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 3 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 4/8/2001 Volume 14, Number 3 Circulation: 757 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb Beginning Morals Mark A. Murray Naia 1016 The Snows of a New Year Charles F. Schweppe 3-5 Deber 1016 A Woman's Prayer P. Atchley Melrin 1017 ======================================================================== DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet. We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project. Please address all 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 14-3, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright April, 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 I have to admit an embarrassing fascination with reports and charts. Over the years I've drawn charts of how far I ride my bike, asthma attacks, my salary growth, my net worth, temperature trends, computing performance and capacity, and any number of other things that could be quantifiably measured over time. I must admit a particular weakness for software like Excel and Quicken, which allow me to indulge in this obsessive behavior without resorting to easel-pad sized graph paper and a slide rule. DargonZine is, of course, a natural outlet for this compulsion. I've got graphs and reports about things you'd expect, like how many readers we've had, how much fiction we've printed each year, and how much traffic our Web site gets each month. Then there are some additional statistics, like how many stories each writer has produced, and the elements of the Dargon milieu that get referenced most frequently. The data relating to Dargon people, places, and things is a particularly fertile ground for inquiry. When a writer uses a character or place that someone else introduced in a previous story (as opposed to something they themselves created), that's what we call "borrowing". In true data fiend fashion, I have reports that indicate which elements are most frequently borrowed, which writers have borrowed the most, and which writers have created things that are borrowed most often. If that sounds a little compulsive, consider that I've also been known to create charts of the ages of our writers, their levels of participation, and personality traits like their preferred quantity and method of receiving criticism! So I thought I'd take this opportunity to share some numbers that piqued my curiosity this morning. I found myself wondering how many of our readers had been around since we started keeping detailed records of subscriptions back in 1994. What I found was that about 12 percent of our current subscribers have been here for more than six years, and that fully one quarter of our readers have been with us for more than four years. That kind of loyalty is a pleasant surprise, and it's really great to know that there are so many people out there who value our work enough to stay with us for so long! Of course, all statistics can be interpreted differently, so I then turned the question around: are those numbers high only because we've recently done a poor job recruiting new readers? Well, half our readers joined DargonZine within the past two years, so I don't think so. Furthermore, of the people who subscribed to DargonZine in the past year, about 60 percent of them are still with us. Interestingly, of the readers whom we lost in the past two years, only one in five unsubscribed; the rest were removed from our distribution list because their email addresses became inactive. For an Internet publication, that's an amazingly high retention rate. From all that, I infer that our readers seem to like what we've been doing. That's good, because we're back again in this issue with more of the same! The issue begins with longstanding favorite Mark Murray, whose standalone story introduces us to a new setting that will appear in several forthcoming stories: the recently-founded village of Nulain. We continue with a great first story from our second new Dargon writer of the year, Charles Schweppe. Charles' story is given color from his background in medieval history, and we really look forward to more great tales from him. And the issue concludes with "A Woman's Prayer", the last chapter in P. Atchley's three-part series about Rasine and her daughter Oriel. So, for those readers who have been with us for years, I offer my thanks as well as the gratitude of all our writers. And for those of you who are only just getting settled with DargonZine, I hope you enjoy the great reading material we provide, and that we can share our journeys throughout the years to come! Thanks, and enjoy! ======================================================================== Beginning Morals by Mark A. Murray Naia 1016 "And the beast rose up and roared," Raven Forester told her two children. She brought up her two slender arms so that she could mimic the beast's claws. Her fingers curled inward and looking closely, one could see the calluses in her once soft and dainty hands. She opened her mouth and bared her teeth while growling. Her long black hair traveled over her shoulders as she leaned forward in the chair. Dark eyes peered through her long bangs. "I hope it didn't look as funny as you," young Graham Forester giggled. His dimpled cheeks flashed across his face as he smiled and laughed. "Hush," the older Forester child said. "I want to hear the rest." Jerial sat straight and rigid, his hands placed upon his legs. His attention was upon his mother, waiting for her to continue. "Aww, Jer," Graham complained. "You're like father. So stern and hard. If you fell into the river, you'd not only drown, but scare all the fish out of the water." "Graham," Raven smiled. "That's not true. Your father would scare the fish so far that they'd land in the sea." Graham laughed and rolled back onto the bed. "Mother," Jerial pleaded. "What happened next?" "Straight," Raven said. "The duke drew back his sword and smote the beast. The heavy blow caused a great wound. Instead of attacking, though, the beast turned and fled. The duke and his men followed, but they were not as fast. "The beast leaped and ran and was gone from sight. The duke and his men searched for bells, but found nothing. There wasn't even any blood to track. Giving up, they were turning towards home when they heard a groan nearby." "It was the beast, wasn't it?" Graham asked. "Hush," Jerial said. "The men crept forward slowly, weapons drawn and ready," Raven continued. "The woods grew thick with brush and briars. They carefully waded through, getting closer and closer to the noise. Monstrous moans and groans cried out. "The duke led, and deliberately moved each branch and briar out of the way. The closer he got, the less the moaning became. So, slowly moving a branch aside ..." Raven said, imitating the duke's action. "And the beast ..." As her arm reached the limit of its arc, she jumped forward and grabbed young Graham. "Aaugh!" he screamed and jumped backwards out of her grasp, his legs frantically kicking the quilt in an effort to push himself away. "Mother," Jerial sighed, only having moved slightly when she scared Graham. He rolled his eyes at her and waited for her to finish. "And the beast wasn't there," she said. "Huh?" Graham said. "You scared me for nothing?" "No, little tree rat," Jerial replied. "She did it because she had fun scaring you." "Hush," Raven said. "At least we have excitement in our lives. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, the missing beast. The duke found a man lying on the ground with a severe chest wound. Being the duke, he instantly fathomed what had happened." "Wait," Jerial said quickly. "The man was the beast." "No," Graham said. "The beast hurt the man in its escape." "And the duke," Jerial continued. "The duke realized that the beast wasn't evil, but it was defending its home." "Yes," Raven said. "But is there anything else?" "He was the beast?" Graham asked. "Yes," Jerial said, ignoring his younger brother. He leaned forward a slight bit. Not enough for most to notice, but his mother saw it and knew that he was intent on figuring out the puzzle and moral of the story. She knew her boys well. While Jerial thought about the answer, she looked over at Graham. He was small with short brown hair. He still carried some weight but their move to the new land had hardened him somewhat. Looking back to Jerial, she saw his muscular frame tense as he pondered the story. His long, dark hair, sharp nose, angular chin, and blue eyes were the very image of his father. "Don't trade blows before you realize whom it is you are attacking," Jerial stated. "It may turn out to be a potential ally." "Yes," Raven said. She rose from the chair and brushed her hair back over her shoulders. "It is a story your father keeps close to him now that we are finally here in Nulain." "Why did we have to move way up here, mother?" Graham asked. "I know we had to move. Our land was taken by the Be-in-sons," he said, having trouble with the word, but determined to do his best. "We had to go somewhere, but wasn't there someplace closer to home to go to?" "No," Raven sighed. "Your father and I did not have a choice in the matter. King Haralan gave other nobles and us some land to compensate our losses. The king named it Nulain and proclaimed your father regent of it, but we aren't really a duchy. We aren't ruled by a duchy either. And we couldn't decline an offer from the king, now could we?" "No, mother," Jerial agreed. He moved his hands behind him and leaned back, relaxing somewhat. "No one wants to talk about these things, but your father and I think that this was the only land the king could get from the other nobles. No one really wanted it. It's rocky and hilly and no place for a good farm. The grass doesn't grow very well, so feeding livestock is tough. The mountains are very close but the only valuable thing there is trees." "That's what we do, though, mother," Jerial said, closing his eyes and tilting his head back to catch the sunlight streaming in through the window. "We chop down trees and sell the wood to other people. If we can tame the mountains, we can thrive here." "Thrive?" Graham asked, pushing his brother's shoulder. "What's that?" He wasn't having much luck moving his brother, so he leaned back and placed his feet on his brother's waist. Before he could push, Jerial rose from the bed. "It means to grow and flourish and get bigger," Jerial answered. He looked out the window at the mountains. "Yes," Raven said. "We possibly can. And we have the best plot of land. Do you remember the river that runs out of the mountains?" "Yes." "... yes." "That is a boundary for the duchies. Our land was in duchy Asbridge on a point that is next to Dargon and Narragan. These three duchies are the sides to our land. The river flows out of the mountains from Narragan and about where it crosses our land, it becomes the border for Asbridge and Dargon. "When we arrived here, we found a central site for our town and called it Northern Hope. Some people are calling it