DDDDD ZZZZZZ // D D AAAA RRR GGGG OOOO NN N Z I NN N EEEE || D D A A R R G O O N N N Z I N N N E || Volume 15 -=========================================================+|) D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 8 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 9/30/2002 Volume 15, Number 8 Circulation: 645 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb Heir to Castigale 1 P. Atchley and Mertz 25, 1018 Dave Fallon Talisman Nine 2 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Yuli 12-Sy 5, 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/, or our FTP site at ftp://users.primushost.com/members/d/a/dargon/. Issues and public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon. DargonZine 15-8, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright September, 2002 by the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb , Assistant Editor: Jon Evans . All rights reserved. All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories and artwork appearing herein may not be reproduced or redistributed without the explicit permission of their creators, except in the case of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution. Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden. ======================================================================== Editorial by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb This issue marks the first time in 18 months that DargonZine has distributed two issues within a single calendar month. Great thanks go out to all the people in our writing group who made this possible. DargonZine 15-8 features the first installment in P. Atchley and Dave Fallon's "Heir to Castigale" story, which is itself merely the debut story in a brand new Dargon story arc, which you'll definitely see more of in the future. It's been a long time coming, and we hope you enjoy the results of our writers' hard work. Rounding out the issue is the second chapter in "Talisman Nine", which is, of course, another installment in Dafydd's very lengthy story arc. After three years and thirty chapters, this storyline has begun catching up with Dargon's "present-day", and as it does, it will reach its long-awaited climax. Dafydd was one of our first ten contributors, having joined the project back in 1986, and is also our most prolific author. One of the reasons why veteran writers like Dafydd stay with the group is because the Dargon Project continues to challenge them. Even after five, ten, or fifteen years with the group, our members are encouraged to improve their craft and grow as writers. Each new writer who joins our group brings a fresh outlook and their own understanding of what "good writing" is, ensuring that even a veteran who knows everything the project has ever done can still learn more about both the art and craft of writing, if they are open to it. It might not seem intuitive, but being open to growth and learning can be a very difficult and threatening thing, particularly in a group setting. This was a very critical element at the consulting company I used to work for. Left to themselves, employees would do adequate but mediocre work; this was described as everyone's "comfort zone". However, as consultants we held ourselves to a higher standard. We put ourselves under intense pressure to do exceptional work in a shorter time frame, even in unfamiliar roles. This was referred to as the "stretch zone". And, of course, the key to success was keeping your team in that fast-learning, hyper-productive "stretch zone" without pushing so hard that they would snap or be unable to succeed. Writing for DargonZine is similar. A first draft is usually written from a writer's "comfort zone". He is doing something that's familiar, based on what he already knows, and without taking too many risks. However, when that draft is critiqued, even the best writer will hear from a dozen people who have suggestions for how he could improve the story. Our peer review process pushes the writer into his "stretch zone", encouraging him to produce something better than he would if he stayed in his complacent "comfort zone". With each successive draft, new critiques will again challenge the writer to continue to improve his work, until it's finally ready to give to our readers. This recurring challenge is critical to learning and growth, because the writer may indeed already be satisfied with his work after the first draft and see no reason to strive for something greater. Working outside your "comfort zone" is both scary ("what if I'm not good enough?"), and arduous ("that's a lot of work!"). How the writer responds to this challenge often determines his opinion of the group, as well as how long he'll stay with us. Ideally, the writer rises to the challenge, learns a lot about "good writing", and produces a story that is indeed better than he would have written without the group's support: a work that he will be justifiably proud of. However, a writer who lets his fear or laziness to overcome him will become frustrated and abandon his nascent story and possibly leave the group having neither learned anything nor grown as a writer. The Dargon Project challenges our every one of our writers. Each of us is forced to do the best work we possibly can, and the willingness to be changed by one's fellow writers' ideas is what separates a hobbyist from a successful DargonZine writer. Because of this, even sixteen-year veterans like Dafydd still find the project a challenging and rewarding opportunity for growth and learning. ======================================================================== Heir to Castigale Part 1 by P. Atchley and Dave Fallon and Mertz 25, 1018 "What a dismal place," Lord Sagrie Gribbane murmured under his breath as he looked up at Castigale Keep high in the hills of Duchy Asbridge. The long ride had been so cold that he had dallied at every stop before arriving on the fourth night since he had set out from his estate in his aunt's barony in Duchy Narragan. "Castigale: my future barony," he mused aloud as he urged his horse to climb the incline that led past simple farmlands and into the town proper. He considered finding an inn to wait out the night before presenting himself to Baron Kelleman, but dismissed the thought. He was supposed to have arrived the previous night or this morning at the latest, but here it was nearing the night's second bell, and he had yet to appear. What would his future bride think? More importantly, what would her father, the baron, think? With a wave of his hand, he urged his group through the cobblestone streets towards the main gate of Castigale Keep and peered up at the battlements. He was about to have his page call out when a distant voice saved him the trouble with the traditional hailing, "Who goes there?" Sagrie nodded to his page, and the boy shouted back, "The Lord Sagrie Gribbane --" He was about to go on, listing the titles he had memorized for just such a challenge, but Sagrie stopped him with a gesture. The sound of activity echoed through the night air; the guards were obviously expecting him. A few moments later, the gates swung open, and grooms emerged to lead them into the courtyard. Beyond, Sagrie was impressed with the quick efficiency of the servants; the cheery glow of lanterns lined the steps leading to the great main door to the keep. After the group dismounted, the grooms led the horses away as the visitors walked past an honor guard standing at attention. Each soldier wore a tabard displaying the blazing red sun on gray: the symbol of Castigale. Despite the cold, the guards did not so much as shiver. With such flawless presentation, Sagrie wondered drolly if they had stood there for the past day and night waiting for him to arrive. Nodding at the greeting, he walked towards the main door. At the foot of the stairs stood a lithe figure in the garb of a common guard, but with blue velveteen edging that gave the uniform a feminine look. Approaching her, Sagrie assumed that the edging signified captain's rank, although why she was standing there waiting for him was baffling. He had expected a courtier or castellan to meet him, not a mere guard, whatever her status. Still, his upbringing prevented him from being less than polite. When he reached her, he bowed and said, "Mistress, would you tell your baron that Lord Sagrie Gribbane has arrived?" "Welcome to Castigale Keep," the guard said, ignoring his request. "We were expecting you yesterday." Quick annoyance sprung through Sagrie because she did not bow; he was, after all, the future baron while she was a mere guard. However, he was not one to show his vexation, so he smiled and bowed again. "My apologies, madam." "Please follow me." Without waiting for his response, she turned on her heel and marched back up the stairs. Shrugging, Sagrie followed. The air was warm in the lobby, and he threw back his cloak as he removed his gloves and studied his surroundings. Well-dressed servants plucked the baggage from his men and began leading them away. Sagrie handed over his outer raiment and made a move to follow, when the guard stopped him. "A moment, Lord Sagrie," she said. "With respect to the fact that you are tired after such a long journey, I regret to request your presence in the study, as Baron Kelleman would like to speak with you." Sagrie nodded, unsurprised at the invitation, but taken aback that it could not wait until the following morning. He had first visited Castigale Keep eight months past at Kelleman's invitation, and the latter's subsequent letters had made his intentions obvious: that the aging baron sought a suitable husband to sit beside the future baroness, his daughter Evelain. Sagrie assumed that Kelleman had requested the meeting to conduct some final negotiations before the betrothal was announced. The guard led the way down a long corridor, her stiff gait the mirror of his own. If she were a mere guard, Sagrie mused, she carried herself like a noble. He went over the list of Castigale's retainers that his informants had provided him with, trying to discern her identity. But none of the names seemed even close, save perhaps the baron's eldest daughter, known to be insane and confined in the castle. The thought that he could have been met by a madwoman and was following her through the castle to Ol knew where amused him, and he chuckled as he followed his hostess. As they passed a wall sconce, its light showed Sagrie that the guard was also amused about something: a tight smile played upon her lips. Curiosity getting the better of him, Sagrie stepped closer and asked, "Do you find something amusing, mistress?" She started and then regained her composure. "I was going over the plans for the Firil Firstday feast, my lord. I was confirming that we would have enough food for all the guests." "I did not know you were the cook," Sagrie replied. He had no qualms about angering her; after all, he was a nobleman and no mere guard's ire could touch him. She, however, stopped in her march and turned to face him. "I am not the cook. I am Dagny Ludoran, Baron Kelleman's sister." Sagrie was not chagrined even though he recognized