burian was a frequent customer at Inn of the Serpent and his wealth made him a favored patron with the owner, Ballard Tamblebuck, a tall man who seemed rotund because of his bald pate and large belly. "Raizel, c'mon," Burian drawled. "Come sit here for a moment," he patted his thigh, spreading his legs wide so that she had to take two steps away to walk around him. He resembled his brother, Ludovic, greatly; they were, after all, twins. The difference between the two in physical appearance was slight. Burian's eyes were red-rimmed, with bags underneath, lending him a faint air of debauchery, and an element of danger clung to him: it was that which had first attracted Raizel to him. "I'm busy," she said briefly, placing a mug before him before moving on. Having met him when she started work at the Serpent, she had developed a fondness for the man, a thing she herself could not understand. It vexed her when he got drunk; always difficult, Burian was more so when inebriated. Also,it had been a busy evening and her patience was at an ebb. She reached the hardwood bar and placed her tray on the counter. "I need two ales for the carders and another rum for that merchant." The carders were a group of serious gamblers who played cards at the inn every day. Tamblebuck had three tables set up for them near the far wall opposite the staircase. "You can go, Raizel," Tamblebuck offered. "Things are slowing down." Raizel liked him; she thought he was a good man, because he took care of his waitresses. Even though he hired them for their pretty looks, he made sure that customers did not cross the line with the girls. "But the carders'll be here awhile yet," Raizel objected. "It's okay; I'll take care of 'em. You look tired. Go." She smiled her thanks and hurried to the back of the inn to the kitchen. Deserae, Ballard's daughter, had made stew for the evening and Raizel wanted something to eat before she left. There was no one in the kitchen and Raizel helped herself. She placed her bowl on the table and turned to get some mead to drink, when a hand slipped around her waist. "Hmph. Who -- let me go!" Burian leered down at her, the crinkled lines at the side of his eyes widening and the dark bags under his eyes lightening as he smiled down at her. The smell of liquor wafted from him as he spoke. "Come on, Raizel, be nice. Raizel, Raizel, Raizel," he murmured. "Give us a kiss, sweet Raizel, pretty rose." "Not now, Burian. I'm tired and I'm hungry," Raizel objected, waving her hand with the mug. She knew he liked her very much, and, Ol help her, she liked him as well. The truth was that she had ignored her own rules and indulged in bed-play with him, even though she knew several reasons against it. Her own brother would half-kill her if he found out she was bedding Burian, not because he happened to work for Burian, but because Burian was promiscuous in the extreme. "Just a kiss, just a kiss," Burian said in a sing-song voice, ignoring her words. He bent his head toward hers, and she began to struggle. But Burian, apparently experienced at subduing unwilling women, held her wrists and pushed her backwards. With no other choice, she moved until she hit the wall. The next instant his mouth was upon hers. Raizel concentrated on fighting back, whimpering. She tried to move her hands, but they were still imprisoned. Her legs! The next instant, she kneed him, not too hard, but just enough to make him release her. He gasped, stepping backwards, and then sat down on the floor. "Harlot! What did you do that for?" he asked, with a hangdog look in his eyes. "I am not a harlot," Raizel said sharply, breathing heavily. "When I say not now, I mean not now. I'm tired, Burian, and I'm not in the mood for your bed games right now." She knew at some level that nothing would have happened that she didn't want; yet a tendril of fear had uncoiled in her stomach when he had held her hands immobile. "Raizel, all I was trying to do was kiss you," he said, smiling up at her with a hint of pain in his expression. "Really. I wouldn't have done anything else, I swear, Raizel. You know that, don't you?" He stared at her and then said with surprise in his voice, "You were scared. But Raizel, why? I wouldn't have done anything to hurt you, my sweet. You know that, don't you?" His voice rose as he repeated the question. "Hasn't anyone ever said 'no' to you, Burian?" Raizel went to the table and sat down abruptly. "Of course I was scared, you dolt!" She sighed heavily, feeling the fear recede as quickly as it had come. "Don't call me 'dolt'," he said almost absently. "Come on, Raizel, it'll be fun. After all, it's the first day of Firil. How can you not lie with me on the first day of Firil?" Raizel snapped, "Yes, and tomorrow's the second of Firil and the day after that's the third. That's no reason." "Yes, but you're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. Those blue eyes, like little sapphires, that red curly hair, like thick ropes of carnelian, those white teeth, like a strand of --" "Stop, stop." She laughed, and was conscious of surprise that she could laugh when she had been so scared just a few moments past. "I bet you say that to every girl you want to lie with." Raizel spooned some stew into her mouth, reflecting that Burian's father being a gem-merchant had impacted even his speech: his compliments were studded with precious stones. "I always stop when a pretty girl tells me to," Burian grinned at her lasciviously. "Yes, when you're sober. Listen, Burian, if you do that to me one more time, I swear I'll tell Ballard and he won't let you in here ever again. Do you understand?" "I'm sorry. Forgive me, Raizel," he pouted at her like a little boy, and she laughed. He took that to indicate she had and rose from the ground to sit next to her on the bench, sliding his arm around her waist. She leaned against him, enjoying the feel of his body against hers. Around the fourth bell of the same night, Ludovic sat in his room, staring upwards blindly at the ceiling. He was drunk and he knew it, having deliberately shunned sobriety. "Another glass," he drawled. "Pour me another." "You should not have any more. Else tomorrow you will have a sore head," his companion said dispassionately, pouring a glass of whiskey and handing it to him. Ludovic took a swallow of the rum and asked, "Why me?" He knew he was wallowing in self-pity but could not bring himself to stop. "Will you not tell me what's wrong?" There was a gentle note in Karanat's gruff voice, and Ludovic sighed. The two of them were in Ludovic's room, which was a large one. The wall directly opposite the door sported twin windows, which, along with the skylight, provided air and light. A large bed with rich, dark blue coverlets sat against one wall, and a fireplace was directly opposite. Some furniture was tastefully arranged around the fireplace: a small couch, a center-table and two deeply stuffed armchairs, a special coming-of-age gift from Einar. Ludovic lounged in one of them, his feet up on the table, and Karanat sat straight-backed in the other, no easy accomplishment in a seat made for comfort. "My friend, Father has arranged a wedding. For me." There was a silence and Ludovic lowered his eyes from the skylight to gaze at the other man. "What? No answer?" He sighed again. "Of course. What could you possibly say?" Then he put his feet down on the floor with a thump and sat up. "Well, Karanat, do I get married? To a woman? Say something!" He threw his glass into the fireplace. It crashed into innumerable pieces with a satisfying sound. Ludovic wished he had something else to throw into the fire, like his father's head ... No, it would be much more satisfying to throw his brother's head into the fireplace. Karanat rose and went to the window, still silent. "Nothing to say?" Ludovic mocked. "Never mind, I