Hopeville, though. Whichever we end up calling it, it's our land and our dreams now. And that is the end to our lessons," she said. "You have chores and training." "Will father be home soon?" Graham asked. "I don't know. He went out to scout the area some more and to hunt. Night will probably be here before he returns." "Until dinner, mother," Jerial said, walking out the door. "Do I have to go?" Graham complained. "Feeding the chickens and pigs is boring. I want to hear more stories." "Go," Raven ordered. "We'll talk about your training at dinner." "I want to be an artist," Graham said, jumping from the bed into her arms. She caught him and hugged him tightly to her. "Your father has the decision," she warned. "Now go." His feet no sooner touched the ground than he was out the door singing a children's ditty. "There!" Othra Miller shouted, his outstretched hand pointing skyward. His other hand shaded the sun from his brown eyes. He was a big man, with rolls of fat hidden by a tailored tunic. A long, thick mustache and a goatee adorned his face, while a bald spot grew on the top of his head, reaching out to diminish his already short brown hair. "Looks like a goose," Othra's son, Harrell, guessed. "Can't tell for sure." "Looks like a challenge," Kael Forester said. "It's a long shot for the bow, but let's see if I can make it." Kael lifted his long bow and pulled back the string. The muscles along his arms flexed and shaped themselves as he sighted past the arrow. His hand rested alongside his angular chin as he watched the flying bird. Letting out his breath in a slow, relaxed manner, he loosened his fingers. The bowstring twanged as the arrow shot upward. The three of them watched as the arrow sped true. The goose jumped in mid-flight, but did not fall. They could see the arrow continue past the goose to land over a hill. The bird's flapping was erratic. Slowly, the bird lost altitude and was forced down near where the arrow had disappeared. "I think you hit it," Othra said. "Let's find out." "We haven't seen much else all day. Might as well go," Harrell agreed. Kael thought about it for a moment. They were a good hike away from home, and if they searched for the bird, it would be dark before they returned. While they all knew the way home, it was still a new land and traveling at night was dangerous. "We'll search, but not long." Large boulders interrupted the rolling hillsides sporadically. Rocks littered the ground and trees grew in groves throughout. They were still on Kael's land, but going a bit farther from where the bird had landed would take them to the foot of the mountains. The ground grew steep and the trees grew closer together to cover the sides. They climbed the small hill and searched the area on their way down the other side. Small pockets of gulleys crisscrossed the area and could hide almost anything. Shrubs and thickets grew here and there and concealed small game, although they hadn't found any on this trip. "Help," a woman cried from somewhere close. Her voice sang softly through the air to play upon the men's minds. In response, they quickened their pace towards her plea. "Where are you?" Harrell asked. "Here," came the melodious reply, tinged with painful sorrow. "I see her," Kael said and ran to her. He reached where she was and knelt beside her. She was a slim, dainty woman with pale, soft skin. A silky tan-colored dress covered her body, but there was a place torn from it around her upper left arm. Blood seeped out from a wound to stain her finely woven clothes. Her hair was short and multihued, from a light brown to a dark brown. Her eyes were black and soulful. She held his arrow in her right hand. "It came out of the sky and pierced me," she explained. "I am sorry, milady," Kael said. "It was my arrow. I tried to bring down a large bird for dinner, but I believe I missed it. We were searching for it in the chance that I had hit it." "Who are you?" Othra asked. "Where do you live?" "First, we should get her someplace to take care of that wound," Harrell stated. He knelt on the other side of the woman. Cutting part of his tunic, he delicately bandaged the wound. "Our homes are a few bell's walk," Othra said, standing at her feet. "Which is closer, your home or ours?" "Bells?" she asked, letting go of the arrow. The tip fell upon her leg as the notched end rolled from her fingers to strike the ground. "Ah, well, um ..." Othra stood perplexed. "A few hillsides that way," Harrell said. "My home is farther than that," she answered. Her voice carried a sweet, soft tone that hid the pain of her wound. "Can you walk?" Kael asked. "We can help you stand." "Please," she said, using her good arm to help her up. Kael and Harrell aided as best they could, placing hands under her for support. Once on her feet, she swayed a bit and placed a hand upon Harrell's shoulder. "Ah," she cried in pain as she moved her wounded arm closer to her body. "I can walk, I think." "This way," Kael motioned, keeping by her side. "Couldn't you shoot an ugly woman?" Raven asked, fuming. She stood at the head of the bed, looking at her husband's back. He was at the washbasin, cleaning his hands. "Couldn't you just not shoot a woman at all?" Her voice started as a whisper but rose in increments. "Shhhh," Kael said, drying his hands. "Don't make our guest uncomfortable." He turned to face her. "Heh," Raven snorted. "Why don't you go in there and tend to her *again*? You seem more concerned about her well-being than mine. I don't like her being here. She hasn't said who she is or where she's from or what she was doing there." "A person is entitled to their privacy," Kael countered, walking towards his wife. "We are the strangers around here." "Tonight, you are the stranger," she said, climbing into bed. She got under the quilt on the far side of the bed and bundled the whole thing around her, leaving nothing for her husband. He stood there and stared before getting into bed beside her. Their backs were facing each other and they lay there for long moments before she turned and tossed part of the quilt over him. Reaching out, she placed her hand around his waist and curled up next to him. "I love you," she said. "I love you more," he replied and smiled. "Did you hear that?" Graham asked his older brother. "Did you hear what father said?" "Yes," Jerial yawned. "Go to sleep. It was an accident." "Not that," Graham yawned. He curled up in his bed and his voice was magically getting softer as sleep gathered about him. Jerial was already asleep when Graham muttered his last sentence. "Do you think she was the bird?" ======================================================================== The Snows of a New Year by Charles F. Schweppe 3-5 Deber 1016 It was a cold day in Dargon. The new year had brought with it winds from across the frozen forests to the east. While those soon died, the temperatures dropped steadily, clearing the streets as people fled to the warmth of family hearths. Those who went outdoors, hurrying from building to building, did so because of compelling need. One of the few people on the streets was leading a roan mare. He was a tall young man, just past his seventeenth birthday, his frame hidden underneath a thick woolen cloak. On most days, he would take time to admire the houses along Murson Street, their dark oak framing and shutters contrasting with the white washed daub of the walls. He admired the way they stood together in neat rows, so different from the randomness of his home village. But today his head was bowed within his fur-lined cloak, hurrying past. His name was Reynaud, a son of Gautier Journai, a minor knight in the foot hills of the Darst Mountains. Yet he was the youngest of three sons and had always felt superfluous, rather like a spare wheel kept in a barn. It was a feeling that was reinforced on his sixth birthday when he learned that he was pledged to the Heart's Hope Monastery in Fennell. His brothers had watched with sympathy as he rode off on a cart, only accompanied over the paths and rough roads to Fennell by a wool merchant the boy barely knew. It had been a sad day for him. Despite his initial fear and loneliness, his stay at the monastery had not been unpleasant. The monks had been generally kind when he first arrived, especially Prior Yaroslav, allowing the young boy to become accustomed to the place. Reynaud had been taught his lettering by the master scrivener and the ways of the Cyruzhians by the novice master. He was a quick learn with the pen, and only one partially paralyzed novice was considered a better scribe. When not in the scriptorum, he had worked in the fields that fed the monastery, weeding while younger, then helping to plant and hoe. Despite the dull routine of farming, he had enjoyed its physical exertion, and he had always slept long and hard. He also enjoyed the outdoors, with the sun beaming down on him, and he found that the winters were hard because his work was shifted indoors. However, Reynaud was not content with being a monk, worshipping the God of the Stevene in quiet contemplation. He found the teachings of the Stevene distant and hard to grasp. Also, the first tome he was given to copy solo was a history of the Great Houses War, and he found himself enamored by the great deeds, especially of the knights at Balkura. While he had enjoyed the work, both in the scriptorum and in the fields, he found himself restless during the prayers. As the years went by, he had found this restlessness and dissatisfaction growing, and he yearned to perform great feats, which he could not do in the confines of a monastery. Then he heard of his eldest brother's death, and his resolve to leave Heart's Hope stiffened. He had approached the abbot, and, upon denying the truth of the teachings of Stevene, he was released and returned home. However, Reynaud had found that life with his family was not much better than with the Cyruzhians. Sir Gautier, who had never had much use for his youngest son, had been crushed by the death of his heir, and had taken refuge in the powerful local mead. Reynaud's mother spent her time taking care of her husband, while Reynaud's other brother had taken over the running of the fief. In addition, the lands of the Journais were isolated, far from excitement or power. They were also poor, and the scribe skills Reynaud had learned in Fennell were of little use. So, after less than six months, Reynaud found himself leaving his home for the second time in his life, this time by his own decision and heading north, for the ducal seat. The first few sennights in Dargon had not been pleasant. With the little money he had been able to bring with him, he had only been able to afford a cheap room off Layman Street, between Main and Travellers. In a short time, he had realized that the only work he could find, either as a longshoreman on the docks or as a minor clerk for a small merchant, was unacceptable to his ambitions. Yet after only one fortnight, his funds had become so alarmingly low that he had feared that he would be forced into either distasteful work or returning to the isolation