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 14 -=========================================================+|) D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 1 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 2/4/2001 Volume 14, Number 1 Circulation: 771 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb The Target that Eludes Me R. F. Niro Naia 1016 A Woman's Fear P. Atchley Naia 1017 Talisman Seven 3 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Yuli 9-11, 1013 ======================================================================== 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/. 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 14-1, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright February, 2001 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 In my previous Editorial, I described some of our major accomplishments and events in 2000, our sixteenth year on the Internet. We put out a record number of issues containing more fiction than ever before, improved our feedback loop by giving you the ability to rate each story you read, and more. In this Editorial we'll look forward, and I'll give you an idea what we're planning for 2001, our seventeenth year. So what can you look forward to in coming months? We plan on giving our Web site, which was introduced back in 1995, a substantial overhaul in the latter half of the year, and prior to that point we'll be soliciting lots of input from you, our audience. That will be a major focus this year, and you can expect to hear more regarding that in forthcoming Editorials. We're also working on several enhancements that will make DargonZine's huge body of fiction more accessible to everyone, and especially to new readers. Toward that end, we're developing a summary of Dargon's history in the form of a timeline, to help you more easily understand the background of our stories. We're also just finishing up adding lots of context to the "references" section of our Online Glossary, which will make it easier for you to follow the threads of connection between stories. And this year we will be publishing the results of our immense effort at mapping the city of Dargon, and that should give you a much more detailed image of the town we write about. In recent years we haven't spent much time helping our readers get up to speed on the extensive setting we've built, and in 2001 we hope to reverse that trend. In addition to those efforts, we'll continue doing a lot of additional work behind the scenes to better serve our contributing writers. Our push toward incorporation will continue, and we'll once again gather for our annual Dargon Writers' Summit, this year in San Jose, California. We're building up a reference library of lessons learned and revising our FAQs for writers, as well as enhancing the systems that allow us to keep cranking out fiction for you. And although DargonZine itself is strictly noncommercial in nature, some of our authors aspire to commercial success, and they've initiated a "publishing challenge" amongst the group to see who can be the first to get paid publishing credits. This is going to be a pivotal year for us. As you can see, we've identified a number of very ambitious goals, and are more focused than ever on improving what we do, both for you, our readers, as well as for the aspiring authors who are at the heart of this magazine's mission. I hope you continue to stay with us and enjoy the work we put forth for you. This issue is a great snapshot of three representative Dargon writers, and three different types of stories, all at different points in their evolution. Our first story is a standalone tale from a brand-new writer, R. F. Niro. He joined the group last May, and I hope you'll enjoy his first effort for DargonZine. It's not uncommon for stories to take nine to twelve months to go from concept to publication, and "The Target that Eludes Me" is typical. Although the first draft was essentially done in July, the story went through five major revisions before it was ready to print. During that time it was commented on and critiqued dozens of times, and I'm sure the author would agree that although the process was lengthy and sometimes frustrating, it has improved both this particular story and his skills as a writer. Mr. Niro's experience is typical of a writer who has recently joined the group. Our second story is the first chapter in a short series. It comes from a writer who has been with us over a year now: P. Atchley. After having her first story printed last year, she began working with another Dargon writer on a joint collaboration. In addition to writing, she has volunteered for projects that help us better serve our readers and writers. Ms. Atchley will be using her co-authoring experience as the basis for assembling a document full of lessons learned that could be shared with other writers who might be embarking on a collaborative effort. Like most writers who have been with the project a year or two, Ms. Atchley isn't just benefiting from the project, but is also thinking about how she can give back to the group and make it work better for everyone. DargonZine couldn't work without this kind of "above and beyond" contribution from our participating writers. The issue is rounded out with another installment of Dafydd's "Talisman" series. In contrast to Mr. Niro's standalone tale and Ms. Atchley's short series, "Talisman" is more like a serialized novel, with this chapter being the 26th installment. Dafydd also represents our veterans. He's approaching his fifteenth anniversary with us and has printed an astonishing 45 stories. His role on the project has changed over time, including running the show for several years. His knowledge of the world of Dargon is unsurpassed, and his opinions respected. When you've been with the project for five or ten years, DargonZine seems like an integral part of your life, and its community of writers will include lifelong friendships. So that's both an introduction to this issue, an overview of some different types of stories, and a look at the different phases that Dargon writers go through over time. I hope you enjoy the results of these writers' hard work, and as always, thanks for your continuing interest in DargonZine! ======================================================================== The Target that Eludes Me by R. F. Niro Naia 1016 This is the story of my failure. Why couldn't it have been a simple test? A contest like archery, where if I get the most arrows in the center of the target, I win? In archery the lines are apparent, giving rise to little dispute over who the winner is. In the case of a tie the archers can always shoot another quiver of arrows to settle the contest. I have always been skilled with a bow. I am getting ahead of myself, though. I am no bard, but I do know that I should start from the beginning. It was early Naia and I was in Dargon city for the first time. In my sixteen winters, I had never been to a city before; my first experience with any human collection of such magnitude had been viewing Kenna from the opposite bank of the Coldwell, nearly five days back. Yet Kenna was a minnow to Dargon's barracuda, so much smaller in size and sensation as to almost defy comparison of the two. In truth, even Kenna was significantly larger than Dawnsmist, the valley hamlet that I called home. I entered Dargon with the late-morning sun over my right shoulder. I traveled a stone's throw from the northeast bank of the Coldwell, walking a dusty track between riverside fields being prepared for planting. I continued until I reached the point where the river causeway signaled the southeastern end of the city. As I passed, the farmers and hands stopped their work for a few moments to gaze at me across the fields with what I assumed was interest. I was uncomfortable under their gazes, feeling distinctly alone in a foreign place. Yet, with the relaxation of their gazes, the tension growing in my chest only seemed to further increase. I would have expected a man armed with a bow on his back and a sword at his side to elicit more concern. I took two deep breaths to control my anxiety. I felt the weight of responsibility pressing upon my shoulders. This burden was rooted in the knowledge that there was a void in my village: a void created by the prolonged absence of the trained and experienced fighters of my clan. Only the very young and very old remained to defend Dawnsmist. There were many dangers that threatened a village amid the wilds of the deep duchy woods and I was determined not to let my people down in any time of need. As I walked, my thoughts became dominated by Oyrault's Bald, a rocky hill a few leagues from our village. The hill held a one-room shack nestled amid a small grass clearing. My grandfather had built the shack and because of his labor the hill bore his name. My favorite times were when I could journey to the bald and practice my target shooting as wispy clouds passed through the deep azure sky above me. Attempting to focus on the task at hand I followed the directions Sybator, my teacher, had given me, soon reaching the edge of the city proper. As I approached the city, I climbed the side of a small hill, which offered an elevated perspective for my first glimpse of Dargon. I paused, breaking the stride that had carried me the sennight's walk from my home, to gaze at the city in wonder. Splayed before me to the northwest, the city was a patchwork of buildings separated by meandering streets that gave the impression of roots grown by an ancient tree, whimsically choosing their paths through time. Tall stone spires and steeples paying reverence to the blue sky marked what I took to be the temple district. Closer, to the west, where the causeway spanned the Coldwell River, the water sparkled in the early morning sunlight as it sought its destiny in the Valenfaer Ocean. The most majestic feature of the city, though, was a stone castle, set atop a rocky crag on the far side of the river. From what Sybator had told me, that would be Dargon Keep, seat of Duke Clifton, the ruler of our lands. I could not believe the power displayed in a building of that sort. I had to stop and reflect on the labor, time, and the all-defying might necessary to raise stone to such heights, and then hold it there against its nature. I started on my way again, down the gently sloped rocky trail before me, shortening my usually long stride to a slow shuffle, as I tried to digest the sight laid before me. I continued towards the riot of stone and timber dwellings before me. Part of me began to wonder what necessity would drive the construction of an unnatural structure like Dargon Keep: an artificial mountain, yet without the true majesty of the Darst range, only a pale imitation of the real thing. With that realization, I quickened my pace again. I was able to put Dargon city in perspective. Who would want to live in the squalor I saw before me? People scurried about at a hurried pace, their feet sticking in the street muddied by the previous day's spring rains. I began to hear a sickening drone, like that of a swarm of bees, coming from the marketplace directly in my path. The sticky and unpleasant tang in the air borne inland from the Valenfaer Ocean assaulted my senses. I could see filth, like sores on a diseased animal, lining the banks of the Coldwell. All of that led to one conclusion: this was not my home. Again, thoughts of Oyrault's Bald crawled into my head and settled, unbidden. This time I saw my father, pulling back on his bow with power and grace, and remaining completely still before the subtle movement that signaled release. He had always seemed so sure when he fired; I had spent the past two years trying to mimic, from