the name; it occurred to him that the illegitimate, widowed half-sister of the baron no doubt hated him for what he represented and was powerless to do anything about it. Fighting to keep a smile from his face, he replied, "I stand corrected, Lady Dagny." Dagny's hazel eyes turned from frigid to furious and it was several moments before she spoke. "I hold no rank." Lifting her chin, she continued, "I am not a legitimate daughter of the Castigale family." Then she turned and marched down the hall. Unable to hide his mirth any longer, Sagrie grinned at her back, murmuring, "My apologies, mistress." His informants had told him of Dagny's quick temper, and his blind arrow had found its mark. It took all of his ingrained politeness to keep from laughing aloud at her discomfiture. Pasting a casual expression on his face, he strode after her. She led him to a large door and opened it, holding it for him and following behind to close it. The room had an air of opulence. A plush gray animal skin lay on the floor before the desk and Sagrie wondered what it was; he had never seen an animal with fur of quite that color. Shelves against one wall displayed a multitude of ornate trinkets: pink-tinged crystals of different shapes, wooden dolls painted and dressed in what looked like real velvet, and some ancient tomes, whose leather binding had turned wine-colored with age. Next to the shelves, an abstract sculpture in dark red wood rose in twisting tendrils reminiscent of flames rising; the carving, as high as Sagrie's shoulders, had a hypnotic allure that invited more than just a second look. Small tapestries dotted the farther wall, one of a seascape, one of a sorcerous battle, and one that was a depiction of Ol with the sun and moon on either side, whilst a large portrait of Dagny faced the desk. As she stood next to the painting, Sagrie was struck at the artistic talent that had captured the ambitious look in her eyes. Now, her face was expressionless. Sagrie wondered if she was still angry over his "accidental" reminder that she could neither inherit the barony nor pass it on to her son. Without meeting his eyes, she said in a bland tone, "Thank you for coming, Lord Sagrie. May I present to you my brother, Kelleman Castigale." She turned the question into a statement, making her seeming disinterest all the more obvious. Sagrie turned to face the baron who sat behind a desk littered with papers and maps. The man had not looked up at their entrance, and if he was insulted by the conspicuous lack of title in Dagny's introduction, he did not show it. "Have you summoned my daughter?" he asked, bushy eyebrows arching to peer at them without having to raise his head. "I sent a servant to fetch her as soon as Lord Sagrie arrived," she responded. "But she is in her painting room." Her impatient tone made Sagrie wonder about the relationship between aunt and niece: it sounded as though she would rather clean chamber pots than deal with her brother's younger daughter. The baron grunted acknowledgment but still did not address Sagrie. Unembarrassed by the uncomfortable silence, Sagrie took the opportunity to study his future father-in-law. The lord of Castigale Keep seemed his sister's utter opposite. His plump features, including a large belly and round, bearded cheeks, contrasted sharply with Dagny's rather angular, gaunt face. Even Kelleman's age, which appeared to be past fifty, was far removed from Dagny's, which appeared in the vicinity of thirty. However, both siblings shared the auburn locks and hazel eyes that were Castigale features, though his hair was wavy while hers was curly. Kelleman appeared to be studying a map of his barony on the desk. Even upside-down Sagrie could make out the border of Nulain, north of Castigale Keep, which showed that the map was recent. The barony stretched the entire length of Duchy Asbridge's border with Duchy Narragan, which contained the Gribbane barony. The map made Sagrie think of his aunt, Baroness Veronie Gribbane, who was the cause of the old feud between the baronies of Castigale and Gribbane. She had raised no objection to Sagrie pursuing this marriage and he had reached his own conclusions about the reason. A singular trade route ran through Castigale, and if there was no feud, merchant wagons would arrive in Gribbane often, and with as wide a variety of goods as anyone could want. The feud had started when the present baron's father, Tilber Castigale, had courted Sagrie's aunt, Veronie. Of course, everyone knew that the borders of Castigale and Gribbane marched together; an alliance marriage would have consolidated the lands. His aunt, however, had refused to accept Tilber's suit; she had also gotten herself with child and refused to name the father, much to the consternation of the older members of the family. To this day, Sagrie remembered the huge furor that had erupted when she had announced that she was with child. Gossip had it that Tilber had taken her pregnancy as a personal insult; he had gone on to close the trade route that ran through his barony, with disastrous implications for the then-prosperous Gribbane barony. A soft knock on the door interrupted Sagrie's musings and he turned to look back where Dagny stood. Something tightened around her eyes, but she opened the door without comment to admit a beautiful young woman. Blushing, the girl smiled and soft dimples appeared beneath her graceful cheekbones. She appeared to be about nineteen years of age, and her hazel eyes sparkled between long lashes as she looked around the room. She wore a formal dress that was gaudy: it had broad, green stripes running from bodice to hemline, and the skirt was decorated with far too many frills and furlebows of various hues from purple to yellow. The effect was striking, and as vulgar a display of wealth as Sagrie had ever seen. Lifting the skirt that fell to the ground in folds, she floated across the room to her father. "Ah, my dear Evelain," Kelleman said, his voice softening as if he were speaking to a child, "I am glad you came. I would not want you absent while I discussed your future. This is Lord Sagrie Gribbane." With his most charming smile, Sagrie stepped forward to take and kiss the girl's hand. Evelain giggled and blushed all the more, averting her eyes from his. "Please, both of you, be seated," Kelleman said. Sagrie was aware of how completely the baron's mood had changed when his daughter had entered the room. He watched Kelleman regard them both, the baron's expression full of pride. Then Kelleman's eyes turned serious again and he looked at Sagrie. "In five days we celebrate Firil Firstday with our traditional feast. At that time I would like to announce the betrothal of my daughter to you." Evelain simpered while Sagrie blinked in surprise. Though he knew that this was the intention behind his invitation here, he had not expected the lord to come to the point at once. The baron, however, seemed to misinterpret his expression, for he continued, "This should not be such a surprise to you, Lord Sagrie. There are many reasons I want this marriage. As nephew to Baroness Veronie Gribbane, you will help heal the old wounds between our lands, and it is my hope that it heralds a new peace in which both baronies can prosper. As a nobleman with both grace and manners, you will be a suitable husband for my daughter and will care and provide for her. And as a young man of good breeding, you will provide me with some grandchildren ... before I am gone." The pause before the last few words made them resound in the otherwise quiet room. "My lord is both logical and wise," Sagrie complimented. He had expected the baron to ease into the discussion; at the abrupt and tactless statement, Sagrie had to remind himself that Kelleman lacked many of the social graces, a fact that had become obvious during their earlier meetings. So he smiled and paid an elegant compliment to father and daughter. "I am overjoyed that you should find me an acceptable husband for your beloved daughter." Kelleman waved his hand in disinterest. "Yes, yes," he said. "The wedding is all but planned. As for the bride-gift, now, let's see here." With a fat finger, he traced out a section of the land on the map before him. "The Valley of the Thumb," passing his finger across two mountains to a slender river running north and east, "all the way across to the Pass of Amante past Myridon." The baron nodded and folded his heavy arms across his chest. "Bride-gift?" Sagrie said, confused. Dagny spoke from the back of the room, "It is a Castigale tradition that the father of the bride offers a gift to the married couple, something that will help them start their new life together." There was a moment of silence while Sagrie digested this, then he said, "This is a fine proposal, my lord." He studied the map with exaggerated interest. "But I had thought you would be naming Evelain as your heir, in light of her sister's ... condition. Since she will inherit all of this land, might not a bride-gift of gold be more appropriate?" The baron's expression darkened, but he waved such irritation away and said, "Heirship to the barony of Castigale stands, as before, with my brother Curran, who resides now on his mother's lands in Duchy Dargon. Castigale tradition is that the title is passed to male heirs. That is how it has been done for countless generations before me, and that is how it will be done now." Shocked, Sagrie's fingers tightened into a fist as he fought to keep his face from showing his emotion. He had realized, of course, that Curran would be Kelleman's successor if an heir was not named, but everyone knew that Kelleman regarded his younger half-brother as little more than a wealthy criminal. Sagrie had thought the aging baron would welcome any opportunity to deny Curran the barony. Kelleman continued, "Besides, Evelain has no desire to rule the entire barony. Isn't that right, dear?" His voice softened when he spoke to his daughter. She blushed and smiled. "Yes, Father. My lord, I'm not interested in this responsibility." Sagrie mentally threw out one argument after another to regain the power he had thought within his grasp. "Certainly," he flailed, while Kelleman's brows darkened and his jaw set in a stubborn look. "I'm sure fair Evelain would feel overwhelmed ruling this whole barony by herself." He patted Evelain's hand in a false gesture of affection and she smiled back at him. "But I believe that with the two of us ruling together --" Kelleman threw his head back as deep rolls of laughter spilled from his throat. "M-my lord ...?" Sagrie said in confusion and barely-contained frustration. The baron waved him to silence as he calmed from his paroxym. "Boy," he said, "do you think I'm as senile as that? I may be old, but I'll not hand over my entire barony to the nephew of my family's enemy. I chose you because you will help end that silly feud, and because you are a known gentleman who will care for my daughter and provide her with a comfortable home. But I won't choose you to run this barony after I am gone." He smirked at Sagrie in self-satisfaction. "Then why give us anything at all?" Sagrie