of his home. Then he had come to the attention of Lord Harald Mertien, castellan of Dessow. Dessow was a small yet wealthy manor, nearly two bells travel east of the town. It was part of the patrimony of Anabel Mertien, the Baroness of Drugai, the head of one of Dargon's more powerful baronial families. She kept the manor as a place to stay when she visited her liege, and she had appointed her cousin Harald to see to its upkeep. Since Reynaud had entered into Harald's service, he had become accustomed to the opulent way in which the manor was kept, although he was in awe of its elegance when he first visited. Yet, somehow, there was something wrong in Reynaud's life. He had been at Dessow for over a year, and he had found himself sinking into luxury. His food was plentiful and filling, his bed was no longer a hard wooden plank, and, more importantly, he had been introduced to some of the important people in the duchy. He needed to do no physical work, not even working out with Lord Harald's men at arms, and his normally thin frame was starting to expand in the middle. He spent the last winter safely ensconced within the warm confines of the manor. And, despite all this, there was a sense of something missing. He often thought about it, hoping that naming the problem would help him overcome it, but he had not yet been successful. Thus Reynaud found himself riding into town on a cold Deber morning, picking up some supplies for Lord Harald. They were luxuries: a silver necklace with rubies made by Nila the silversmith; two bottles of wine from Lederia; tin boxes of cinnamon and mace from Farevlin; a sack of melons from the south, which had been rather expensively and carefully shipped to Dargon for Harald; a box filled with tiny grytol eggs from near Mt. Voldronnai; and lastly a large number of sable pelts. Lord Harald waited for these items at Dessow, for Baroness Anabel would be arriving in a fortnight to meet with the duke and had ordered a feast to be prepared. The necklace and a warm cloak made with the furs were to be gifts to her from the lord. After a year of rarely leaving the comfort of Dessow, he found that he was very cold, and he still had over two bells of riding left to reach Dessow. His brief time within the various shops to pick up his items had done little to warm him, so he made for the Spirit's Haven, the closest tavern. As he hurried along, he looked back at his mount, wishing that he knew more about horses. Despite being born to a knight, he lacked much of a noble's upbringing, knowing how to ride them but little else when it came to the animals. As he walked the streets, he was of two minds about this assignment. He had taken it partly as an excuse to leave the confines of the manor, and mostly because he wanted to show Lord Harald that he was worthy of trust. Harald had actually tried to talk the young man out of going, saying that it could be done the next day and it was too cold, but Reynaud insisted. Yet a part of him regretted that. Yes, he had been born in the foothills of the Darst, but he had been so young when he was sent to the monastery. There, while the life had been hard and spartan, it was never terribly harsh, and winter's fierceness had always been tempered by solid walls and plentiful braziers. Yet the thought of the heroes about whom he had read, whom the elements never bothered, inspired the young man. Thus he looked only for a brief warming. He shortly reached the tavern. Rather than wait for someone to emerge and see to his horse, he hitched it himself, then walked inside and went up to the bar. The cold had even penetrated the haven of the inn's walls, forcing the few patrons out of the padded booths and away from the tables, into a knot of benches and chairs around the roaring fire. May, the owner, was one of those by the fire, and she left the group as Reynaud approached the bar, her greeting adding a hint of warmth to the room. Reynaud ordered a hot spiced wine, and she gathered a pewter flagon and gestured him over to the fire. She filled the flagon from a cauldron placed next to the flames, then handed it to the young man and took several copper coins in return. As the heat from the liquid penetrated his gloves and the scent from the spiced wine rose to his nose, Reynaud smiled. As he began to sip at the wine, he saw May looking at him. He looked back and she said, "I'm sorry, lad, but I can't remember yer name. But ... les see. Yes. Yer the new man at Dessow, straight?" Reynaud nodded. "Yes, mistress May," he began, but she interrupted him. "No need to for the fancy titles here, friend," she said with a gentle smile. "Just call me May." He returned her smile. "As you wish, May," he said. "My name is Reynaud Journai and I do indeed work for Lord Harald. He sent me in to town for some items. I just stopped in to warm up before returning." She looked disturbed by this. "Back? Ya sure?" When Reynaud nodded, May shook her head. "Don't do it, lad. Stay here tonight." Reynaud gave a brief laugh. "It's only a couple of bells away. I'll be fine," he said as he drank his wine. Once again May shook her head and said, "There's a storm comin', lad, and a biggun. Ya shouldn't be out tonight." Still smiling, Reynaud finished his wine and got up. "I come from the mountains, mist--, uh, May. I've dealt with snows before." He handed the mug back to her and went to the door. "Get indoors if a west wind rises, lad!" she called as Reynaud went out the door. Reynaud smiled as he flipped his hood over his head and mounted his horse. He was humored by the concern of the innkeeper, despite its misconception. He was confident in his ability to withstand any storm. After all, he came from the mountains. As he left confines of the town and ventured to the fields that surrounded it, the wind began to pick up. It came from off the ocean, from the west. The storm started less than half a bell later, the snow appearing from nowhere. He was shocked by its suddenness, having never known one to rise so quickly. He continued onward, however, still confident that the growing storm could not hinder him. Yet as he rode on, and his cloak became saturated, and the sleet turned to snow, doubts began to enter his mind. The cold, he quickly determined, was the worst part, immense and unending. His cloak hung heavily upon him, its dampness robbing him of warmth. The wind, while stopped by the mass of the otherwise useless cloak, whirled the snow as it howled through the trees, obscuring the road and blowing the flakes under his hood. The sky of the aging day was blocked by the thick clouds of the storm, bringing a twilight darkness on the land bells early. His horse plodded along the track, its head bowed, walking by rote along a well travelled path, the sound of its hooffalls deadened by the snow and covered by the wind. Eventually, the cold became numbing. His blood felt sluggish, as if it were molasses. He lost track of time and distance. He even forgot why he needed to go forward, just that it was necessary. With the wind stinging his eyes and filling his ears, visions began to form. He saw his father, tall, proud and indifferent, putting a six year old boy on a cart to go to Fennell, while the boy's eldest brother, tall, proud and sympathetic, watched. He saw himself, in the robes of a Cyruzhian oblate, listening to the abbot tell of that same brother, drowned off some far shore in defense of the kingdom. He saw his father a few years later, slouching and vacant in his chair wearing a mead-stained tunic, Reynaud's other brother by his side. He saw himself standing in the streets of Dargon with a dagger bleeding in his hand, one man laying by his feet, a fat man in fancy dress leaning against the wall. He saw his first look at the main hall of Dessow, its dark wood lit by high windows of colored glass and covered by embroidered hangings. He saw himself riding on a cold day, laughing at the advice of a kindly innkeeper. Reynaud suddenly returned to reality, blinking at the snow that was falling directly on his face, and he was confused as to why he was no longer moving. Then he realized that he was lying on his back, which hurt. He stood up and saw his horse, a darker form in the swirling whiteness. As he approached it, he noticed that it was kneeling, which his numbed mind knew was not right but could not understand why, and he heard its whinnying over the wind. He tried to grip the bridle, but found that he needed to use both hands to force his stiff fingers around the leather straps. He turned around and started to walk, plodding his way through the rapidly growing white cover. The hand which held the bridle went backwards as he walked, then he felt a tug which caused him to stumble slightly as his arm fell back to his side. He knew that the tug was important, but not why, and he continued on. The thought that he might never again be warm flashed briefly through his mind before it and all others were driven away by the wind. His daze was broken when he saw a line of light in the darkness. He stood and stared at it for a moment, wondering how it made such a sharp bend. Then he realized that he was looking at the edge of a door. The sun must not have yet set, for as he looked, he could see the silhouette of a hut or cabin by the side of the road. May's advice, to get indoors, came back to him suddenly. He stumbled over to the hut and banged on the door. There was no answer at first, and he banged harder, his knees starting to give out. He was looking down, wondering where the strength of his legs had gone, when it opened. The door opened just enough for someone to peer out, and Reynaud took a step back in alarm. A short female, her head apparently one with her shoulders, looked at him. Her face seemed oddly distorted, one half of her a flickering red, the other cloaked in darkness. Wild hair, dark mostly but occasionally with the same reddish glow that covered her face, was pushed back by the wind that entered through the opened door, but otherwise she seemed unaffected. She looked at Reynaud, her one eye flashing redly, before turning to look further inside. "It's a boy," she called, her voice barely audible over the moaning of the storm. He was relieved, for when she turned and spoke, he realized that it was an old woman with a hunched back who stood inside. An indistinct response could be heard from within. The woman turned back and looked at Reynaud with an unfriendly grimace on her half-face. She snorted then opened the door, gesturing him inside. Reynaud stumbled in as the woman closed the door, and he reached up to throw back his hood, only to find that it must have fallen back much earlier. The room was dark but for a fire in the middle of the floor. Beside it lay an old man, his legs stretched out to one side, bundled up tightly against the wind that seeped through the walls, only his wrinkled face showing, lit by the flickering flames. Reynaud turned and looked at the woman as she walked to the man and stood behind him. Her face no longer seemed distorted, just covered with wrinkles. The man gestured to the fire. "Sit, my