memory, the instinct with which he shot. I shook my head to clear the scar-filled reverie. I stopped at the side of the first road that I came upon and pulled out the map Sybator had given me. It was a rough sketch of Dargon, with streets depicted as lines and words scrawled next to them. Underneath I held Sybator's letter of introduction, cradled against my sweaty palm like the blanket my young sister favored. As I stood there on the street's margin, I tried to avoid acting like an outsider. Yet, it seemed to me that many amid the hordes of people that passed stared longer than would be normal or altered their pace to gape at me. I surmised that few of them had ever seen a woodsman in person, but later I was to realize that more likely they were just surprised that I could read at all. Woodsmen have never been known for literacy. I was among the first generation of our clan to be able to read and write. In our village, though, Father Tannuay, a Stevenic priest, had made sure that every child was taught his letters. Some would have called him a religious zealot, trapped in his passion about reading and writing, an ability that few elders in our town saw there being much use for, but this account is a testament to his success. I found myself standing on the Street of Travellers, glancing quickly back and forth between the map and the landmarks around me. Peering once more at the map for good measure, I tried to memorize where I was. I then proceeded to roll the map and the letter together with shaking hands and carefully enclose them in the metal carrying tube Sybator had given me. Placing the tube back amongst the jars and small pots stowed in my pack, I headed into the city. I found my lungs laboring, as apprehension constricted my chest. I passed the edge of the marketplace and walked slowly past dozens of shops and small houses crammed together like rotted logs in a blowdown. As I headed down Traders Avenue, I felt long gazes following me. The attention only heightened my anxiety, adding to the pressure of attempting to not gawk around me like some kind of country lout. I finally halted my travel at a shop with a merchant's symbol underscored by elegant scrawl that read "Abaleen's Traders." Seeing the door open to the street, I entered the cramped, low-ceilinged shop. Behind the counter was an old, thin, gray-haired and bearded man peering squint-eyed at a ledger placed on a pitted and sliced hardwood bench. Sybator had told me that Abaleen was an old acquaintance. The past was something that Sybator talked about infrequently. However, his silence wasn't enough to prevent rumors of his true origins from circulating within the village. His prowess with the sword and written word suggested a noble upbringing, but his knowledge of the wilderness and the bow demonstrated ample time in the wilds. Some said he was a fallen noble, torn from his lands for a crime he did not commit. Others said he had served the current duke's father -- his skill with weapons and tactics lending some credence -- as a general. Some even said he had walked away from his holdings and title, living on his wits alone in the wilds for decades before reaching our village fifteen years past, not long after the end of the Shadow Wars. No matter what the story, he said Abaleen was one of the few honest men in a trade of thieves, and that he was the man to whom I should trade my wares. "May I help you?" the man behind the counter questioned, without looking up from his reading. "Errr ... Abaleen?" I began, flustered by his inattention. As I moved towards the counter, I quickly tried to review what I should say. I had hoped he would look at the letter before asking too many questions. His glancing up from his work, prompted by my noncommittal response, saved me. "Yes, I'm sorry," he answered, looking at my rough garb, ieonem bow, and laden pack, "You must be another one of Sybator's students; I wasn't expecting one again, so soon." "Yes," I responded, handing him the letter that I had pulled out of its metal case. My older brother Dynhault had undertaken the same challenge less than a month previous and had come home with little to report about his journey, but he was Dynhault: the born leader, heir to the title of Clannac, head of our family. Although only a year older than I, he had always been the best at everything. He was the fastest in a foot race, the most skilled swordsman, the quickest with his letters. Only in skill with the bow, for which he had little interest, was I better than him. And I had little doubt that if he put his mind to it he would be the best archer in our village. Abaleen skimmed quickly through the note and looked up at me with a friendly smile. "I understand, then, that you have some more goods for me." I nodded in agreement, unslinging my pack and placing it on the dusty floor against the counter. He came around to the front and we began pulling the poultices and jars of salve out of my pack. "So, what do you think of our city?" he asked as we set to work. "Uh ... I'm finding it ... different," I stammered out a reply. "Yes, I guess you would." He laughed heartily. I only shrugged, slightly embarrassed by his mirth. I could find no words to really describe what I felt and even Abaleen's easy manner could not ease my anxiety. How could I describe to him the wonder that I felt? I can remember the two distinct emotions tugging at my body: awe and fear. Both were twisting and curling together in some kind of hypnotic and sickening dance inside my gut. It was good that I had eaten little when I had broken fast that morning. Yet words like wonder and awe are limited in their scope, and my emotions at that first moment when I had seen the city spread out before me had been boundless. I had never seen anything of such magnitude and majesty as the city and it both terrified and elated me in the same instant. "Here are the iechyd poultices, foxglove, ieonem blossoms ... " I had begun pulling the various herbal restoratives and remedies out of my pack, looking to change the subject back to the task at hand. Once all of the wares were out, Abaleen went into the back room and returned shortly with a cloth bundle. He unwrapped it to show the goods that Sybator had requested. Inside the oil cloth lay two medium-sized books, bound with leather, the letters on the cover beginning to fade with age. One of them read "Memoirs of Istabalt, Alchemist to Kings" and the other "Tales of Magnus." Books were the one luxury that Sybator seemed to allow himself. He supplied and maintained a small library in our village. After we had rewrapped the books, Abaleen reached under the counter, pulled out a small sack, counted out a half-dozen coins and placed them into another, smaller sack. "The last batch sold well; here's some of the extra coin I earned. Why don't you use it, son, to experience city life? You could stay in an inn -- possibly the Spirit's Haven -- for the night?" "Thank you for your generosity," I concluded, reslinging my pack upon my shoulders. My time with Abaleen had been short, yet seemed long, perhaps because of the novelty involved. Again, I yearned to be on Oyrault's Bald, straining against the controlled power of my bow as the springtime sun warmed my back. "Take care, son. Give my friend Sybator my best wishes and tell him he's been away from Dargon too long. Remind him that memories are shorter than the tides," he said by way of leave-taking. I nodded in response. As I exited the shop, I turned to the left and stopped. Looking back the way that I had come, I saw the edge of the bustle that surrounded the marketplace. In the other direction, I knew, lay the docks and seashore, although any chance of seeing them from that spot was lost in the labyrinth of the city streets. Then, I made what seemed a simple decision, yet one with unexpected ramifications, like ripples formed from a stone thrown into a pond. In the end, I chose to head down towards the wharf, my decision prompted by two factors: the mystery of the sea drawing me towards the shore and the press of people pushing me away. As I walked along Traders Avenue, I wondered what to do with my extra coin. Should I save it and bring it to Sybator? Should I use it to sample the life offered by the city, during my first experience in one? Should I give it away to one of the churches, possibly a Stevenic one, in honor of Father Tannuay? I could hear my father's advice in my head: "Trust in yourself, son. Your aim is true." I wished, not for the first time, for his companionship rather than just his memories. In truth, I wanted, with all of my being, to leave the city and return to Dawnsmist as soon as possible, but I felt that I was expected to spend more time in the city and to learn something more of its ways. Sybator had given me this task, this journey into town, as one of his practical tests, probably to challenge my skills at adapting to a new situation, a strange place. Sybator spent very little time standing, talking to us of our lessons, as Father Tannuay did. A man of few words, Sybator much preferred to show us, teach us through experience. Sometimes these kinds of lessons, I had found, were hardest. My fear was caused by my desire to not fail him ... and my village. Again, my thoughts flitted to Oyrault's Bald, calling to mind my waiting target and the jay that liked to sit on the roof of the shack, moving his head in jerky motions as he scanned the clearing for food. I would have much preferred his company to the foreignness I found on the street around me. Approaching the wharves on Traders Avenue, I got a better view of the bustle of the harbor, marveling at a large ship, probably some kind of merchant vessel, which was entering the harbor under sail. Nearer to the docks, I could see sailors loading and unloading various cargoes onto the quays that lined the shore. As I continued, the crashing of the waves and the salty taste to the air were new, yet not altogether unpleasant, sensations. Lost in my wonder, my attention was yanked back to my surroundings by a yell from further down the street. On the other side of the lane, a young boy sprinted out of a shop, clutching a bundle to his chest. A little middle-aged man followed, waving a large pair of shears and yelling "Thief! Thief!" A sign depicting a scrawled representation of the shears hung above the shop doorway. At first, the chaos exhibited in this display kept me rooted in place as the child raced past me and entered a narrow alley two shops away. I quickly broke into a lope, my pack pulling taut against my shoulders and slowing my arm glide. I dared not leave it, though, so I strode on. Running with a full pack was very similar to some of the exercises we did for Sybator. As I rounded the corner, the child was only five cubits away. At the far end of the alley I could see people walking on another street running roughly parallel to Traders Avenue. Even hindered, I ate up ground pursuing the short-legged child. He seemed to be about ten years of age. The boy looked behind him and shock came over his face. I do not think he expected the soft-looking tailor to have been able to keep up with him and judging by the faces I had already seen on many of the other people on the street, apathy was the way of the city. In response to the sight of me, the boy quickened his pace just a little more, his bare feet slapping on the mud, and he turned into another side-alley, this one seeming to run behind the houses on Traders Avenue. I turned the corner less than three strides behind and in five steps was able to close the distance to him. Without slowing my running, I reached out and grabbed the back of his neck as he began to scale a rickety wooden fence that ended the alley ten cubits in. He seemed limber enough to