bit off before he could stop himself. "Why cut your daughter from any inheritance but give us a worthless chunk of land?" Anger now flooded his features as he faced Kelleman. His hands shook in his lap but he struggled to keep his lack of control from the other man's eyes. Sagrie had underestimated the fat lord, assuming that he little realized and less cared what would happen after his death. But it seemed now that the baron had concocted a scheme that would cut off both Sagrie and his own daughter from inheriting his title and his lands. Or had he? Sagrie spared a quick glance behind him at where Dagny still stood between the door and painting, and found her smiling like a cat at him. He saw in her eyes a flash of victory and, behind that, the steely resolve of an ambitious woman. She was apparently more of a competitor in this race for the barony than he had thought. Narrowing his eyes at her, he turned back to the baron. Kelleman had yet to answer Sagrie's question. He seemed thoughtful, as if trying to make up his mind about something. Inwardly, Sagrie cursed his quick tongue, fearing that he had doomed himself from any dowry at all. After another moment of hesitation, the baron answered, this time in a soft voce, "I have another plan for my heir." His faraway gaze focused on Sagrie and his voice resumed its deep pitch. "Give my daughter a son before I die, Lord Sagrie, have him raised here on Castigale land, and I will name him heir to my name, my house, and my title." Sagrie's confidence returned; this was an opportunity he could live with, for children were easy enough to beget. Behind him, however, he heard a gasp. "Kelleman," Dagny said from the back of the room. When the baron didn't acknowledge her veiled warning, she continued, "Kelleman, we never spoke of this ..." Kelleman sneered up at his half-sister. "And who are you that I, the baron of this land, should share my designs with?" Dagny's voice was sharp as she replied, "There are other options, my lord." Her biting tone emphasized the word "lord" in such a manner that it sounded more an insult than a title. "Enough!" Kelleman erupted, baring his teeth across the room at his sister like a rabid wolf. "I", he shouted, "am Baron of Castigale! I make the decisions! Especially when it concerns decisions of such import as the passage of my barony! On the day of my death this land and title will pass to my brother Curran, as was dictated by my father on the day of his death --" "Our father," Dagny retorted, her own voice rising so that her anger matched her brother's. Kelleman waved the interruption away. "The path of the inheritance is set, sister. The only way I will interrupt it is if I have a male heir of my own lineage before I die. Should that not happen, and should Curran inherit this barony, at least my innocent daughter will have a noble estate and be well cared for on the lands of her birth." The baron had calmed from his momentary rage, but Sagrie could still see a fire in his eyes that threatened to explode should Dagny push him further. She seemed to recognize this as well for she kept herself tightly leashed. "Well, my lord, is it agreed?" Kelleman asked, looking at him. His thoughts whirling over the possibilities of the heirship, Sagrie smiled. If the old baron died after naming Sagrie's son heir, then he would serve as steward until the boy grew up. And as father of the underage baron, Sagrie would have true power and status. "Very well," he agreed, "I will accept the offer of this land, but I'm afraid I won't be able to provide your daughter with the life she deserves. It's barren and wild. What will I do with a couple of mountains and a river?" Kelleman's face purpled as he jabbed his finger on the map. "Fool! Wild lands beg to be tamed! I am giving you at least a hundred more acres than that petty estate you run in Narragan. All you have to do is move your painted arse and fix it up!" Sagrie shook his head, forcing himself to ignore the baron's uncouth language, reminding himself of the stakes involved. It wouldn't do for him to lose his temper over an ill-chosen word. "At least I have an estate on my lands. What you offer doesn't even have that. Would you have your daughter live in a peasant's shack until I've tempered the land?" Kelleman slammed his clenched fist down on the table. "I will build my daughter a noble mansion on these lands! A house to dwarf yours and any other in your aunt's lands!" He stood and began to pace behind the table, his words coming in a rush. "It will have a horseyard and three stables, a pond, a magnificent banquet hall, and a huge room for her to fill with her art." At the mention of her paintings, Evelain's face lit up. Kelleman noticed that and said to her, "Would you like that, dear? Would such a dwelling make you happy?" Evelain nodded to her father's question, and Kelleman turned back to Sagrie. "See, I want my daughter to be happy. Accept my offer for this land and the house, and I will begin building it tomorrow. By Ol's grace, it will be at least habitable by the wedding and finished in full by winter." Narrowing his eyes again, he leaned across the table to say, "No one will say Baron Kelleman Castigale's daughter had to live on her husband's land because her father didn't provide for her." Sagrie took a deep breath, staring at Kelleman. Then, with a quick glance at Evelain, he inclined his head and said, "How can I refuse what will make my bride happy?" Evelain beamed as he raised her hand to his lips. Glancing from her to her father, Sagrie said, "I accept the bride-gift with pleasure, Baron Castigale. I only ask that Evelain be consulted with the building of the house so that it is exactly what she needs to live in happiness with her husband." Kelleman looked suspicious at the compromise, but said, "Done." He looked Sagrie and Evelain over one time then nodded and smiled as if all the anger had disappeared. "Well, then," he said merrily. "It's time for dinner. You will join us in my dining hall, won't you, Lord Sagrie?" At Sagrie's nod, the baron heaved his girth from behind the desk and moved to the door, not waiting for anyone else. Before leaving, he paused and said, "We will announce the betrothal at the Firil Firstday feast, five days hence." Despite being unnerved by the baron's rapid mood swings, Sagrie felt that the meeting had gone well, considering the plot that had nearly cut him from any inheritance but for a couple of wooded peaks. One quick glance at Dagny as he stood to leave the room, however, showed that the baron's sister did not share his feelings. She glared at her brother like a she-bear about to attack, her eyes never leaving him as he brushed past her. Dagny sighed as she leaned against the couch in her quarters later that night. Throughout dinner she had spoken to her brother, trying to make her displeasure known without openly shouting at him across the table. He had all but ignored her, changing the subject whenever she tried to steer the conversation to her son. After dinner, she had followed him to his room, but he had closed the door, telling his guards that he had a headache and did not wish to be disturbed. Admitting defeat at least for this day, Dagny checked the guard patrols one last time, ensured that the butler had no problems or situations to discuss with her, and then retreated to her room. "He gave Evelain the barony, did he?" Gleuder, Dagny's maid, stood across the room from her. Dagny glanced up. "No," she replied. "But he did agree to name any male child she bears as his heir as long as the child is born before his death." The older woman crossed the bare floor and put a comforting hand on Dagny's shoulder. "Well, there's time still to convince him to adopt Slevin." The mention of her son made Dagny frown. She set her jaw and stared at the floor, though she didn't shrug off the older woman's hand. "I know," she murmured. "I just have to find a way to make him see." She tapped her booted foot for a moment, then looked up at Gleuder. "I thought Kelleman was starting to give way when he agreed not to name Sagrie heir. Between Curran and my son ..." "Yes, and he hates Curran," Gleuder agreed. "Slevin is the next logical choice. Anyone would be better than Curran, who is no better than a rat fink." Dagny ignored the insult, for although she disdained the words, she agreed with the sentiment: Curran was a betrayer by nature. She remembered being punished by her tutors for various pranks throughout her childhood due to Curran's talebearing. She dismissed that train of thought and returned to the topic uppermost on her mind. "I don't understand why now Kelleman has all but thrown his land away by agreeing to name Evelain's son heir. What will happen after Evelain births a son? Sagrie will be the ruler, in spirit if not in name, for Evelain is too simple a maid to do aught but paint her silly little pictures." Gleuder made a clucking sound with her tongue and said, "Dagny, Evelain isn't even married yet. She may not have a son at all." "That isn't the point," Dagny objected. "After arguing with Kelleman for months, I finally manage to make him understand that Evelain as heir would be disastrous for the barony, and now!" She fumed for a moment before continuing, "Now he goes and promises to name her son heir. He's making any sort of proclamation just to prevent Slevin or Curran from inheriting." She looked away from Gleuder to her bare walls and plain bed. As castellan, she had the right to a more comfortable bed and could afford decorations on her walls, but as the captain of the keep guards, she preferred her room to resemble the barracks where she had quartered while training to be a soldier. The only concession she allowed herself was rooming in the family wing of the keep. "Of the two," Gleuder said dryly, "Curran has the more legitimate claim to the seat." Dagny looked back at her maid with absolute fury on her face. "Gleuder!" Then the truth of that statement hit her and she hung her head between her shoulders. It was true that her own illegitimacy prevented Slevin from being in the line of inheritance, no matter that her father had accepted her and raised her in the keep as his own daughter. "Dagny, girl, look," Gleuder said. "You know that I want Slevin to rule this barony as much as -- if not more than -- you do." She cupped Dagny's chin in one aged hand and brought her face up. "But Kelleman stands between your son and his title like a jealous bull. That's a formidable wall even for you, and Slevin is just six years old. This is a battle you have to fight for him." Dagny sighed and leaned back on the couch. "I know; Gleuder, I know. What am I going to do?" Gleuder smiled, a crafty look coming to her eyes. "Do you remember the day your father brought you here?" At Dagny's noncommittal shrug, the older woman continued, "I remember that we all thought he had done it because he loved your mother. He had no love for the illegitimate daughter who had sullied his name. I thought he would keep you hidden away for a few months then ship you off to some distant duchy to be forgotten. But within a year you had proven yourself far wiser