friend," he said, his voice soft in the sound of the wind as it whipped outside the walls. "There is a spare pallet by the door. Please pull it to the fire, sit, and take our hospitality." The man turned up and handed a wooden bowl to the woman. "Odilia, give the boy some stew." The woman snorted again, but lifted an iron pot off the edge of the fire. She filled the bowl from it and handed the stew to Reynaud as he pulled the pallet near to the fire. Sitting on the pallet, he placed the bowl on the ground to remove his gloves. The heat from the bowl was a welcome burning on his frozen fingers, and he leaned over to feel the steam bathe his face. The bowl was filled with a thin gruel, occasional lumps of soggy vegetables floating. He drank it quickly, scooping the vegetables into his mouth with his fingers, relishing the taste that brought memories of the warming room of the abbey and of his home. After finishing his stew, he vaguely heard a voice asking him if he would like some more. He nodded and a pot poured more of the gruel into the bowl. Once again, he quickly ate it down, then fell into a peaceful, warm sleep. Reynaud awoke wondering why he was lying in chilly and damp clothes upon a poorly made pallet of wool stuffed with straw. He sat up and looked around at a room that was not the outer chamber of Lord Harald's at Dessow. This was a simple hut made of wattle and daub over a crude frame of wood, rather dark as there were no windows. The floor was bare dirt, rather than the pine planks he was used to. A fire was burning low in the center of the room, not too far from where he lay. Then it came back him, the memory of the storm he had so foolishly tried to travel through. He looked across the fire and saw another pallet and the old man who sat upon it, one leg sticking out to the side, covered in a blanket. "Greetings, m'lord," said the man. "I see you are awake. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Jon and my wife," he gestured to the form lying behind him, "is called Odilia. Let me once again offer you the comfort of our hut." Reynaud looked around again. While he was warmer now, and his brain was not filled with the numbness of the night before, he was still sluggish with cold. Memories of the night began to return, seen as through a fog. He had sat by the fire, a bowl of watery stew in his hands. The old lady had opened the door to his banging. He remembered walking through the storm, leading ... "My horse," he said, suddenly. "Where is my horse?" The old man looked confused. "Horse? Odilia said nothing about a horse, m'lord." Reynaud, his limbs still stiff, arose. "I need to find my horse," he said. "M'lord," Jon said, shaking his head slightly, "the storm still blows. If you left a horse out all night ... I'm afraid it will be too late for it." Reynaud stopped and thought about it, realizing that the old man was probably right. The wind still blew outside, and he could feel the occasional gust shake the walls, and the air outside the aura of the fire was frigid. In addition, he remembered trying to lead the horse after he fell, but that it did not follow him. It had been on its knees when he last saw it. He cursed his own lack of consideration for the beast, because he realized that it must have been lamed somehow, or its leg broken in an unnoticed hole. No horse could survive a night in the storm if it could not move. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind from the fog of cold and sleep. "You saved my life. Let me make you some breakfast," he said slowly. But as he looked around, he could see no sign of grains or roots. He turned to Jon and asked, "Where is your food?" The old man looked uneasy. "You ate the last when you came," he said. When Reynaud stared at him, not understanding, Jon pulled the blanket from his leg, which although bound between two wooden splints was still crooked. "It was crushed last Sy by a falling tree, and the healer from the village doubts I will ever use it again. I was unable to work the harvest, and although my neighbors helped, we were barely able to bring in enough for the rent. My son-in-law was supposed to come today with some food and to hew some wood for us, but with the storm ..." Reynaud looked at Jon, who was sitting with his head bowed. He understood what this couple had sacrificed for him. Silently, he turned toward the door, lifting his hood over his head. He knew he should speak, should explain to the old man what he was going to do, but he could not think of the words. Instead, he opened the door and walked out. The blizzard still blew, although not so fiercely, filling the landscape and air with white. While the wind howled, its ferocity was lessened. It had also warmed slightly, and it was no longer the same bitter cold that had so numbed his mind the night before. The hut was on the side of the road, and he tried to orient himself, forcing his mind to go over his stumbling to the door the night before. He decided that Dargon was to the left, as was his horse. He looked but could not see it, and he realized that he had only a limited idea of where his horse might be. He took a look at the hut, then ventured off to his left, dragging his feet through the snow which had risen to the level of his upper calf. The snow cover rose and fell gently, flattening out the landscape, and he only found his horse when his foot slipped on its frozen hide. After he picked himself out of the snow, he began digging, clearing the snow from his fallen mount. It took quite a while until he saw the brown of its hair. The time and effort it had taken to expose that little patch made him stop and think. He had originally planned to take the saddle bags off the carcass, but he realized that the amount of work needed for that was prohibitive, especially as the small patch he had cleared off was begining to be filled in. Instead, he searched for the bags and, once having found them, cleared them off. The horse lay on its side, and only one bag was available to him, but he managed to undo its straps with his cold fingers. He removed his cloak and lay it on the snow, then moved the contents from the bag to the cloak. A small sack which covered two large spheres was the first out and onto the middle of the cloak, followed by several sable pelts. Then came a wooden box, which Reynaud handled carefully, knowing it contained the grytol eggs. He realized that the bottles of wine were unfortunately contained in the other bag and probably had been smashed when the poor beast fell. The other bag also contained the necklace and the spices, but their metal boxes might have survived; determining that would have required uncovering and moving the whole horse. With a relieved sigh, he picked up the bundle of his cloak and trudged back to the hut. The woman, Odilia, had woken up while he was out and had placed some scraps of wood on the fire. Somewhere, she had found some grasses and herbs and was busy boiling them. She said nothing, although she looked suspiciously at him. He returned her silence as he walked over, placing his bundle next to her. He unwrapped it and handed about half of the furs to her and then tossed the rest to Jon. They looked surprised and left them were they fell, although Odilia did reach out to feel the fine fur. Reynaud lifted the wooden box, then opened it and removed six small eggs, blue and mottled with greens and yellows. Although he was disappointed to see the shells cracked as the eggs had frozen, he still handed them to the startled woman. Her eyes widened as she saw them, and she carefully laid them one by one on the furs that were on the floor. Reynaud closed the box and set it aside, then raised the sack to remove one of the melons. He handed it, with its light green rind, to the old woman, who handled it just as delicately as she did the eggs. Finally, he handed Odilia his dagger, saying, "In case you need something to cut it with." Then he turned to Jon, whose face was also amazed at the food he had never before seen. "Good man, where is the wood?" Reynaud asked. Jon continued to look at the eggs for a moment before responding. "A tree fell a sennight ago, out beyond the field in back. I have been told by the bailiff that the wood is mine." He smiled briefly and gestured to his twisted leg, "As payment for the way it crushed my leg." Then he pointed to a corner of the hut. "I have an ax over there." Reynaud nodded and retrieved the ax. It was an old tool with a cast-iron head crudely lashed into a split cleft of an old oak stick. The handle was well worn and smooth, the balance slightly off. Reynaud hefted it silently, nodded again, then went outside. Even after only the brief time he had spent in the hut, the storm was noticably lessened, with the wind reduced to a whisper from the shrieking gale of the night before. Still, the snow fell heavily and had risen above his knees. He found that he was unable to lift his legs above the surface, and he didn't as much walk across the field as plow a path through the snow. It was tiring work, and he found that he needed to stop partway across so he could catch his breath. Standing there, the intensity of the silence caused him to throw his hood back and look around. Reynaud had only seen snowstorms in their aftermath, mostly passing them in the abbey's warming room with the monks and his fellow students. He was shocked by the muted beauty that was within a storm while it blew. The field was covered with a white blanket, which smoothed any imperfections and was itself only broken by the path he had created from the hut. Tree branches, which on his way to town only the day before had been dark skeletons sticking out at odd angles from rough trunks, were gracefully curved lines of brown, highlighting the thick swaths of snow which bent toward the ground. The air itself was filled with white flakes, as if he was looking through a layer of cotton gauze. Much to his surprise, he saw a flicker of movement, and a small brown bird flew from the sheltering branches of one tree to another. One winter in Fennell, when he had emerged after a storm to the sun's light glistening painfully on the clean snow, an older monk had remarked that it was like the love God had for people, too beautiful to look upon; that sort of remoteness was one reason Reynaud could not fully believe in the teachings of the Stevene. However, being in the midst of this storm felt right to him, as if he was surrounded by the world. It was harsh, as the cold in his bones told him, but the beauty was there if looked for. Then he remembered his task. Not far in the distance he saw a long ridge in the snow, at the edge of the field, with branches poking through the snow cover. Replacing his hood and bending his head, he trudged his way toward it, his legs plowing through the slowly rising snow. At the ridge, he began kicking at it, shaking the snow off of the branches of the fallen tree. He worked his way up and down the tree until the entire length was exposed. Then he took the ax and began to hack the branches off, tossing them to one side in a