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 17 -=========================================================+|) D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 2 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 3/14/2004 Volume 17, Number 2 Circulation: 655 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb Sweet Healing P. Atchley and Naia 12, 1018 Ornoth D.A. Liscomb Talisman Ten 2 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Ober 15-24, 1013 ======================================================================== DargonZine is the publication vehicle of The Dargon Project, Inc., 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 17-2, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright March, 2004 by The Dargon Project, Inc. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb , Assistant Editor: Jon Evans . DargonZine is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs- NonCommercial License. This license allows you to make and distribute unaltered copies of DargonZine, complete with the original attributions of authorship, so long as it is not used for commercial purposes. Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden. To view a detailed copy of this license, please visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0 or send a letter to Creative Commons, 559 Nathan Abbott Way, Stanford CA, 94305 USA. ======================================================================== Editorial by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb Last September, in the Editorial for DargonZine 16-3, I mentioned that two of our veteran writers had taken temporary sabbaticals, bequeathing several partially-completed stories to be finished up by others. The first of those stories appeared in our most recent issue, wherein Rich Niro completed Victor Cardoso's "Touching Ol". We open this issue with the second such story, P. Atchley's "Sweet Healing", which I had the pleasure of taking from first draft through publication. This being only the second story I've had printed in DargonZine in the past ten years, I haven't had much occasion to talk about myself, so perhaps a little self-indulgence is forgivable. You might well think that being editor as well as a contributing writer would be an easily abused conflict of interest, and I'd have to agree. During my initial four years as editor of FSFnet, DargonZine's predecessor, I managed to author eight Dargon stories, four non-Dargon stories, eight "featured author" columns, and seven other articles. That was partly to ensure that we had enough material to keep the nascent magazine in print, but I must admit that I probably took advantage of the fact that I was also the editor. Like every writer, I look back at my early works and cringe at the flaws I see. In those early days, I proofread every submission and gave suggestions and corrections to contributors, but there was no peer review. Although I had founded FSFnet to get feedback from other writers on my work, I rarely had anyone else look at my stories before I distributed them in issues. It wasn't until I turned the reins of DargonZine over to Dafydd (whom I'll return to in just a moment) that he asked all Dargon Project writers to participate in the review process, so that the effort of critiquing forthcoming stories wasn't solely on the shoulders of the editor. More importantly, writers began talking to and learning from one another, whereas under my own leadership all communication had been between each writer and the editor. With much more feedback and many more viewpoints represented, the quality of DargonZine's stories rapidly improved. Furthermore, the increased contact fostered a real sense of community in the group, and many lasting friendships have been made at our annual Writers' Summits. Thus, when I returned to DargonZine after six years' absence, things had changed quite a bit. Now, even my stories had to go through several rounds of peer review, and that dramatically changed how I approached my writing. I began concentrating on quality rather than quantity, and I had much the same experience as every other Dargon Project writer: it can be very difficult to consider everyone's criticism, but in the end my stories have been far better for it, and I've learned a lot. Unlike my prolific early days, "Sweet Healing" will be only my fifth story to appear in DargonZine in eleven years, and just my second story in the ten years since I resumed editing the zine. So now, with the exception of these Editorials, DargonZine is no longer my personal publishing house. This issue concludes with the second chapter of Dafydd's "Talisman Ten", which provides an interesting counterpoint. Dafydd was, as I mentioned above, the editor of DargonZine for those six years when I was away. I can't say to what extent peer review contributed to this fact, but during those six years as editor, Dafydd printed only one of his own stories. That's simply astounding when you consider that he is by far our most prolific author, having printed eleven stories in less than two years before he became editor, plus an unbelievable forty-five stories in the decade since he stopped putting out the zine. The vast majority of those stories are, of course, the Talisman novella, of which "Talisman Ten 2" is the penultimate chapter. When it finally concludes in our next issue, Talisman will comprise thirty-eight chapters and over 235,000 words; it will have taken us over five years to print; and it will be an order of magnitude larger than any other single work that DargonZine has ever produced. Talisman is indeed a truly colossal achievement, and it all comes to its exciting finale in our next DargonZine issue, due out around the end of April. ======================================================================== Sweet Healing by P. Atchley and Ornoth D.A. Liscomb Naia 12, 1018 "Lilike, tonight we'll brew a tisane of parsley. That's for treating baldness, so you need to learn --" Rebecca sighed in frustration as her apprentice set a book aside and went to the cupboard to grab a piece of bread. "Will you please pay attention? And put that book back in its box!" "But I'm hungry," came the response. "And why can't I look at your books? Aren't you curious about the recipes in this one? And I want to figure out what the other one is. Don't you think 'Maran's Tome of Curses' is an exciting title?" Lilike's face brightened as she spoke of it. A pretty teenager, she had joined Rebecca as an apprentice a few months before. With tawny hair and dark eyes the color of water sapphires, she was cheerful and quick to learn, but easily bored. "And what does a healer need with curses? I can't imagine why Cyon would have kept such a book." Despite being unable to read, Rebecca had inherited them along with a whole shop full of paraphernalia when her mentor had died, many years before. Regardless of Rebecca's sensible argument, her apprentice's enthusiasm for the book wasn't so easily turned aside. "I bet it's full of spells and magic potions ..." "If you'd noticed, I'm tying to teach you how to make a potion ..." Lilike's face twisted up. "But that's just herbs: herbs to keep old men from going bald. That's not real magic!" The two of them were working in the small first-floor shop where Rebecca had lived since her arrival in Dargon. The single room was old and shabby, with one bed, one table, and one chair. Light and air streamed in through the doorway and open-shuttered window. One wall had shelves containing the healing supplies that she kept on hand, and, on the other side, many drying herb cuttings hung above the fireplace. The healer crouched by the fire, stirring the decoction she was making. Frowning, she said, "Sometimes I don't think you want to learn about herbs and healing. I honestly wonder why you came to me." "Well, I'm just so old," Lilike whined, making Rebecca smile while the young woman continued. "When Cavendish dismissed me because I didn't have the hand to be a scribe, my father said I needed another apprenticeship or I'd have to join the town guard. I don't want to be a guard ... though it might be more exciting than being a healer!" Lilike finished her bread and picked up a sheaf of tansy weed from the table. Sitting on the floor in the sunlight, she began to separate the roots, leaves, and flowers into piles. Rebecca shook her head and sighed. "Being a healer is not about excitement, girl; it's about helping others, about healing." She thought about why she had accepted the young woman as an apprentice. Her reflection, the last time she had seen it in her washbasin, had shown without equivocation her white hair, the wrinkles on her face, and the blue eyes that were a pale imitation of the color of her youth. In order to preserve the skills and knowledge Rebecca had learned from her master, Cyon, she had needed to find an apprentice. That, however, had not been the only reason she had chosen Lilike. The evening after Lilike's father had presented her to Rebecca, the herbalist had dreamed that the sandy-haired girl would someday become a well-known healer. "I know it's about healing," Lilike said. "And I want to help people, but nothing ever happens here. You've been to two birthings since I came to you, and you didn't take me to either of them. It's been nothing but colds and fevers. Maybe I should start making those recipes for potions from your books. Even those look more interesting than boiling parsley ..." Rebecca sighed again. She still had faith in the vision she'd had before accepting Lilike as her apprentice, but during conversations like this, she wondered. The girl was indeed old to start learning a new trade. In a lecturing tone, she said, "A healer is he who has not healed a hundred people." "-- a hundred people," Lilike chanted, a beat behind her. "That is such an odd saying. It doesn't make sense at all, and every time I ask you, you say that it's not time for you to explain it." "It's not something to be explained, child; it's something to be understood. Now I want you to promise me that you will concentrate on learning to make a serum from those quince berries you gathered last sennight. No more looking at those old books." Lilike said thoughtfully, "I don't understand why you kept Cyon's books if you can't read. Could he read? They're very interesting, but they're hard to follow. There are pictures of animals, too. There's one with a big knot of rats with --" "Enough!" Rebecca interrupted forcefully. In all her years as a healer, she had never needed to know how to read. Everything Cyon had taught her had been passed down orally and committed to memory. She could not understand Lilike's endless fascination with the two books. Rebecca simply had never had the reason or inclination to do anything with them since cleaning out Cyon's shop. They might be worth something to someone, but Rebecca's long, hard days didn't leave her time or energy to first have them appraised, then try to find a buyer. Instead, they'd sat on a shelf, forgotten, for years -- decades, actually -- until her new apprentice had spotted them. Lilike's interest was harmless, but also a distraction. Perhaps now it was time to look into selling them. However, that would have to wait for another time, because Rebecca's day was already spoken for. "I need to go to the marketplace. A ship from Kimmeron docked yesterday, and I'm sure their spices and herbs are in the market by now. We're out of the cough syrup, so I want you to make it. Do you remember what to do?" Lilike rolled her eyes