scale it easily, but the package in his arms was awkward and forced him to climb with only one hand. That was all the aid I needed to catch him. "What are you doing, boy?" I growled. I placed him back on the ground against a wooden wall, where there was no place to run, except past me. He squirmed in my grasp. Letting him go, I said, "Very well, we'll have it your way. You can run, but I'm just going to catch you again, like I did last time. I'm no soft tailor you can out-run and out-climb." His eyes darted back and forth looking for an opening to escape through. Finding none in my wary stance, he appraised me. "Who are you? What do you want?" "I'm a woodsman, from the deep forests to the southeast," I answered. "And what I want is that item you stole." "Oh, I thought you looked strange," he responded. The diversity of the city left him less disturbed than I would have expected. He did realize who had the control over the situation, though, and power was something he seemed to understand. "What will you do if I give it back?" "I'll let you go on your way, as long as you promise not to steal again." "Straight?" he said. Not entirely understanding his slang, I said: "Yes, if you mean: am I telling the truth." "Why?" "Because I trust your word and think that getting caught will teach you a lesson about stealing." He looked at me in shock, but measured me in a surprisingly shrewd manner for one so young. "Straight." He said, handing me the bundle he had held clutched to his chest throughout the exchange. "I'll be leaving now," he continued, starting to walk past me. "*There* he is!" a voice yelled at the entrance to the cul-de-sac. I looked over to see the tailor standing, pointing accusingly at us. Behind him came four men in armor, swords at their sides. Again, I grabbed the boy's arm as he took the first step towards scaling the fence. The five men came down the alley and approached the struggling boy and me. "Who are you?" the tailor asked brusquely. "My name is Oyreen of clan Deshiels. And I have your cloth." I answered, not understanding why his voice held such a tone of accusation. I offered it to him. "It is not just any cloth," he responded in a starchy tone, grabbing the bundle out of my outstretched hand. "That dress was commissioned for Lauren Dargon, the duke's wife, and is very valuable, bumpkin." He spat out the last word and held out the gown, looking for some sign of damage. I clenched my jaw in simmering anger. I could not tell if the boy's touch or mine worried him more. The boy had calmed down and was standing warily in my grip. "You are a woodsman?" one of the soldiers said, more as a statement than a question. He was in the fore of the group and an insignia on his tunic seemed to indicate he was their leader. "My name is Lieutenant Kalen Darklen of the Dargon city guard. Did you get the dress from this boy?" "Yes to both, lieutenant," I responded. The lieutenant seemed at ease, but the three guardsmen behind him seemed more wary of my appearance, shifting their weight back and forth between their feet, as those ready for immediate action do. None of them bordered on the outright hostility of the tailor, though. "How did you come by it?" he then asked. I told him my part of the story, including my journey into the city on Sybator's errand. As I finished telling of my covenant with the boy, the tailor burst in: "Lieutenant, you can't just let that little thief go, on this ... man's word." He spat the last two words as if they were distasteful in some way. At that point, my anger flared. "What did I ever do to deserve this treatment?" I fumed at the tailor. Sybator had told me many times that my temper would get me into trouble if I did not control it. But at that moment, I could not take any more of the man's abuse. "I am as much a man as you. Just because I don't live in Dargon city, it does not make me any less of a member of the duchy or the kingdom. My father, uncles, and cousins still have not returned from the war with Beinison. Do you think just because the war is over here that the king in Magnus has let all men return home? You in your safe homes have returned to normal, but my clan may be involved in fighting every day -- hundreds of leagues from our home." I stopped to pant in anger, looking down at the muddy street for focus. Emotion poured out of me like spring runoff overflowing a river's banks. What I had said was true. My people had long been employed in the armies of king and dukes alike as scouts and archers. Skilled soldiers like that were the last to return home. All around me the city dwellers, guards, tailor, and boy gaped in shock. The eloquence of my attack seemed to produce most of the response as opposed to the truths of my statements. I had already seen that few city dwellers considered woodsmen, wearing rough leathers and simple clothing, to be completely civilized. I had Father Tannuay to thank for my ability to orate. For the first time I was thankful for his long bells of lessons on letters, grammar and discourse. "Well, I ... are you in league with this boy?" the tailor began. "I don't care what the king owes your family, the boy is a thief and should be thrown in the dungeon. Those are the laws of the city -- and of the kingdom." "You'll have to excuse Goodman Mudge. While a good tailor, he has had a difficult day today," Lieutenant Darklen interrupted the beginning of the tirade. "Ealun, why don't you return home with the dress and see what you can do with it? I'm sure your amazing talents will have it repaired even better than it was for the duke's wife." "He's only a boy," I finished, glaring darkly at the tailor. "No, he's a thief," Mudge contradicted, "Lieutenant, you are right, my talents are better served back in my shop. I *trust* you will handle this matter appropriately." With that the tailor stormed off, back down the alleyway towards Traders Avenue. As my attention wandered with the statements of the tailor, the boy made a sudden move at my side. My grip had relaxed, allowing him to drop to the ground, breaking my hold with his weight and unbalancing me so that I fell to the ground as he scuttled out of my way. Before I could recover my feet or the guards could act, he had climbed the fence and could be heard running deeper into the alley. The lieutenant was the first to reach the fence, but as he dropped to the other side and I reached the top, the boy turned another corner and was lost from sight heading back towards the wharves. "We'll never catch him now, and maybe that's for the better," the lieutenant stated, seemingly disgusted at the situation. "He was too young for the dungeon, likely has no family, and there is little we can do for ones that start so early." At that moment, I felt the worst defeat. Jumping down to stand next to the lieutenant, I noticed a change in the heft of my equipment. Reaching up into the side sash of my pack, I realized that two strands were all that remained of the purse containing the extra coins Abaleen had given me. "He stole my money!" I said in shock. The lieutenant turned and looked at me for a moment and said: "Yes, he probably did." I stood there, jaw agape and wondered how I could have misread the boy so badly. I had defended him, preventing the judgmental tailor from getting a hold of him and he had repaid me, by robbing me. "Where are you staying tonight?" Lieutenant Darklen asked. "I was to stay at the Spirit's Haven, but I have no coin left, and think I should be on my way. I'm not sure I care to spend a night in this city." "That is probably for the best; Dargon doesn't seem to be your kind of place," the lieutenant said. "We can help you out by walking you to the edge of town." He did not seem to be offering a choice. In truth, I was not sure if he wanted to stay with me in order to protect me, or more likely, to keep me out of any more trouble. At the time, it did not matter. I had already failed. That night I slept in a copse of trees near the Coldwell and the next morning was on my way home. In just over a sennight I was home in our village reporting on my journey to Sybator. He said nothing upon hearing my story, which seemed right. I did not feel worth the time or effort after my failure in the city. Instead, he took me out to the clearing on the edge of the village where we practiced our archery. Suspended from trees at the far end were straw targets with an innermost bullseye and a much larger outer circle. "Get yourself set, but do not draw an arrow," he said in his traditional no-nonsense tone. Once I had gotten in my stance, he came behind me and blindfolded me with a dark rag he had taken from inside his tunic. "Now shoot," he said once he was sufficiently assured that I could not see. "But, master, I can't see the target." "True ... Shoot anyway." My frustration quickly gave way to acceptance, though. I nocked an arrow from the quiver by my left knee; an easy feat, even blindfolded, for someone who had done it thousands of times before. I then followed the steps I had been taught to take before shooting: the canon all archers lived by. Sybator and my father had drilled these lessons into me since I first hefted a bow. I placed my lead arm forward, made sure my fingers were positioned evenly on the string, pulled back on the bow until I could anchor my hand against my chin, and aimed where I thought the target should be. I waited for that feeling of complete rightness I knew signaled the moment I should release. Even blindfolded I felt confidence in my technique, if not my aim. I let the arrow slide free. I heard the dull thunk of it embedding in the straw. "What did you hit?" "The target, I think. I heard it hit." I responded with relative confidence. "Where on the target?" he continued. "I don't know, I can't see it." "Where do you think?" "High right?" I asked. Every archer has his favorite spot to miss. "Do you really think so?" "How could I know where it hit? I can't see it." I answered in frustration. "Was it a good shot?" he asked. "Uh ... I guess so. My form felt good. The shot felt right." "Good. That is how a great archer shoots: by feel. Pull off your blindfold," he commanded. I did, finding the arrow lodged in the target near the outer edge of the smaller circle. "Could your shot have been better?" "Yes, I could have hit the center." "Could you have?" "Maybe? ... I don't know!?" I became flustered, not really sure what we were even talking about anymore. Then, abruptly, without ever a direct word on my trip to the city, he took my bow and sent me to Oyrault's shack on the bald. He gave me simple directions: sit alone, write down this story, and return for archery practice tomorrow morning. ======================================================================== A Woman's Fear by P. Atchley Naia 1017 Oriel was running up the stairs as Rasine came back from the market. She stared down at the blonde ten-year old in surprise. "What are you doing, Oriel? I thought I told you to make bread while I was at the market." Rasine followed her daughter into their tiny rooms, clutching the two bags she had brought back with her. "Oh, turdation!" the ten year-old snapped, under her breath. "I wanted to be back before you. I put the dough in the oven, Mama. I was playing with Briam, and then I just went down the street to see if there were any mushrooms in that little patch of soil near the --" "What did you say, young lady?" "Nothing, Mama, just that I wanted to see if there were any mushrooms ..." The girl's voice trailed off, her smile dimming as she caught sight of the expression on Rasine's face. "I should wash your mouth out with verjuice, using such language. Where you learn these things, I'll never know." Rasine shook her head as she took two carrots from one of the bags. "And as punishment