pile. When he had a nice pile built up, he gathered a large armful and trudged his way to the hut. He entered and dropped them to one side of the fire. Odilia said nothing but nodded, bringing some closer to the small flames to dry them out slightly before adding them. Jon offered a large slice of the melon, but Reynaud politely declined and went back outside. He spent the rest of the day at the tree. After finishing clearing off the branches, he used the ax on the trunk, starting with the top and working his way down, hacking large chunks out. He worked his way through the day, not paying attention to what might have been the tolling of bells from the town, muffled by the falling snow. It was hard work, raising the heavy iron head up then bringing it down on the frozen wood. He felt his shoulders and arms, unaccustomed to work by a year at Dessow, burn. Occasionally, he would reach down and fill his mouth with snow, allowing it to melt and flow down his throat. Every so often, he stopped and hauled another armful of wood to the cottage, placing them in the corner which Jon indicated before returning to the tree. As he worked, he felt a certain peace settle upon him. He felt himself fall into a rhythm, chopping then splitting the wood. The burn in his arms began to fade into the background. When he dropped off his third pile, Jon again offered him some of the meager food, but Reynaud again silently declined. It took him a while to understand why he declined, especially when he realized that he had not eaten anything since the night before. As the ax came down on the frozen wood, he realized that despite the cold, the hard work, the hunger, he was feeling good. Or maybe it was because of the work that he felt that way. It brought him back to the days in the monastery, and how he felt after a long day of working in the fields, or after one of the fasts. And he understood what he had been missing since coming to Dargon. Reynaud kept on working until it became too dark for him to see. Then he gathered one last armload and walked to the hut. When he reached it, he heard the Dargon bell toll ten times in the distance, and he realized that the snow had stopped. He smiled and went through the door, depositing the wood on the small pile. The old man once again offered Reynaud what seemed to be the last slice of the melon, but again he shook his head, too tired to speak. Smiling, he lay down on the pallet and watched the fire until he fell asleep. He awoke the next morning to the sounds of pounding on the door. He rolled over to see Odilia walking over to open it. Bright light poured through the door as she squinted to see who was outside. "Good woman," came a familiar voice, "I am looking for one of my men. He went to the city before the storm, and probably stayed there during the blizzard. But he is little more than a boy, and he might have foolishly decided to brave the storm. I wonder if you have seen him." Odilia glanced at Reynaud, but said nothing. The young man nodded and arose. "My Lord Harald," Reynaud called as he went to the door, "I am here." When he reached it, he needed to blink, as the morning sunlight gleamed brightly off the snow. He saw the silhouette of his lord, a portly man whose build was covered by a cloak that draped around him. The man stepped inside, showing that his black hair was tinged with grey and his cloak was a dark crimson wool, lined with white fur, with a woolen tunic of red, trimmed in gold thread underneath. Lord Harald Mertien removed his leather riding gloves and laid a hand on the younger man's shoulder. "My boy, why did you not stay in town when the snow came down?" "I'm sorry, m'lord. It had not yet started when I left. I found myself caught in the middle of the storm, and I think the cold was beginning to affect me. I was not thinking clearly. When my horse stumbled, I left it there, and started walking. I was lucky in that I found this hut and that these two, Jon and his wife Odilia, took me in." "Where is she, Reynaud? Where is your horse?" "Not far down the road," he said, pointing down the road toward town. "I'm afraid it's dead, lord." Harald looked at the young man thoughtfully, his meaty fingers stroking his ample chin. "Why did you not return yesterday? The storm stopped shortly after midday. Even with the heavy snow, it should have taken no more than two bells to reach the manor." "I couldn't, my lord. These people," Reynaud said, gesturing to the couple sitting on their pallet, holding each other and staring at the lord who was visiting their hut, "saved my life, but they were running out of food and fuel. I stayed to cut some wood for their fire." Harald's eyes narrowed. "And food?" "I, I gave them some of the provisions I picked up for you, my lord," Reynaud said, bowing his head. "I gave them the eggs and one of the melons. I also gave them some of the furs." When Harald stayed silent, he continued, "My lord, Jon, the old man, his leg is broken and ..." Harald still said nothing, but looked around the dark cottage. His eyes passed over the small fire, the two old peasants who sat in awe of their new visitor, and before returning to Reynaud. He looked at the young man for a long time. "Grytol eggs are quite a delicacy, young Reynaud," he said slowly. "Did you enjoy them?" Reynaud looked slightly confused, then shook his head. "No, my lord. I ... well, I have not eaten since the night before last. As I said, I gave the food to the peasants. I have had plenty to eat before and will have more later. But they ...?" Harald nodded, then turned and looked at Jon and Odilia. "Do you know who I am?" Jon nodded, saying, "Yes, m'lord. You are Lord Harald of Dessow. We live on your estate." Again the castellan nodded. He backed up and gestured outside. Another man entered, large and solid, wearing a cloak of similar color to Harald's, beneath which protruded the tip of a leather scabbard. "You will need to return the furs," Harald said to Jon. Then he turned to the new man. "Albin, Reynaud's horse is laying in the road, towards the city. When we arrive at the manor, gather some men and return here. I want the saddle bags returned, as well as the furs that these two have been given. More importantly, I want the carcass butchered and the meat taken to the nearest smoke house. The meat is to be given to this couple." As Albin started to leave, Harald said, "Oh, and make sure that when you return today that you bring a ten pound cask of wheat. Come, friend Reynaud. Let us go home." As the couple called out their thanks and blessings to their lord, Reynaud ran back to his pallet and picked up the bag which held the other melon then followed his lord outside, slightly confused. A sleigh pulled by two large horses was in the road, with a third man sitting on the driver's bench. He had seen it in Dessow's carriage house before, but never outside it, for it was only used when sufficient snow lay on the ground. Albin climbed into the back, as did Harald and Reynaud. As the driver began to shout orders at the horses, turning the sleigh around, Reynaud leaned over and spoke. "My lord, I only gave one of the melons. Here is the other. Also, the spices and the necklace are in the saddle bags under the horse. I am afraid that the wines were in the same bag, and are probably broken. I am sorry that I gave your other delicacies to the peasants. They were not mine to give." Harald took the bag, hefting the melon's weight, then gave him a smile and patted his knee. "Ah, young Reynaud, there is no need to worry. When you first came into my attention, you told me that you wished to be a great man, and I saw then that you have the seed of one within you, although it has lain dormant since your arrival. By giving those eggs and that melon to the ones who saved your life, and by staying a day longer than necessary to cut their wood, you showed both generosity and gratitude. Both are the signs of great men. You must never forget that." "But, my lord," Reynaud said as the sleigh started to pick up speed on the road to Dessow. "They were but peasants. Those items cost you much to buy." Harald nodded. "Yes, they did, but you will be remembered by the farmers around as a man who gave expensive gifts to those who served you well. If I were to punish you, it would affect my reputation adversely. However, I am disappointed at the way you referred to the mare you rode into town on. It shows a remarkable lack of knowledge for a young noble." "M'lord?" "You referred to your horse as an 'it.' She was a mare. I think I must make sure you are better schooled. Albin!" The big man turned his head to Harald. "Yes, m'lord?" "When you return from your errand at that hut, you will begin to teach our young man here how to care for horses. And, since he seems to have remembered that physical labor is important to life, perhaps you can make sure that he can swing something other than an ax." "Yes, m'lord," said Albin. Reynaud thought about Harald's words and nodded. ======================================================================== A Woman's Prayer by P. Atchley Melrin 1017 Oriel shivered and opened her eyes. The door at the far corner of the warehouse swung open gently in the wind. She sat up, pressing herself against the wall, searching for the person who had opened the door. There was no sound except the creaking. The door swung shut in the wind, darkening the entire area. She moved away from the small hayroll she had slept in, crept towards the derelict part of the warehouse, crawled under some rafters to the other side, and banged into someone. Twin screams rent the air. "Aah!" "Aaaaah!" "Let me go, let me go, lemme gooo!" "That's my hand!" "Oww! My head!" Oriel slipped underneath the rafters at once and crawled back out to the main part of the warehouse. Since she had been living there for about four days, she knew every little corner. She was poised to run, but the person had followed her and now caught hold of her arm. "Let me go, let me go ..." The door swung open again, letting sunlight filter through and the stocky brown-haired boy standing behind her exclaimed, "Oriel!" He walked around to face her and asked, "Where have you been? I haven't seen you in ages. What are you doing here?" "Briam, you saw me only last sennight. But what are you doing here? Are the others here too?" Briam and three other children, Finn, Kerith and Aren lived with a young woman named Sian who owned a house on Murson Street. Oriel played with them occasionally. "Yes," he replied promptly, looking around the room they were in. "We finished our chores early and Sian let us go out on account of Melrin. We're playing find-the-rat. But --" his gaze stopped at the hayroll that was her bed. "You slept here!" He turned and stared at her. "Why did you sleep here? Why aren't you at your house? How come your mother let you sleep here?" The blonde ten year-old's eyes filled with tears and she sniffed and turned away. A sennight previously, her mother Rasine had told her to wait in the warehouse for a few menes, but had never returned. "What happened? Why are you