do. Ludovic, son of Einar, married to Jessamina, daughter of Udele." He threw back his head and laughed. When the paroxysm subsided, there was a single tear in the corner of one eye. He slapped it away with a quick gesture. "Poor Jessamina. Even Burian would make a better husband than I." "Do you want to say no?" Ludovic grabbed the jug and poured into the remaining glass. "Hah! The man is not a statue; he speaks." He lifted the glass and swallowed. "What do you think? Father has sworn to disown me if I refuse. He promised to make me his heir, after the wedding." Anger swept through him again and he lifted his arm to throw the glass into the fireplace. "Don't. I will not go downstairs to get another glass for you," Karanat said evenly, without turning from the window. "Do you need to inherit?" "What kind of a question is that, Kar? Coragen waits in silence for payment only because he thinks I'm Einar's heir. What would I be if my legs were broken? Think, Kar. Me, handsome Ludovic, brown hair, brown eyes, oh, wait, did I forget to mention he's a cripple?" In the past, when Einar had refused to provide funds for Ludovic to gamble with, he had nonchalantly borrowed money from a man named Coragen; his debts had caught up with him when the man had threatened to "do him wrong" if the money was not repaid. Ludovic had wondered what it meant, but had heard stories of people who owed Coragen money disappearing forever. Karanat turned sharply from the window and stepped towards the armchairs. "Stop it, Ludo. Grow up. I've told you often enough not to gamble with the carders but you did and you still do. What did you think was going to be the result? And as for the marriage," he paused until he reached Ludovic and stared down, "you have to do what you need to." "But I don't want to. And if it weren't for Burian, I wouldn't have to." Ludovic brooded upon the injustice of having a twin. No one knew who was older, Ludovic or his twin Burian, so the heir was Einar's choice. Ludovic needed to be heir because of his gambling debts, but the price of that was steep indeed: it was marriage to Jessamina. He writhed in his armchair, anger and frustration warring within him as he contemplated that cost. "No!" If Burian were not around, there would be no choice for Einar but to choose Ludovic. He smiled. That meant that he would not have to pawn his soul to become heir. "Kar, you've got to help me." "What are you planning to do?" "If I were to arrange things so that Burian is disgraced, Father would have no choice -- he'd have to choose me," he muttered, thinking hard. "What if -- no, that wouldn't work, girls wouldn't work. Father knows already. It has to be something like cheating -- what if I challenge him to a game? I can make it look like --" "Ludovic!" "What?" Ludovic brought his gaze to the other man. "Ludo, that's wrong!" Karanat stared at him unblinkingly. Ludovic met the steadfast gaze and sighed. "You're right. Straight, I won't do anything wrong. Satisfied?" When Karanat nodded, a slight smile on his face, Ludovic added, "But that doesn't mean I won't take advantage of anything he does." Two days later, Burian sat silently, waiting for Ruarc. When the latter had met Burian, he had provided a taste of the Beinisonian ale that he wanted to sell. Once Burian had tasted it, he coveted it. Since Einar refused to pay for what he termed excesses, Burian had come up with a way out: he took what he needed, preferably without the insignificant little detail of payment. And so Burian had been forced to create a small masquerade. "How do I look, Donato?" he asked his manservant. He patted the dirty white beard that he had stuck on with the other's help. The two men sat in a small room in a lodging house situated on a small alley off Ramit Street. The house belonged to an old woman who let out the rooms on the upper floor. Upon Burian's request, Donato had managed to acquire the use of this room for the latest activity. The room itself was sparsely furnished, with a shelf against one wall, a bed, a desk and one chair. "Just take care that the beard doesn't fall off," Donato responded. He was a very good-looking man, with hazel eyes and a neatly trimmed red-blond beard. He was taller than Burian as well, by the length of one finger. "And be sure to talk softly. If you speak loudly, Ruarc may recognize your voice." There was a knock that signaled the start of the play, and Donato slipped under the cot to hide. Burian rose and went to open the door. Ruarc entered. "You must be Ruarc, that Burian said would come to me," Burian said, trying hard to prevent the excitement he felt from creeping into his voice. "Yes. Are you the alchemist?" Ruarc asked. Burian remembered thinking when he had first met Ruarc that the other's voice was unexpectedly deep and hoped that he himself would not be recognized. "Mmm." Burian nodded, mentally chuckling at the thought that Ruarc had swallowed the disguise. "Can you make ale stronger? I heard you could," Ruarc said eagerly. "Who told you that?" Burian asked. "Burian?" "Yes, yes, he did. Can you?" Burian chuckled aloud. His mouth watered as he thought of the ale that was the prize for his acting. He had tasted it, and it was, in his opinion, divine. And soon, it was going to be his. "Yes, I can," he said. But the price is high, very high." "How much?" Burian could not believe that he had found someone so gullible as to believe that he could change the potency of ale by muttering a few incantations. He said, "Twenty Sovs." "What? But -- but I can't. I don't have that much money," Ruarc almost wailed. "Can't you do it for less? I have a buyer for the ale already. I'm Burian's friend and he gave me your name. Can't you do it for less, please?" Burian chuckled silently. His plan was working even better than he had thought. He'd planned to take the ale from Ruarc, but it appeared that he would be getting twenty Sovereigns as well. "Very well. Since you're Burian's friend, I'll do it for less. Now, come back tomorrow with the money." "But the ale --" Ruarc began. "All you have to do is tell me where you're storing it. I'm going to prepare some herbs and I will go myself --" Ruarc interrupted him, "I can't let you go by yourself. What if ..." "What if what?" Burian asked, allowing a note of anger to enter his soft voice. I have to say some incantations over the ale. If you are present, it will ruin the alchemy." "Fine, fine," Ruarc muttered as he handed a small pouch. Burian chuckled gleefully as he watched the retreating back of the poor sod. That afternoon, Donato stared down dispassionately at Burian, who sat with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He disliked the man he served, or rather, he disdained the man he served, for Burian had more vices than two average men combined. Yet serve he did, because his wage was excellent. "You're lying, you dog." Burian threw the glass at Donato, who stepped aside with the ease of long practice. They were in Burian's rooms which were similar to Ludovic's, except that the windows faced the opposite direction. Both chambers had been furnished identically by Einar for his sons. "'tis the truth. The bride is Jessamina, daughter of Udele and Ingmar Mercer." Donato felt a moment of glee as he said it, knowing that it would only enrage Burian further. "Daughter of Father's whore? Makes sense to me now." Burian looked at his hand, wondering where the glass had gone, and then looked around vaguely. Donato poured another glass of whiskey and handed it to Burian. "Ludovic will be named heir after the marriage." Donato knew his statement would raise the other's anger to its zenith, but there was nothing else to say. "It can't be. I am the heir," Burian shouted. Donato winced but remained silent, knowing from experience that Burian did not conduct conversations with his manservant; he