for what you said, you're not to make jelly for another sennight." She took a small knife and began to cut the carrots. "But Mama, I love jelly. And you never let me eat any sweets at all," Oriel objected, bending to take a small cloth-wrapped bundle from the live coals. "Be careful, Oriel. How many times have I told you --" "To use a cloth when you take the bread from the fire," Oriel finished the sentence for her mother. "You are becoming very rude. I should punish you." Rasine hid a smile at the indignant look her daughter gave her. "But, since you're not making jelly for the next sennight," Rasine chuckled as her daughter glared daggers at her, "I'll consider that sufficient punishment. "Tell me, how is that young man, Briam?" "He's not a young man, Mama. He's just a boy," Oriel said and snatched a small piece of carrot from her mother's hands. "And he's fine." Rasine laughed and batted away the little girl's grasping fingers as she set some water to boil. "Did you play find-the-rat again?" Her daughter nodded, mouth full of carrots. Rasine continued, "Can you recite what I taught you the other day?" She carefully dropped the remaining pieces of carrot into the water. "Of course," the little girl said scornfully. "Listen. "An Herbal Concoction Verjuice and white pepper for a jelly of fish, Thyme and mint for a form of tart; Chamomile for tea, parsley for looks, Sage for stew, cayenne from the east, Mustard for sauce, anise for sweets, Saffron for them dukes, salt for you and me!" Oriel took a deep breath. "But what does it mean, Mama? And how come it says verjuice and white pepper for jelly? We use seaweed and milk for carrageen jelly." Rasine said, "That's a very good question. Tell me how you make jelly." "Boil seaweed and milk. Stir the side of the pot. Drink when it's not so hot." "Straight. And how does it taste? Sweet. But this isn't a sweet jelly. It's a jelly made with fish. The poem gives you the herbs so that you can always remember what to put in it. Remember when I taught you how to make jelly? That's a poem too." "Oooh, that's easy. Do you know any more, Mama?" The woman laughed. "Of course I do, and I'll teach them all to you. There's one about spice powder that I'm going to teach you next, but not today. It's time to eat now, and then time for you to go to bed." Rasine tucked Oriel into bed and sat down to wait for Gunnar, a ducal guard with whom she had a bargain. In exchange for getting Oriel an apprenticeship with the keep cook, Rasine had agreed to oblige Gunnar with favors. He usually stopped by every other day, and she expected he would stop by that night. She stared into the glowing embers of the coals, letting her mind wander aimlessly. Life had a sameness about it lately that made even thinking a chore. She remembered when her husband Lars had been alive. Things had been different then. He had been a good man, with his own boat and he used to go fishing almost every day. One day, he never returned. There had been a sudden squall, and everyone had told her that he must have drowned. Oriel had been four years old at the time. Lars had made her laugh, and after he was gone, there was no one to make her laugh. Rasine could not accept the fact that he was gone. She had borrowed a lot of money from Jahlena, part-owner of the Shattered Spear, and paid the other fishermen in Dargon to go and look for him. Of course, when Jahlena had asked for repayment, Rasine had nothing to return. She had ended up at the Spear as a general dogsbody in order to pay the debt. To make matters worse, Jahlena, who was the bouncer at the inn, had rather forcibly persuaded her to double occasionally as an entertainer of the more tawdry sort. But even that did not bother her now. Actually, nothing much bothered her right now. She couldn't bring herself to believe that anything mattered. So what if she was an entertainer? She didn't care a whole lot about that. The only thing which mattered, just a little, was Oriel. A distant corner of her mind was always aware of her responsibility to her child. If it hadn't been for Oriel, she would have gone searching for Lars herself and perhaps, like Lars, never returned ... Bells sounded faintly in the distance, breaking Rasine's reverie. The only important thing right now was to make sure Oriel learned a trade. Rasine had come up with the idea about a month prior. It had been the early part of Firil when she had made the bargain with Gunnar. But he hadn't made any progress on meeting the cook, the lazy scum that he was. Now it was already five bells after sunset, and that rat hadn't come yet. Well, she would refuse him and -- a knock sounded at the door. She jumped, startled, and then rose slowly to open it, gearing herself to scold him for procrastinating on meeting with the cook. The door creaked as she opened it, and Gunnar entered without waiting for an invitation. He smiled down at her and handed her a flower. "Did you talk to the keep cook about getting Oriel a place there?" she asked sternly, ignoring his offering. "It's been a month since I asked you to talk to the cook. I've obliged you every time you come here, and what have I got in return? Nothing, that's what." "Rasine, I told you, I'm trying," he began, his smile gone. When she did not respond but simply stared at him, he started again, "I tried, but I -- I'll try again tomorrow, I promise." He touched her shoulder, and offered her the rose again. She glared up at him. He towered over her, his thin frame reminding her of the scarecrow farmer Benson used to set in his cornfields. His pale blue eyes pleaded with her. They glinted in the firelight and she sighed loudly. He seemed to realize her displeasure because he said, "Please, Rasine?" Finally she nodded, and accepted the rose. A corner of her mind wondered where he had picked it. She led him to the tiny room that was hers. It was a long time before he left. Gunnar stepped lightly down the stairs, whistling under his breath. He looked up at the sky. Nochturon was in fine fettle that night. It took him awhile to reach the guards' quarters because Rasine lived in a house that was near the oceanfront northeast of Dargon city, a good distance away. "Ho, Gunnar, been with a woman?" a voice asked as soon as he entered the barracks. It was Rudy, his partner, and he smiled at Gunnar nastily. "I know that song. You whistle that every time you've been with a woman. How much did you pay?" "Ho, ho, Rudy, some of us actually get what we want without having to pay," Gunnar retorted. "Only screegull scum like you have to pay." Rudy laughed at the insult. "And you, you actually think a woman would give it to you for free?" "Oh yes. I just got it, didn't I?" "Who's the mystery woman who doesn't make you pay, eh?" Rudy mocked. Gunnar stared at him. "You don't believe me? You think a woman won't roll with me without getting paid for it? You don't know what you're talking about. Look at me, man: I wash up, and wear clean clothes before I go to her. Women like these things, you know. Today I even took her a flower. Look at you, you ugly mug ..." "Never mind me," Rudy interrupted. "So who's the woman?" Gunnar thought for a few moments. Why should he tell Rudy? This was his secret, his cushy berth. If he told Rudy, would Rudy get it for free too? Gunnar frowned, unable to think of an answer to that question. Meanwhile, Rudy was tapping his foot on the floor, staring at him with that nasty grin that he always got whenever Gunnar tried to think things through. The grin annoyed him no end. Rudy always said he was stupid whenever he was thinking about things. He frowned at that. "Well, stupid, if you've finished thinking about what you're going to do for the next twenty bells, I'd like to know who the woman is." "Oh yeah, says who I'm stupid? And what's it to you who the woman is?" "Because if you don't tell me, I'll pound you to a pulp." Gunnar laughed. "You can try." In a flash, Rudy vaulted over the cot between them, and shoved the other man to the floor with the force of his momentum, holding him by the throat. "Gotcha," he said with satisfaction. "Not really." Gunnar reached up, and holding Rudy's left elbow with both hands, pushed it upwards and out in the wrong direction. With a shout of pain, Rudy released him. Gunnar threw a punch, but Rudy shoved his wrist aside and attacked furiously. With no space to maneuver in a room full of cots, Gunnar found himself hard-pressed. And then Rudy hooked a foot behind his ankle, and down he went again. "What is going on here?" Both men looked up guiltily. It was Sergeant Cepero of the town guard, who had a grudge against Rudy because he had caught the latter flirting with his niece, Fidelia. Unfortunately for Rudy, Fidelia was supposed to have been walking out with a town guard at the time. Needless to say, in Cepero's mind, his niece was the innocent victim, and Rudy the aggressor. Cepero's temporary assignment to the ducal guard had given him plenty of opportunities to punish Rudy, which he seized gladly. "Nothing," both answered simultaneously. "Gunnar, your nose is bleeding. Go and have it seen to," Cepero said sharply. "Rudy, I should have known. This time, I am definitely going to report you. This is the third time this sennight, and I've already warned you about the consequences, more than once." He glared at both miscreants impartially. "What punishment would be fitting for this? Fighting inside the barracks: serious charges." A faint smile of satisfaction appeared on his lips. "I shall ask for you to be flogged at noon inside the keep, in front of all the guards. Next sennight, I think." Gunnar looked from the retreating back of the sergeant to the dismayed look on Rudy's face. "It's all your fault," Rudy said venomously. "I'm already on report. And that Cepero is an idiot. He's going to have the lieutenant flog me; you heard him. And for what? Damn you, Gunnar." "I'm sorry, Rudy. Never mind, I'll tell you who the woman is," Gunnar said, hoping to cajole the other man into a better mood. Seeing Rudy's expression change, Gunnar continued, "It's Rasine. She works at the Shattered Spear." Rudy's bitter mood seemed to lift after Gunnar revealed the name of the mystery woman, and Gunnar's anxiety eased. Rudy was apt to hit him simply because he was annoyed, and Gunnar was tired of being the other man's punching bag. "Why do we have to put garlic in the soup, and not in the bread, Mama?" Oriel asked. Rasine smiled down at her daughter. "Because we're making plain bread today, not spice bread." She checked the live coals, and poked at the bread. It hadn't risen fully yet, so she left it to bake a little longer. "Put the soup on, child." "Mama, you promised me you'd teach me a poem about spice powder," Oriel said, her tone rising. She propped the saucepan on top of the small stove rather carelessly. The water inside slopped against the sides and a few drops fell on the coals underneath, sizzling. "Careful, Oriel," Rasine admonished. She poured the small amount of barley she had bought that day into the saucepan. The water which had been boiling merrily, subsided. "You want to learn the poem about spice powder, eh? Well, this one's easy. Ready?" When the little girl nodded vigorously, Rasine continued, "It's called Spice Powder. Pepper as black as night without Nochturon, Cannell as beautiful as a willow bark tree, Ginger as harsh as the north wind, Saffron that comes from across the high seas, And cloves like little black dames of doom!" "Doom, doom, doom!" Oriel repeated with relish. Rasine laughed. "Straight. You powder them all together. Don't twist your hair like that, Oriel; it will get all tangled up." The barley was boiling now, and Rasine stirred it. "How come my hair is so long and yours is so short, Mama? I want to cut my hair