crying?" Briam asked, alarmed. "Nothing, nothing, nothing. Go away, go away --" "I know, go away," Briam interrupted. "I can't just go away when you're crying. That's wrong, I think." Oriel sniffed again in a futile attempt to stop the tears and hiccupped. "You have to stop crying. Sian says crying makes you sick," Briam said. "Stop crying, do. But tell me, why are you sleeping here?" "Because I live here. This is my house," Oriel retorted, wiping her tears with a dirty hand. "You live here?" he asked in surprise. "Who else lives here?" "No one," she said defiantly. "Why don't you just go away?" The sound of a shout from outside interrupted them. "I have to go. They're looking for me. Why don't you come and play with us? Kerith was asking about you yesterday." "Don't tell them I live here," she admonished, walking with him out the door. "Is Finn here?" She smiled at the mention of his name. "Does he have any new jokes?" Briam groaned. "I don't know how you can laugh at them. They're terrible, really, really baaaaad." They both stepped out into the sunshine. A sandy-haired girl, both younger and shorter than Oriel, came running up to them. She exclaimed, "Oriel, where have you been? We haven't seen you forever." She turned away and called, "Finn, look who's here. Come out, come out." A redheaded boy rushed up, grinning. "Oriel, do I ever have some new jokes for you!" Oriel giggled at that. "I can't wait to hear them. Tell me, tell me." "See, I told you she'd want to hear them," Finn said with a superior air. His voice cracked on the last word and Kerith giggled, earning herself a frown from him. "Ha, she laughs at all your jokes, even if she hears them for the second time or the third or the tenth," Briam retorted. "Just because she laughs at them doesn't mean they're any good." "Well, Sian laughs too, so there! Oriel, I have some riddles for you." "No," groaned Briam. "Yes, yes, they're funny," Kerith giggled. "If a rooster laid a brown egg and a white egg, what kind of chickens would hatch?" "I know, I know," Kerith piped up. "I don't know," Oriel said. "Tell me." "Roosters don't lay eggs!" Finn crowed. "Another one?" He grinned at Oriel, who was laughing. She nodded. "What did the farmer do when he finished milking the first cow?" "I don't know. What?" "He milked the udder one. Get it?" When Oriel still looked puzzled, he explained patiently, "See, when they milk the cow, that's how they milk them, using the udders." "Oh. Ohh. That's funny." Oriel giggled, finding it funnier as she thought about it. "Me next, me next," Kerith interrupted. "What runs but has no legs?" "Oh, that old one," Finn derided. "I know: a nose." Oriel grinned. "Oh, everyone knows the answer to my riddles," Kerith pouted. "Never mind, Kerry, I'll teach you a riddle that no one knows the answer to except me," Oriel comforted, putting an arm around the younger girl's shoulders. "Look," Finn said gleefully. He was standing upside down, while Briam held his feet up. "Let go, Briam." Briam let go at once, and Finn managed to stay upright for barely a moment before his feet came crashing down. Oriel giggled. "I'm hungry, let's eat," Finn suggested. "We'll have to share," Kerith said. "Here." She handed the other girl a slice of bread. They settled down companionably, concentrating on the food. "This is good," Oriel murmured, munching. "Sian bakes it herself," Kerith said proudly. "She's nice." There seemed to be general agreement on this point, even by the boys. After they had finished eating, they decided to go to the marketplace. Briam raced away, and Oriel scrambled after him. Kerith looked from their retreating backs to Finn before following. They raced each other all the way to the marketplace, and Finn won even though he had started the last. "You're taller than we are. That's why you won," Briam insisted. "Aren's taller than you are, Finn, and he would have won if he were here," Kerith said loyally. Aren was the oldest of them all, and Kerith's brother. He worked as a pot-boy at the Golden Lion, an inn in the city. The four children wandered around the marketplace, laughing and talking. Oriel bought them all sweetmeats with some money she had taken from her mother's bag earlier in the day. "Here, have a sweetmeat." The sweetmeats were dried cherries stuck on the end of a small wooden stick. "Thank you," Kerith and Briam chorused. "Thanks, Oriel," said Finn, laughing as he ran around her. "What are you doing, Finn?" "See, it's payment for the sweetmeat. Eight, nine, ten. There, I ran around you ten times." Finn grinned down at her. "That's silly," Briam said. "No, it's not. It's funny." "Is not." "Is too." "Oh, do stop it. Come on, Oriel, these two will do that all day, and I want to see the festival. Ooh, what a lovely smell. Where's it coming from?" Kerith slipped her arm through Oriel's and dragged her away. The boys followed, still arguing. "Oh, I think it's cannell," Oriel replied. "What's cannell?" "It's an herb that you use to make spice powder." "How do you know that?" "My mother taught me." "You have a mother? Mine died. Aren and I lived on the streets, until we went to live with Sian. I like her." "My mother's dead too." Oriel gulped. "She left me in the warehouse and never came back. That means she's dead." "She could have gone away somewhere," Kerith pointed out. "Just because she didn't come back doesn't mean she's dead." "My mother told me that my father went away and never came back and she said he's dead. When people go away and never come back, that means they're dead." Hot tears scalded Oriel's cheeks and she brushed them away with her knuckles. "Why are you crying? I didn't cry when mine died." "You don't even remember her, do you? So how would you remember if you cried or not when she died?" "Are you sad? Here, let me give you a hug. Sian always hugs me when I cry, and it makes me feel nice and warm inside." The two girls hugged for a moment before Kerith pointed to another stall where there were ribbons for sale. Oriel's tears disappeared as the two girls browsed through the wares on display. The stall-owner, a plump old woman, smiled benignly at the girls. "Kerith, come play catch with me," Finn called. Kerith and Finn began to play catch, running into people, getting yelled at by some and laughed at by others. Briam and Oriel laughed as Finn bumped into a tall man and got his ears severely boxed. "Hey, no fair. You both have to run too," Kerith said breathlessly. "You run, Oriel, I'll catch," Briam offered. Oriel laughed and ran away without replying and Kerith ran after her. Oriel outpaced the younger girl easily and ducked behind a stall. A huge arm slipped under her arms and lifted her; a palm clamped over her mouth. "Well, well, well, look what I found in the marketplace," said a soft voice. Oriel looked up into a pair of beautiful, silver eyes. But there was no smile on the face. Her hair was blue-black, and slicked back with oil that gleamed in the bright sunlight. She wore a scarlet embroidered tunic, and yellow-colored chains glittered at her neck. It was Jahlena. Oriel remembered meeting her one day at the marketplace. Her mother had warned her to stay away from the big woman, and now Jahlena had caught Oriel. The little girl squirmed and struggled in the woman's grasp and tried to bite down on the palm covering her mouth. However, the woman wore rings on every finger connected by a chain and all Oriel got was a mouthful of metal. "This isn't find-the-rat, Oriel. We're playing catch. Come out," Kerith called. There was no answer. "Briam, I can't find her." "Oriel, where are you?" Briam yelled. "Look!" Finn pointed, almost bouncing in excitement. Kerith stared down the small alley he pointed towards and saw a big woman carrying something that seemed to be moving, and one end of which gleamed in the sunlight. As they all watched, she turned into a street at the other end. "Where is she?" Kerith asked in puzzlement. "I don't see her. I only see the big woman carrying something." "It's Oriel. She's in trouble. Someone's carrying her away. Come on, let's go after her." Finn ran off down the alley. Briam followed, and then Kerith. They ran and ran. After a few turns, Kerith could not see Finn at all. Since he was the tallest of them all, he was far and away in front. She was following Briam, and he was following Finn. Kerith wanted to stop running, but she was scared of being left behind, and so she ran even though her legs started to ache and she was huffing and puffing. When they finally stopped, however, Finn was nowhere to be seen. "Where are we? I want to go home," Kerith cried. "I'm tired, and I don't like this place. Where's Finn?" She sniffed, tears close to the surface. They looked around the narrow street. Piles of rubbish graced the edges. The walls of the buildings on either side rose dark and tall without windows. A man lay on the far side, ominously still. The street was otherwise empty and quiet, but the silence was heavy and they had a strange feeling of being watched. Kerith shivered. "Where are all the people?" she whispered. "They must be at the Melrin fair," Briam responded. She shivered again and Briam edged closer to her, putting his arm around her shoulder. "Straight, Kerith, we'll go home, just as soon as we find Oriel." "But how are we going to find her?" she wailed softly, two tears creeping out. Finn suddenly appeared from around a corner. He frowned and put a finger to his lips. "Shh. I think Oriel's here, somewhere. I saw that huge woman carrying her through that door." He pointed behind him to a door with a faded sign hanging above it. "How do you know it was Oriel?" Kerith objected, her fear dissipating at the sight of Finn. "Her hair, silly. It's so bright and yellow, nobody could miss it," Finn scoffed. "Come on, let's go." He crept quietly to the door, turned and beckoned to them. When they approached, he whispered, "See, it must be the Inn of the Shattered Spear," pointing to the sign that bore a painting of a spear broken in several pieces. He tugged at the door handle and it creaked open. Sunlight streamed in from behind them, exposing a short corridor at the end of which was obviously the kitchen; from what they could see, there was a counter set against the wall and it was stacked with pots. "It's probably the back door," Finn said in a low voice. Footsteps sounded inside the kitchen. "Hide, quick!" The area near the doorway was bare and offered no shelter. They ran around the nearest street corner and watched. A big woman came out and walked toward them. She had enormous arms and legs, and was even taller than Lieutenant Darklen, who came sometimes to visit Sian. "She's coming here." Kerith panicked. "There's nowhere to hide here, Finn. She'll see us for sure. We have to leave, now!" Briam snapped. "Straight, c'mon. Run, Kerith." They ran down the Street of Travellers, and Kerith began to puff as they passed Atelier Street. The little girl fell behind and the boys far outpaced her. "Come on, Kerith," Briam urged, sparing a glance behind him. There was no sign of the big woman. Kerith took a quick look