conducted diatribes that usually ended in instructions accompanied by a payment -- the odder the request, the larger the payment. Donato wondered what he would be asked to do this time. "What will become of me if Ludovic inherits?" Burian swallowed the contents of the entire glass in one gulp. "I will stop this. I must stop this." "It will not be possible to stop the wedding," Donato said indifferently. "The ceremony will be held at a church of the bride's choosing --" "If that girl has a choice in the matter, I'll eat my tunic," Burian interrupted. "Udele will be arranging it. Do you know what church she's chosen?" "I repeat, the wedding cannot be stopped. Mistress Udele will be arranging the ceremony, and it will not be possible to do anything to stop it." Burian prowled about the room like a caged cheetar, and Donato wondered what he was planning. "Shuul-damned Ludovic!" Burian swore. "I will kill him, if that's the way to stop the wedding. I should be marrying that girl, whoever she is." Donato was silent, and Burian turned on him. "What? You don't think so?" His thoughts apparently jumped to another issue and he said broodingly, "Father and his precious, precious Ludovic. If only Ludovic wasn't here, then Father would have no choice but to name me heir." He continued to pace, chanting, "Ludovic, Ludovic, Ludovic. May Saren's own curse fall on him." He reached the table and extended his hand toward Donato, who filled the glass silently and observed the rich, young man. Burian stared down at the brown liquid in his glass. "If only Ludovic were not here ..." His voice trailed off and he took another swig from his glass. "If only." He laughed aloud, and Donato stared at him, knowing that Burian had reached some conclusion in his mind; Donato knew him that well. "I have a plan," Burian said, eyes twinkling. "I think I'll do something so bad that Ludovic will be punished." He threw back his head and laughed again. "Donato, I need you to steal for me one of Ludovic's knives. Can you do that?" He looked at his manservant's expressionless face and then turned and went to the dresser against the wall. Opening a drawer, he pulled out a small pouch with coins in it. Opening it, he removed some of the coins, pulled the ties tight and then threw the pouch carelessly behind him. It landed with a clink on the floor a short distance away from Donato. Burian turned and said, "Oh, that's for you. Steal me a knife, and I'll get Father's sympathy and put that thrice-cursed Ludovic in gaol at the same time." And he proceeded to explain his plan with many chuckles. The following day, Francesa climbed the stairs that led to Ludovic's and Burian's rooms, and being a buxom and somewhat heavy woman, she found this to be a rather difficult exercise. When a young man exited a door to the right of the stairs, she stopped at the top step and asked him breathlessly, "Are you Burian?" "No, I'm Ludovic. Those are Burian's rooms," Ludovic pointed to the door across the landing, to the left of the staircase. Francesa stared and wondered. Her nephew, Karanat, worked for Einar but he was manservant to Ludovic; some said more than just manservant. Ludovic seemed to be a perfectly ordinary young man, just a little taller than her, of medium build, with brown hair. But she decided that he did have beautiful eyes: they were honey-colored and dominated the rest of his very ordinary features. "--stress? Mistress?" Francesa brought her wandering wits back and saw the look of concern on Ludovic's face. "It's okay, boy," she said gently. "I wasn't paying attention." "I'm sorry, mistress, is there something I can help you with? It's close to the sixth bell of the day and Burian ..." Ludovic's voice trailed off. "Don't worry about it," she said, thinking what nice manners the boy had. "I have to talk to him, that's all. Why don't you run along?" He gave her a quizzical look but went obediently down the stairs, and she realized she'd treated him exactly the way she treated Karanat. No wonder he'd looked puzzled. Francesa chuckled silently before turning to knock on the door. After the second knock, there was a loud crash from inside and then a shout for whoever it was to come in. Francesa entered, looking about her. To her left there was a large bed against the wall and to her right there was a small fireplace with a couch and chairs arranged around it. On the wall directly across from the door were two windows. It was a beautiful room, with a nice carpet, Francesa noted, in a deep purple color. There was a tapestry too, above the bed: a seascape depicting a ship tossed about on the sea like marbles in the hand of a boy. "Who are you?" She stared at the man who was the cause of her disaster. Her heart almost misgave her, for he looked exactly like Ludovic, but as he stepped closer, her heart hardened. His eyes were sunken and red-rimmed with dark bags underneath them; they bore no resemblance to the luminous brown of his brother's. "Woman, I'm asking you a question. Who the fark are you?" And he had not one jot of his brother's manners, Francesa decided. "Burian?" "Yes, yes, I'm Burian. You're in my rooms. Now, for the last time, who are you?" He advanced closer to her, and the smell of liquor wafted to her nose. "I'm Ruarc's mother," she said quietly. Burian stared at her for what seemed to be a very long time before he began to chuckle. "She says she's Ruarc's mother. He went and complained to his mother! Oh, this is a rich jest," he threw his head back, still laughing. Francesa waited until his mirth began to wane before she spoke. "Burian, you were the alchemist weren't you? Answer me!" "Yes, yes, I was. A priceless joke, to be sure. Ruarc was there, and he didn't recognize me, and the mother recognizes me from just listening to the story," he was still chuckling. "Burian, you took all the ale without paying Ruarc for it, and not only that, you took twenty Sovs from him when you were dressed up as the alchemist. Why?" Francesa could feel her ire rising as she remembered what had happened. He replied, "Why did I do it? Because I could, old woman, because I could. Ruarc is a codless idiot, that's what he is. What do you want, anyway? Where's Donato? I can't believe you just came up here." "I came up here, Burian, to ask you to do the right thing and give back the money. You can keep the ale, as far as I'm concerned; maybe that'll be a good lesson for Ruarc. But the money is mine. Ruarc stole it from my chest when I was sleeping. Burian, it's an old woman's savings; give it back, please?" Burian only laughed harder. When none of Francesa's appeals had any effect, she switched to threats. "I'll tell the guard. They'll make you give it back." "Try. I'm a rich merchant's son, old woman. And Ruarc is already well-known to the guard. Now, didn't he get caught for trying to steal from that old, blind woman who has a stall in the market square? What's her name again?" Burian laughed some more. "I don't remember her name, but what does that matter? I bet the guard knows her name ... and Ruarc's name." Francesa stared at him, feeling her hopes of getting her life savings back dwindle and wither away like a rose bush without water. For the first time, she could feel every day of her life weighing on her and she turned silently to leave. Burian said to her back, with a laugh in his voice, "On your way out, tell Donato to come up here, will you? Oh, and tell him to bring some of that wonderful new ale I acquired." That night, Donato entered Ludovic's room silently. As manservant to Burian, he had no right to be in Ludovic's room. He moved silently toward the dresser in the corner, even though he knew no one would be on this floor that night. Ludovic was gambling at the Serpent, like he usually did; Karanat had gone off to visit his family; and Burian, well, even if Burian did catch him