than Kelleman and more righteous than Curran, and you secured a place for yourself here. And so you stayed; in spite of your father's shame, you stayed." Dagny smiled a little as past memories surfaced. "But my father was stubborn too. When he discovered I had an affinity for numbers where Kelleman had none, he had the best tutors teach me; when he found out that I was more disciplined than Curran, he had his best warriors train me. He even encouraged Sir Poulson Ludoran to court me and saw that I was married before he died. But he never acknowledged me as his legal daughter." She shook her head. "Nor did he offer a bride-gift to your husband," Gleuder said with a sniff. "If Poulson had taken land like a normal knight you and Slevin would have had a place to go after he died." Dagny sighed and then chuckled. "He wouldn't have taken a dowry even if my father had offered. He was a true knight, and a true warrior, honorable in every sense of the word. Not money, land, or status meant anything to him. It was just like that when the war with Beinison broke out. He was so quick to wield his sword for Baranur." "And look where it got you," Gleuder retorted. "But even then, when we came back again to Castigale Keep and you pregnant and your father's health failing, I expected Kelleman to toss us all out by our ears as soon as your father died." Dagny laughed at the thought of her fat brother trying to pull her by the ear. The maid finished, "Instead, you made yourself first useful, and then indispensable, to him. Now he can't get rid of you unless he wants his keep and his guards to fall apart in disarray." "Forget the past!" Dagny made her voice harsh, for she wanted none of the weakness that sweet memories brought; indeed, the crisis of the moment was such that she could afford none. "What is the point to all of this, Gleuder?" "My point, dear child, is that to best a baron, you don't try to convince him through argument to see things your way. Instead, you take away his alternatives until yours is the only choice he has left. Like you did with Kelleman before Slevin was born. You made yourself the only choice for castellan and only choice for master of the guard." Dagny stared at her in amazement. "You want me to take a sword to Sagrie so that there's no one to marry Evelain? Gleuder, a duel won't solve anything." The maid smiled slyly. "You have other weapons you will not use; there are other kinds of duels that can be fought." "I don't understand," Dagny said, wondering what the older woman meant. Gleuder persisted. "Come with me," she said with a wink. She stood, took Dagny's hand, and led her to the back of the chamber, where on the bed lay a garment that appeared to be nothing but lace and cords. "What is it?" Dagny asked, staring. "That is the weapon you will need," Gleuder said. "Sit down, Dagny." Dagny allowed herself to be pushed to sit on the bed. "Gleuder --" "No. Listen to me. You've always chosen not to use the weapons Ol gave every woman. If Sagrie cries off from this wedding, you can still persuade Kelleman to accept Slevin as his heir. All you have to do is listen to me, Dagny, and do what I say. I promise it will all work out the right way." Dagny began shaking her head as she realized what Gleuder wanted her to do. "No. It's wrong, and I can't do it. I won't do it! It's dishonorable!" "Honor!" Gleuder sniffed. "That's something that men made up so that they could get out of doing things they didn't want to do. You need to learn the womanly arts, and no man can teach you that. I've tried to teach you that men think with what is between their legs. And you can control that, if you choose to. Now, strip." Gleuder started to undo the buttons and ties on Dagny's tunic. When her charge was down to nothing but skin, Gleuder picked up the garment and handed it to her. Dagny screeched, "Nothing underneath! Gleuder, you can see everything!" Gleuder laughed. "And you the mother of a child, Ol help me. Put this on, girl." Pulling down the night rail over Dagny's head, she tugged it into place. Taking the single cord that secured the garment, Gleuder tied it so tightly that it was difficult to breathe. When Dagny looked down at herself, she understood why. The tie was positioned under her breasts and pushed them upwards. The neckline gaped, and she feared a deep breath would make her fall out of the bodice. As for the skirt, it appeared to cover her completely, but when she took an experimental step forward, it split open all the way along the length of her right leg to the hip joint. "Gleuder! What -- where on 'diar did you get such a garment? This is vulgar, obscene!" Until that moment, Dagny had never thought that her body, which appeared muscular in the guard's uniform, also had such plush curves. She had never played on her femininity; that was a part of her that seldom came out in her daily life. She was the castellan and the guard master well before she was a woman, and she was always far too conscious that someone in a position of leadership needed to maintain a certain decorum. The older woman chuckled. "If only you could see -- well, you look beautiful, girl, absolutely beautiful. If he can resist you in this, I -- never mind that. Sit down." Gleuder pushed Dagny down and brushed out her hair. The arrangement made it fall forward at her neck, curling around her face like a halo. "It's a good thing you haven't cut it yet," the maid said. "Now, go to Gribbane and take him to bed. I'll come in there in about two bells with the page -- no, with Quiggin! That butler is such a prig that you would not believe." Gleuder paused. "That should be enough to stop the marriage. Kelleman will never allow an amorist to wed his precious daughter." "But Gleuder, I can't do that!" Fear swept through her as she thought of Sagrie seeing her dressed like this. It had been many years since her husband had died, and even though she lived and worked with soldiers every day, Dagny never spent any time thinking of men like that. The thought of someone, especially one whom she considered an enemy, seeing her clad in close to nothing was enough to make her reach for her sword. Meanwhile Gleuder was adjusting at the fabric in Dagny's bodice. "Yes, you can. Think of Slevin. It's all for him," she emphasized. Dagny hesitated, feeling torn at the mention of inheritance. Was the cost too high, she wondered? It occurred to her that she had a place in the keep now as long as she was useful, and Kelleman knew of her efficiency; but what of Slevin? Would Curran or Sagrie suffer her own presence, much less her son's? The question resounded in her mind and the hesitation blossomed into fear. Slevin had no father, and it behooved her to secure a good future for him. For her son, she had to do this. She swallowed, thinking of Sagrie's knowing eyes, nervousness dancing in her stomach like a small craft in a stormy sea. Wishing futilely for an easier way to settle Slevin's future, she met Gleuder's eyes and nodded. "Well then," Gleuder said, "this is for Slevin. Go and do your duty as a mother. Here," Gleuder fetched a brown, ankle-length robe, "put this on over that. You can take it off once you're inside his room. 'Twon't do for the castellan to run around the keep in a little bit of nothing." "Come," Sagrie called while he continued to read from the parchment on his desk. He looked up just in time to see a woman closing the door behind her. Out of her uniform he didn't recognize her for a moment. As she slipped off the robe and walked forward, he was surprised at seeing the cold castellan in such revealing clothes. Temptation beckoned and he felt it would be easy indeed to forget their positions. "I was not expecting you," he said, his eyes roving over her body. When Dagny smiled, he knew that he had allowed his feelings to show. He composed his face into a neutral expression and watched as she stepped into the room. The light of the sconces danced over what skin she bared, and played in the shadows of what little she did not. "You weren't expecting Evelain, were you?" she purred. He laughed. "No! Evelain is a child. And you ... are not." As she stepped perilously close to him, his eyes were level with her breasts, which were encased in some sort of lacy confection and tied with a velveteen cord. Then she leaned in and his face was just a breath away. He stared straight without flinching or shying his gaze, unwilling to show weakness. "This is a surprise," he said. With effort, he turned his face away and picked up a paper from the desk, feigning disinterest. Dagny hesitated a step and Sagrie smiled. For all her seductive words, she seemed unsure of what she was doing. He wondered if she had been with a man since her husband had died. He knew this woman's strengths were in the way she maintained three things, the accuracy of her accounts, the efficiency of her servants, and the battle-ready state of her keep guards, not in using charm, allure, or seduction for her ends. Also, his reports said that she was an honorable woman. Sagrie was a little surprised that she would try so blatant a trick. He surmised that she must be desperate to stoop to such a tactic; but he had to admit she was ably equipped for it. Then he realized the parchment he held was upside down and he hoped that she would not notice, for as keep castellan, she would know how to read and write. After a moment of awkward silence, Sagrie spoke in an attempt to distract her. "I did know that you were Kelleman's illegitimate sister when I addressed you as 'lady' in the hall." She blinked at the sudden change of topic, then frowned. "You deliberately insulted me?" "The measure of a man, or a woman, can be taken when he is angry," he said. "But I had no idea provoking you could be so ... provocative." A small smile played about his lips as he watched a flush of embarrassment color her features, confirming his guess that she was uncomfortable with her present strategy. His amusement grew until he was laughing aloud. The blush disappeared from her face, and her eyes brightened with anger. "Sagrie, you have no idea who I am." He was shaking his head as she spoke. "No, Dagny, I do know who you are." He lifted the paper, unobtrusively turning it right side up and began to read. "Dagny Ludoran, castellan and master of the guards. Illegitimate daughter of the late Baron Tilber Castigale, widow of Sir Poulson Ludoran. Has a young son, Slevin. A tricky swordswoman," he recited. "Spies!" she exclaimed. Sagrie nodded. "Well, you know how these things are played out. As pretty a chit as Evelain is, I wouldn't be marrying her if I didn't hope to get something out of it, apart from a biddable wife." Dagny laughed, and it was a short, brittle sound. "Biddable, oh yes, that she is. But --" she paused, as if looking for a new topic. Sagrie spoke first, his eyes roving over her body once again, "What are you doing in my bedroom?" "If I have to explain, then I must not be doing it right," Dagny said tartly. "Mayhap I should take lessons." He threw back his head and laughed. After a moment, he looked at her and allowed his appreciation to show. "Oh no, Dagny, you are doing it right. So