as only an adolescent could. "Of course I remember. Rebecca, I've made it every other day for two months! I promise I won't let the fire die out, and I'll boil it for the time it takes me to sort all the tansy weed." "Good girl. And if anyone shows up for anything other than a fever or cough, send word to me, straight?" Without waiting for a response, Rebecca set off, trusting that Lilike would act responsibly. Even though she was playful and did not appear interested in learning about herbs, she was always gentle and caring with the patients. Rebecca would do her best to help the young woman become a healer, but Lilike's dedication to that goal needed to come from within. When Rebecca returned from the marketplace, Lilike had one of the books open again, but since she had faithfully made the cough syrup and plucked all the flowers and leaves from the tansy weed gathered two days prior, Rebecca refrained from scolding. Lilike looked up and said excitedly, "Listen to this, Rebecca: For cough is from lough And pansy seeds are best, But use naught save caulk for fest." The young woman paused dramatically and then asked, "What do you think it means?" Rebecca paused in picking up the sorted herbs, her interest caught. "It's true that a serum of pansy seed fortified by brandy is good for a cough." "What do they mean by 'caulk for fest'?" Lilike asked. "Well, 'fest' means 'festival' ..." Rebecca's voice trailed off as she turned her attention back to her task. "Do you mean like Melrin?" "Yes, like Melrin. There are usually only two sicknesses after any festival: one is caused by too much to eat, and the other is caused by too much to drink," Rebecca answered. "It makes sense that they talk about caulk, since that is what --" A face looked in at the door and both of them turned. "Lilike! Hello!" The high voice belonged to Kerith, one of Sian Allyn's young orphans. The child's unbridled enthusiasm made Kerith one of Rebecca's favorites. Her guardian, looking haggard, followed her into the little room. Rebecca silently gauged the symptoms she could clearly read in the child's appearance. Her long, golden hair hung like rats' tails around her face. Her skin had lost its sheen and her body was emaciated, except for a small, rounded belly. "Hello, Kerith," she said, letting the tale of her malady come out in its own time. Kerith turned and asked, "Lilike, can I have some water?" Lilike brought a cup in silence, and as Kerith drank, the apprentice touched the little girl's forehead and asked, "Is she not eating properly?" There was a serious note in her voice, one that Rebecca had not heard before. The healer realized that Lilike too sensed Kerith's illness. She was encouraged that her apprentice had begun to recognize the look of sickness, despite the fact that she had only been with Rebecca for a few months. Sian's hazel eyes, rimmed with red, were the only color in her pale face, and her shoulders sagged as she replied to the apprentice's question. "Yes, she is, but nothing stays in. And she's using the chamber pot all the time." "How long has this been the case?" asked Rebecca. "I didn't really notice it coming on. Maybe a fortnight or more?" Rebecca's eyes narrowed in suspicion as she examined the child. She thought she recognized Kerith's illness, and dreaded being right. "Can you help her, Rebecca? What's wrong with her?" Sian asked, her voice stronger than before, looking at the healer. When Rebecca looked into Sian's eyes, however, Sian instinctively sensed the gravity of the sickness. The little hope that Rebecca had seen in her face disappeared. "Come with me. Lilike, talk to Kerith," Rebecca said, leading the way toward the back door to the small garden and alleyway behind her shop. As she stepped over the threshold, she turned back and added, "And don't give her anything to eat." She knew that Lilike might give Kerith the dried fruit and honey that they kept to persuade small children to take bitter medicine, and that would probably not be good for the child. When they were outside, Sian spoke, words tumbling out in a torrent. "What's wrong, Rebecca? You know what's wrong, don't you? Tell me." Rebecca nodded. "I think it is the sweet sickness." "The sweet sickness? What's that?" "It is a rare disease, but if that is what is afflicting her, you cannot let her eat anything save a bit of meat -- and not even fatty meat -- and maybe lettuce, and those but once a day. Do not, on any account, let her eat bread or honey. Do you understand me?" Rebecca put every bit of authority she could into the last question and was rewarded by Sian nodding with determination in her face. "Good. Now, before I tell you more, I must be sure." There was no sense alarming Sian further until she was certain. "How will you do that?" Sian asked. "We will do it right now," Rebecca said, going back inside. "Kerith, come with me." She led the way out of the back door. After Sian and Kerith left, Rebecca sat down and stared blankly at the floor, searching her memory for everything she'd ever been told about the sweet sickness. The silence was unbroken, as Lilike did not speak for a long time. The apprentice sat on the floor, crushing dried quince berries in a small mortar, eyes on her task. When the ninth bell of the day tolled outside and dusk was fast approaching, Lilike finally asked. "I can't believe Kerith looks like that. What's wrong with her, Rebecca?" Rebecca looked at the youthful figure before her and sighed. "It is the sweet sickness. People get it when they offend the Olean goddess Shilsara, she who stands for joy and desire. I have seen it manifested in older people and rich ones a sennight or more after a great celebration. They overeat, then they become fat, and then they get the sweet sickness. They suffer from an unquenchable thirst, and all their flesh and limbs dissolve into urine. They waste away to nothing, and by the time --" Rebecca stopped abruptly, unwilling to complete that thought. There was horror on Lilike's face, and her hands paused in their action. "By the time what?" Rebecca stared grimly at Lilike and then looked out the window, letting the silence be her reply. "Is that what's going to happen to Kerith?" Lilike asked, as if needing an explicit answer. "I'm not certain. I have never seen a child so afflicted." Lilike asked, "Then how are you sure it is the sweet sickness?" "My teacher, Cyon, used to use the taste test," Rebecca said, leaning back in her chair, "and there are ants out back." "You took her out back to pass water?" Lilike asked, awareness dawning. "Yes. The ants were attracted to her water because it was sugary. That's why it's called the sweet sickness," Rebecca said, unable to stop the pedantic note that crept into her voice. "It's unmistakable. The thirst is the first indication, followed by the wasting away of limbs, then the urine is the final proof." "What is the cure?" The tone of Lilike's question was hesitant. Rebecca did not answer, keeping her eyes trained on the window. After a moment or two, Lilike got up, replaced the mortar on the shelf, and turned to implore, "Rebecca, is there a cure?" "For the older people who get it, it can be controlled for a while by avoiding many foods and eating only certain foods: lean meats, lettuce, spinach. Bread and sweets must be avoided, and no spirits of any kind. One small meal a day only. If they follow this, they can live for another year or two. Still, once you have offended Shilsara in this manner, there is no way to lift her curse." Lilike glared her denial at her mentor. "That's not true. I don't believe it. I refuse to believe it! How can you say that? There must be a cure. If we beseech Shilsara and give Kerith herbs, she will get better. We just have to know which ones to give her." Rebecca sighed. Lilike's blind optimism was both valuable and dangerous. As a healer, she would see many patients survive because of her efforts, but perhaps as many would die despite them. She would need her optimism to endure all that and persevere as a healer, yet it was a painful burden to bear in cases like this, when the affliction was both irrevocable and fatal. "Fine, be that way. I will do it myself," Lilike muttered. "I'm going to the Olean temple to talk to the priests." Rebecca opened her mouth to say something, but the young woman was already across the threshold. It might do Lilike good to meet something she couldn't conquer, but the thought of that being Kerith's sweet sickness was painful, even for Rebecca. The following afternoon, Rebecca watched Lilike's angry face and sighed. Her visit with the Olean priests the previous evening had apparently yielded nothing of value, and when Lilike had returned to speak to the master priest a second time, he had been unavailable. Not that Rebecca had expected anything else. Sian had visited earlier in the day, and Rebecca had told her the truth: the only way to prolong Kerith's life was by controlling what she ate, and that would but delay the end. Sian had left, bravely overcoming her tears, but since then Lilike had sulked. Rebecca turned away to continue her tasks, deciding to avoid the subject for the time being. There was a knock on the door and both women looked up. "Come in. How can I help you?" Rebecca invited, glad of the interruption. It was a young man whom she did not recognize, but a healer's home was open to all who needed help. Lilike rose, smiling, one hand extended in invitation. "Come in. Rebecca, this is Cereid, one of the acolytes I met at the Olean temple. Cereid, this is Rebecca, my teacher." Rebecca nodded. "Have you come to visit with Lilike?" Standing next to Lilike, Cereid looked only a little older than she did. His dark hair was shorn close to his scalp, leaving little more than a trace of stubble, and he wore plain breeches made of homespun. His tunic, though worn, was of good material. Dark eyes glittered in a pleasant face that looked as if he smiled often. "Milady, when Mistress Lilike came to the temple, she asked to see our books of healing. She related her need to treat a child with 'the sweet sickness', which is unknown to our healers. Since we have only three healers, none could be spared to look into her request, and no one is allowed into our library but initiates." None of this was news to Rebecca, although Cereid's apologetic tone was an improvement on his elders' earlier dismissal of Lilike. The young man continued, "So I took it upon myself to borrow a couple books from the temple, which I can share with Mistress Lilike in the hopes that this child can be cured with something we learn from them." From a shoulder sack, the priest brought forth two small but thick books, which he handed to Lilike. "Oh, thank you, Cereid! Thank you!" Lilike's praise was enthusiastic, but brief, as she grabbed the first book and opened it, exposing pages and pages of closely-written lines, occasional drawings of leaves, knives, and other, unrecognizable things. Cereid looked over her shoulder, and helped decipher the script. Rebecca was pleased, but she felt divided. Was there a cure to be found? While she wanted to cure Kerith, she also did not want to foster a treacherous and likely false hope in herself or her protege. As the healer watched, the two of them pored over the tome. Several of the pages they dismissed immediately because the writing was apparently about wounds or childbirth. One page looked interesting, and the two of them spent quite some time discussing it until Rebecca realized that it sounded much like leprosy, a disease of the skin. Skipping