in Ludovic's room, he was unlikely to be upset, since it was he who had asked Donato to misappropriate this particular item. Burian's room was furnished identically to Ludovic's, so Donato knew exactly where everything was. Nochturon's light shone through the large windows and he was able to see what he wanted when he opened the top drawer. It was a knife that belonged to Ludovic, an ornamental knife, to be sure, but sharp nonetheless. About two hands long, the hilt took up little less than half the length. The handle had what appeared to be silver stretched across in thin lines, allowing the leather underneath to show through like latticework. At every point where the silver lines crossed, there was a tiny gem. Donato hefted the knife and was surprised to find that the ornamentation had not weighted it too much. The balance was surprisingly good for a bejeweled knife. No wonder Ludovic liked it so much. Karanat, Ludovic's manservant and companion, had gifted the knife to him, and Donato was sure it had cost him a lot. Briefly he wondered how the other man had been able to afford it, a mystery that he would never know the answer to. He returned to Burian's room and placed the knife on top of his dresser where Burian would be sure to see it. Donato knew that Burian hated his twin and planned something that would discredit Ludovic. While he had no personal loyalty to Burian like Karanat had towards Ludovic, he was well paid. And that was all that mattered. ======================================================================== A Matter of Faith Part 2 by Nicholas Wansbutter Mertz, 1009 Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 15-3 Lev prodded a mud-covered pig with his walking stick and with a squeal it scurried away from the gutter in which it had been so interested. Now that the swine was out of the way, Prior Yaroslav was able to kneel down next to a man propped up against a timber-framed house. The alley in which he lay reeked of excrement. "Thank, you, Lev," Yaroslav said as he placed a hand on the man's shoulder. The man's skin was clammy and his face contorted with pain as he clutched his stomach. "C-could you please give me something to drink?" the man whispered, his voice ragged. "Yes," Yaroslav nodded and put a comforting hand on the man's shoulder. When he looked up at Lev, his face was sombre rather than smiling as it usually was. "Lev, could you pass me some of the sage and verbana drink?" "Of course, reverend sir," Lev said, moving towards Yaroslav with the waterskin in hand. Yaroslav was the leader of the group of Cyruzhians who were visiting Dargon, and second only to the abbot of Lev's home monastery in authority. Lev knew that if anyone did, Yaroslav knew what the best treatment would be for this man. A barking dog suddenly darted out from around a corner and ran right where Lev was about to step. Most of his left side paralysed from when he had received a blow to the head several years ago, so he nearly fell over trying to avoid the creature. He was able to steady himself with his walking stick and hand the waterskin to the prior, however. "Thank you, novice," Yaroslav said. "I am afraid it looks as if this man is afflicted by the same bloody flux that many others in this part of Dargon are suffering from." As Yaroslav poured some of the herbal remedy into a cup, the diseased man spoke again, his voice shakey. "Y-you are monks?" "Yes, Cyruzhians from Fennell Keep," Lev said. The man managed a weak smile, "It figures that in the end I'd -- J'mirg's blood!" He staggered to his feet and ran down the alley to a more private part of the gutter and squated. Once he was done, he fell to the ground exhausted. "He is in a bad way," Prior Yaroslav said. "We had better take him to the monastery. The healers may be able to help him, but I fear we will only be able to make his passing a little more comfortable." Lev nodded. For much of the morning he and his fellow Cyruzhian brothers who were visiting Dargon had been tending to such unfortunates. Few of them had been helped much by the monks' ministrations. "Get Brother Gregory and a few others to help us carry him to the monastery." Yaroslav said. "Yes, reverend sir," Lev said. He shuffled out of the alleyway and back onto Coldwell Street. A man with tattoos on his face and a rough leather jerkin bumped into Lev and almost knocked him over. The street was packed with all manner of people: a much different version of Dargon than Lev had seen last night when he had first arrived in the city. Directly across from him, two men in side-by-side stalls were trying to out shout each other with cries of "hot pies" and "good ale". Not far to Lev's right a peddler was loudly arguing over the price of a magical potion to produce lust with a sailor. In the distance, the large bell on the Harbormaster's Building clanged loudly to announce the passing of another bell. Lev had to sweep aside a few rats with his good foot as he slowly made his way along the muddy street. He could see the white tunics and black robes of some of his brother Cyruzhians not far away, but in this crowd he had no hope of them hearing a shouted summons. The noise in Dargon was one of the differences he noticed most between this place and his home of Fennell Keep. When he had first seen Fennell Keep, Lev could scarce believe that there existed more people in one place than there. Now that he had seen Dargon, he could only shake his head in disbelief that Magnus, the capital of Baranur, held more than twenty times as many people. Eventually Lev made it to the small group of monks who were standing in the shade of the overhanging story of a house. They were putting linseed poultices back into their pouches, after presumably treating sores on the inhabitant of the house. "Brother Gregory," Lev said once he reached the group. "Prior Yaroslav wants us to help carry another one back to the monastery." "You mean, we'll carry him," Gregory scowled. "Not likely you'll do much work." Lev felt his face heat and his muscles tense as they had the previous day when another of the brothers had insulted him. "Do you think I chose to lose the use of my left side?" "I'm sorry," Brother Gregory said. "It's been a long day and I am tired." Lev nodded. He should not have gotten so angry, but lately such emotions had come to him very swiftly. Lev felt a little weak now that the moment had passed. He followed his brothers into the alley where Prior Yaroslav was waiting. The young, healthy monks picked the man up and carried him while Lev and Prior Yaroslav followed not far behind. After leaving the man in the care of the healers in Dargon Abbey, they returned to north-eastern part of the city near the docks. They took to Coldwell Street, and as the sixth bell of day tolled, Lev found himself in a part of vicinity of the Shattered Spear. Here, he and his brothers under the Prior Yaroslav had spent the previous night. Lev shivered involuntarily as he recalled that rain-filled evening when he had awakened to the weeping of a young girl who worked at the inn. Samara, he remembered her name was. He felt his heart throb in pity for the girl who worked as a prostitute and had become pregnant as a result. Lev wondered if he would be able to recognise her should he see her again, as it had been very dark last night and he had caught but a glimpse of her face. Prior Yaroslav bade the group stop. "You've worked hard and well today, brothers. Let us take a few menes of rest." They sat down on an number of empty wine casks by the side of the inn and let the breeze cool them in the shade of the building's overhanging upper stories. Prior Yaroslav sat on the same cask as Lev, while the other brothers sat a few feet away, chatting amongst themselves. "So, Lev," Prior Yaroslav said. "I noticed that you left our company last night." "Reverend