right that --" he paused for a moment. "But I am too old a hand to be caught by this tactic." "Tactic?" Dagny said, her voice breaking. "Beautiful one, do you think that I don't understand your situation?" Sagrie asked. "You want Kelleman to adopt your son and make him heir. You want to discredit me so that Kelleman will not permit me to marry Evelain." Dagny's mouth fell open as he stated her position. "Spies," she murmured again, closing her mouth to grit her teeth together. Sagrie smiled at the dawning awareness in her expression. Despite the resolve he had seen in her before, he now realized that Dagny was little competition in this race. She had spent far too much time concentrating on soldierly duties and keeping a castellan's book to manage the intrigues she was attempting. Meanwhile, Dagny's anger seemed to have worked through to the forefront. "You can't do this to me," she growled. Sagrie laughed. "What can't I do?" he mocked. "I can do whatever I want, so long as I agree to marry Evelain. The only thing I can't do is bed you ... for now." Despite his best efforts, a trace of regret crept into his voice. "No!" The word seemed to be torn from her throat, and then she conquered her anger. "Sagrie, choose your enemies well." "Enemy? You? You have no power to hurt me," he dismissed. "Look around you," she replied. "This is a prosperous barony. Where do you think the money goes? To the soldiers, who are loyal to me." "Are you threatening me, Dagny?" Sagrie was incredulous. Then he sighed, rose, and crossed the room to the door. He bent and picked up her robe and held it out for her. "This is all pointless. You're powerless and I ... I have to marry Evelain for the sake of a treaty. Leave, Dagny, before your actions dishonor both of us." When she did not move, he came towards her and draped the robe around her shoulders. Then he returned to his seat. "Put it on," he growled, and then clapped his hands. "Bertrid!" Dagny pulled the robe into place and secured the cord with shaking hands. "It may have been a mistake on my part to have come here tonight," she admitted. Her voice strengthened as the brown robe covered her skin and less was bared to his eyes. "But beware, Sagrie. I will not stop because one tactic failed. I suggest you watch your back." Just then, Sagrie's page entered the room through the connecting door, knuckling his eyes. He yawned, one hand covering his mouth as he rubbed his eyes with the other, and said, "Yes, lord?" "Escort mistress Dagny out, will you? She's scared of the dark." Sagrie could not resist adding the last comment; Dagny's reactions were so illuminating. He was not disappointed; her eyes narrowed and her lips thinned and he recognized her ineffectual rage. But as he straightened in his chair and met her gaze, his smile disappeared; he understood that he had made a lifelong enemy with that one comment. ======================================================================== Talisman Nine Part 2 by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Yuli 12 - Sy 5, 1013 Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 15-7 Lord Aldan Bindrmon, son and heir of Baron Chak Bindrmon, galloped through Beeikar on the back of Firesocks as the sky lightened in the east. He had only one thought on his mind: revenge. He intended to ride north to the city of Dargon to find the blackguards who had killed his bride-to-be, Tillna. It had been only a few bells since Aldan had stood over the dying young man, Weasel, and heard from his lips that the rest of the Menagerie had fled to Dargon. The Menagerie was a group of the offspring of some of the lords in the barony, and Aldan had been a member until his father had forbidden him to associate with them. Animosity had developed between the group and Aldan since that time, which had culminated in the gruesome murder of Tillna. She had been a barmaid, and perhaps Aldan would never have proposed to her if his father hadn't objected to her so strenuously. Not that Aldan was any less serious about avenging her. He wondered why she had been killed. Had it only been the cruelty of his former friends? Or had his father simply wanted the obstacle to an arranged marriage removed? Perhaps he would find the answer in Dargon. Even if the Menagerie answered every one of his questions, they would gain no mercy from him. Aldan intended to deal to them what they had dealt to Tillna: death. He rode as fast as he could through the last bell of the twelfth of Yuli, and soon the dawn of the thirteenth rose on his right. Beeikar was falling ever farther behind him. As the leagues passed, he realized that he would soon be riding beyond the bounds of Welspeare, and he would eventually be going as far north as it was possible to go. Though his mission was grim, it was providing a way for him to travel to places that were just names on a map to him. He had always wanted to travel, but the duty he had been born to, the bonds of the heir to the baron, had always eclipsed his wanderlust. He had no desire to thank the Menagerie for this chance to see the kingdom, but he intended to make the most of the necessity he had been forced into. He also realized that he should have taken the time to get a map before leaving. He had stopped in the keep while Ricce had readied Firesocks, picking up food, clothes, and money. A trip to the library for a map would have increased his chances of being discovered, but it might have been worth it. Then again, he could always just buy one somewhere, surely. Part of Aldan's upbringing had been learning how to ride and to care for horses, so he soon reined in Firesocks; not even his father's charger could gallop all the way to Dargon. He wanted to enact his revenge as swiftly as possible, but he needed Firesocks to last the journey. Aldan directed Firesocks up to the inn and slid stiffly from his back. It was early evening on his first day out, and he couldn't ride another pace. He had been in the saddle all day, making the best speed he could, as he knew that his father would send people out after him, but Aldan had never ridden for such a long period of time and he was sore all over. He groaned as he touched the ground. His legs protested by buckling, making him grab for his saddle to keep from falling. When he was steady, he looked across the back of his horse and worried about how much it would hurt to walk the few paces to the door of the inn. He checked above the door for the name of the inn, but the square of wood suspended there was so weathered that it was blank. Before he could spend too much time wondering at the disparity between the well-maintained front of the inn and the blank sign, he heard a wheezing chuckle. A thin old man stood in the open door of the nameless inn. He had white hair, a wrinkled up face, and fingers that seemed too long for his palms. The man laughed his rustling-paper laugh again and pointed an overly long finger at Aldan. "I know that look, I do," he said in a creaky voice to match the laugh. "C'mon in, son, I know what'll fix you up." Aldan hesitated, but not because he didn't trust the man; he just wanted to make sure his legs were cooperating again before he left Firesocks' side. When he was able, Aldan shuffled around his horse in preparation of striking out for the door. The old man laughed one more time, his eyes twinkling, and then said, "I'll just call the boy to take care of your horse." He drew in a breath, but broke off in a fit of coughing, doubling over until he got himself under control. With a deep scowl, he stomped his foot, then turned and went into the inn. When the old man returned, he had a piece of metal in one hand and a mallet in the other. He proceeded to hit the former with the latter, setting up a din that startled Firesocks and almost caused Aldan to fall. By the time Aldan had steadied himself and calmed Firesocks, the summoned boy rounded the corner of the inn. This 'boy' was a big man with a bald head and wide girth who looked old enough to be Aldan's father. The blacksmith-looking stable boy led Firesocks away, leaving Aldan swaying slightly without his support. The old man went inside again, and Aldan followed, turning his shuffles into short steps by the time he reached the threshold. The common room of the nameless inn held three tables and a fireplace, but no bar. The old man set the metal and mallet on a shelf next to the front door and crossed the room, saying, "Just stay there for a moment, young man. I'll get the liniment." Aldan started to sit, but changed his mind quickly. He stood next to a table until the man returned with a small clay pot. "Here you go, son," the innkeeper said. "This will fix you right back up. Nothing better for saddle burns and sore muscles. This must be your first long ride, huh?" Aldan nodded, staring at the pot. Instead of handing it over, the man continued, "Don't worry, young man, it happens to everyone 'lessn they're real careful. Drop your breeches, and I'll fix you right up." Aldan didn't quite know how to react, but he wasn't about to let this stranger rub his legs, much less his seat. Falling back on his upbringing, he straightened himself up and, ignoring his protesting back, said cooly, "I think I can manage." He held out his hand, even though he wanted to grab the pot and run out of the room. The innkeeper shrugged and said, "If you're sure. It would be no trouble ..." Aldan shook his head, and gestured with his open hand again. The man gave him the clay pot, and then just stood there. After a moment, Aldan prompted, "Might I have a room for the night?" "Of course, for sure," said the old man. "Let me help you back there ..." Aldan flinched away from the helping hand that reached for his arm, and said, "I can do it myself, thank you." "Fine, fine. Through that door, take any one you want. You're my only custom tonight." The innkeeper turned away, and as Aldan shuffle-stepped across the room he heard the old man mutter, "Ungrateful pup. Well, it's probably just the pain." The salve worked wonders. In just a few bells, Aldan felt so much better that he had his dinner sitting in the common room. He thanked the old man profusely and paid him generously for the room, the meal, and two more small clay pots of the salve. Taking the old man's advice, Aldan applied the rest of the first pot before retiring, and the next morning he swung his leg over Firesocks' back and faced the road ahead without apprehension. Aldan had to make the first big decision of his journey three days later. He had reached the outskirts of Fremlow City, the ducal seat of Welspeare. He had dreamed of visiting the city once the duty of delivering the baronial taxes became his own, knowing that it was likely to be as far as he would ever travel from his home. That was certainly no longer the case; he was going much farther on this trip. Still, the city sat before him, enticing him to visit. He had ridden as fast as he could without harming Firesocks, but he was still too close to Beeikar and his father's men. No one could know that he was traveling to Dargon, but Fremlow City was an obvious possibility to those who must be following him. It