it, they moved on to another page with a drawing of a ewe. The volume seemed endless, and Rebecca became depressed by the sheer number of maladies and misfortunes that mankind was subject to. "It's almost nightfall," Rebecca observed. "Cereid, don't you have tenth bell prayers to attend at the temple?" Cereid rose and rapidly packed away the books. "I didn't even hear the ninth bell. Yes, I must go." Rebecca chuckled. "That's because the two of you were so engrossed in that last rhyme. What was it about? Sounded a lot like sour stomach to me." Lilike stretched. "Oh, something about worms in the stomach. I wonder if people get real worms in their stomachs." "That page said they cut up a thief who was hung for banditry and they saw worms in the stomach," Cereid said as he walked to the door. "So they must, no? Do you want me to return tomorrow to go through the books some more, Lilike?" "Actually, why don't I meet you at the temple? I think I'll go see Kerith and then come there." The days progressed in much the same way, with Cereid bringing books for Lilike to look at when he could. While his visits became less frequent, he would sometimes leave a book for Lilike to read overnight, although he made it clear to her that he could get in trouble if anyone at the temple found out. In this manner, a fortnight passed, and then another, while Lilike grew ever more somber. Sian had not returned, but Rebecca knew that Lilike saw her in order to visit Kerith. The healer knew that her apprentice would lose a part of herself when the end came, but she could not bring herself to stop the young woman. One afternoon, a month after Kerith's initial visit, the two of them were seated in their customary positions, Rebecca in her chair facing the window and Lilike on the ground near the door, for once without any herbs to work on or a decoction on the fire. It had been a busy day for the two of them, and Rebecca had decided that they both needed to sit quietly for a while. In the silence, she watched Lilike, who had one of Cereid's books open before her. The young woman had lost most of her optimism about finding the right herbs to give Kerith. She hadn't even touched the book that Cereid had left two days before until Rebecca had asked her why. Rebecca sighed, realizing the irony in that. After all her impatience whenever her apprentice had talked about Cyon's books, today she herself had encouraged Lilike to continue looking for a solution in Cereid's Olean tomes. Not that it had helped; the book lay open before her, while she stared out of the door. It was late afternoon, and there was barely enough light to read by, although Lilike had yet to notice. Outside, the town bell tolled nine times. "Lilike, what are you doing?" Rebecca felt sorry for her but could not allow her to become morose over one patient. She sat up, meeting the older woman's gaze. "Nothing. I was just thinking. I went to see Kerith this morning." Rebecca sighed. "I think you need to stop going to see her." When Rebecca had run into Sian at the marketplace two days prior, they had discussed Kerith's condition. Rebecca knew that the end was near. Lilike's distress came out in a rush. "Her stomach is like a pregnant woman's, but she's like thin sticks held together by the clothes she wears. She can't get out of bed. And Sian has decided to let her eat anything she wants!" Rebecca shook her head. "If the child is starved, she may survive for a year or so, but if Sian lets her eat whatever she wants, a fortnight, maybe two." "We're close to finding something, Rebecca. I know it!" Lilike said earnestly, "I went to ask her to feed Kerith no more than once a day again." Rebecca shook her head, already knowing the answer. "She didn't listen, did she?" Lilike grimaced and recounted the argument they'd had, and the unexpected anger in Sian's voice. Lilike was afraid that not only would Sian let Kerith eat as she pleased, but she would also prevent Lilike from seeing the child again. Rebecca sighed. "Lilike, dear, sometimes when someone is about to die, the people who love that person lose hope and become angry. As healers, we have to accept that." Lilike wiped her tears and said, "It's not that, Rebecca. I understand that, and I'm angry too! But I'm so close to finding something, and I couldn't make her agree to limit Kerith's food. Sian simply won't give me more time." "No, Lilike. She's just afraid that you may not be able to find a cure, and she can't bear to see Kerith starve," Rebecca comforted. "You have to accept --" "I think I understand what it means," Lilike said, seemingly at random. A tear traced a line down her cheek. "A healer is he who has not healed a hundred beings." "Oh, girl ..." Rebecca felt her throat catch. She hadn't wanted Lilike to have such a harsh route to that understanding. Another tear crept out of Lilike's eye and she brushed it away, meeting Rebecca's gaze. "She's going to die, isn't she? No, don't answer that; I know that Kerith is going to die." There was silence for a long moment. Finally, she said in a small voice, "What do I do now, Rebecca?" The healer looked into the blue eyes gazing trustfully into hers. Rebecca thought she herself had accepted that death was an integral part of a healer's life. Watching Lilike deal with her failure to save Kerith led Rebecca to ask whether that acceptance was only a veneer. Maybe she had needed this reminder as much as Lilike had needed the lesson. "We go on. There's always another patient, another wound, another cough. There are always people who need --" By the time Rebecca turned to see who had knocked at the door, the young priest Cereid was already inside the room. "Lilike, I found something. It's not the answer, but it might be a clue!" He turned to face Lilike, who had yet to move. "You know that I've been trying to help you ever since you first visited the temple. Because of my duties there, I couldn't come visit you every day, but I've spent as much time in our library as I could, with more than just the books I brought here. And this morning I found something that might help us." Lilike asked hesitantly, "Are you saying that you found a potion or something to cure it?" "No, not really, but in some notes written about eighty years ago, one of our healers wrote about the sweet sickness and mentioned that there was a cure. I spent all day in our library, looking for the actual cure, and I just can't find it in any of the tomes in the Olean temple." The disappointment on his face was reflected in Lilike's. As she thought it through, she ventured, "If there was a cure, might one of the other temples in Dargon have recorded it? I can go to each one and ask if their healers knew anything about the sweet disease ..." "Oh, and one other thing." Cereid touched Lilike's sleeve to get her attention. "It wasn't called the 'sweet disease' in the notes, but the 'sweet curse'. Not that -- What?" Cereid interrupted himself as a huge grin spread across Lilike's face. "I know it!" she squealed. "Rebecca, it's your book." "What?" Rebecca watched in amazement as Lilike, with scant regard for the conversation they had been having, turned toward the shelves and pulled one of her master's old books out of a box, wiping her tears off carelessly with the back of one hand. "Of course! Cyon wouldn't have a book about magical curses; he'd have a book about diseases!" She opened the heavy tome, then suddenly stopped and muttered, "How are we going to find it?" Cereid looked from her to the book, openmouthed. Rebecca said sharply, "You have to first know what you're looking for." "How is it that you have the book?" Cereid's astonishment still played on his face. "We do know what we're looking for," Lilike responded to Rebecca. "It's called the sweet sickness. You said so yourself. Or the sweet curse ..." She turned to Cereid, grinning. "Rebecca's teacher gave this to her. She's had it forever." Lilike sat down near the door and set the open book before her. "But how do you know that it will work?" Rebecca thought her voice had acquired a shrill note, so she consciously lowered it and continued, "Lilike, how do you know that's what it's called in there?" Lilike's enthusiasm worried Rebecca. It was bad enough that she was visiting Kerith, but if the apprentice's hopes were renewed, she would be doubly devastated when the end came, as it inevitably would. Cereid was still unable to get past his amazement. "I just found out the name of the disease, and you already have the book? Is that not a miracle of Ol?" Lilike frowned as she turned the pages, and Rebecca could see that most of the young woman's concentration was on the book rather than the conversation. The healer waited in silence, watching the two younger people. "Oh Cereid, the miracle isn't that we have a book of curses; the miracle is if we can find the answer in this huge book!" Lilike paused and hefted it to show the other two how big it was, "And the real miracle is going to be when the cure actually works. Rebecca, how can I not try? Don't you think it's worth it?" She looked up at the older woman, her expression pleading. "Not just for Kerith, but there must be other people who are accursed with it. You recognized the symptoms immediately, which means you must have seen many people with it. Even if I can't help Kerith," she stopped and swallowed before finishing, "it will still help others." Rebecca sighed, reading Lilike's grief easily. How could she refuse, even if it probably meant more disappointment later? However, Rebecca did not want her own hope rekindled. She knew that a master healer needed to have hope, but it was also a very treacherous emotion to nurture. "Straight. As long as we don't have too many patients, or anyone with serious wounds, you can pursue this." Lilike smiled and said, "Thank you! Don't mind her, Cereid. Come over here. You never answered me: was there anything in your healer's notes that would help us find the right curse in this book?" "All the notes said was that the cure required a young pig." Lilike hesitated, incredulous. "A pig?" "Yes. Every Olean knows that pigs are special. My mentor told me that's because the great Ol gave a pig to each of the gods to show them what life is. That's why Oleans eat pork on days special to our gods. If there's a ritual to cure Shilsara's sweet curse, it makes sense that it involves a pig." Rebecca frowned, knowing that pork was holy for Oleans, but at a loss as to what that had to do with curing the sweet sickness. It all sounded very specious. Lilike began flipping pages while answering the priest, "I don't know, Cereid. It certainly sounds believable, but -- Look, here's a page with a pig ..." The two of them read it aloud together. "For mawkish rain when the flesh is water, The curse is of the body and all goes out, Naught but skin and bone is left without doubt, To set all right bring a lobed gland to barter. Swill a swine, lose the guts A sennight's prayer, skin to skin. Repentance distances the sin. To set all right, drink of the pot All is well. Hail Shilsara!" There was silence as the two youths tried to work through the verse. Rebecca examined the drawing next to the poem. She didn't think that they had found the cure, but Cereid appeared to be certain. It was obvious that Lilike wanted to believe badly, and Rebecca could not find it in her heart to deny that hope. Despite Lilike's arguments that the search for the cure would help other people, Rebecca knew that the impetus was the need to help Kerith. Other patients were in a distant future; Kerith was dying