sir, I am truly sorry." "No apologies, Lev," the prior said. "I seek merely to help." "I thank you, reverend sir," Lev said. "For indeed, I think I am out of my depth." He then related the story of his encounter with the girl the night before, beginning with when he had first heard her weeping outside the window under which had he slept, even including their embrace and his shocking feelings towards her. The prior nodded several times before speaking. "You have done well, my son, and I think that only you can help this girl. But tread carefully. I too, once felt the desires of coming manhood. You must be ever vigilant of your vows." "Yes, of course, reverend sir," Lev lowered his head in embarrassment. "I often wish that my body were not so ..." "It is nothing to be ashamed of, Lev," Yaroslav consoled, resting a hand on Lev's shoulder. "It is natural, but also distracting, which is why it is both a great and necessary sacrifice for devotion as a Cyruzhian brother." The door to the inn opened, and one of the serving girls emerged. As with the others who worked there, she wore neither veil nor wimple, and her golden locks shone brightly in the sun. The seductive sway of her hips was not lost on Lev as she carried a bucket of dirty water towards the gutter. As she turned to pour it out, Lev was able to see her face in profile, and he caught his breath. "Is that the girl you met last night?" Prior Yaroslav whispered. Lev nodded. "Go talk to her. I will keep an eye out from nearby." With that he got up and left, and Lev was left alone with Samara. At least to him it seemed that way, despite the fact that the street was filled with people. A little unsteadily, he got off his perch on the wine cask, and clutching his wooden staff, moved towards the girl. As he neared her, she looked up with her large blue eyes and made as if to avoid him. When he called out her name, she stopped and turned toward him. "Do I know you, brother?" she asked. Her face showed signs that she had been crying the night before, as they were pink and puffy, yet Lev could think of nothing save how beautiful she was. Given more than a fleeting moment to see her face, he took careful note of the heart-shaped face framed by long blonde hair, small lips like roses, and those large, watery eyes of sky blue. "Well, yes," he said. "Uh ... last night --" "Lev?" her eyes grew wide in surprise. "You're one of the monks from the abbey?" "Well, no," Lev shuffled his feet in discomfort. "I'm not a monk yet. I'm still a novice, and I'm from Fennell Keep ..." "I see," Samara said, and began walking towards the Shattered Spear once again. Lev noted a strange edge to her voice, but he could not decide what it was. Perhaps she was angry at him, but he could think of no reason why. He hastened after her, seeing that she had darted into the alley where they had met the night before. "Samara?" he cautiously rounded the corner, to find her bent over with sickness. Not knowing what to do, he patted her on the back. "Please hold my hair," she managed between heaves. Lev complied, and after a few moments the bout of sickness seemed to have passed, though she was a little more pale than before. Lev offered her some wine which he carried in a skin that hung from his belt. "Thank you," Samara mumbled. "I have to get back to work." "Yes, of course," Lev said, taking the wineskin back from her. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to ..." "No," Samara said, "I appreciate that you're trying to help me, but --" The words caught in her throat as the two of them exited the alley and emerged onto the street. Lev did not know what might be amiss. All he noticed was a rather large priest ambling up to them. To call him large was an understatement, and seeing his fleshy jowls and immense girth, Lev's initial pleasure at seeing a fellow man of the cloth cooled quickly. Adhering to an austere lifestyle as the Cyruzhians did, they bore a quiet resentment towards such worldly clerics. What proper man or woman of God feasted while others around them starved, especially in so wretched an area as this? The fat priest seemed cheerful enough as he approached, however. "Good morrow to you, brother." Lev nodded in acknowledgement of the greeting. "And to you, father." "You must be among those from Fennell Keep, for I do not recognise you," the fat man said. "That is correct," Prior Yaroslav said as he approached the priest. "I am Prior Yaroslav. This is one of the novices from my order, and you?" "I serve a parish not far from here," the priest tactfully evaded the prior's question. "And I often come to the Shattered Spear in my free bells to ... to spread the Stevene's Light." "Indeed," Yaroslav said. "Then I wish you well. I must myself be off to join my brothers and so must this young novice." Lev saw Samara flinch when Yaroslav said that. A suspicion was starting to form in the back of Lev's mind that all was not as it seemed. The thought was elusive, though, and Lev could not tell what exactly was wrong. He was disquieted nonetheless. He also noticed that the obese cleric was eyeing Samara with an odd glint in his eye. Over the next several days, Lev and Samara met often, and the young monk did his best to counsel the unfortunate girl. She spoke often of wanting to end the pregnancy, but Lev argued vehemently against it, for he was sure no good could come of it. What troubled Lev more than Samara's desire to kill her child were the feelings that he had developed for her. His physical attraction to her had been intense from his first meetings with her, but as they spoke every day, he could sense something deeper forming. It was more than friendship, for he had known many such relationships in his time. This was much different; every time he saw her, his heart would flutter, and a smile would force his lips apart. He was excited by her every touch and her every word. He felt shame that as a monk he would allow himself to feel this way, and pushed the feelings deep, refusing to admit what they really were. This particular day, they sat in the gardens of the Dargon abbey, resting in the warming rays of a midday sun. In order that he might spare Samara the ravages of lustful customers, Lev had obtained permission from Prior Yaroslav and the abbot to hire the girl for a few bells using the monastery's funds. Even so, Lev could not help but feel that she was not entirely free of any 'lustful customers'. Whenever he was around her, he felt light-headed and flushed. Even now, as he sat next to her on a bench in a monastery garden, she entranced him. He stared at her neck; the skin there was so smooth. It was a beautiful shade of pink. Lev desperately wanted to kiss her there, take her into his arms and -- "Lev?" Samara said. "Huh?" Lev was startled by the voice, and had to take a few moments to realise where he was. "I mean ... yes?" "What were you thinking about? You looked very far away, just then." "Oh, I ... uh ..." Lev said, thinking quickly for a suitable answer. "I cannot understand how brothels exist, in truth I don't. Liriss is not a lord to whom you owe fealty and you are not a slave, yet men buy you as they might a hot meat pie from a street corner vendor." "It is not as simple as you make it sound," Samara said, her eyes cast towards the ground as they always were whenever conversation moved to her occupation. "It is true that Liriss does not own me, that I could leave his employ should I so choose ... I am ashamed of myself that I cannot. I have no husband, no skills of my own, and I have not the courage to risk life as a beggar." Lev nodded, and felt acutely guilty for making Samara feel badly. Obviously the first thing that came to mind was not the right thing to say. "Is it thus for all of those at the Shattered Spear?" "No," Samara shook her head, "some of the women are truly