wasn't hard to make the choice to skirt the city and leave it behind unvisited, but he wished he hadn't had to. As Aldan took to the roads that ringed the city and linked the surrounding farms, he realized that there was going to be more to his journey than just a short ride and the satisfaction of revenge. After only two nights, he could tell that staying in a well-maintained inn couldn't hold a candle to his own bed, and the food was similar from night to night. When he had set out from home, fired with the passion of his mission, he hadn't considered just what he was taking on. He had no qualms about meting out justice to the Menagerie. What was beginning to worry him was the journey itself. After detouring around Fremlow City and leaving the uneven tracks and tiny paths around that city's outskirts, he realized how much help the broad, well-maintained Royal Road that ran through Welspeare was to any traveler. Some of the tax money his father delivered to the duchess every year went to upkeep of this road. He recalled that his father was pleased that the Welspeare Royal Road ran through Bindrmon; in exchange for a lighter tax burden, the baron maintained it within his borders. Aldan knew the cost of the Royal Roads was high, and he understood why Welspeare followed the example of most of the other duchies in having only the royally-decreed minimum of one such road. He hoped he wouldn't have to give up the ease of riding along one before he reached Dargon. Aldan traveled north-west on the Royal Road and in due course passed from Welspeare into the Duchy of Kiliaen, a change marked only by two short posts blazoned with the colors of each duchy on the appropriate side. It was a momentous event in Aldan's life, finally setting foot outside of Welspeare, but he almost didn't notice the passage until he was even with the posts. He did drink a toast that night to Kiliaen, but didn't pay the occasion any further notice. He had been on the road for five days, and it seemed to him that he had hardly begun his journey. Two days later Aldan entered a small village named Henglewood. It was time to stop for the evening, especially as the new moon gave no light for night travel, and he took a room at the Purple Duck. He settled in, and came back down into the common room for dinner, selecting the stew over the roast meat after failing to identify the charred object on the spit over the fire. Halfway through the meal, the innkeeper came over to Aldan's table. "How is your meal, milord?" he asked. Aldan said, "Fine, fine," though only for politeness' sake. Before the man could turn away, he continued, "I was wondering where in this town I might find laundry services." "The Purple Duck offers that service, milord, for a modest fee. I can have your clothes cleaned for you by the middle of tomorrow if you wish. Just bring them down after dinner. Do you need anything else?" Aldan was about to shake his head no, but then he remembered something. "Maps," he said. "I need maps." The innkeeper said, "We have n--" but seemed to interrupt himself. Aldan watched as the man looked at him for several moments, frowning. After glancing across his clothes and down to his shoes under the table, the man said, "You're not from ... no, of course you aren't." The man's manner changed from strangely suspicious to completely helpful, and he continued, "Of course, good sir, of course there are maps for sale in our fine village. Tomorrow, just cross the square and find the sign of the quill. All of the arts of the pen in Henglewood are down that street, from books to drawings and everything in between. I'm sure that you will find maps among the wares sold there." Aldan watched as the innkeeper scurried away, and wondered what the man had been worried about, and why he had left so quickly. Then a whiff of his stew caught his attention, and he dismissed the balding man's behavior from his mind. He finished his dinner, fetched his clothes for the laundry, and then spent a restful night in his room. Early the next morning, he rose and set out to buy a map. Aldan's destination was not hard to spot: on the other side of the fountain in the center of the square was a wooden quill hanging from a pole that spanned the width of a narrow street. Passing under that quill, he entered the first shop on the right. Aldan stepped through the narrow door and found himself in a small, cramped space. He stood for a moment in the gloom, surrounded by the scent of glue and ink and parchment. It reminded him of the workroom of Sestik, Beeikar's only scribe. He and the Menagerie had studied there as children, learning their letters. When he could see, he looked around the tiny store. Between the door and the counter was hardly room enough for more than a single customer. The same amount of floor was on the other side of the counter, only the shelves on either side of the curtained door further reduced the space. Filling the shelves were bottles of ink, quills, rolls of parchment, a single stack of paper, and, behind a door made of bars that was ornately padlocked, three books. Aldan couldn't see anything that might be a map, but he wanted to be sure before leaving. "Hello the shop," he called. The curtains at the back of the room parted, and a short man with big eyes who looked like he had dressed in the dark came through. The man smiled and said, "How may I help you, good sir?" He had to crane his neck back to look up at his customer. Aldan felt like he was being stared at by an owl: a rumpled, mismatched, smooth-voiced owl. "I hoped you might have a map for sale." The smile widened into a grin, and the man said, "So you are the young lord from the Purple Duck. Yes yes yes, I have a map or two in stock. Not many, hard to come by after all, but let me check." He bent down, vanishing behind the waist-high counter for a moment. He popped back up with a scroll in his hand and snapped it down onto the counter. With a practiced motion, he unrolled it, revealing an ornately-bordered and decorated map labeled 'Northern Baranur'. Aldan bent down to get a better look at it in the dim light. He saw that it showed Baranur from Magnus northward, but when he bent further to see how much detail it displayed, it rolled shut under his nose. Straightening up, Aldan looked at the owl, who was now holding the map down at his side. The shopkeeper asked, "Will this one do?" Aldan nodded, and said, "How much?" The little man looked up at the ceiling and began muttering. After a moment, the shopkeeper looked up, squinted at Aldan for a moment, and then grinned again. "This was made by the famous cartographer Fingatish forty years ago. Guaranteed accurate down to the last detail. How much, you ask? A Sovereign, and worth every penny." "What!?" Aldan was shocked. That was an outrageous price, much more than he had expected. He might have been a baron's son, but his father had taught him how to haggle. The secret was knowing the honest value of the item. A piece of paper with marks on being worth a Sovereign? Aldan couldn't imagine it. Not even the pen of a mapmaker that he had never heard of could make ink worth that much. "Th-th-three Nobles ..." he stammered, which was what he had expected to start the bargaining at rather than an actual offer. The shopkeeper took it as one anyway and, after blinking up at Aldan for a moment from under beetled brows, finally said, "You're a shrewd one, young sir. I can see that I misjudged your ... business sense. I think I can still make a profit at ... five Nobles." This made Aldan blink in turn, confused. Half the value of a Royal was acceptable, when twenty Royals made a Sovereign? Worried that he was missing something, he accepted the deal. He fished the tiny coins from his pouch. The shopkeeper took a close look at them in Aldan's palm, then snatched them up and slapped the scroll down in their place. He started making shooing motions at Aldan, saying "If that's all, I've got things to be doing. Thank you, and good day." Aldan backed up two steps, and bumped into the door. The shopkeeper's stare unnerved him so much that he fumbled at the latch, and almost fell out of the shop. He was surprised at being run off so quickly, as he needed another map or two. Shrugging, he turned and continued up the quill-signed street to find some. Aldan entered every shop on the street. He had never seen so much parchment and ink in one place before, but found no more maps for sale. He returned to the Purple Duck and spread out his purchase in his room. The map was a shambles. The errors Aldan could pick out without effort included a single line of mountains crossing the map almost horizontally and labeled "Dersth Mountains", Quinnat didn't even have a border on the coast, and Welspeare cupped the eastern edge of Magnus all the way to Arvalia, interposed between both Kiliaen and Quinnat. Aldan fought down the urge to shred the parchment into scrap. Recovering, he examined the map further. Error after error piled up, until he knew that it was worthless. As he went over the map, he noticed certain patterns in the fading of the ink and the age-browning of the parchment. He recalled Sestik's lessons about fakery on scrolls and realized that this map wasn't forty years old at all, it had simply been made to look that way. He had been swindled! His father would never have stood for that, and would be sorely disappointed with him as well. Aldan felt despair well up inside him. He knew that he would never be able to enact his revenge if he wasn't even able to outwit a commoner. He needed wits and skill to succeed. Before he could give up entirely, he remembered the last time he had seen Tillna in the taproom of the Boar-Ring Inn. Then he remembered the box in her room with its grisly contents, and the note. He realized that his failure was simply a lesson to be learned, and he wouldn't be fooled like that again. He had vengeance to deliver, and he wasn't going to let a greedy merchant get in his way. There was one consolation: he hadn't paid a full Round for the forgery. That comfort didn't balance the disappointment of still not knowing how to get where he was going. Aldan tried to collect on the guarantee of the shopkeeper, but the store was closed when he returned. After a restless night, Aldan tried the shop again to find it still closed. He made the choice to move on without satisfaction rather than waste more time in Henglewood. The lack of a reliable map became important just a day later. Aldan had been told by the innkeeper of the Purple Duck that the Royal Road that came out of Welspeare connected to the ducal seat of Kiliaen. Noltor-on-Sea was, of course, on the western coast of the duchy and it was actually south of Fremlow City. The Royal Road began to curve even further away from Aldan's route northward by heading due west during that day. Eventually it would have to bend more, ending up heading south-west and farther away from Aldan's destination. He had no choice but to leave the easy route behind. He waited for just the right northward branching path, hoping to find a well-traveled trading route instead of having to settle for a cow path. He found