too. I want to have short hair." "No, Oriel, we are not cutting your hair, because we want your hair to grow long and beautiful," Rasine said patiently, lifting the saucepan off the fire with a teacloth. She carefully dropped into the soup the two basil leaves she had begged from the cook at the Spear. "I've told you before, we --" "Are not cutting my hair," the girl repeated, grinning. "But Mama, does that mean people with short hair aren't beautiful?" When Rasine looked up with her mouth open, somewhat taken aback at her daughter's logic, the little girl giggled and continued, "Never mind, Mama, I think you're beautiful even though you have short hair. My mama is beautiful, and my papa is ... Are men beautiful, Mama?" Oriel took the bread out from under the little mud oven, and began to tear it off into pieces. Rasine swallowed a laugh. "No, men are handsome. Like your father." "Tell me about my father, Mama. What was he like? You never tell me anything about him," Oriel pouted. This time Rasine did laugh. "Enough with the questions, Oriel. Sit down and eat your dinner." "But Mama --" "Your father was tall and handsome. He had hair just like yours, my little golden girl. Whenever I brush your hair, I think of him." Rasine sighed, swallowing a mouthful of soup. She had grown up in Magnus. When she had met Lars, the two of them had fallen in love with each other instantly. They had married within a sennight. Whenever she thought about that time, she wondered how happiness could make people forget about everything. She could never remember where they had gotten money to pay for a place to stay, or for food. They had lived in each others' arms, with a smile and a laugh. Would she ever be able to feel like that again? Would she ever laugh again? Would she ever again be so happy that she could forget where the next meal was coming from? Forgetting seemed very attractive these days. "-- call me golden girl?" "Hm? Why do I call you golden girl?" Rasine asked. Seeing Oriel nod, she answered, "Because you have golden hair. That's why I named you Oriel; it means 'golden'. Now, off to bed." She followed the little girl into the small bedroom area and tucked her into the stack of hay, heather and blankets that did duty as a bed. Then she returned to clean up the little kitchen area. By the time she was done, Oriel was fast asleep. Rasine made sure the little girl hadn't kicked off the blankets. After a last check that the kitchen fire had been totally stamped out, she slipped out of their rooms and carefully locked the door from the outside. She stood near the railing and stared out toward the ocean, breathing in the salty air. It was a clear night and looking at the ocean, she found herself thinking of Lars again. She savored the memories for a moment before slipping down the stairs. She rented the upstairs of the ramshackle house from a man named Coragen, one of Jahlena's friends. It was near the oceanfront, northeast of Dargon city past the junction of Traders Avenue and Commercial Street. There were a few cottages on either side but they had been rendered unlivable during the Beinison invasion. One lacked a roof; another was missing one wall and yet another had gaping holes where there should have been windows and doors. As a result, they remained empty. Rasine walked briskly along the ocean front until she reached Commercial Street; then continued onward down the Street of Travellers to the Shattered Spear. The inn was located in a rougher section of town than her lodgings. She sometimes thought it was silly to be so afraid when she walked to the inn at night, but a few of the customers at the inn would murder as lightly for a word as for a Round. She knew no one would grieve if she died the next day, but she had to arrange for Oriel to be safe and to learn a trade that would keep her in good stead. Until then she knew it behooved her to be careful. The roads seemed darker than usual that night, she reflected. She had almost reached the inn when she realized that someone was walking towards her. The man must have been waiting for her to arrive because he approached her swiftly and barred her way. "Rasine?" "She's not answering," she said rudely, and tried to brush past him into the inn through the back door. "I hear you roll with Gunnar for free," he said, grabbing hold of her upper arm. Startled, she froze and stared up at him, fear instantly cramping her belly. His eyes glinted with menace in the moonlight. The man's salt and pepper hair was shorn close to his head, and he wore rough clothing so dark in color as to seem almost, but not quite, black in the light of Nochturon. She shivered as she met his sooty eyes again. "Nothing of the sort," she tried to bluster, feeling her mouth dry. "Who are you, anyway? And let me go," she struggled against his restraining arm, her heart beginning to pound. He casually backhanded her. She let out a screech, and stopped abruptly when he slapped her again. "Quiet! What you give Gunnar for free, you will give me for free as well." "What? Who are you?" "Rudy," he replied laconically. "Ducal guard." "If you don't let me go this mene, I'll scream; Jahlena will come out, and she *will* hurt you," Rasine said, making a huge effort to have her words come out in a calm voice, despite the fact that her breath was coming very fast. She had no idea if Jahlena would come out or not; she also doubted very much if the woman would protect her, but it was worth a try to get free of this toad. Hopefully he didn't know Jahlena well enough to call Rasine's bluff. She struggled uselessly again, but stopped when he immobilized her by the simple expedient of twisting her arm the wrong way. She whimpered, the sound dragged out of her. He stared down at her silently for a moment. "I could tell Jahlena that you gave it to Gunnar for free, and then she'll have your hide," he responded, smiling nastily at her. Her eyes widened at the threat, and she moved involuntarily, the thought of having to face Jahlena in a temper scaring her witless. Her breath caught in her throat. "I see that frightens you," he said, his smile widening to reveal a crooked tooth. "I thought it might. I know Jahlena." He paused, letting the threat linger in the air, as if he wanted her to think about what Jahlena would do to her. "All right, I'll give you some time to think about it. If you don't give me what I want, I'll tell her." He paused again, this time for what seemed like a very long moment, and then grinned expansively. "Have you thought about it? Ready to give me what I want?" "No!" She began to struggle again, with no thought of the consequences of denying him -- no thought at all except to get away from him. Abruptly he released her arm, and Rasine stumbled away, falling to the ground with a thump. "Jahlena, here I come," he said softly in a sing-song voice. "Jahlena, listen to me. Jahlena, hear what Rasine did. Jahlena --" "Stop! Stop!" She covered her ears, cringing away from him, still sitting on the ground. Jahlena would half-kill her if she ever found out she had been cheated on money. The sound of voices carried over to them on the night air, and they both turned. Three figures had just turned into the street and were headed in their direction. "Until tomorrow, Rasine. Mind, you give me what I want," he said softly, smiling down at her, the crooked tooth giving him an ominous look. She scrambled up, and moved toward the inn. He began to laugh, and the sound of his laughter followed her as she slammed the inn's back door behind her. The inn was full, the patrons loud and noisy. Rasine peered through the smoke looking for Jahlena, who worked there as the bouncer, among other things. They both saw each other at the same time. "There you are, I've been waiting for you," Jahlena said, scowling. She was a huge woman, with each arm as wide as a haunch of venison, and legs the size of small trees. She towered over Rasine, making her feel very small and very scared. Jahlena's short hair was bright orange today, and it gleamed like flame in the firelight. A corner of Rasine's mind noted that Jahlena probably used henna in her hair. That wretched woman! She took money from others and used it to buy henna for her hair. Stevene! Rasine cursed mentally, staring blankly up at the other woman. What she could do if she had money! Why, she would buy a new dress for Oriel, and then she would -- Abruptly she focused. Jahlena was gripping her upper arms, and Rasine felt a slight tingle from the metal rings on the bigger woman's fingers. "Rasine! You're late. Here, see that man, he's been waiting for you. Go to the front room upstairs. The keys are at the corner of the bar, in the soup bowl on the bottom shelf." Jahlena went away to attend the customers waiting at the bar. Rasine sighed with relief that the other woman hadn't realized her own attention was elsewhere. Although Rasine knew that Jahlena wouldn't hit her in the presence of customers, it was hard not to be scared of her. Sometimes, Rasine thought that Jahlena liked to hit people. Not that she ever smiled when she hit Rasine, but she just seemed more quiet, more calm somehow. Lars had told her that there were people like that: people who liked to hit others and liked to see them bleed. Jahlena always hit to draw blood. Rasine's upper arms were a mess of scars, because of the metal rings with tiny spikes that Jahlena wore. She would wear them and grip Rasine by the arms to make her bleed. It was Jahlena's favorite way of punishing people. Rasine knew that the little chimney boy and the downstairs maid at the Spear bore similar scars. Rasine walked over behind the bar. While the common room was well-lit from the fire in the huge fireplace, the area behind the bar was dark since the counter blocked most of the firelight. The mugs on the counter threw shadows on the wall and the floor behind the bar. She bent and pulled a key from the soup bowl Jahlena had mentioned. She had stepped around the bar before she realized that she had picked up the wrong key. It was the key to Jahlena's strong box. Rasine wondered what it had been doing in the soup bowl, but returned it to its spot rather absently and picked out the correct key this time. Her customer was having a conversation with another man sitting next to him at the bar. One was a round man with a large paunch and was headed toward baldness while the other was thin and dark-haired and had a pot-belly only slightly smaller than his companion's. Rasine thought rather scornfully that it was doubtless the result of all the ale they drank. "-- and there I was, in Heahun, after ridin' all day, ready for some good hot food and the man tells me he can't offer me nothin' because his cook died. And so I says to him, you bugger, I don' care if your cook died. You give me food, or I'll hurt you, I'll hurt you real bad." The two men laughed raucously. Rasine saw her customer's elbow move and realized he had made an obscene gesture. The men continued to talk. "He says to me, he got no rooms on account of the merchant's wagon, and the woman that did the cooking and cleaning had gone off into the forest that's south of Heahun, and just upped and died. Seems there's a ghost there." "Sure, if you believe in them things. There ain't nothin' like ghosts," the other man said knowledgeably, and belched loudly. "See, there's this real big tree there, in a clearing near the forest. He says that the ghost hangs 'em. All the women, I mean. Says this is the third housekeeper in a year. Now no one will come to work for him. Went on and on about how the merchant was going to come to stay on his way back in a sennight, and what was he going to do without a housekeeper. Said the merchant was his biggest customer every year. Gah! The man talked and talked until I