slowly before their eyes. It would be difficult for Lilike's first death of a patient to be a child whom she knew and had played with. It was a daunting loss for an old and experienced healer, much less an idealistic apprentice. "Straight," Lilike said, her brisk voice and bright eyes revealing her interest. "Tell me how this is what we're looking for. It doesn't say anything about a sweet curse, but it does talk about a pig. You were right about that." Cereid answered, "Listen. The 'sweet sickness' is a name that Rebecca uses. It doesn't mean that that's what it was originally called. You said that there was sugar in her urine, correct?" Lilike nodded at that, and so did Rebecca. He continued, "Straight. The first line says 'mawkish rain' which could mean 'sweet water'. The next two lines describe the curse. It says that the body expels water until there's nothing left but skin and bone." The description of the indications seemed to fit. Rebecca shrugged, not ready to believe, even though it was apparent from the way Lilike nodded that she was. "Then it says to swill the swine and lose the guts. I think that would mean to soak the pig in water, drink the water, and throw the guts out. I'm not sure what 'lobed gland' means, though." Cereid looked thoughtful. "It says a sennight's prayer to Shilsara. I can do that." "No, no. Look!" Lilike pointed to the picture, words tumbling out. "See how they show the pig tied to the stomach in that picture? We cut the gland out and place the rest of the pig on the stomach of the person. Then we boil the gland in water for a sennight and have Kerith drink it." Cereid was shaking his head before she finished. "No. You don't boil something for a sennight, do you?" "I don't see why not. Are you sure 'mawkish' means sweet? Everything hinges on that one word." After her initial confidence, Lilike seemed to be growing doubtful once again. "Yes. Don't you believe me?" Cereid was looking aggrieved. "You can ask my mentor if you don't trust me." "I trust you," Rebecca interjected. The two younger people looked up in surprise as if they had forgotten her presence. "As for the sennight, they don't mean boil the gland for seven days, they mean that the patient is fed nothing but the gland's liquid for seven days. And you can see what the gland looks like in the picture." The two of them looked up at her as she spoke, and meeting their anxious gazes, her own doubts began to crowd in. Could this work? Had they indeed found it? If so, Kerith could be cured. On the other hand, what if it didn't work? Did she, Rebecca, have the right to subject Kerith, not to mention Sian, to a treatment that two youngsters had discovered from some notes that had been buried and forgotten for eighty years? Rebecca turned away from the two sets of expectant eyes to stare out the window. As if they knew she was pondering, Lilike and Cereid remained silent. She prayed, staring up at the clouds in an evening sky that glowed a deep azure, and she saw Kerith's smile. A sennight later, Rebecca and her apprentice waited anxiously around Kerith's bed. Sian had stepped out of the room to fetch a light. Lilike stood silently, while Rebecca sat on a chair next to her, reflecting on the frenzied pace of the past few days. Cereid had managed to buy a piglet, although he'd had to take a loan of a few Rounds from the butcher. She would have to remember to ask Sian for the money, although she was sure the foster mother would be hard-pressed to find it. Perhaps Kerith's older brother, Aren, who had also been adopted by Sian, would be able to help, now that he had begun working for Derill Carpenter. Rebecca had extracted the gland, and, to Lilike's vocal surprise, it had protruding lobes that looked like miniature ears. Rebecca had placed the piglet on Kerith's stomach, with the animal's torn body against the little girl's skin. The gland had been soaked in water, and every day Rebecca had made a fresh broth. Because Kerith had lost consciousness, Rebecca had shown Lilike how use a reed to drip the liquid into the little girl's mouth. As each day passed, the piglet seemed to deflate, while Kerith's bloated stomach became less distended. Yet it happened so gradually that, despite being at Kerith's bedside for most of the sennight, none of them, including Rebecca herself, had noticed it happening. This was the seventh and final day. They had fed the last two cupfuls of the gland fluid to Kerith, who looked much improved. The child still looked ill, but her stomach was no longer bloated, and her hair, while still looking ratty, had lost its brittle quality. Outside, the last bell of day tolled, and Sian entered with a small taper in her hand to light the single sconce in the bedroom. Completing her task, she approached the bed to stand across from the two healers. The last rays of the sun that entered the room through the single window dimmed. "Rebecca?" Lilike's voice quavered, and Rebecca smiled at her, knowing the cause for her apprentice's worry. Even though Kerith looked much improved, she had yet to awaken. Rebecca said, "Be patient, girl. Sian, why don't you bring up a slice of bread and some water?" Sian looked startled. "For Kerith?" "Yes, for Kerith." Rebecca touched the little girl's hand. "She will wake up soon." Sian left and Lilike muttered, "Wake up, Kerith. Please wake up." As if she had heard the command, Kerith opened her eyes. Her gaze fell on Lilike, and the little girl smiled. "Hello, Lilike. How long have you been here?" Lilike whispered, "Oh, Kerith!" Her knees buckled, and Rebecca caught her elbow to steady her. Turning her attention to her patient, Rebecca asked gently, "How are you feeling, Kerith? Are you thirsty?" Kerith thought for a moment. "Not really. I'm hungry, though. What's this on my stomach? Ewww! Get it off!" "Hush! Wait!" Rebecca held the thin hands tightly, away from the remains on her belly. "Kerith!" Sian was at the door, and as Rebecca watched, the expression on Sian's face turned to pure joy, leavened only by passing disbelief. She came toward them, absently setting the plate in Rebecca's waiting hands. Kerith smiled at her, and the two of them hugged. "I'm hungry. Can I eat?" Kerith looked at Sian, who looked at Rebecca, who nodded as she passed the plate back. "It's fine. Little meals, slowly. Come to see me in three days, but send word if you notice or if she feels anything is wrong." Sian nodded, smiling, and handed the plate to Kerith. The three women watched the little girl eat. Rebecca said, "We should go." She reached out and untied the grisly skin and bones from the child's stomach and rolled it up in the fabric she had brought for the purpose. The moment it came away from Kerith's skin, it began to stink. "Ewww!" Kerith's dismay was closely followed by Lilike's. Rebecca could not help laughing at the identical expression on both their faces. "Kerith!" Into the crowded room burst her older brother Aren. Still smiling, Rebecca said, "Come, Lilike." The two of them left quietly, leaving the family to their joy. Outside, twilight had passed into a night filled with stars and the slight presence of the moon, Nochturon. Rebecca inhaled deeply, accepting the peace inherent in the heavens. "She's going to be completely well now?" Lilike asked. Rebecca nodded. "Yes. You did good, Lilike. You did good." Lilike gave a little skip as if the happiness within needed physical expression. "Is it always like this, Rebecca? I mean when someone is really ill and then they get better because of what you did, does it feel like this?" Rebecca laughed. "Yes, always. It's part of being a healer." Kerith's cure had been a truly amazing thing, but what most satisfied Rebecca was that her vision of Lilike as a healer had been true. The young woman had that quality in her soul, and Rebecca would never doubt it again. In addition, such an emotional first triumph would kindle Lilike's confidence and dedication to her work. Lilike said in wonder, "That saying isn't complete is it? 'A healer is he who has not healed a hundred beings.' There needs to be more to it ..." "A healer finds his joy in healing," Rebecca offered, smiling. "My teacher didn't tell me that until I felt for the first time what you are feeling now." Lilike laughed. "Yes! Oh, Rebecca, isn't it wonderful?" ======================================================================== Talisman Ten Part 2 by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Ober 15-24, 1013 Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 17-1 He screamed soundlessly as his body was crushed from all sides by incredible pressure. He gasped for breath, but couldn't expand his chest against the forces arrayed against him. He felt himself splayed out, spread-limbed, horizontally in mid-air, nothing but the pressure from below and above holding him in place. Pain throbbed like a living, maddened thing in his body. He had been betrayed by the one he had trusted most. They would never have caught him in a vulnerable moment otherwise. But he laughed at the pain, laughed breathlessly as he was squeezed, because he was not dying. He knew that with a little concentration he could draw upon his power, his carefully amassed reserves, his well-rehearsed spells, and free himself from this pitiful trap. In just a moment, when he had pushed aside the pain, mastered it, and could concentrate again ... Agony streaked through him, limning every fiber of his being with compounded pain. His thoughts shattered in the onslaught, breaking his concentration thoroughly. Still he felt no weakening of his spirit, no diminishing of his body, no dissolution of his mind, just pain and more pain, but pain would become commonplace soon enough and then ... The agony redoubled and this time he could feel his body coming apart. He didn't worry, not at first. They couldn't kill him, he knew that from experience. They continued to work, though, and he felt the beginnings of fear. He was being split, his essence was being divided. He felt himself become three instead of one, but three that were greatly diminished individually. He realized that his enemies had found the one thing that could stop him. The pain diminished as he lost the capacity to feel it, but his breathless, bodiless screaming continued on and on. Flane jerked awake, panting as if he had actually been screaming. Shaking his head, he slipped from his bed in the Inn of the Panther in Dargon and walked to the small window. He opened the shutters and looked out on the silent darkness, the cool air wafting in to dry the sweat from his body. He poured himself some water from the pitcher on the table beneath the window and gulped it down as he reflected on the quest he had inherited. The dream he had awakened from was familiar to him. He had experienced the dissolution of the Margre Chalisento many times since he had found the artifacts on the body of the brown-robed stranger. A small rock, a stone cup, a blue-covered book, and a silver ring had together changed the course of his life. He had been in the middle of the woods, traveling to Tench with his fellow members of the Bloody Hand of Sageeza. They were a group whose mission, to exterminate gypsies and any other foreigners, he had once heartily agreed with. Out of the woods one day had ridden a stranger named Shan who had asked to travel with them. Lacsil, their group's leader, had agreed. Not long after, an attack by gypsies had thrown the group into chaos. In the confusion, the stranger had been killed. Flane had found himself searching the body without quite knowing