behind her and then stopped dead, weeping. "I'm tired, and I'm scared, and I want to go home!" Both boys stopped and turned around. People were beginning to notice the little girl crying in the middle of the street. Briam hurriedly went to her and put his arm around her, pulling her forward. "Straight, Kerith, don't be scared. See, the woman isn't behind us any more. Come on, if we keep walking, we'll be home soon." "I thought you wanted to go help Oriel," said Finn, walking next to them. "Yes, I do, but we can't go in there with ..." Briam frowned at Finn, wiggling his eyebrows in Kerith's direction. She sniffed, trying to decipher his gestures. Finn nodded in comprehension. "Ah. Hey, Kerith, why don't you go home, and we'll go back and --" "No!" she interrupted. "I won't go home alone. What if the big woman comes and takes me away like she took Oriel away?" "Finn!" Briam exclaimed in exasperation. He waggled his eyebrows and made exaggerated faces at the other boy over Kerith's head. "What are you saying?" she asked suspiciously. "Nothing," Briam said at once. "Look, Finn, take her back home. I've got to go back and rescue Oriel. She's my friend." He disentangled his hand from Kerith's and took off like an arrow down the street. When Briam took off, Finn was poised to run behind him but Kerith grabbed his hand. "No, stop!" "Aw, come on, Kerith, let's go with him. You can't expect me to take you back home," he begged. "I'm scared!" "Look, the woman took Oriel, and she's brave, isn't she?" It occurred to Finn that this wasn't logical at all, but he wanted to go after Briam very badly. "Listen, how about this: I promise I won't let go of your hand. Will you go with me now?" "Promise? Prophet promise?" He nodded, and gravely sketched a semi-circle at the base of his neck, symbolizing the death of the prophet Cephas Stevene. "Noose on my neck and hope to live, I promise." "You won't leave me alone, even for one mene?" "Not even. Come on." He dragged her and began running toward Layman Street. After running back the way they had come past several alleys, they reached the area where Finn thought he had seen Oriel. He began to search for the door he had seen her being carried through. They ran around two streets before he found it. He looked to see if they could enter without being seen, but there were people at the far corner of the street. "I think they're guards, Finn," Kerith whispered. "Hmm, what?" Finn stepped up to the door and glanced toward the people on the street. They were headed in the opposite direction and getting farther away every moment. He ignored them and turned his attention to the door, opening it with his free hand, since Kerith was hanging on to the other with every intention of ensuring he kept his promise. He listened almost breathlessly for any sound from the other side of the door, but it was quiet. Then he slipped inside, dragging Kerith with him. "Well, well, well, what have we here?" It was the woman. Finn stared up at her, swallowing. He wasn't really scared, but the woman was very big. From this close, her arms looked like the branches of the tree in their yard; her teeth were crooked, and her smile wasn't nice at all. She smelled weird too. Her hair was bluish-purple, like the color their mouths turned when they ate too many blueberries. "You let Oriel go," Kerith said bravely. "She's our friend." "Be quiet, Kerith," Finn hissed, and pushed her behind him. "So, my little orphan has friends, eh?" The woman's smile widened, and her voice softened. "What shall I do about you? Young man, how would you like to cut firewood for a sennight? No? You can just work here then, at the inn. A pot-boy, or even a stable-boy. But I think I should cane you, just so that you understand not to poke your noses where they don't belong. What do you think?" She grinned down at them. "No? Well then, I shall simply have to teach you to cut purses. Yes, that's what I think I'll do. You can be my cutpurse, boy." Her voice rose just a little bit on the last word. Kerith hiccupped in fear. The big woman must have heard her, because she turned to Kerith right away. "Come here, let me see." She shoved Finn aside and stared at Kerith. "As for you, my young beauty, I have plans for you." She touched Kerith's forehead with one finger and let it slide down the side of her face. Kerith shivered, and Finn stepped closer, knocking away the woman's hand. "You leave her alone." He put out a hand toward Kerith and the little girl held it tightly. "Come with me, both of you." The woman grabbed Kerith by the ear, and Finn by his arm, and dragged them up some stairs. The stairs gave onto a corridor with doors on either side, most of which were shut. Jahlena dragged her captives into the corridor. She released Kerith and used her free hand to unlock the first door. Suddenly, a short girl with curly blond hair came running from the opposite end of the corridor calling, "Jahlena." "What is it, Tira?" The big woman turned. The girl gasped, "Jahlena, the cook is fighting with Jamis. You better come quick!" "You two, in here." Jahlena pushed Finn through an open door and kicked his backside. He fell forward into the room, breaking his fall on his palms. "Ow!" She gave Kerith a shove, and the little girl tripped across the doorway into the room. They heard a key click in the lock and twin footsteps receding. "Are you all right?" A soft voice asked. Someone else was in the room! The two looked up, both rubbing their knees. "Oriel! Did the fat woman bring you here?" Kerith scrambled up with the other girl's help. "Yes, she did. Where's Briam?" Oriel asked. "We have to get out of here," Finn murmured, ignoring the girls. He was busy pulling at the door handle. He tugged and pushed, shoved and pulled. Nothing worked. His eyes went to the skylight, a tiny opening high up on the wall. He measured its height from the floor with a glance. "I can't get up there," he murmured, almost to himself. Oriel who had been watching him gaze at the skylight, responded, "No, but you can lift Kerith up." They both turned to look at Kerith. When she understood what they wanted her to do, she retreated, shaking her head. "No, I can't. It's too high. I'll fall." "How about you?" Finn turned to Oriel. He knew she would do anything he suggested; also, she was not as much of a scared rat as Kerith was. "No, Finn. I'm too heavy for you to lift," Oriel said. "Besides which, I'm not sure if I'd fit through that. Come on, Kerith, you've got to do it. Let Finn lift you. All you have to do is jump out of the window." "Finn will let me fall," Kerith sniffed. "No, he won't. I promise. Noose on my neck and hope to live, I promise. Now, come on." Finn boosted Kerith up, but she still couldn't reach the window. He said, "Listen. I'm going to kneel. Oriel, get on my back and lift Kerith." He went down on all fours, and Oriel stood on his back, palms against the wall for balance. "Climb, Kerith," Finn ordered. "Pretend it's the tree at home." Kerith frowned, but nodded. She stood on Finn's back, placed one foot on Oriel's palm and stepped upwards until she stood on Oriel's shoulders. The window was within easy reach now, and with one heave, she pulled herself up and out through the window. She stopped just short of sliding outside. "Wait! What do I do after I get out?" she wailed. "Find a guard. Get Lieutenant Darklen here if you can. Or that sergeant who comes by the house, Sergeant Cepero," Finn said urgently. "Go, Kerith, now! I can hear footsteps." Kerith slipped out the window and found herself on the sloping roof. She began to slide down, gathering speed as she went. She grabbed at some of the shingles to slow her descent, with minimal success. The skin on her hands abraded, and two fingernails broke. Her hands began to bleed, and then abruptly she was falling. "Ohhhhh!" She landed with a thud. She was winded, and rolled over to lie staring at the sky for a mene, catching her breath. Then she stood up and brushed herself off before running toward the Street of Travellers and Murson Street. She ran as fast as she could, past alleys and side-alleys, squeezing in between trouser-clad knees and dress-clad legs, her breath coming in quick spurts. In fact she was running so blindly that she ran smack into someone; someone who stopped her, and knelt on the ground to talk to her. Kerith recognized him with a sigh of relief. It was Sergeant Cepero, a guard who sometimes came to visit Briam and Sian. "Kerith, what's the matter?" he asked. "Why are you running like this? Is someone chasing you?" He glanced down the street behind her, standing up abruptly, his hand going to his sword. "No, it's Finn, and Briam and Oriel," Kerith wailed, the tears that had threatened earlier cascading down her cheeks. "Jahlena locked them in a room, and we have to get the guards and save them!" "Slow down, Kerith, and tell me what happened from the beginning." Meanwhile Briam was busy trying to remain hidden while in plain sight. After leaving Finn and Kerith, he had reached the same door that they had found earlier. As he walked toward it, it opened to let out a small boy carrying trash. He dropped it carelessly to the side and then, with a quick look behind him, he took off. Briam crept toward the open door, but all was silent inside, so he continued inside toward the kitchen. "Boy, get over here at once." The voice was deep and gruff. When Briam looked up, he realized it must be the cook; the man had on a dirty white apron, and was chopping something. He was fat, and had the biggest stomach that Briam had ever seen. He was also almost bald, and what little hair he had was wilting. "Don't just stand there, boy. They never get me any help, and when they do, it's a lazy boy who can't do a lick of work." He was chopping a very big fish, and as he spoke, his hands went faster and faster until Briam couldn't distinguish the individual chops. "Get over here, and bring me those potatoes from the store room. Through that door there." The man nodded toward a door on the opposite side of the kitchen. Briam rushed into the pantry. After all, he didn't want to attract any unwanted attention by denying that he was the help the cook seemed to think he was. The door from the kitchen into the pantry wasn't in the kitchen itself; it was across a small corridor. He stared down the corridor, but it curved away to one side, and he couldn't see any farther. The pantry was a small dark room filled with sacks and more sacks, some of them open and lying on the ground, while others were tied shut and stacked high to the ceiling. Then Briam heard a shout from the kitchen. Guessing that the cook wanted his potatoes, he grabbed a large sack lying open on the floor, about half-full of potatoes, and dashed back to the kitchen. "There you are. How long does it take to get a sack of potatoes from the store? Never mind, I'll take a switch to you when I'm done. Now, I need you to go scrub those pots over there." This time the cook nodded to the dirty pots and pans stacked knee high in a corner of the kitchen. Voices wafted in from the corridor, and two