gave him whatsit." The man thumped the table in emphasis. Rasine's wandering eyes met Jahlena's. The big woman glared at her and pointed to the customer. Grimacing, Rasine interrupted the conversation and invited the man upstairs. The following day, Rasine went searching for Gunnar. She took Oriel with her to the market, and gave her some instructions before going on toward the keep. "Oriel, I want you to go to that stall over there. The fishmonger said that he had some eels he would share with us if I cooked it for him. Pick up the eels, and also all the spices for the eels. Do you remember what they are?" "Of course, Mama," Oriel responded scornfully. "Verjuice, a pat of butter and some tarragon. This money won't be enough, Mama." "You don't have to pay for the eels. Tell the spice merchant that if he'll give you the spices for this price, and also throw in some garlic, I'll make him some spice bread tomorrow. It's his favorite, so he'll let you have the spices for free. He might even give you the verjuice free, too. You can use the money for the butter. When you have the ingredients, go straight home, peel and chop the eels and boil them in water with a pinch of salt." "Yes, Mama. Can I go to search for mushrooms before cooking the eels?" Rasine smiled at this. Since she had punished Oriel the last time she had gone to look for mushrooms, the little girl was being rather careful. "Well, well, well, who is this pretty little thing?" A new voice entered the conversation. "Jahlena," Rasine pushed Oriel behind her. "What are you doing here?" Rasine looked nervously at the bigger woman. She could never decide whether Jahlena looked scarier at night, or during the day. Now, she wore a bright red tunic with exquisite embroidered panels down the front, with matching black trousers. She looked like a nobleman's wife, except for her eyes. In spite of being a beautiful silver color, her eyes never smiled. It was as if the eyes looked through Rasine, never at her, and they always made Rasine shiver. "It's the market place, Rasine. What do people do at markets? They shop," Jahlena said, smiling genially at the girl peeking out from behind Rasine. "Aren't you going to introduce me, Rasine?" she asked again. "I'm Oriel, and this is my mother," the girl stepped out. "Oriel, go. Now!" Rasine watched Oriel glance at her doubtfully before leaving. For some reason, she felt very uneasy at the thought of Jahlena knowing about Oriel. "You have a beautiful daughter," Jahlena said, her gaze following the girl. "Yes, unfortunately," Rasine retorted. "Why unfortunately?" "Because -- because -- I don't know why. Just because. I must go, Jahlena," Rasine said hurriedly. "Yes, of course," came the absent-minded answer. Rasine looked back at Jahlena after going a few steps and saw her gaze still upon Oriel, who was just entering the spice merchant's tent. She stopped and decided to wait until Jahlena left. Why was Jahlena so interested in Oriel? Rasine was almost afraid to think about the answer to that question as she made her way toward the keep's main gate. The road that led to the keep was steep, winding and narrow, but it did widen just a bit near the outer gates. She looked around curiously as she stepped through. One side of the huge courtyard was empty and bare, except for two men who were sparring with one another. She turned to the other side with interest. Here were row after row of rose bushes, most of them bright and green with healthy leaves, except for the last plant in the first bed. She gave the tired-looking plant a cursory look before approaching the castle itself. This was an imposing edifice, with three towers that could be seen from the town itself. For a moment, her feet slowed of their own volition as her eyes took in the grandeur of the structure. She halted, craning her neck to see as much of the castle as she could. The stone walls had small windows evenly spaced. A bright spot of color was barely visible at the top of the tower. It was the pennant. The remaining two towers were on the other side of the first one. She could hear distant voices, and realized the wooden door at the base of the tower she was approaching was half open. She stepped right in. The voices grew louder, and seemed to be coming from one end of the corridor. A stocky, broad-shouldered guard came down from the other end. He was an older man, his hair beginning to silver at the temples, wrinkles beneath his gray eyes. "Who are you, and what do you want?" he asked her. "I'm here to meet Gunnar. Can you help me, captain?" she asked. "It's sergeant, mistress, Sergeant Cepero. You want to see Gunnar? He should be getting off-duty right about now. Just go down this corridor until you come to the second junction, take a left, past the lieutenant's office and --" he paused, seeing the blank look on her face. "Straight, mistress, let me take you. I was headed up there anyway. "So, you're the reason Gunnar cleans up every evening, eh?" the sergeant asked jovially. He continued without waiting for an answer, "Are you two walking out together? Well, Gunnar is a good soldier; he follows orders. It's good that he's walking out with you. I think a guard needs a woman in his life; keeps him ship-shape. I've never seen you here before," he looked down questioningly at her. "No, I've never been here before," she replied. "In that case, you probably haven't met any of the ducal guards. Have you met Gunnar's partner Rudy?" He seemed not to notice her involuntary shudder, for he kept talking. "Now there's a guard always in trouble. If ever a guard needed a someone to keep him in line, it's Rudy," he said, a slight frown in his voice as he mentioned Rudy. "Here we are. And here's Gunnar." Gunnar was coming toward them, and looked none too pleased to see her. "What are you doing here?" "Is that any way to talk to a lady, Gunnar?" Sergeant Cepero said sternly. "When she's taken the trouble to come to the keep to see you, the least you can do is be polite." "Sorry, sir. Sorry, Rasine," Gunnar apologized shamefacedly. "That's better. Well, lady, it's always a pleasure to see beautiful women in the castle. Good day." The sergeant nodded to her and walked away in the opposite direction. "I need to talk to you," Rasine began. "Shh! Not here, not now. Go away, Rasine, do. I'll meet you tonight," he said sharply. "No. Now, Gunnar." Rasine glared at him, opening her mouth to begin a tirade. "Straight, fine. What do you want to talk about that couldn't wait until tonight?" he asked grumpily. "If you don't get Oriel a job with the cook, I won't ever meet you again," she snapped. "It's been a month, and what have I got from you? Nothing. Well, this is it, Gunnar, no more. And one more thing. Did you tell your friend Rudy about our arrangement?" Seeing the sheepish look on his face, she slapped him. "Ow! Rasine!" "That's for telling your friend about our arrangement. You tell him to stay away from me, do you understand?" He nodded, a hand rubbing his cheek. She continued, "If he comes near me, I'll tell Jahlena that you are refusing to pay for services. And we'll see what she'll do to you!" "But, Rasine --" "No buts. Jahlena has ways of dealing with people who don't pay, so you better do what I ask, Gunnar." With that she turned and stalked off. The following day Rasine made her way to the spice merchant's stall to deliver the promised bread, and the cooked eels to the fishmonger. As she was returning from her errand, Jahlena stepped out in front of her. Today, Jahlena's hair was a sort of blue-black color, and Rasine wondered absently if the other woman had used blueberry extract to color it. Dressed in a gray tunic that was surely new, because it looked so fresh and clean, Jahlena looked the picture of prosperity. Rasine narrowed her eyes as she realized that the high collar of the tunic was embroidered with a real pearl. "Rasine, I want to talk to you." "This is not the place, Jahlena. Why don't we talk at the Spear?" Rasine asked anxiously, heart thudding, all thoughts of embroidery far removed from her mind. She edged away as Jahlena stepped closer to her. "You didn't charge Gunnar," Jahlena slapped her, hard. Rasine's legs buckled and she fell to her knees, tears starting involuntarily. "Don't hit me, please," she begged. "What do you want?" "You cheated me of my money," Jahlena said fiercely. "I ought to kill you for that." She slipped something on her hands and pulled Rasine up. Rasine swallowed a whimper as the skin on her arms tore. A few drops of blood rolled down, pooled in her palm and then dripped slowly to the ground. Her flesh burned, as if splashed with boiling water. "Let me go, Jahlena, it hurts," Rasine said, struggling. A crafty look entered Jahlena's eyes as she watched the smaller woman. "There is a way you can pay me back," she offered, releasing her. When Rasine took a step back, Jahlena grabbed her shoulder. Now Rasine could feel the skin on her shoulders crack and begin to bleed through the thin blouse she wore. "Let me go," she shouted. "You owe me, Rasine, and if I don't get my money, I will kill you!" Jahlena twisted her fingers, and more rivulets of blood ran down her arm. "So be it. Kill me then," Rasine cried. "I don't owe you anything, Jahlena. You forced me to do this, and I won't, not any more." "Fine, you don't have to come to the Spear any more," Jahlena offered, loosening her fingers and looking down at Rasine without expression. "We can do without you." Rasine stared at her breathlessly and slowly took a step backwards. "What? Straight, I won't come any more." "No, just send along that pretty daughter of yours; what's her name, Oriel?" What the fear and the pain had not done, Jahlena's words did. Rasine drew in a long breath, and let the anger consume her. "No! You just crossed the line, Jahlena. Oriel is not going anywhere near the Spear, not while there's life in my body," she raged. "Well then, I'll just have to make sure there isn't, won't I?" Jahlena smiled quite beautifully at her. "Such a little thing stopping Oriel from working for me, Rasine. Don't make me do something you won't live to regret." She laughed, with real delight in her voice. "I'm looking forward to seeing Oriel work at the Spear. She's going to make a very beautiful, very expensive entertainer." Rasine stared as the other woman walked away, and then immediately buried her face in her hands. She sniffed, trying to swallow her tears. The debt that she owed Jahlena was not paltry, a sum of some fifty Rounds incurred when she was searching for Lars. She could not possibly let Oriel entertain at the Spear. Her daughter! Her baby, her child! Rasine's mind revolted at the thought. The fog she had lived in for far too long lifted. She vowed in grim determination that Jahlena would never get her hands on Oriel. She would do something to prevent it; the only question was what. ======================================================================== Talisman Seven Part 3 by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Yuli 9-11, 1013 Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 13-11 Baron Chak Bindrmon stormed through the halls of his own keep. His jaw was clenched so tightly that his lips were as white as his hair, and his hands were balled into fists so hard that he could feel his short nails digging into his palms. He was walking fury, and he was headed toward his only child's room to teach the boy some sense. Chak had recently returned from his journey to Fremlow City, the ducal seat of Welspeare. Every three years, the Duchess of Welspeare required that all of her barons travel to her castle to deliver their taxes in person; the other two years, traveling tax collectors handled those duties. Chak had put his time in Fremlow City to good use: he had secured