wantons. You musn't be lulled into the trap of thinking we are all forced ..." "All the same," Lev said, "you should not feel shame, for *you* have been forced into this, and I understand why you cannot leave. But listen to the Stevene's Third Law: The sexual act is a sacrament. It is a holy gift of pleasure from God. He who violates this gift shall burn, but she who is violated is as pure as before, by My Holy Word. Let none gainsay this decree." "I remember you said that to me the first time we met," Samara looked up now, into Lev's eyes, and a surge of excitement charged Lev's veins. "You're the only person I know who makes me feel like a person, someone worth loving." Lev shifted uncomfortably on the wooden bench, and could feel colour rising in his face. "Well, uh ... as a child of God ..." The edge of Samara's lips quirked up, and she put her hand on Lev's. "You are nothing like any of the Stevenics I've met before. You actually believe in what you say." "What do you mean?" Lev was taken aback by the remark. He often doubted himself that he really believed all that he had been taught. Perhaps, deep down, his faith was stronger than he knew. "I wasn't going to tell you, but ..." she paused, and averted her eyes once again. "At first because I was scared that you'd be the same, then because ... because ..." "Please tell me," Lev said, his voice sounding to him as if it were spoken by someone else. The atmosphere in the abbey garden suddenly changed. The songbird that had been chirping was silent and the air turned cold. Lev feared what he would next hear. "The priest you met outside the Shattered Spear a few days ago," Samara's speech was broken by sobs, and tears began to roll down her cheeks, "He doesn't preach there; he ... he lays with me! Pays a coin just like the rest!" Lev drew back from her in horror. He could not believe what he was hearing. Merciful God, it couldn't be true! But the words poured from her mouth faster and faster, as if a dike had been broken and a river of putrid water were gushing through the hole. "He lays atop me, his flabby fingers clutching at me, bruising me, his vile-smelling breath ..." she grabbed the sleeve of Lev's tunic. "Oh Lev, please don't be mad at me!" When she threw herself onto Lev in a desperate embrace, he could only hug her back, could not even speak. Lev knew that most sects within the Stevenic Church did not share the Cyruzhians' vow of celibacy, took wives and sired children -- but this! Cephas' boot, but this was the most horrible betrayal of the Stevene's Light Lev had ever known! How could such a thing happen? How could such a thing ever be allowed to happen? How could God watch from on high and do nothing? "Worse still," she whispered into his ear, "I am certain that the child I bear is his, for in the last several months he has paid extra to have me saved for him only." "How can this be?" Lev shuddered. How could a servant of God violate holy sacraments thus? And a child born to a prostitute had little hope in life, for who could prove who the father was? "You don't believe me?" Samara drew back quickly. "I do believe you," Lev said. "It's just ... I -- I don't know. A priest? No, it can't be!" "Well, it is!" Samara shouted. "I told you because I thought out of everyone I know, you might understand!" She sprang to her feet and ran out of the garden. Lev tried to get up after her but with his lame left foot, he fell to the ground. The brother that had been keeping an eye on his and Samara's conversation from a short distance away hurried over. "Lev, are you alright?" "I ... don't know," Lev said. Lev sat on that same bench a couple of days later, staring down at the stonework path beneath his feet. He could not keep his hands still; he ran them through his hair, rubbed his face, and played with his tunic. What in God's name had happened with his life? He had not prayed at all in days, his thoughts always on Samara. He would envision her face, her voice ... her body. The thoughts excited him and shamed him at the same time. It wasn't proper to think about someone like that, or was it? What was really wrong with it? But then his thoughts would shift to the fat priest, what he had done with her ... what he might be doing with her that very mene! The fire in Lev's veins changed in quality, and he balled his hands into fists. "Novice Lev?" a soft voice said. Lev looked up to see Prior Yaroslav standing beside the bench. "Reverend sir, thank God ... I don't know who else to talk to!" The prior sat down beside Lev and put a comforting hand on the young novice's shoulder. "Calm yourself, Lev. Tell me what's wrong." Lev chewed at his fingernails nervously, and looked back at the ground. "Well, you remember the girl from the Shattered Spear I told you about ... Samara?" "Yes, I know of her," Yaroslav said. "I also know you have spent a fair bit of time with her lately. I also know where this is probably going." "I feel such strange feelings towards her. They are powerful, too. I ..." Yaroslav nodded knowingly and chuckled. "Believe it or not, I was once your age. I think I have a good idea of how you feel. Would you believe that before I became a Cyruzhian brother I --" "But that's not all," Lev interrupted. "And certainly not the most important." "Oh?" Lev took a deep breath before continuing. "One of her 'customers' is a priest, one of our own. He lies with her, buys her body, and she now carries his child!" Lev could feel his face burning now, and his heartbeat had quickened. Just thinking of the priest filled him with anger. He looked up at Yaroslav, whose face was impassive. "Those are some serious charges, Lev." "You don't believe me?" Lev shouted. "Shhh ..." Yaroslav made placating gestures with his hands. "Be calm. I did not say I did not believe you. In fact, I am rather inclined to believe you. I can guess who the priest might be." "Then what will you do?" "Do?" Yaroslav shifted on the bench. "I cannot do anything. And neither can you." "What?" Lev could hear his own voice rising again, but did not care. "How can we do nothing when something like this is happening? There must be some kind of justice!" "There can be no retribution, if that's what you mean. How can one wrong undo another? The most I could do is talk to the local prelate of that priest's sect. I promise you I will do that much. Though I must admit that I doubt much will come of it. Your charges are purely hearsay." "You'll do that much, will you?" Lev could now feel his anger turning towards Prior Yaroslav. How could the man he respected so much be so indifferent to such evil? "That is nothing! And all the while he -- he ... What of the Third Law?" "And what of the Fourth, brother?" "What of our religion that is supposed to uphold and teach the Stevene's Light?" Lev got up as quickly as he dared, remembering his fall when he tried to follow Samara from this very spot a few days before. Taking his staff, he hobbled away from the prior. "Lev!" Yaroslav called. "Where are you going?" Lev limped as fast as he could through the inner cloister, through the outer, and out into the streets of Dargon. He wanted to scream, to break his staff over someone's head. His whole body was shaking with rage, but he forced himself to calm down and start breathing again. After several moments, his head was more or less clear once again. He looked around at the busy folk of Dargon bustling about, apparently oblivious to his existence. Lev looked pleadingly up to the heavens. No evidence of the sun could be seen behind dark rain clouds. No evidence of God could be seen either, as far as Lev could tell. A man who was supposed to be a servant of God, forcing sex on a girl, and the church that supposedly served the same God looked on blithely as if nothing were amiss? Indifferent? Uncaring? Or worse ... false? Was it all lie? But if