people entered the kitchen, a man and a chubby blond girl. The cook turned toward the door and began another diatribe as soon as he saw who the visitors were. "Jamis, I need another helper. You can't let Jahlena chase all the young 'uns away like this. I told you I wanted at least three helpers. Did you talk to her? Well, did you?" He stood with one arm akimbo, waving the other still holding the knife. "Of course I did, Varwedian. I told her you needed three helpers, so you'll get at least two. What happened to the one who's been here for the past sennight?" Jamis asked. "It takes him a bell to bring me a sack of potatoes from the store. Where you do find these boys, I'll never know. They're all lazy, anyway, and by Nehru's pointy nose, I'll take a switch to this young 'un, I will. As for you, Jamis, you're pond scum if you think I'll take this from that trollop, and --" "You shut your mouth, Varwedian. Don't talk like that in front of my daughter. Anyway, I need you to make some more stew for tonight. We're expecting a large group this evening on account of the minstrel --" "What? No helper and --" the cook threw his chopping knife across the kitchen. Briam, who had been watching the entire exchange spellbound, moved and ducked. The knife touched his left arm and fell straight down to the ground. "Ow!" He examined his arm. There was a small cut, and it began to bleed. He pressed his hand to it, but looked up at the two men when Jamis roared, "Don't you be throwing knives around in my inn!" He closed with the cook. The girl who had followed Jamis inside the kitchen hurried out. Briam followed, peering after her, and watched her rush up some stairs. He moved closer to the pantry door and turned his attention back to the combatants. The two men were not evenly matched, since the cook was much fatter than Jamis, besides being a good six fingers shorter. Jamis, on the other hand, looked old and tired. He punched the cook in the stomach, but the cook moved his left hand in a blocking motion, preventing the punch from connecting. Varwedian looked here and there, and then his eyes widened. He reached out and grabbed a ladle from the counter, and began to hit the innkeeper with it. "Umph." Jamis let out a pain-filled grunt and then grabbed the ladle. He yanked it, and the cook let go. Jamis went staggering back, almost losing his balance. The cook took the opportunity to stretch out a hand behind him, pick something up and throw it in the innkeeper's eyes. Then he leaned against the counter and waited, a slight smile on his face. Jamis immediately began to rub his eyes, and growled, "Oh! You scumbag, misbegotten son of a weasel --" "What's going on here?" Another voice interrupted. It was Jahlena, who had entered the kitchen followed by the blond girl. Briam swallowed, recalled from his fascination with the fight. He scrambled from his vantage post and retreated into the corridor, which curved away to his left, and had doors on either side, all closed. He hesitated, unwilling to try to open them in case someone caught him, but at the same time, unsure what to do. He thought about it for a moment. He knew that Jahlena had Oriel somewhere in this inn. If the blond girl had gone up a staircase and brought Jahlena to the kitchen, then didn't that mean that Oriel was upstairs? Before he could think about it any more, he heard voices approaching from the kitchen, and his decision was made for him. He rushed down the passageway, uncaring of where it led. There was a wide open door at the far end and the din of loud conversations floated through. That must be the common room of the inn. He couldn't go in there! What if someone caught him and handed him over to Jahlena? No, he had to find the others first. Briam turned, cornered, sure that Jahlena would catch him. He returned the way he came, opening each door on the way looking for escape. The first door opened to an empty room. The second door was locked. The third door opened to a small room with a staircase! Briam entered, shut the door behind him and hurried up the staircase. He found himself in another long corridor with doors on either side. He tried to open the doors, and most of them gave onto rooms with nothing but furniture. Two were locked. There was no sound when he tried one door handle, so he twisted the other to see if that one, at least, would open. The door rattled. Oriel shivered and moved closer to Finn. He straightened, waiting for it to open. Then they heard voices outside. Both the remaining children pressed one ear each to the door, trying their hardest to listen to what was going on. "Ow! Don't hit me!" The howl was loud enough for them to distinguish the individual words, the cadence and tone of the voice. Finn murmured, "That's Briam." "So, I have one more boy, eh? Well, this is good. More cutpurses." The woman laughed loudly. "Oh, you want to open the door? Well, let me. Hmm, I need a couple of hands in the kitchen right now, so we'll put you and the other boy to work helping Varwedian." They heard the key click in the lock, and then a flurry of footsteps again. Another voice spoke, sounding breathless, as if its owner had run up the stairs. "Jahlena, the guard is here. They want to search the inn and Father wants you down there to talk to them." "Watch this little devil. I'll be right back." Jahlena left, her heavy footsteps receding quickly. The door rattled again, and then someone kicked it open. "Aaaaaah!" Finn took in the situation at a glance. A plump, blond girl was on the ground screaming, and Briam was making urgent gestures to him. "Come on, Finn, get the girls and let's go!" The three children scrambled pell-mell down the stairs, and ran smack into two men and a little girl at the bottom stair: Sergeant Cepero, another guard and Kerith. "Roman, what happened? The children?" Sian's voice rose as she saw the bedraggled group following Sergeant Cepero into her house. "Everyone's fine, Sian. It's a long story. It seems that Jahlena nabbed this little girl here, and these boys of yours decided to rescue her. Good thing they sent Kerith to find me!" He turned to the girls. "Oriel, this is Sian." A small girl, a few inches taller than Kerith, stepped forward. She curtseyed quite prettily, notwithstanding the fact that her beautiful hair hung lankly around a face streaked with tears, dust and grime. As for her dress, Sian didn't know if it could possibly get any dirtier. "Hello, Oriel, it's very nice to meet you," she said gently. The girl gave her a small smile and stepped back behind Briam. "What in the world? Briam, you're hurt." Sian moved close to Briam and examined the bandage on his upper arm. "Don't worry. It was just a small cut, nothing serious. We bandaged him," Cepero said. When she looked up at him questioningly, he motioned her away from the children with a nod and said softly, "Jahlena had locked the children in a room but she swears it was just to give them a scare because they walked into the inn through the back door. She said she'd sent Tira upstairs to turn 'em loose. And then Tira came running down with the keys in her hand, so there wasn't much I could do about it. But I am going to be watching Jahlena and I've made sure she knows it." Sian smiled at the grim way in which he spoke. "So long as the children are safe, that's fine. But what about this little girl?" "Well, that's an interesting story. About a sennight ago we had a small fire northeast of the city -- we found the bodies of a woman and a small child. The owner of the cottage, a man named Coragen, identified the bodies as his tenant Rasine and her child. He also told us that the dead woman used to work at the Shattered Spear. "Now your girl Kerith tells me that Oriel's mother's name is Rasine and that she went away somewhere leaving Oriel all alone. I'd wager a Round to a rat that Jahlena asked Coragen to tell us the kid died because she wanted to take this child to work at the inn. But see, the odd thing is that the kid that died was a boy. I need to find out who the child was. I'll be paying Coragen another visit." Sian sighed, sorrow engulfing her at the thought of the death of a child. She looked up at Cepero who had a determined expression on his face. She knew he was still wondering who the dead child was. For herself, she would grieve for the dead child, but it was the child alive who needed her. "What about Oriel?" she prodded Cepero for more information. He continued, "Oriel's terrified of Jahlena, and knowing her, it won't be long before she gets the child to entertain the guests at the Spear. It's wrong, Sian; Oriel's just a child. I couldn't leave her there with Jahlena, knowing what she was planning. I don't know what to do with the child and I thought you might take her in." "But Roman, what about her father?" "She won't talk to me but Briam says she doesn't have one. I can ask around, but until we find out if she has any family, what am I to do with her? Couldn't you keep her?" Sian nodded. "Indeed I can. But be sure to ask around because I don't know if I can afford to keep another child. What about her though? Will she be willing to stay here?" "Why don't you ask her?" She smiled at the sergeant and turned to the waiting children. She looked into the girl's eyes and said, "Oriel, I know you're scared of Jahlena. But you're safe now and no one will hurt you. Would you like to stay here with us?" The girl's response was immediate. "But I have my own house to live in." "What?" Sian couldn't understand where that had come from, and looked up at Cepero. He shook his head, a puzzled expression on his face. She continued, "I thought your mother died in a fire. Are you living with a friend?" "Oh, no," Briam replied. "She's living by herself at a warehouse near the river." Sian frowned momentarily, shocked. She composed herself at once, and looked at Oriel. "You can't live in a warehouse by yourself. What if Jahlena finds out?" "Stay with us, Oriel," Kerith piped. Finn said, "Sian makes the best bread in all of Dargon, you know." "Why, thank you, Finn," Sian said, smiling at the redheaded boy. The little girl looked from Briam back to Sian and then said, "Does Briam live here too?" "Yes, I do," he answered. "You should come and live with us." "Aren't you going to say yes?" Kerith asked. "Sian will brush your hair. It's nice. Your hair needs to be brushed." She stared critically at Oriel's bedraggled locks, and Sian swallowed a smile. "We'll have fun. You can laugh at all my jokes," Finn offered with a smile. "Like this one: what do you call a soldier who was born in Beinison, fought in Magnus, and died in Dargon?" "That's a new one," said Briam. "I don't know; what?" "Dead!" Finn crowed. Everyone laughed, while Briam groaned and made a face. Then he turned to Oriel. "So are you staying?" She nodded. "Straight, I'll stay." "You know what else? You can have rabbit stew every day," Finn said, grinning slyly at Sian, who raised her hand in mock threat, upon which Finn retreated behind Kerith, laughing uproariously. ========================================================================