why. His confusion had ended upon finding the artifacts. He had ridden away from the attack without another thought, his hatred of gypsies completely buried under the need to get to Dargon. He had a quest to complete. The journey had been long and hard. His horse had died early on from a snake bite he hadn't even realized it had received until it had dropped from under him. He had continued afoot, working his way toward Dargon. Haste had never been a factor in his journey, just a dogged movement toward his goal. He had traveled through the northern wilds of Baranur for a month and a half, finally arriving in the ducal seat two days previously, on the 13th of Ober. His purpose was clear, and if it bothered him that his memories were not his own any longer he didn't show it. He had already started canvassing the many information sellers this port town offered, looking for lore about the Margre, trying to unravel the riddle-hidden pointers in the blue book. He knew how the stone of the Margre's intellect had been unearthed in a similar search by Voesh in Pyridain. Flane recalled, without having been there himself, how Voesh had enlisted his companions in Bresk's Band to ferret out information that had led them all to retrieving the cup of the Margre's body. He reviewed Shan's brief stewardship of the quest, gained when bad luck had caught Voesh in an ambush and good luck had saved Shan from the same. The bad luck had dogged Shan, though, leading to the deaths of his two remaining fellows in Bresk's Band and finally, to his own. Flane, however, had succeeded. He was in Dargon, and he would find the final key. And when the water of the Margre's spirit was poured over the stone resting in the cup, the Margre would be revived. She would return to the world, reclaim her power, and reward Flane with everything he had ever wanted. And if he was so occupied with finishing the quest that he never took the time to plan that reward, he never even noticed it. "I'll just let the seer know you're back, Master Nakaz," said the young woman who had met them, as she walked through the door into the back of the shop. Nakaz said, "Thank you, Thuna," as Aldan looked around the room, marveling at the clutter, wondering how the owner kept anything straight in there. "She seems to know you pretty well, Nakaz," said the son of Baron Bindrmon. "That's probably because I've been here twice already, Aldan," said Nakaz. "And," said Aldan, "because you're a bard and a very handsome man." Aldan returned Nakaz' grin at the compliment, then became serious again. "Do you really think it is worth visiting everyone yet again? If the man who has taken on the Margre quest hasn't yet visited one of the sages and scribes in Dargon by now, what makes you think he still will?" "Faith, Aldan, and hope," said the bard. "Faith that Meelia was telling us the truth just before she died when she said that the quest was headed for Dargon. And hope that the new holder of the quest isn't hiding from us, but has just taken longer than we expected to reach the city." Aldan frowned. "I never thought he might be hiding." "I don't think it is very likely. Why would he worry about someone tracking him? But he might just be paranoid enough to ask for secrecy from anyone he speaks to about his riddles. I don't think that I've yet been lied to by anyone I've met with and this time I will use my bardic authority to make sure of that. I also intend to leave instructions that any future contacts be reported to me, instead of waiting for a fourth or fifth visit. I think I've seen enough of Dargon's streets in the past month!" Their mutual laughter was interrupted by the arrival of a kindly-faced older man dressed in a robe. He strode into the room and said, "Well, well, welcome back Nakaz! The last time you were here was exactly a fortnight ago, on the 2nd of Ober, yes? And who is this you've brought with you this time?" Nakaz said, "Your memory is perfect, Corambis. This is Lord Aldan Bindrmon, a friend I escorted to Dargon. He was searching for some ... people, but we have both concluded that those people did not actually come to Dargon." "Ah, welcome Lord Aldan," Corambis said. "I'm sorry your long journey was for naught." Aldan looked puzzled. "Long journey? How did you know ...?" Corambis just smiled patiently. "I doubt whether a noble with the last name Bindrmon would not be from the barony in Welspeare," he said. Aldan blinked in surprise, and then smiled back. "Now, Nakaz," Corambis continued, "I was just about to send word to you. I well recall the reason for your previous two visits, so I marked the man who came in two or three days ago who was also asking about the Margre Chalisento." Nakaz was elated to finally hear what he had been waiting so long for. He asked, "Who was he? What did he look like? Did he say where he was staying?" "He said his name was Flane, but he didn't indicate where he was lodged. He was of an average height, with a plain face and brown hair. He had two distinguishing features, though. First, the top of his right ear was missing. Second, in the middle of his left eyebrow there was a rather prominent scar." Aldan and Nakaz looked at each other at the mention of the scar. Nakaz turned back to the sage and said, "Exactly what did he ask about?" "The Margre, first. When I informed him of my lack of such knowledge, he then asked about local legends of any kind concerning leaf-shaped stars, or cat and stag motifs. My response was again negative. "However, just this morning I ran across something that might actually be relevant. I was reading a fragment of a manuscript, much the worse for wear and of uncertain provenance, but it was concerned with legends from this area. One of these mentioned something called the Asthen'ron. I wouldn't have given it a second thought had it not given a description of this being or thing; it looked like a large cat, but with a stag's antlers and hooves." Nakaz' eyes widened and he looked over at Aldan to see the same look of surprise. "Did you learn anything more about this Asthen'ron?" he asked. "Sadly, no, Nakaz. There was nothing more to be gleaned from that weathered parchment. I do intend to do more digging, though; my curiosity is piqued!" "Do that, Corambis, please. I have never heard of this legendary thing, but I believe it has some connection to the Margre. Thank you very much for your time and your memory. It is good as well to finally know the identity of our quester and that he is actually in the city. Please don't let this Flane know about your discovery, if you would be so kind?" "Do not worry, Nakaz, I will keep this between you and me for now. Glad to serve in any way possible. I don't suppose you would care to enlighten me as to what or who this Margre is?" Nakaz smiled slyly and said, "Maybe next time, Corambis." Grinning, Corambis said, "Fair enough, fair enough. Might I interest either of you, then, in a reading? Perhaps I could help Lord Aldan with his missing people?" Aldan opened his mouth, hope in his face, but Nakaz interrupted. "Maybe next time, once again. After we catch this lop-eared, scarred person named Flane. Thank you again, Corambis. We'll see ourselves out." The bell over the door jingled as Yawrab and Ganba left the shop of Abernald the apothecary. Ganba walked behind Yawrab, but she knew that her lover's face was clouded with doubt and sadness. They had been visiting Abernald's and shops like his all over the city, hoping to learn that someone in Dargon knew where Lord Aldan was. They had once again received a negative reply; no one had reported Aldan's whereabouts to Abernald. "I'm beginning to believe that he's not here, Ganba," said Yawrab, turning her odd-eyed visage toward the gypsy. "We've been searching all over for so long ..." "I know, love," said Ganba, reaching over to touch the older woman's shoulder, putting as much affection in the contact as she could. "I know it's hard. But you know he was headed for Dargon, and Sefera's cards said he was headed north. Where else but here could he go?" "You're right," Yawrab admitted, but Ganba could tell by the tone of her voice that her spirits weren't lifted. "We've covered the whole of the lower city several times over, though. Couldn't we ask someone in the Old City?" "If he's here to hide from his deed of murder, Aldan is not going to do it among the nobles," said Ganba. "But what if he didn't do it?" Ganba had heard this before, and she remembered what Sefera's cards had said, but she wasn't convinced. So she said, "You chased the man across the kingdom because you believed he had murdered your sister Tillna. Why are you here if not to bring him to justice?" Yawrab stared her green-and-brown stare, then finally nodded, casting her eyes down. Ganba tugged her away from the doorway and they started walking through the streets of Dargon. Hoping to cheer her up, Ganba said, "Even if you don't find him, Yawrab, this is an exciting adventure, isn't it? Above and beyond chasing down Lacsil, and then the gathering at Eariaddas Hwl. Straight?" Grinning tentatively, looking around at the hustle and bustle of the city, Yawrab said, "I suppose." "And those ships!" Ganba said. "Weren't they fascinating? All those ropes, all those people, and they actually float! They're so huge!" Yawrab smiled brightly at this. The two of them had spent days at a time on the waterfront, watching the activity. Ganba had justified the time by hinting to Yawrab that the fugitive Aldan might just try to escape completely by taking passage on a ship to somewhere far away, but they hadn't seen the son of Bindrmon's baron on the docks either. Ganba took a stab at turning her lover's attention completely away from their endless search. "What do you want to bet," she said, "that they haven't changed the sheets yet back at the Panther?" Yawrab laughed out loud. Their room at the Inn of the Panther had only had the linens changed three times since they'd taken up lodgings there, a fact that annoyed Yawrab far more than it did Ganba. They discussed the possibility of changing inns or doing something about the appalling laundry as they strolled through the streets, and eventually fell into a companionable silence. Despite herself, Ganba's thoughts returned to their quest as they walked, and she wondered when to give it up. Winter was closing in. She knew that as the Rooted Folk numbered the year, it was the 18th of Ober, and the end of their year was less than three fortnights away. Ships would stop sailing out of the harbor, and caravans going south would dwindle in number as the northern climate worsened. Ganba didn't need a caravan to travel, but she was subject to the same limitations. Rain or snow and cold would stop her just as effectively as any other traveler. Soon she and Yawrab would have to weigh their chances of finding one man against the prospect of wintering over in Dargon. Her attention was diverted by taunting shouts. Ganba looked around, but it was Yawrab who spotted the trio of young boys darting and dancing around an older boy who was better dressed in what almost looked like a uniform of some kind. The altercation was taking place just outside the mouth of an alley, which the young boys were preventing the other from entering. The older boy -- more of a young man, really -- had a look of abject fear on his face, well out of proportion to the threat the youngsters posed. The uniformed man's eyes darted from the alley to the passers-by, who ignored the altercation completely. Panic made the young man's movements jerky, and a