so, to what end? Lev turned and looked at the stone edifice from which he had just emerged. It held a lot of rock, but he wondered how much love. Thinking of love, his mind returned to Samara. He had come to the decision that women were the most beautiful creatures in this world, and Samara foremost among them. He had to see her; more importantly, he had to apologise to her for his actions last time he had seen her. Samara sat across from Lev at a table in the Shattered Spear. Her features were passive, her lips held tightly together. Despite the lack of emotion on her face, Lev could see hurt in her eyes. "Lev, I don't really have time to speak with you," she said. "I know, but please listen for just a few moments," Lev said. "I just wanted to apologise for the way I acted the other day. I was caught off ... no. I have no excuses. I was wrong to doubt you at all. I was stupid, blind to the truth because I thought this high-up church I belong to could never be wrong! I was so wrong ..." Tears welled up in Samara's eyes. "Oh, Lev, I'm sorry, too. I should have known --" "No," Lev shook his head. "You did nothing wrong. It was I ... and others. I want to make it right to you. The Cyruzhians, Stevenism, I don't know what anything means any more. I don't think I can stay a part of something that's so hypocritical." "Lev, what are you saying?" "I don't know. All I know is that you mean a great deal to me, and I want to help you in some way. I work in the scriptorium back in Heart's Hope; I could get a job as a notary ..." "You're not thinking of leaving the Cyruzhians, are you?" "Maybe I am," Lev rested his chin in his hand and looked out the window absently. "Maybe I am. Not much has made sense to me since I arrived in Dargon, but just now, leaving this all behind me seems to ..." "Lev, you can't leave the Cyruzhians just for me!" Samara laughed a little and touched Lev's hand. "It means so much to you. I know it does. You've told me so much about your life with them." "What life?" "As you said, working in the scriptorium, even your prayers. You told me about how you --" "I haven't prayed in days." Samara looked down at her stomach. "Is this because you feel guilty over what happened to me? It's not your fault, Lev." No, it wasn't because of that, Lev thought. "It's because I think I'm falling in love with you." He didn't say that out loud, did he? No, apparently not, for Samara's expression was unchanged when he looked away from the window, back at her. He couldn't resist studying her face for a few moments: heart-shaped, framed by golden locks of hair, eyes like the sea ... Samara's hand, which was still over Lev's, suddenly grasped him tightly. Her eyes widened, and the colour drained from her face. Lev slowly turned in his seat, his gaze falling upon a corpulent body clad in priestly robes. Above it, several flabby chins and a smirking mouth. Lev started to feel slightly dizzy as blood rushed to his face and head. "Brother monk," the fat priest said. "What a surprise to see you here. And without another of your order? I'm sure that's not allowed." "What would you know of what's allowed and what's not?" Lev shouted, pulling himself to his feet, using the table as support. His body was trembling, and everything seemed to be slowing down. "I beg your pardon?" the fat priest's jowls jiggled almost comically as he spoke, indignation in his voice. "No, beg *her* pardon!" Lev pointed at Samara. "Why you little codswallop!" Lev stuttered, unable to think of a proper response, and without willing his body into motion, he hit the priest squarely in the mouth. The force of the blow sent both of them sprawling on the floor. "Fight! Fight!" one of the inn's patrons shouted. Lev could hear chairs moving and feet scuffling as everyone scrambled to get a good view. "Ol's balls! They're both Stevenic priests! This'll be good!" Lev scrambled towards the mound of flesh lying on the floor not far away, but was caught by strong arms and pulled to his feet. "Cephas' boot, Lev!" Prior Yaroslav exclaimed. "What are you doing?" "That -- that ...!" Lev shouted, and tried to break free of the prior's grip to attack the priest again, who was struggling to his feet. "Help me with him!" Yaroslav shouted to a couple of Cyruzhian monks who had apparently followed him to the inn. "Lev, this is not helping anyone!" As Lev was dragged from the inn, he looked towards Samara, who was standing beside the table at which they had been sitting. His temper cooled a little and he allowed himself to go limp in his brothers' arms. He kept his eyes on her as long as he could, on her rose-petal lips, her slender body ... and the child that was growing inside it. Rain poured down by the bucketful on Samara's head as she scurried down the darkened alley towards the old woman's house. She did not know the lady's name; in fact, she was sure that few did. Many called the old crone a witch who conspired with evil gods. Some called for her to be cast out of the city. Samara was not certain that they were wrong, for the old woman would help her end an unwanted pregnancy this night. Many would have called such a thing murder, but all the same, Samara knew that she could not have this child. She could not allow Lev to destroy the life that he had with the Cyruzhian monks for her, or this child. More still, she could not give birth to the child of a fat Stevenic priest. She reached a small, dark house that leaned up against the one next to it like a sickened beggar. After glancing about to be sure that no one else was around, she knocked on the rickety door. Without a word, an old crone opened the door and gestured for Samara to enter. The room into which Samara walked was a small, barren place, adorned only by a wooden table that bore several pots of strange smelling herbs, and a bench. "Wait here," the woman said, and promptly vanished into another room. Samara sat down on the bench. She was trembling and clasped her hands together in an effort to keep them still. She wished Lev were there; she always felt safer when he was around. Surely if he were there he'd try to get her to change her mind. He was very kind to her, and handsome in a plain sort of a way. Samara thought that she probably loved him. Part of her wished dearly for him to get a job as a notary and take care of her for all the days of her life. But at the same time, she knew she could not let him throw away such a promising life for her, a common whore. When the old woman returned, she carried with her a small tub which she placed before Samara. The woman disappeared again, this time returning with a steaming bucket of water. She poured it into the tub, then left again. After three pails of hot water had been poured into the container, she took some herbs from the table and dropped them in. As she mixed the contents of the tub, a thick, acrid smell assaulted Samara's nose and made her eyes water. "What is that?" she gasped. "Never mind that," the old woman said, still stirring. "Now off with your shoes, pull up your dress and put your feet in the tub." Samara obeyed, and the instant she placed her feet in the water, screamed with sudden pain. The water was scalding hot. "Shush! Lest the neighbours call the guard!" the old woman scolded, pushing Samara's feet back into the water. "You'll get used to it after a while. Now stand up." As Samara stood she nearly fell over, so great was the pain in her feet. The old woman caught her, however, and held Samara's arms until she was steady enough to stand on her own. The old woman pulled Samara's dress up so that her stomach was exposed, and Samara felt suddenly vulnerable. The fumes from the water burned her nose and throat, and as she looked down she saw that not only her feet, but her legs were turning bright red. "You're boiling me," Samara sobbed. "Pretty much," the old woman