one before the Royal Road had shifted too far to the south, and struck off along it. Aldan encountered another obstacle almost immediately. His newly-chosen path veered eastward almost as soon as he turned onto it, and after that it seldom held a single direction for more than a league. The only compass point it never took was south. He switched roads four more times that day, and had to continue to ride for a full bell after dark before he located an inn. Aldan walked into the low-ceilinged front room with its minimal lighting and pallets already laid out in place of tables for the few half-Penny guests, and realized that he had left behind the assurance of well-maintained lodgings with the easily followed Royal Road. He had to show his Penny to hire one of the two rooms the inn boasted, and he took his bowl of thin stew with him. The mattress was as thin as the stew, and supplied just as much satisfaction. He was glad to leave that inn behind as early as he was able. But the quality of lodgings did not improve as he got further from the Royal Road, and once he slept under a tree when he couldn't find any better accommodation. Aldan didn't so much get used to the deprivation as become resigned to it. After a few nights spent in seedy inns, sleeping on rough straw covered by blankets stiff with someone else's grime, eating food that a Beeikar rat would have turned up its bewhiskered nose at, he simply wished for the journey to be over. Aldan didn't give up, though. He only had to remember holding the box with Tillna's heart in it, and he was spurred on again. He tried to choose roads that took him at least a little northward, often with less success than he wanted. He managed to progress, though not nearly as swiftly as he had hoped. When he rode into Thoragil and discovered it was located close to the northern border of Duchy Kiliaen but considerably west of the center of that line, he became thoroughly frustrated with the pace of his mission. He quickly learned that Thoragil was very different from Beeikar. For one, it was totally landlocked: no river flowed next to it or through it to provide convenient transport for goods. And yet, majority of its businesses were oriented toward travel and trade. Unlike Henglewood, it wasn't simply situated along a well-traveled road; it was a center of commerce. Seven major trade routes radiated from Thoragil like the spokes of a wheel, and situated astride each road as it passed through the town's walls was a traders' enclave, where caravans as well as individual travelers gathered, supplied themselves, and set forth. Aldan thought he might try again to purchase a map, but he decided to get some information first. He went to the desk of the man who managed the rooms of the Lark and Pig where he was staying, and addressed the brown-eyed man with severely pulled back blond hair seated there. "Do you know of any map sellers in town?" he asked. "Sure, half-a-dozen without thinking," said the man. "I can give you directions, or have one of the runners guide you." Aldan hesitated, and then asked, "Can you tell me which ones have good maps? You know, accurate ones?" The blond man said, "They're all proper maps, sir. The guild wouldn't let a bad map be sold." "Guild?" "Cartographer's guild, of course. You wouldn't want to buy a map from anyone else, would you?" "Oh, that guild. No, no, I don't know what I was thinking. So where's the nearest shop?" "Treefid Enclave's a good place to start. Out the door, go left, third right to the radial, and take that to the wall. Beyond the wall is Treefid." Aldan thanked the man and left. He had no problem finding the traders' enclave. The first shop he found with a quill and parchment on the door turned out to be a large triangular space with maps covering every inch of the walls. He looked each one over, and they were certainly of better accuracy than the one he had already purchased, with all of the duchies that he knew about in their proper places. There were maps of every duchy in Baranur individually, and the Welspeare map agreed with his own knowledge of it. He checked for the major landmarks he knew about, and found that the Darst Range was correctly labeled and oriented. Satisfied with their accuracy, he next examined the maps for the features he needed. Unfortunately, the only maps that had any roads at all on them were the ones depicting the cities of Thoragil and Magnus. Most of the maps had towns and villages marked, but not even the Royal Roads were marked out. He did notice, though, that every single one bore the seal of the Cartographer's Guild on the upper left corner. Aldan purchased a map of northern Baranur that would at least give him some idea of his general location, if not how he had gotten there. Looking at the distance between Kiliaen and Dargon, he wondered if he would ever be able to cross that vast expanse of parchment by himself. He took the time to scour the town for a more complete map without finding one. Finally, in a narrow shop that was full of parchment but lacked the accompanying scent completely because of the way the walls at either end were folded back to let air flow through, Aldan asked the matronly proprietor, "Do you have any maps with roads on them?" The woman said, "I'm sorry, but I don't. It's very rare to find a map with roads or trade routes marked. The cartographers have a deal with the traders: the map-makers get information from the travelers in exchange for not making it easier for just anyone to cross Quinnat, for example, on their own." "And if someone needed to do just that?" Aldan asked. "Why, hire a guide or, better yet, join a caravan." That evening, Aldan sat at the bar of the Lark and Pig drinking steadily. He had confirmed the woman's comments at other shops, and it appeared that the caravan masters guarded their trails jealously. He wasn't going to find a map that would be more than general help in getting him north. During a lull in business, the bartender, a rugged-looking individual with a square, jutting chin, stopped in front of Aldan and said, "You've been fairly serious about getting on the outside of our best ale for a couple of bells now, friend. You have a problem you're trying to drown?" "No," Aldan replied. "Not really." He paused for a moment, and then continued, "Well, 'cept for needing to go north and not knowin' how." "Well, you're in the right place then, friend. Check out the enclaves. Your best option would be to find a caravan to travel with; they're safer in general, and your comfort will be greater since you can take along a larger load. You might travel faster with a guide, but it would cost a great deal more and you wouldn't gain all that much in terms of comfort or safety. But caravans are leaving Thoragil every day in this season. Surely you can find one going where you want to go." Aldan nodded and said, "Good advice, I'm sure, but I'll manage on my own somehow." He lifted his mug and said, "Could I have another?" The bartender shrugged, refilled the mug, and moved on to another customer. Aldan continued drinking the flavorful, but not very strong, ale, and continued to worry about the amount of parchment between Kiliaen and Dargon. Aldan happened to glance up as three men walked into the bar together. There wasn't anything remarkable about them and when they left his field of vision, he didn't bother to turn his head to follow them. He heard benches scraping behind him, and a conversation began that sounded like it had started elsewhere. "So my brother, he drags himself home a sennight after he was supposed to get there. Said he and his friend got ambushed right off a Royal Road north of the Laraka, and he was lucky to have gotten away with only his arm crippled." A different voice, deeper than the first, said, "That's nothin'. I knew this guy once, 'e was a trapper. He told me one time about going out to check his lines, and finding a dead man. He said the guy looked fit, and had armor and a sword on, but he was tore up like a bear or a forest cat got him. Guess anyone can have bad luck, huh?" A third voice, the deepest one yet, said, "Aw, you're just trying to scare me outa going down to Noltor-on-Sea by myself." "No, no," chorused the others. The deepest voice continued, "And it won't work. I'm not staying." The others protested, and then the voice continued, "Instead, you're coming with me." Aldan ignored the rest of the conversation and went back to his drinking. Only now, the possible dangers he might encounter as he crossed all of that parchment figured into his worrying. That night, he dreamed about wild animals and bandits and wandering for months and months and never even making it as far as the Laraka River. It might have been the advice, it might have been the nightmares, or it might have even been too much ale, but the next day, Aldan went back to the enclaves to find a caravan heading north. He couldn't find one going directly to Dargon, so he settled for passage to Valdasly, in the Duchy of Arvalia. That city was definitely on his way, and he had been assured that he would be able to find another caravan there to take him further north. He idled for two more days in Thoragil, and left with Chenzo's 'Van. The train of horses and carts and people moved no faster than a moderate walk, and stopped four times, not counting their final stop of the early evening. By the end of the first day they hadn't covered more ground than Aldan could have alone even taking as many wrong turns as he ever had. The bartender had been right about the comfort, as his tent that night was almost as comfortable as the inn he had just left. And the safety aspect was obvious, since there were enough men and women in the caravan that only an army of bandits would have attacked it. But no one had mentioned the snail's pace that a large caravan set. Aldan thought that maybe the pace would be better on the second day, but if anything, it was worse as their route deviated onto narrow, winding paths briefly in the middle of the day. On the third, when the distance they had ventured by fifth bell wasn't even as far as the previous day, Aldan sought out Chenzo himself. Chenzo was a very round man who rode in a wagon along with a driver. Aldan rode up beside the wagon and said, "Greetings, Chenzo. I was wondering whether your excellent caravan was going to maintain this rather leisurely pace, or if it might travel somewhat faster in the coming days?" Chenzo looked over at Aldan and said, "No, Lord Aldan, I can't really coax much more speed out of my caravan than this, barring road conditions of course. That's the price of a well-stocked and staffed caravan. We're big and thus safe, but slow." Aldan realized that Chenzo was right, and considered his options. He could remain with the caravan and only get as far as Valdasly in two months or more, by which time the Menagerie could be well hidden in Dargon, or he could brave the dangers of the road and actually make decent, if circuitous, progress on his own. In the end, there was only one decision he could make. He was the son of a baron, and he should be able to brave the dangers of the wild on his own. He