quick jab by one of the tormentors made him drop all of his belongings. Ganba and Yawrab strode right up to the small group, who were all scrambling for the dropped belongings, the boys to kick them away, the young man to pick them up. "Stop that!" shouted Ganba, and "Get away!" yelled Yawrab. All four looked up. The three boys grinned fearlessly, then ran when Ganba stamped a foot at them. The young man hurriedly looked back down and gathered his bundles together, edging into the alley after the boys but not following them. "Are you all right?" asked Yawrab as she and Ganba walked over to the cowering young man. "Y-yes, thank you," he said, his grey eyes still darting nervously about. They rested momentarily on both of them, and Ganba recognized the kind of frown as the young man looked at her; she had seen similar all her life. "Do you need any help?" asked Yawrab, talking softly to the still obviously nervous young man. "Why, if you don't mind my asking, were those boys bothering you?" Ganba could hear the unspoken question, "Why could those boys bother you?" She wondered whether the young man could hear it too. The young man looked around and suddenly seemed less nervous. Ganba scanned the area but didn't notice that anything had changed except for there being almost no one walking by. He straightened up, still in the mouth of the alley, and said, "I'm sorry, I'm Ratray -- call me Tray -- and I work at the keep. Those boys just caught me off guard, see, but they won't be any more trouble, I'm sure." He looked at both of them, the frown returning when he looked at Ganba. Addressing Yawrab, he said, "Thank you for driving them off, though. I, ah, I should be going now." The nervousness had returned, and Ganba looked over her shoulder to see a group of people walking toward them. With a small wave, Tray darted up the alley and was soon gone. Ganba said, "That was a very strange young man, wasn't he, Yawrab?" "Strange indeed," Yawrab said. She took a step and stooped to pick something up. "He must have dropped this," she said, straightening up and showing off her find. It was a wooden flute, complete with elongated breath-hole and circular finger holes. It had once been a fine instrument, but now it was nicked and notched and dusty. Only the dust had come from the scuffle, though, as it was obvious the other damage, while superficial, was old and well worn. "He's bound to miss that," Ganba said. "I'll just have to return it to him, then," said Yawrab. Ganba wasn't sure at all why there had been a hint of slyness in the way she'd said that. Ratray sat on top of the shortest of the three towers of Dargon Keep and played his fiddle. The moon had been full three nights past, but there was plenty of its light shining on him and he didn't need to see to play anyway. He was still smarting from the attack earlier that day, for letting those children get the better of him. He felt worse for having been rescued by two women, one a gypsy, and on top of it all he had lost his flute. He could only afford to own instruments that had been discarded, and that flute'd had a sweet sound despite its nicks and gouges, none of which had marred the air passage. The fiddle he now played was in fact the worse for its wear; the piece of canvas he had glued over the hole in its back made it sound better, but not perfect. Still, the fiddle was his favorite instrument, as he could sing while he played. He never heard the footsteps. One moment he closed his eyes to concentrate on a difficult variation, and when he opened them again he was staring at the bard he had seen around the keep for the past few sennights. His hands stopped moving, and he said, "Greetings, s-s-sir bard. I hope I d-d-didn't disturb you ..." The tall, blond man smiled and squatted down. He said, "No, I wasn't disturbed at all. I was taking a break from the gathering I was at, looking for some fresh air, and was lured up here by your lovely music. You play masterfully, young man." Ratray blushed and looked at the roof between his knees. He said, "Ah, you jest, I'm sure, sir bard." "Call me Nakaz, and I never jest about my art." Ratray looked up and saw the serious look on the man's face. He said, "I'm sorry sir ... Nakaz. I'm Ratray, call me Tray." "I've seen you around the keep, Tray," said the bard. "You work here?" "Yes, I do. Humble servant, fetch and carry, clean, unskilled labor like that." "Where did you learn music then, Tray? Ratray looked at his scrounged fiddle, and back at the bard. "Just came to me, s-- Nakaz. Never took lessons or nothing." "Then you have an amazing talent, Tray. You should go to the Bardic College. You would be an asset to our ranks." Ratray didn't even flinch at that. He had never been able to dream that dream, and he was sure he would never be able to in the future. "No, Nakaz, I'll never be a student at the college. I ... I'm cursed." "Cursed?" Ratray looked up at Nakaz, having not heard ridicule in the single word. He found the blond man looking at him as seriously as he had before when questioned about his art. Ratray realized that the bard might be able to understand and decided to tell his story. At the very least, Nakaz was unlikely to use it against him as Marnvik had. "When I was young, four or five," Ratray began, "my mother took me to a gypsy who was telling fortunes in the marketplace. For two Bits the gypsy, Zeefra I think was her name, gave me and my mother a prediction. She said that my life would be irrevocably altered by a cataclysm of crowds and fire. She couldn't say any more, except to explain that irrevocably meant forever and altered meant changed. We already knew that cataclysm meant something bad. "From that day, fear has ruled my life. I don't know when this cataclysm is going to happen, so I go everywhere afraid that my end will come the next time there are more than two people near me. Always looking, always wondering, always afraid." Ratray was silent for a moment, and then his hands started to move on his instrument and a haunting melody drifted across the rooftop. "Music helps, but it hurts worse," he said. "Music sets me free for moments at a time, but always there is the sadness that I can't share it with anyone, except like this. I can't be a bard if I have to be alone all the time. So you see, I am cursed." The bard didn't reply. When Ratray's song ended, the bard held out his hands, and Ratray handed over the fiddle. Nakaz played a note, grimaced, looked the fiddle over and nodded to himself when he saw the patch, then played again, soon reaching accommodation with the strange-sounding instrument. Ratray listened to Nakaz play, enraptured, and when the bard handed his instrument back he proceeded to copy, and then embellish, what the bard had played. Encouraged by Nakaz' smile, he continued layering flourishes on the complex melody he had been given, receiving the man's applause with pleasure when he finished. The pair traded the instrument back and forth for several more bells, and if anyone was disturbed by the noise, none complained. Yawrab walked up the steps to the courtyard that surrounded Dargon Keep, trying as hard as she could not to look as nervous as she felt. Having continually dodged the logical step of looking for Aldan among the nobles of this northern duchy, she now felt like everyone was looking at her and saying to themselves, "Why did you wait so long?" There was more to her nervousness, though. She had served nobility all her life -- first Lord Cranhull, then the Denvas -- but she didn't know anyone on this side of the Coldwell River. Her old feelings about strange surroundings and new places were resurfacing as she entered someplace that was almost familiar despite being leagues and leagues away from everything she had known. The changes she had undergone in the past months since meeting Ganba and leaving Beeikar resurfaced, and she pushed down her nervousness. She wasn't looking for an audience with the duke, nor was she here to shout to everyone her story of her sister's death and her hunt for the one who might have killed her, Lord Aldan. She was simply going to give back the flute the young man Ratray had dropped, and then ask a favor of him in return: nothing to be nervous about at all. There were several servants around the entrance to the keep, cleaning the stonework and sweeping the courtyard, getting ready for the King's Birthday celebration that was coming up in five days. None of them were Ratray, and when she asked the sentry at the door where she might find that servant, she was directed around to the west side of the keep. Yawrab walked around the corner, admiring the view over the Old City. The keep was a commanding feature of the city, up above everything on its outcropping of stone. The Coldwell River and the lower city on the other side of it were behind her, but she knew that the keep overlooked that just as well. It was the perfect place to build a fortification, and she had never seen anything like it. She reached the servants' entrance in the back corner of the keep and looked around for someone to ask Ratray's whereabouts of. Then she saw him standing by the parapet, looking at the forest away to the south and west. She walked over to him and said, "Excuse me, Tray?" The lanky young man with the fringe of dark hair spilling over his eyes turned and said, "Yes?" His eyes darted around quickly, and then settled back on her. "I don't know if you remember me?" Ratray looked at her for a moment, then he said, "The boys. Yesterday." He didn't sound entirely pleased to be reminded of that incident. "Yes, that's right. I'm Yawrab, and my friend and I are staying at the Inn of the Panther. I came today to give you back your flute. I think you dropped it in the scuffle." She held out the battered wooden flute, and Ratray's eyes grew wide as he reached out for it and took it gently from her hands. He touched it all over, as if to make sure it wasn't damaged any further, and then looked back at Yawrab. "Thank you, again, Yawrab. I was sure I'd never see this again, and I can't afford to replace it." Yawrab was pleased that the young man was glad to get his flute back as it left the perfect opening for her. "You are welcome, Tray. Ah, I was wondering if you could do me a favor in return?" The servant grew wary, and hugged the flute to his chest. "Perhaps," he said. "What is it?" "My friend and I are in Dargon looking for someone," Yawrab said. "His name is Lord Aldan. We've been looking for sennights in the lower city, but not at all yet up here. I was hoping you could keep your ears open for his name?" "Well, I suppose I could do that for you. Lord Aldan, you say? Straight. What do I do if I find him?" "As I said, Ganba and I are staying at the Inn of the Panther. Do you know where that is?" He sneered at the mention of Ganba's name, and muttered, "Gypsy," a reaction Yawrab was used to, if not usually quite this pronounced. Louder, Ratray said, "No, no I can't go there. Might ... no, can't. Maybe, instead, I could leave word with Abernald the apothecary, straight?" "Oh, yes, that will be fine," said Yawrab. "Now, Aldan is tall, with ..." "Tray," someone called, and both of them turned toward the voice. Yawrab saw a tall blond man come around from the back of the keep. He was wearing the insignia of a bard, and as he got closer she could see that he had a very large nose that didn't make him at all unattractive, as well as piercingly green eyes. "I was wondering if you'd seen my friend, Tray," said the bard, stopping in front of them. Yawrab found herself