said, pouring more hot water into the tub. The menes crept by slowly. As time passed, the pain in Samara's feet and legs eventually gave way to a dull ache, then to numbness. She got used to the smell as well, though tears continued to stream down her face. When she nearly fainted, the old woman gave her a staff to lean on, and added more hot water and herbs to the tub. An entire bell passed -- Samara knew, for she could hear the bells of the Harbormaster's Building clang twice -- and then she finally passed out. She awoke, who knew how much later, to see the old woman spreading some form of salve on her legs and feet. "They'll hurt for a while, but no permanent harm has been done," the old woman said. "And the baby?" Samara said. "You'll know before the sun rises." Lev walked alone down the Street of Travellers, a soft rain slowly soaking through his black cloak. He had snuck away from the group other monks some time ago, but doubted they had noticed he was gone. Not that it mattered -- he would never see them again anyway. He stopped to let a heavily laden cart pass, then continued on his way. Looking down at the ground, he contemplated his plight. The depraved priest, Samara and her child ... he could not understand how God could allow such a situation to be. He could understand less how the church could. Once the doubt had begun to gnaw at his beliefs like rats on a loaf of bread, it did not take long before Lev's faith lay in tatters, like some battle-ravaged banner. He now doubted even the existence of God, but especially the worth of his vows. In all this, the one thing he knew was Samara. He had decided not to fight his feelings, and in giving them free reign, had realised that he had fallen deeply in love with the girl. It mattered not at all to him that she was a prostitute. All that mattered was the way he felt when he was with her, how beautiful she was, and her child. Lev knew that he would love the child for being hers; that lecherous priest be damned! Lev approached the now familiar Shattered Spear, not without a bit of apprehension. What he was about to tell Samara would change his life completely, in such a way that he had never fathomed. Prayers forgotten, he looked only to himself for the courage to travel the next few strides and enter the bawdy tavern. Inside it was loud, as always, and warm with the many bodies packed into the room and the fire raging in the hearth. A small crowd of people exclaimed over a game of chance in one corner of the room, and a group of sailors loudly sang a rather vulgar song. When he could not find Samara, Lev he asked one of the other barmaids who he had met during one of his visits to inn, "Where is Samara?" "I dunno," the girl replied. "She wasn't well this morning. She's probably in the back room." "Why would she be there?" Lev asked. "That's where us girls stay when we're not working." "I see. Where is that?" Lev asked. "I must see her." "I guess there's no harm in it. I've seen you with her before; you seem to be kind to her." She took Lev through the kitchen to a door at the very rear of the inn. "There, she'll be in there." Lev took several deep breaths to calm himself before entering the room. He had decided at last to cast aside his religious vows to be with Samara. He would neither wear the habit of a Cyruzhian monk, nor live in one of their monasteries. With his reading and writing skills, he would have little problem finding a job. He would marry Samara, and they would raise the child together. Thus fortified, he strode forward and opened the door. He closed it gently behind him and called softly, "Samara?" As he scanned the room, his eyes came to rest on a nearby bed. The sheets laying over the straw mattress were soaked in blood. Lev took an uncertain step towards the bed. He dropped his staff and fell to his knees. In the centre of the blood stains lay a tiny shape, smaller than Lev's fist. It was vaguely human shaped. Lev began to sob uncontrollably. He could make out the shape of a tiny human hand sticking in the air as if in a gesture for help. "Oh, God!" Lev cried, as tears began streaming down his face. His vision blurred, and he toppled onto his face. "Oh, God, no!" It could only be Samara's baby that lay on the bed in front of him. He did not know how, but somehow she had miscarried, and now the child lay there dead, not having seen so much as one mene of the sun's light. Lev had been willing to love the child as he loved Samara, to take on the duties of father. He had started to think of it as his own in a small way even. But now ... "Lev?" a weak voice said from a corner of the room. Lev looked up towards the voice. He could not make out details, but saw a shadow huddled in the far corner. The voice had been Samara's, though much weaker than he had ever heard it. He wiped his nose with the sleeve of his tunic and crawled over to her. "Samara?" He tried to brush the tears from his eyes so he could see her, but more came to replace them. "Lev, I'm sorry ..." Lev made it over to her and reached to touch her. She was wet to the touch. Lev pulled his hand back and found it was covered in blood. He blinked away the tears, fear suddenly gripping him with icy fingers. His vision cleared somewhat, and he could see that Samara was covered in blood. He pulled her into his arms. "Samara, you're bleeding!" "Yes," Samara whispered. "It came with the baby ... but it never stopped. I've never had a child before ... I don't know what's happening ..." "Don't talk," Lev brushed her hair away from her face. She was very pale, and her skin was cold to the touch. "I'll get one of the healers --" "No, it's too late," Samara said, grabbing Lev's cloak with desperately strong hands. "I'm so cold, Lev. Please hold me." Lev hugged her as hard as he could. "It's not too late; you'll be all right!" Lev clung to Samara desperately, for how long he did not know. Her breaths came slower and slower. She was limp in Lev's arms. "Samara, no!" Lev pleaded. "I'm going to leave the Cyruzhians! I'll be your husband, I'll take care of you! Please don't leave me!" Finally, she took a breath that was not followed by another. Lev buried his face in her neck and was wracked by uncontrollable sobbing. This couldn't be happening! He was going to give everything up to take care of Samara, she couldn't be dead ... One step after another, one foot in front of the next. Lev trudged slowly along behind the other Cyruzhian monks on their way back to Fennell Keep. A slow drizzle soaked his cloak and tunic through to the skin, and mud covered his shoes that dragged though the puddles of the road. He did not care. What difference did it make? He stopped and looked behind him at Dargon. He was now at the crest of the hill from which he had first seen Dargon, several sennights ago now. Who knew that what he had then seen as an adventure would lead to such an end? Lev had watched as Samara was buried in one of the common graves for thieves and beggars just outside the city. He felt that she deserved better, but had no money of his own to pay for a burial plot elsewhere. He longed to see her face again, or to hear her voice just one last time. But he could not escape the truth -- he knew she was lost to him forever. No more air moved past her beautiful rose-petal lips; her eyes, the colour of the sky, held no more smiles for him. "Come, novice Lev," one of the monks called. "You're falling behind again." Lev turned away from the city, to see that his brother monks were several paces ahead of him. While they waited, Lev staggered up the hill to catch up with them. He did not look forward to a lifetime spent in Heart's Hope Monastery, but what choice did he have now that Samara was gone? One step after another, one foot in front of the next. ========================================================================