a promise of marriage between the only daughter of Baron Groon Durening, Millicet, and his son, Aldan. The union would benefit Bindrmon greatly, since Baron Durening had been eager to secure the marriage of his daughter, who was almost thirty. The only hitch in the plan was Aldan himself. Chak had just told his son of the wedding plans, whereupon Aldan had defied his father and declared that he loved another and would not honor Chak's hard-won agreement. Chak intended to do something about that. He reached the door of his son's room and slammed his open hand into it with all of the strength of his fury behind it. It wasn't barred, and the latch snapped like a twig, letting the door swing open and crash against the wall behind it. Baron Bindrmon stomped into Aldan's room to find his son standing by the fireplace, staring at a simple, metal candlestick on the mantelpiece. Aldan's only visible reaction to his father's entrance was the tension in his shoulders; he didn't turn around or verbally acknowledge the baron. Chak stood silently for a moment, waiting for Aldan to turn around. He almost didn't recognize the candlestick at first, but even when he realized what it was he refused to let himself be deflected from his purpose. He recalled giving a pair of candlesticks like that to his wife, Cyorsa, shortly after their marriage. They had enjoyed pride of place on their dinner table every evening until the fever claimed her life a dozen years previously. He had ordered them removed from his sight and had ceased to think about them. It didn't surprise him that Aldan had rescued one from wherever they had been stored. Chak knew that the boy was too soft by far to be a fit heir. He was going to have to take further measures to toughen his son up. Maybe the marriage would help. Aldan still had not turned, so Chak said, "I may be your father, but I am also the baron. Turn around and show me some respect, son!" Aldan shuffled himself around to face his father, reluctance in every motion he made. The sullen look on his face was more suited to a thwarted child than someone of his score-and-two years. "Sit!" Chak commanded. Aldan flinched, almost complying, but he steeled himself and remained standing. Narrowing his eyes, Chak continued, "Your choice, son. Now, what was that all about downstairs? Did I hear right: are you rejecting the marriage I've arranged for you?" Aldan only nodded. The baron thundered on, "You cannot be serious, Aldan. This marriage is in your best interest. Millicet's dowry will enrich our coffers by a handsome sum, and Baron Durening has agreed to cede a portion of his territory along the Renev River to us, which means increased trade. It is not possible for you to refuse this match after the negotiations Groon and I have gone through!" Silence stretched in response to Chak's statement, finally broken by Aldan's voice, faint but filled with resolve. "I love another, father." "What does that matter, eh, boy? Love? All that is good for is deluding the peasants that their old age won't be spent alone. You're the son of a baron, Aldan, and that means that marriage has nothing to do with love for you. Marriage is a tool to the nobility. It cements alliances, it conjoins bloodlines and inheritances, it is negotiated and agreed upon, not granted will-ye-nill-ye when the emotion strikes." "I love another, father," Aldan repeated in a stronger voice. The sullen expression he wore was deepening into anger, but Chak wasn't paying attention. "So, who is it that you love, boy? One of the nobles of our court? Maybe Northfield's daughter has caught your eye? Or perhaps a foreign princess has been traveling through our lands and plighted troth with you?" "I love a barmaid, father, and Tillna is her name. And it is better I love her than all the well-bred women you could bring before me. I have her heart, father, and she mine," said Aldan Bindrmon with some of the conviction that his father used. Silence again, but this time it was the baron who was rendered speechless. Finally, he gasped, "A barmaid? A common bawd? You would throw away the riches that Durening offers for a tavern wench? How could you shame me so, Aldan? How could you think that this is acceptable?" Passion joined growing conviction as Aldan replied, "Father, how could I not love her? Her hair, it shines like gold, and her eyes are the blue of crystal stones, Father. Her beauty shines as bright as the moon, no, bright as the sun! I love her, and will not have another, father!" "You are not being given a choice!" shouted Baron Bindrmon. "You *will* marry Millicet, and bring her dowry to our barony. Face up to your responsibility. You are not a child. Stop acting like one. Do what you have to, what you know is right. Stop defying me!" Aldan took a step toward his father, his face screwed up with suddenly released rage. "Stop ignoring me!" he yelled. "Stop treating me like a marionette! You've told me what to do ever since mother died, taking away my friends, taking away my very enjoyment of life. You will not take Tillna away from me. I will not marry Millicet, and I do not intend to change my mind!" Aldan raced out of his own room. Chak watched him go, his son's outburst ringing in his ears. He reached out to try to grab Aldan's arm but failed because he couldn't unclench his fist fast enough, so tightly had it been held. Baron Bindrmon stood reflecting on his son's words for quite a while. Eventually he came to the realization that Aldan didn't know what he was talking about. Chak had guided his son gently, tutoring him for the job he would someday have. It wasn't easy being baron; Aldan would see that some day, and he would thank his father for the lessons he had learned. And as far as his son's final declaration went, Chak intended to make sure that Aldan turned out to be wrong. Several bells later, two stablehands arrived at the door to Baron Bindrmon's private chambers. Talss, the tall thin one, knocked tentatively. Lhewin, the tall stocky one, fidgeted. Neither of them knew what the baron wanted, but it wasn't normal for servants to be summoned like this, and they were both very nervous. The door opened, and the baron himself beckoned them inside, and then motioned them to sit at the table in the center of the outer room of the suite. Chak sat down opposite them and said, "I have a task for the two of you, along the lines of the service you performed for me back in Fremlow City, concerning Brerk Shaddir." Talss remembered. He and four other stablehands, Lhewin included, had convinced Brerk, the second son of Baron Shaddir, that he didn't want to marry Millicet, thus opening the way for Baron Bindrmon's arrangement. Talss wasn't proud of it, but he had done his duty to his baron and his barony, and had received a Round as payment. He wondered who the baron needed frightened away this time. "My son fancies himself in love with one of the tavern girls over at the Boar-Ring Inn. Her name is Tillna. Do you know her?" The two stablehands shook their heads. Chak shrugged and continued, "He seems very attached to her, or at least the idea of her. He has utterly rejected what I want, what you helped me get: his betrothal to Durening's daughter. He will not be swayed by words, and he's my son, so rough handling is out of the question. But I've thought of something else. "Tillna. If she leaves town, and tells no one where she is going, then Aldan won't be able to use her as an excuse to refuse Millicet. I want you two to make sure that Tillna leaves. One way or another, she should be out of this barony as soon as possible, preferably out of the duchy entirely. I'm asking this of only the two of you as I don't think it would take five to scare off one little barmaid. "I know that this is an unusual thing to ask of you, and I understand that you may not feel it is a worthy thing to be doing. I ask that you remember two things. First, you are once again aiding your barony, as Millicet's dowry will benefit Bindrmon greatly. Second, to salve your consciences, I will pay you each a Crown now, and a Crown when she is gone. "So, will you do it?" Talss had done some very questionable things in the service of Bindrmon, including taking care of Flitchin, the stablehand who had tried to flee the baron's service on the way to Fremlow City. But for some reason, Talss found this request to be much more shocking. He didn't know why, unless it had to do with the fact that he was being asked to intimidate a woman. Shaddir's son Brerk had at least stood a chance against the five sent to persuade him to break off his betrothal. How could a barmaid defend herself against even two grown men? "Two Crowns?" Talss heard Lhewin ask. He looked over, and saw the wide eyes of avarice on his friend's face. The baron placed two large gold coins on the table, and said, "And another for each of you when she is gone." A Crown was a great deal of money, and Talss was sorely tempted. When Lhewin's hand started to stretch out across the table toward the coins, Talss said, "We'll do it, your excellency. Count on us." He grabbed his coin and held it tightly in his hand. The cold weight soon warmed up, so that all he could feel were its edges against his palm. As its presence seemed to diminish the longer he held it, he wondered whether two Crowns were really enough to salve his conscience. Aldan walked into the Boar-Ring Inn and went right to the bar. "Oablar, my usual room," he said, throwing coins down. The proprietor of the inn handed him a key, and scooped up the coins. "I'll let her know when she arrives that you're here, my lord," he said, the hint of a leer in his voice. "No, thank you, Oablar. I'll come back down in a few bells and tell her myself. Could you send up some food and a tankard of ale?" Aldan didn't see Oablar nod as he climbed the stairs. He spent the next several bells thinking, even though he knew the answer to his problems. There was only one thing he could do, and he needed to do it as soon as possible. He didn't want anything to happen to his one chance to make his own decision. He might be destined to be baron, with all the responsibility that entailed, but he didn't have to be saddled with a wife he didn't know or love. His father would come to understand eventually; understand or, at least, accept. Third bell after dark had already rung when Aldan went back down the stairs. The taproom of the Boar-Ring was bustling with activity, and both Aivney and Tillna were busily crossing the room taking orders and delivering drinks. Aldan just watched Tillna work for a bit, knowing that soon she wouldn't have to earn her own way any longer. Everything was perfect, except for one thing: the Menagerie, that group of young lords who hated him for abandoning their company, sat at their usual table laughing and shouting and leering at both barmaids. Aldan didn't particularly want to do this in front of them, but he knew that they wouldn't be leaving until well after derk, and he didn't want to wait that long. He stepped off the stairs and over to the edge of the bar. Fox glowered at him from the Menagerie's table, but Aldan ignored him. Tillna saw him and hurried over. They hugged, and when Aldan kissed her he made sure that he kissed her lips. Tillna frowned at his presumption, but only until he started to speak. "Tillna, my darling, we've been seeing each other for more than a year now, and I think I am finally sure of what I feel about you. You have my heart, Tillna, and I hope I have yours. Will you be my wife?" Tillna's response was immediate. "Yes, yes, oh yes!" She hugged him and kissed him hard on the mouth, while the patrons at nearby tables applauded, except for the Menagerie of course. She backed a step from him then, and said, "Oh, Aldan, I'm so glad you finally asked