fascinated by the man, almost drawn to him. When he glanced over at her, their eyes locked and she could have sworn she felt something pass between them in that moment of contact. She felt herself flush with desire; she wanted to touch that hair, grasp that waist, pull down those leggings and -- Blinking rapidly, she turned her back on the bewitching man. Lifting a hand to her cheek, she could feel the heat of the blood in her face. Her voice shook as she said, "Thank you, Tray. Abernald's, then? Straight." She walked away quickly, not worrying whether her haste was making a bad impression. She had never in her life felt like that about anyone, man or woman. Why had she reacted so lustfully toward that bard? Nakaz watched the woman walk away, confused by his reaction to her. He had felt drawn to her somehow, like he knew her and all he had to do was touch her and she would remember him. The sensation confused him, and he was both glad and sad that she had walked away so abruptly. He turned back to Ratray and said, "About my friend, Tray. He was supposed to meet me up here, but I haven't seen him. He's tall, with long brown hair and beard, brown eyes, good looking, and his name is Lord Aldan." The musician servant looked startled by that, and said, "But, she ..." He turned his head to where the woman had walked away, and Nakaz followed the gaze, but she was gone. Before Ratray could say anything more, a shout rang out. "Rat!" Nakaz turned to see a stout fellow with a ruddy face standing in one of the servant's entrances behind them. The man said, "Get in here, Rat. No more lounging today. Too much to do 'afore the celebration." Nakaz looked at Ratray, who shrugged and strode over to the ruddy-faced man. He called over his shoulder, "Haven't seem him, Nakaz," before he vanished inside. Nakaz wondered why Ratray had seemed to connect Aldan with that woman. Then he wondered where Aldan was, and continued his search. "Why are you so eager to get back here, Yawrab?" Ganba asked as they neared Abernald's Apothecary. "We were here just two days ago." Yawrab hadn't told Ganba about her visit to the keep the day before, so she said, "Well, I returned Ratray's flute yesterday and I sort of asked him to keep an eye out for Lord Aldan. Then this bard came up and ..." Ganba interrupted with, "You didn't need to hide that from me, Yawrab. I suppose it was only a matter of time before we had to start looking in the Old City and the keep. I take it that Ratray didn't know who Aldan was." "No, he didn't. But he did say that if he found out anything, he would leave the news with Abernald." "Now I know why you're so eager." They entered the shop, ringing the bell over the door, and went right to the counter in the back. The cheery figure of Abernald stood behind it, and he called out, "Good day to you, Ganba and Yawrab. I'm afraid I have no news for you today. Would you care for a poultice?" "So, you haven't heard from Ratray, the young man from the keep?" asked Yawrab. "No, he hasn't been in since day before yesterday. Either of you have a ticklish throat? I've got a certain-sure cough draught right here." "Thank you, no, Master Abernald. We'll be back later." Ganba guided a crestfallen Yawrab out of the store. "It's too soon, that's all, Yawrab. We'll go back later and see whether the news is any different." Yawrab didn't answer, just started walking away from the shop. Ganba said, "Perhaps we should find somewhere to eat on our way back; I think that the stew at the Panther has been in the pot for a little too long." Yawrab again didn't respond, despite the mention of a subject she usually had no end of opinions about. Ganba knew that her lover was depressed when Yawrab ignored two men who were about to come to blows over a tipped applecart and just walked right past. Ganba shook her head and followed. Ratray made his cautious way to the door of Abernald's Apothecary. He hadn't been able to get away from the keep before now, and he wanted to discharge his debt to the Yawrab woman. He watched for a moment as two men traded blows, stumbling over apples next to an overturned cart. They had drawn away all passersby, and he entered the shop confidently. "Why hello, Tray. This is a surprise," said Abernald. "No pipedust this time, Abernald," Ratray said. "Just some news for a woman named Yawrab or her gypsy friend." Abernald frowned at the sneer in Ratray's voice, but the servant continued. "She can find Aldan at the Lighted Candle in the Old City, where he's staying with a bard named Nakaz." "That's excellent, Tray. Why, Yawrab and Ganba were just in here wanting that very news. I'll be sure to tell them next time I see them." The crowd around the upset applecart was growing, and Ratray nervously said, "Well, better be going then. See you later, Abernald." "Safe trip," said the apothecary as Ratray slipped out the door and away from the brewing brawl. He felt good for being able to repay the woman for his returned flute, even if it had cost him an otherwise unnecessary trip into the city. Keeping his eyes out for unexpected crowds or naughty children, he made his way back to the keep. Aldan walked into the taproom of the Inn of the Panther to rest and have a drink. It was going to be a long walk back over the causeway into the Old City, and he thought he deserved a pause before starting the journey. In the four days since learning that Flane had begun asking about the Margre, he and Nakaz had made little progress in tracking him down. They had visited Genarvus Kazakian and Dyann Taishent, as well as the scribes Cavendish and Greuber. They had visited a dozen other sages, seers, and scribes as well. Some had been visited by the quester, some had not. Most had promised to send word if Flane came back. That morning, several messages had been awaiting Nakaz and him at their inn, the Lighted Candle. Nakaz had decided to split up to respond to them, and Aldan had just come from his last meeting, with Greuber. To his disappointment, none of the people he had visited had produced any new information, although one had confirmed the legend about the cat-stag Asthen'ron. He was still chasing the quester, and he didn't seem to be gaining. He hoped that Nakaz was faring better. Aldan had just received his second tankard when a shout went up from one small table. "To marriage!" The half-a-dozen people at the table lifted their tankards at the toast, and soon others around the taproom were shouting out their congratulations. Aldan sipped his ale and stared at the group. Since he seemed to be the only one paying more than casual attention, he guessed that these were regulars in the bar. Four of the six, two men and two women, wouldn't have drawn attention in any crowd, but the last two couldn't help but do so no matter where they went. One of these was a man in a robe and cowl, but the cowl was filled with darkness; nothing could be seen of the face within. The other was a woman in a silver mask with a black bracer of some kind on her right wrist. She never used her right hand for anything, lifting her tankard with her left. Aldan noticed that her sword was belted on her right side for easy drawing with her left hand. The odd pair seemed to be very friendly. He gathered from eavesdropping that it was one of the others who was getting married, and that one seemed to be related to the silver-masked woman. The talk of marriage bothered Aldan a little. If things hadn't gone so wrong, he would have been married to Tillna by now. What bothered him most was that he wasn't sorry that things had gone wrong, except for the death of Tillna herself. His fiancee had been murdered by his former friends, the children of the nobility of Bindrmon. He had admitted to himself a fortnight ago that for some reason Weasel had lied as he lay dying, and that the rest of the Menagerie, as they had called themselves, had not actually run to Dargon. Someday he hoped to find them and bring them to justice, but he knew that could wait. Stopping the Margre quest couldn't. Aldan stared into his tankard, thinking of this important task he and Nakaz had taken on. It seemed so elusive, so endless. He had been chasing those who were pursuing the artifacts of an ancient legend for what seemed like ages, and getting no closer. The prospect of circling the city, visiting sage after sage, seer after scribe, always a few paces behind lop-eared Flane, made him tired. A lot of things made Aldan feel tired these days, though. Getting up in the morning sometimes seemed like a chore, like something he had been doing for hundreds of years, and doing it no differently than he ever had. This, despite the fact that these days he awoke beside Nakaz, the handsome bard who had once been his guide and was now his lover. As exciting as their relationship had been in the beginning, now Aldan found himself feeling like he and Nakaz had always been together though they had been so for only a month, and though he was no less in love with the bard, he was feeling tired of that existence. Aldan's attention returned to the table, where the cowled man had lifted his tankard. "To Kroan and Anorra -- a long, happy, and profitable life!" Aldan smiled and sipped with them, hoping the betrothed would be happy. There was a sudden crash, and a gasp from the people around the table. They were staring in shock at the silver-masked woman, who had tried to lift her tankard with her right hand. "Well, no one could believe it!" said Ganba as she and Yawrab walked toward Abernald's for the second time that day. "Je'en hasn't lifted anything with her right hand since the accident that had changed her life. You remember, everyone was telling her story. But there she was, in the middle of the taproom with a tankard hanging from the fingers of her right hand. I saw it myself!" Yawrab was only listening to Ganba's story with half an ear. She was sure that Abernald would have heard from Ratray by now. It was almost ninth bell, and the apothecary closed at ninth, so they had to hurry. "Cefn took the tankard from her hand, and Kroan patted her on her back, trying to comfort her. She didn't like that much, though. She shouted something rather rude, and stalked out. Everyone else left then, and I got another tankard." Yawrab could have shouted something rude herself when yet another intersection was blocked by the wagons of merchants packing up their wares for the night. She detoured around, knowing that Ganba would follow, dreading hearing the nine bells that would signal that she was too late. Another brawl over an upset applecart diverted them, and then it was a potter who was trying to sell her last bowl and wouldn't take no for an answer. Yawrab was tempted to smash the thing, but then she would have had to pay for it anyway. Finally, Ganba extracted them from the merchant's grasp just as the bell tower began to chime. Shoulders slumping in defeat, Yawrab continued toward the apothecary. Diversions no longer bothered her, so that she arrived at the shop with a long face but in no temper. She knocked on the door, knowing that Abernald lived above his shop, but no one answered, and no lights showed in the second floor windows in the gathering gloom of evening. "Don't worry, Yawrab," said Ganba. "What difference could a day make?" Yawrab didn't answer. She followed her gypsy lover away from the shop, but she didn't see the streets they walked through. She had been sure that Abernald had the information she was seeking. If Aldan was in the Old City among the nobility, then he would certainly show up at the