said, "I think that we should part company, Chenzo. My business won't wait forever, and I must press on ahead." "If that is your decision then I wish you well, Lord Aldan. You may leave at your own convenience." "There is the matter of a refund, good Chenzo," said Aldan. "On what grounds?" "I am leaving your caravan well before Valdasly, after all." "And why should that matter, Lord Aldan?" asked Chenzo. "Your fee allowed you to join the 'van. I never agreed to get you to Valdasly. Fare well, Lord Aldan." The caravan master turned away, leaving Aldan gaping in astonishment. It was unthinkable that a commoner would treat him so badly! He took a deep breath and calmed himself. His rank meant nothing out here in the middle of the road, surrounded by people loyal to, or at least employed by, Chenzo. Then he remembered the map seller in Henglewood and his vow not to be cheated again. He tried to puzzle out a way to get his own back, and in an instant he had an inspiration. If Aldan couldn't use his nobility directly, there was still a way he could use his rank and influence. "Merchant Chenzo," he said. The caravan master turned, and said, "Have you not left yet, Lord Aldan?" "Not just yet, merchant Chenzo. I was thinking ..." Silence stretched for a few moments, and finally Chenzo answered, "Yes?" with a look that told Aldan that the merchant was aware of the trick and had only answered to move the conversation along. "We had a deal, merchant Chenzo. You had your understanding of it, and I had mine, but a decent merchant wouldn't let someone's honest naivete lead them into an unfortunate situation like this." Aldan paused and watched a frown form on Chenzo's round face. "A bad merchant, concerned only with profit and not reputation, might do such a thing. A thief might perpetrate such a fraud, since reputation means nothing to such. But I cannot believe that a prosperous merchant, like yourself for example, would ever let such a situation arise." Chenzo's frown had vanished, but the expression that replaced it was not welcoming. Aldan continued, "I am not challenging your decision here and now, merchant Chenzo; this is your domain and you rule within it. But I feel that my story would find receptive ears among my own peers, and I'm sure they would pass it on. After all, how could they resist a tale of the son of a baron being cheated by merchant Chenzo?" Aldan feigned turning Firesocks away, and was rewarded by the barked, "Wait!" from the caravan master. Aldan released the reins and, putting on his most neutral expression, he said, "Yes?" "Perhaps we can reach a new accommodation, my Lord Aldan," said the frowning Chenzo. Aldan let himself show a small smile, and the haggling began. Aldan left the caravan with some of his money once again in his purse, and some of the equipment he had been using tied up behind his saddle. He worked his way north again, taking as many east-bearing paths as he could. He made slow progress, but he was still faster than Chenzo's 'Van. Three sennights after riding away from his home in Beeikar, Aldan rode into Pyinalt's Crossroads. He was in the Duchy of Quinnat, and he was headed for Port Sevlyn as the easiest way he could see to cross the mighty Laraka River. Blindly following the roads and paths he came across, adjusting his heading by finding villages on his map, he had ridden into this town, which was too small to show on his map. Dismounting in front of the Buzzard's Roost Inn, Aldan noticed Firesocks favoring a hind leg. He stroked the horse's haunch and carefully lifted the leg to examine the bottom of the foot. The stone he found was easily removed and he didn't see any blood, so it couldn't have been lodged in there for very long. He looked at the condition of the shoe and realized that Firesocks hadn't been shod for this kind of travel. Lifting his head, he saw a large wooden horseshoe hanging from a gatepost across the square from the inn. He knew where he would be going tomorrow. The Buzzard's Roost was small, plain, and clean. The meal he ate was simple yet hearty, the straw in his mattress was fresh, and the blanket soft if threadbare. His room even boasted a window through which he could clearly see the full moon. He didn't begrudge the three Bits it cost. The next morning, Aldan led Firesocks across the square to the Eldirhan Blacksmithy. The moment he crossed beneath the gate into the walled-in courtyard, he felt strange. The large, open space seemed familiar, especially the bench beneath the tall chestnut trees at the back, near the door into what he was sure were the living spaces of the building. In the other back corner was a wide door, and that was where he led his horse, knowing it was the forge. The room beyond the door was bigger than Aldan expected. A half-dozen forge fires burned in the back half of the room, and four young men and women worked bellows and heated metal at two of them. As he stood on the threshold, he was approached by a thickly-built woman with ruddy skin and short, brown hair. Her bare arms bulged with the muscle that came from swinging heavy hammers down on hot iron, and she extended a hand that was rough and already dirty from the work she had done that morning. "Hail, stranger, and fair day to you. I'm Marigey, and this is my blacksmithy. What can my apprentices and I do for you and your steed this day?" Her voice matched the rest of her: deep, rich, and filled with contented assurance. Her hand enfolded his own and Aldan felt the strength in her fingers. "My horse needs shoes fit for long traveling, Mistress Marigey. How much for a full set?" The blacksmith glanced at Firesocks' feet, and expertly lifted a forefoot onto her thigh. She tapped the shoe, and ran her finger along its edge, before releasing the leg again. "You're right, young man. Those are common shoes, fit for exercising and the occasional hunt. I can have him shod in thicker, harder metal before fourth bell for only a Round." Aldan honestly had no idea of the value of long road shoes or the time of a blacksmith to shape and fit them; his father employed a blacksmith at the keep and paid him a wage. He did know a little about people, though, and he thought that Marigey was testing him by the way her eyes narrowed slightly while her left eyebrow went up slightly. A Round wouldn't significantly deplete his purse, but he didn't want to pay more than the job was worth. Taking a deep breath and hoping he wasn't going to insult the woman, he said, "I was hoping I wouldn't have to let go of more than ten Bits for this chore." Marigey's face relaxed, and she nodded. "Ten Bits, yeh? Ten Bits might get you the lot where you're from, but it won't get you more'n the shoes here. I have to set a fair value on my own time, after all." She wasn't frowning, and there was no heat in her voice, so Aldan knew that he had ventured the right counteroffer. "But I'll tell you what. My time might be worth a premium, but that of my apprentices is not. They have all studied long, and shod many a horse, so the work will be worthy of my own hands. That being the case, I can offer you a discount at seventeen." Entering into the spirit of the moment, Aldan paused and pretended to consider. Then he said, "On second thought, perhaps I could spend as much as thirteen under the circumstances." Marigey laughed, nodded, and said, "Fifteen?" "Fine, and thank you." Aldan shook her hand again, and counted out the copper coins. She thanked him and said that he could wait in the courtyard. As she led Firesocks into the shoeing stall to one side of the wide door, she was already calling out to her apprentices to fetch the medium blanks and the deshoeing claw. Aldan turned and walked slowly over to the bench under the chestnut trees. The strangeness he had felt when he first arrived, forgotten during the negotiations, was returning. As he settled into one of the worn sections of the bench, fitting his spine to the curve that had been hollowed out of the back, he felt it all around him. There was a pressure in his ears that reminded him of the time in his youth when he had been dared by Fox, his closest friend and fellow Menagerie member, to lift every hammer in the blacksmithy in town. He had started to struggle after the middle-sized hammer, but he hadn't been more than twelve summers old at the time, either. Determined to beat Fox's dare, showing off to all of his friends, he had managed to hoist every one but the last a double-hand off the ground. But the blacksmith's largest hammer, that seemed to his recollection to have a head as large as his own, had defeated his mightiest efforts. It had been then, as he struggled against the unbeatable weight, that he had felt a similar sense of pressure at his ears, which had eased when he stopped attempting the impossible. That memory led him to think about Fox. He remembered how close he and Fox had become over the years. Fox, or Lord Wannek to call him by his proper name, had reacted the worst when the baron had ordered Aldan to cease associating with the Menagerie. Aldan had never been totally sure whether his father had made that demand only for the reasons he had stated. Could he have learned of what had been blossoming between himself and Fox? Those deep feelings ... but, no. It was useless to think on that, given that he was chasing Fox -- and Bear and Owl -- to Dargon to avenge Tillna's murder. Aldan's attention was drawn to the gate by the sound of hooves. He looked up just as someone walked a horse through the gate. The figure stopped just within the courtyard, and something about the whole setting seemed strangely familiar to Aldan. The pressure in his ears increased, holding him down against the bench, and he felt like he had seen this -- no, done this before. The shade, the seat, the horse, the person ... It had all happened before, long before. Locked in place by the pressure still building around him, Aldan felt his lips beginning to move even though he had no idea what he was going to say ... and then the moment broke as the stranger started walking toward him again. The pressure vanished, and Aldan started to breathe normally again. At first he thought the figure was a woman for some reason, but it didn't take long for him to realize his error. The man was tall and pale-skinned, with ash-blond hair and an amazingly large nose, which didn't affect how handsome he was. As he got closer, Aldan noticed that his eyes were a bright grass green which went well with his coloring. He also noticed the bardic harps and stars on the man's belt, which seemed somehow appropriate. But he wasn't comfortable sitting in the shade any longer. Something about that strange pressure -- something about this bard -- unsettled him profoundly. So he stood up and took a few steps toward the forge entrance. He called out, "Marigey, you've another customer. I'll be back in a few bells for Firesocks." As the stout blacksmith appeared in the doorway, Aldan turned and left. He gave the bard a brief nod as he passed, but the blond-haired, green-eyed man stayed in Aldan's thoughts for a long time after. ========================================================================