me. I've been ready to say yes for so long now. But, what about your father?" Aldan laughed a mirthless laugh, and said, "The baron will not be pleased, but I no longer care. I want to marry you, and his wishes can feed the crows." Tillna said, with a calculating look in her eye, "But, does not the baron have to sanction our marriage? You are noble, after all." "Yes, I am noble." Aldan had an answer ready. "Which means that I can also appeal to the one my father owes fealty to for sanction as well. You've always wanted to see Fremlow City. We can be there in two days. The sooner we leave, the sooner we will be married." "Oh, Aldan ... I have to pack, to prepare. I couldn't leave before day after tomorrow, will that be all right? Oh, I wish Yawrab were back from her trip to the ducal seat. Perhaps we will meet her there? There are so many details to take care of! I'm so, so happy, Aldan!" The sixth bell of night was close to ringing when Talss and Lhewin entered the Boar-Ring Inn. The taproom was almost deserted, with only the four young men of the Menagerie occupying their table in one corner of the room, near the bar. They were quiet, seriously studying the tankards in front of them with the intensity of the very drunk. Both barmaids were gone; Aivney to her home, Tillna upstairs with Aldan. Oablar stood behind the bar polishing leather mugs. The two baronial stablehands walked over to the bar, frowning and stumbling slightly. They had spent a great deal of time arguing back and forth back at the keep about whether they should really do as the baron asked, and what kind of tactics they should employ. Ale had been consumed during their conversations, but not enough to make them drunk. Not very, anyway. Eventually, they had decided that they wanted to see Tillna in person. Unaware of the number of bells that had already passed, they left the keep and strolled through the deserted town only to find that there were no women at all in the Boar-Ring. Talss said, "Two alesh, barman." Oablar drew their drinks and said, "Don't settle in, straight? I'm wantin' to close soon." Talss and Lhewin lifted their tankards in acknowledgment, and staggered to the nearest table. Lhewin took a long draw of the fresh ale and said, "Not here." Talss shook his head in agreement, and drank more slowly. "I wonder if the baron ... ah ... knew what he thought he ... knew?" Talss was talking more loudly than he intended, and he was overheard. Fox's head lifted at the mention of 'baron' and he paid a fuzzy attention to the two men dressed in the livery of the Bindrmons at the next table. "Don't know," replied Lhewin. "Maybe there ish no Tillna." "Easy money, then," laughed Talss. "Easy money if she's a fig ... a figm ... a dream, huh?" "Easy money, Talsh," agreed Lhewin. Unnoticed by the stablehands, Weasel's head had also risen from its drunkard's droop, and he listened in on the conversation too, drawn by the name of the barmaid. Owl was asleep over his drink, and Bear ... well, Bear was giggling into his hands again. "I shtill don' like this, Llll-hewin," complained Talss. "We stopped that Brerk guy from marryin' so the baron could get Aldan married. But Aldan's already got a sweetheart. So why don't we just go tell Brerk that he can have his wifey back, and let the kid marry this 'magin'ry barmaid?" "Baron says. That'sh why," intoned Lhewin. "Get rid of barmaid, and Aldan has to marry who baron wants. 'Nless Till-nah isn't real." "She's real," said Talss morosely. "We don' have that kinda luck. Wish we hadn't agreed to do this, though." Fox took Bear's full tankard of ale and threw it in his own face. The jolt sobered him up somewhat, and he dried himself off a bit with Owl's cloak. "Greetings!" Both Talss and Lhewin started when the red-haired young man appeared across the table from them and spoke. Neither really noticed the wet hair or the heavy odor of ale coming from him. Fox continued, "I couldn't help but overhear, and pardon for eavesdropping. You say you are here looking for Tillna the barmaid?" The stablehands nodded somewhat stupidly, and Fox continued, "Did I catch it right that you want to ... get rid of her?" Talss nodded again. The drink had drowned his sense and loosened his tongue and he said, "Baron's orders, so his shon will marry someone else, someone he doesn't want to." Fox's grin had nothing merry about it. "I think that I and my friends over there can help you. Please, let us take this burden onto our shoulders. We'll gladly ensure that Tillna is gotten rid of, and the marriage plans of Aldan Bindrmon are altered permanently. "Here," he said, fumbling at his belt. He laid a Crown on the table, and continued, "For the privilege of completing this task for you. Trust me, your baron will be well pleased with the results." Talss looked at the Crown on the table, and then at the young man across the table. The answer was obvious. He snatched the coin before Lhewin had even stopped blinking in surprise, and said, "Thank you for yer offer, mi'lord. The baron was in some hurry about the matter ..." "We shall be about your business as soon as the sun lifts himself from his slumber." When Talss and Lhewin just stared, Fox said, "Tomorrow, my friends. We will begin tomorrow. Fare well." The stablehands rose, shook Fox's hand, and left, even though he had come to their table. Fox looked over at Weasel, who grinned a wicked grin back. Fox was walking through Beeikar's marketplace the next morning. He was happy to finally have an excuse to deal with Tillna, and so strike a blow against Aldan the Rat. He didn't think it would be difficult for the Menagerie to frighten one woman enough to get her to run away. It would be even better if she proved stubborn about it; he owed her a slap or two -- at least -- for the way she had been treating him recently. At the edge of the market, Fox noticed that a gypsy had occupied one of the stalls set up there. His colorful clothing was very distinctive, but Fox thought he would have known the man's origins even without the patchwork raiments; the swarthy features and full, black beard were equally distinctive, he thought. Fox looked over the wares for sale. At one end of the counter were some poorly-made daggers and short swords, meant for flashy display and not for use. Next to the weapons was what seemed to be half of a stone sculpture of some kind. It had been circular when whole, and the inner two-thirds of the flat upper surface was covered by intertwining bands of silver, gold, and glass. Around the rim were carved two birds of prey next to each other and a cat. Fox touched the sculpture, setting a finger to one of the carved birds. He jerked his hand back as if he had been bitten, but after shaking his finger and looking for a mark he seemed to forget all about the strange sensation and the sculpture at the same time. Fox's attention shifted to the carved wooden figures and boxes arrayed next to the stone fragment. Figurines of people and animals, and animals dressed as people, were all of the highest craftsmanship, with crisp, clear detail. Fox looked for carvings that represented him or his friends, but there were no foxes or fox people, or any of the other Menagerie animals at all. The closest he came was a rat-woman dressed like a ship's captain, but that only made him frown, and he moved on. Then, he saw the box. It was about eight hands square, and on the lid was carved a stylized representation of a falcon. The bird looked just like the ones on ... on ... no, he hadn't ever seen falcons carved like that before. The sides of the box were carved with wavy lines -- no, they were woven loops, like hair, or braided bread or ... or bread, straight. The falcon was carved so that to view it properly, the box had to be resting so that it looked like a diamond, not a square. Fox worked the tightly friction-fit lid off and discovered that the inside of the box was round. Those three things came together and, with a flash of interwoven bands, falcons, and a cat behind his eyes, Fox got an idea. A wicked -- no, an evil idea. He liked it. He knew that the Menagerie would like it too. He paid for the box, and went to tell his friends about the change in plans. Later that evening, Aldan stopped at the Boar-Ring Inn. "Have you seen Tillna today, Aivney?" "No, love, she ain't been in," Aivney said distractedly as she served ales to a table full of bargemen while dodging their pinching fingers. "Thank you. See you later." In the depths of the night, four figures, completely muffled in robes and hoods, carried a long, narrow bundle between them to the banks of the Renev River. Faint chanting could be heard as the bundle began to sway between them, and suddenly it was flung into the rushing water. It bobbed for a moment, the dark stain in the center seeming to fade as the bundle absorbed water. Then it vanished from sight. The anonymous figures stood staring after the vanished bundle. One staggered for a moment, as if on the rolling deck of a ship. Another, the largest, lifted its arms to its hood, and giggled. Presently, the four turned and walked back into the darkness. The next afternoon Aldan went to Tillna's boarding house. He was beginning to get worried, as she hadn't been seen by anyone in over a day. Had she run away? But she had seemed so happy when he proposed ... Aldan climbed the single flight of stairs to the upper floor and walked to the back of the hall. He knocked on her door, and it swung open. Suddenly apprehensive, Aldan walked in. He half expected to find the room bare, but it wasn't. Tillna's belongings filled it, making it hers. Only one thing seemed out of place: on the narrow table next to the door was a large package, wrapped in cloth. Hanging from the cord that tied the cloth together was a small piece of parchment on which was painted the badge of Bindrmon. Aldan took the package and stepped further into the room. He sat down and untied the cord, letting the white cloth fall away from what it wrapped. This revealed a carved wood box with a falcon on the lid. It was heavy and well constructed, and he examined the carvings around the edges and on the top. He turned the box so that the falcon was upright, so that it sat on its corner and looked like a diamond. The box was beautiful, and the falcon was just perfect, but something was making him uneasy about this. Was it some kind of farewell gift from Tillna? If not, who had left it? The falcon might indicate some kind of connection to the Menagerie, but they only called him Rat now. Nervously, he, tried to lift the lid from the box, but it wouldn't budge. He tried harder, finding indentations at each corner that allowed him to get a grip on it. He felt it start to move finally, its friction-fit ceasing to resist. As the lid lifted, the first thing he noticed was the smell. He had hunted enough to know that iron tang: blood. He moved the lid aside, and was confronted with contents so bizarre that he had no idea what he was looking at. Hair, blond hair was all he could see at first, golden hair coiling around and filling the round insides of the box. Except in the middle, where a lump of reddish-brown and slightly grey meat rested, roughly oval, slightly thicker at the bottom than the top. He was dumbfounded. What was this? What did it mean? By chance, he noticed that there was something inside the lid. He glanced at it, and saw that it was a parchment with very neat, precise writing on it. Lifting the lid, he read the writing and learned all he needed to know, and much more than he had feared. When you proposed, you said you hoped you had my heart. Well, dearest, I hope that this reassures you. You have my heart, Aldan Bindrmon. My love and my life, Tillna ========================================================================