keep, and Ratray would learn where he was staying. If only she hadn't been delayed! She couldn't maintain her frustration for very long, though; she was too tired. Yawrab felt stretched like wool inexpertly put on a spindle, or like cloth worn thin by repeated use. It was as if she had been doing the same thing over and over, not for the few sennights she and Ganba had been in the city, but for years, decades, centuries beyond that. Searching, always looking for something, often not knowing what for, but always looking. She wondered if it would ever end. Moonlight filters into a shuttered and dark shop through warped boards and air vents. The silvery light glints off large glass jars filled with herbs and medicines revealing the shop to be an apothecary. A shadow among shadows moves slowly and cautiously. It sidles its way over to the jars and, after a pause to be sure it is alone, it begins to fill several cloth bags from the large glass jars. Suddenly, its movements lose their fluidity, like a marionette whose operator has just sneezed. An elbow strikes and dislodges one of the jars and it crashes to the floor, shattering. The shadow freezes, and then, under control again, begins to hurriedly complete its mission. The owner of the shop, who lives on the second floor, has been awakened by the noise. He comes down the stairs armed with a large club. The shadow seeks a way out, its mission now done, but the stairs are closer to the door than it is. The owner opens a shopfront shutter, flooding the tiny store with moonlight, and catches sight of the shadow, formless and dark no more. Light glints off a silver mask, the owner gasps out, "Je--", and a sword wielded sinisterly slides between ribs. As the owner slumps on the stairs, the shadow closes the shutter, wipes its sword on the owner's nightrobe, and slips stealthily out of the shop. Yawrab led the way down the stairs and into the taproom of the Inn of the Panther at half past second bell the next morning. She looked around at the shambles the room was in, noting that it looked about as it usually did. The disorder bothered her from a practical as well as a managerial viewpoint; you didn't leave spills on tables, not to mention tankards and mugs, overnight. Yawrab knew that the place would look this bad for several more bells, and she knew it wouldn't have if she were running this place. The thought put an idea into her head, an idea that instantly energized her, pushing back the weariness just a little. Once she had found Aldan, perhaps she could take on reorganizing this inn. She and Ganba left the inn and made their way toward Abernald's. They walked in companionable silence, staring straight ahead, having seen the sights that the city streets held many times before, which was why it surprised Yawrab when Ganba stopped in front of the Inn of the Serpent and stared at the garishly painted statue that gave the lodging house its name. She didn't particularly care for the image, so insipid were the colors that covered the sculpture, and she couldn't understand why Ganba found it fascinating. She watched the gypsy's hands curl as if they held tools, and then Ganba nodded and turned away. "What was that about?" Yawrab asked. "Oh, nothing, nothing," said Ganba. "Perhaps a little something to pass the bells, that's all." Yawrab tried to pry the gypsy's meaning out of her the rest of the way to Abernald's, but Ganba wanted to keep her secret. It cheered Yawrab to banter with her lover like that, though, so she didn't begrudge Ganba her privacy. Yawrab's cheer faded, however, as they neared the apothecary's shop to find that they weren't the only ones there. The door of the shop was open, and she could see some town guards moving about inside. Outside there were more guards looking carefully around at the street and talking to neighbors. She walked over to a woman in a guard uniform and asked, "What's wrong?" "I'm sorry, ma'am, you'll have to move along," said the guard. "We've got a murder investigation to deal with here." "Murder? Who?" "Abernald himself. Surprised a burglar, we think. Though the killing blow was very precise ..." Yawrab paled, and she felt Ganba put a hand on her shoulder and squeeze it. "Murder? No, not Abernald!" "Did you know the apothecary, ma'am?" the guard asked. Yawrab shook her head absently, and Ganba said, "We were customers, that's all." One of the guards by the door to the shop called out, "Ilona!" The guard glanced over, then turned back to Yawrab and Ganba. "I see. Well, we don't know much about what happened here, but we're investigating. I've got to go. Perhaps you could move along?" The city of Dargon began to bustle as the celebration of the King's Birthday approached. As the calendar counted down to the 24th of Ober, people from outlying farmsteads and the nearer villages and hamlets made their way to the city, and businesses geared up for the increased custom. Everyone was cleaning, stocking, preparing, working hard to celebrate King Haralan's natal day. Yawrab spent the three days between Abernald's murder and the birthday trying to catch up with Ratray at the keep. Since the keep was the center of the main celebration, she never managed to find him. She turned her attention to learning everything she could about the staff at the Inn of the Panther, intending to find the source of the problems there. She continued to search for Aldan, but let it be secondary to her new quest. Ganba worked hard at the search as well, a task made more difficult by the influx of strangers for the birthday and the short tempers caused by the increased workload everyone had to endure. She also began negotiating with the owner of the Inn of the Serpent, one Ballard Tamblebuck. She took some of her carvings with her on her third visit, and was soon talking with some woodcutters about obtaining a large block of wood for a reasonable price. Nakaz sought more information about Flane and the Margre. He learned from Genarvus that the Asthen'ron had been an idol worshiped by the locals before the Fretheod had arrived, but no more information had been forthcoming from anyone. Aldan assisted Nakaz, but had no more luck than the bard. Ganba and Yawrab celebrated the King's Birthday in the taproom of the Inn of the Panther, toasting and cheering, dancing and singing. They set aside their concerns and cares temporarily and revelled until the late bells of the night. Nakaz and Aldan attended the official affair in the keep, of course. Aldan pointed out the cowled man and the masked woman, who also attended. Their celebration was not as wild as that in the various taverns and taprooms across the city, but Aldan found it very familiar and comforting, and Nakaz knew how to move among the nobility as well as any born lord. Nakaz marked the moment that the masked woman left the ball, and Aldan noticed when the cowled man was summoned out of the room by a woman in guard livery. Shortly thereafter, the ball was cut short when Duke Clifton himself reentered the room and announced that due to security concerns, the evening was over. Nakaz' bardic credentials allowed him to learn the full story before he and Aldan returned to their inn. A thief had managed to penetrate the security of the keep and had entered its deepest vaults. There, she had opened a hidden vault that no one had known existed and made off with its contents. To make matters worse, this thief had not been the only one to break into the keep. When the two thieves had clashed, the second one had been left for dead. Only the intervention of the cowled mage, Cefn, had saved him. Nakaz had, of course, offered his help in the investigation. The duke's people had declined for the time being, and he and Aldan returned to their own inn. Ratray found himself walking down the stairs into the deepest vaults of the keep. He had been given the duty of cleaning up after the intrusions of the night; it was his punishment for begging off of helping with the party itself, and the servant had no complaints. He just hoped he could stay awake. It wasn't often he was working at the eighth bell of night. Aldan dreamed that he was running through a tunnel of glass, twisting and turning, going up and down as he passed over and under other tunnels. He raced and raced, moving faster and faster and ... ... as Ganba ran, she began to see in her mind's eye the pattern that the golden tunnel she raced through made as it turned left and right and rose and fell. The shape grew more and more solid as ... ... he ran, over and over, through the silver tunnels. Soon Nakaz would be able to understand the meaning of the pattern, the reason for the other tunnels he passed over and under, the other runners he was beginning ... ... to sense as she ran around and around the disk. Yawrab could see more and more of the disk, not just the edges but the crisscrossing lines within, each originating from a strange figure and returning to that figure's twin. Just a few more circuits and she knew she would be able to know the whole ... Ratray had swept the white powder carefully from the steps leading down into and below the dungeons of the keep. He mopped the blood from the vault floor and returned the loose items to the empty shelves around the room. He wondered just how valuable the contents of the vault were, or rather the remaining contents. He looked at the floor in the center of the vault. Inlaid into the stone was a compass rose whose points he was pretty sure wouldn't line up with a real compass. The pattern was broken in the very center, though, where a portion of the inlay had risen from the floor, pushed up by a small box, open on one side, taller than it was wide, its bottom even with the floor of the vault. Ratray walked around the box, imagining it rising up from the floor under its piece of inlay, triggered by the thief who had stolen its contents. From the rumors he had heard, no one had even known of this secret vault. The second thief, the one the wizard had saved, had indicated that the objects within had been a rolled parchment, a skull, and an oddly-shaped object, but even he'd had no clue as to their nature. Ratray crouched down in front of the box and looked inside, but couldn't see anything. He reached in and felt around. Right at the back, something tilted as he touched it. A rumbling began, and the floor of the box began to lift. Ratray stepped back and saw that the entire box was rising again, grinding and rumbling as it lifted to reveal another compartment below the now empty one. A new vault, twice as tall but just as wide, was soon revealed. Inside were two objects. One was an ornately carved staff with a lump of milky crystal enclosed at one end. The other was a small chunk of stone. Ratray moved closer, reached out and lifted the stone and the staff. He didn't recognize the carvings on the staff, but he could tell that the stone, which was shaped like a piece of pie, bore an animal that seemed to be a fox in the outer, wider third. Coming from the back of the fox was a band of gold that wound up onto the rest of the flat surface of the stone and interlinked with two other kinds of bands, one silver and one glass, so that it looked like a loosely woven basket in some places. Ratray gazed at the two objects and wondered just what he held. Four people spread across two inn rooms in the city of Dargon sat bolt upright in their beds at the very moment that Ratray touched the stone. They all said the same thing at the same time: "It's free!" ========================================================================