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 12 -=========================================================+|) D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 8 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 8/14/1999 Volume 12, Number 8 Circulation: 711 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb Talisman One 2 Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Spring, 2347 ID The Sanity of Spirit Brandon Haught Seber 15, 1015 ======================================================================== DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet. We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project. Please address all correspondance to or visit us on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/. Back issues are available from ftp.shore.net in members/dargon/. Issues and public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon. DargonZine 12-8, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright August, 1999 by the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb , Assistant Editor: Jon Evans . All rights reserved. All rights are reassigned to the individual contributors. Stories and artwork appearing herein may not be reproduced or redistributed without the explicit permission of their creators, except in the case of freely reproducing entire issues for further distribution. Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden. ======================================================================== Editorial by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb Things have been fairly quiet on the Editorial front this month, so I'll use this space to observe one of our recent successes that doesn't get much conscious notice, and then announce another Web site enhancement. First, the success. It doesn't sound very impressive, but we are producing more DargonZine issues more regularly than ever before. This may not sound important, but five years ago it was one of our readers' biggest criticisms. From 1991 to 1993, we put out only 13 issues, but worse yet, the publication schedule was wildly unpredictable. In five of those instances we went more than five months between issues, and in another five instances the lag between issues was less than two weeks! 1993 is particularly noteworthy in that we distributed five issues, with the average time between issues being 12 weeks, plus or minus 13 weeks! Think about what *that* says about the predictability of our publishing schedule! Justifiably, our readers weren't very happy with that situation. The first thing we did in response was to post a publication schedule on our Web site and do our best to meet or exceed the dates listed. Since then, things have improved dramatically. Now we are putting out nearly three times as many issues, and the last time we went more than two months between issues was in 1997, nearly two dozen issues ago. This year we've continued to reduce our average time between issues (down to four weeks), while putting out issues more regularly (varying only a week and a half from the average). We're very proud to have made such a substantial improvement in both the amount of prose we produce as well as the predictability of its delivery schedule, and want to make sure that it doesn't go unnoticed. And speaking of improvements, I want to mention another improvement that might seem minor at first glance, but whose significance I hope you will come to appreciate. In brief, we've converted the DargonZine Online Glossary to use a MySQL database. Doesn't appear to mean much, does it? First, if you're not familiar with the Online Glossary, it's a facility on our Web site which allows you to look up an encyclopedia-style definition of any person, place, or thing in the Dargon milieu. It's a very handy reference to have around, and one of the most popular parts of our Web site. If you are familiar with the Glossary, this change comes with a few minor enhancements. The Glossary itself includes more information, the search function has been improved somewhat, and we cleaned up the layout of the pages. But most of the changes are all behind the scenes. The Glossary is really only one small part of a large database we maintain which contains information about all our issues, stories, writers, and Glossary items. Over the past half year we've been working on making all that data accessible via the DargonZine Web site through a database system called MySQL. The transition of the Glossary is a major step toward making all this information available to our readers. In the near future we'll roll out additional services which allow you to get at more information, such as how many stories we've printed each year, which stories are in which issues, which writers have printed the most prose, what the chronological order of stories is, and so forth. In addition, the new database will help us develop new interactive features, like giving you the ability to rate all our stories, or cast votes in story contests and see the results immediately. All these things are planned, and will be made possible through the implementation of the MySQL database which we are rolling out in a limited fashion today. Whether through programming new services or making more information available to you or just through putting issues out more predictably, we are doing our best to make reading and participating in DargonZine a great experience. If you run into any problems with the new Glossary, or if you have any ideas about how we can improve our Web site or any aspect of what we do, please don't hesitate to let us know by sending email to us at . ======================================================================== Talisman One Part 2 by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr Spring, 2347 ID Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 12-7 Nearly a moon-cycle after the confirmation signing of the Treaty of Rihelbak, Nikorah was sitting cross-legged next to her father as he presided over the seasonal all-clans meet. But she wasn't paying much attention to the proceedings. Her fingers itched to be playing something, but what occupied her mind the most was Bralidan, heir of Grahk. Even after a cycle. She couldn't believe that she was still dreaming about the good looking young man, but she couldn't seem to forget about him. She had tried talking about him to Kendra, but the herd keeper had looked at her sternly and said, "Forget him, Nika. The Kuizhack, the People of the Stone, are trouble. Don't ruin your life!" Nikorah hadn't expected to hear that common Siizhayip saying from Kendra, and it bothered her. There had been a hint of personal experience in Kendra's voice, though Nikorah had never heard any stories about the senior herd keeper of the Sun clan spending time among the People of the Stone. Nikorah had always thought herself close to the woman and it was difficult to think that the person she was closest to in the clan had secrets from her. Her attention was drawn back to the meeting when she caught the word 'Rihelbak'. She focused, and saw that there were three people kneeling and sitting back on their heels on the other side of the council rock from Nikorah and her father. Their knees rested on a small orange rug, banded with white, which meant that they were here to ask a boon of her father, not deliver a report or a tithe. The three wore the braided cords of different clans on their shoulders, which was unusual. Why would an affiliation of clans get together to ask her father for a favor? The word 'Rihelbak', along with her knowledge of the history that had led up to the treaty, made her uneasy about the possibilities. The seven clans that had attacked the Grahk Kuizhack had not begun their war with a delegation to the Chosen One. Yet, might not a new attempt to wrest the Rihelbak Plains from the Kuizhack of Grahk begin with a formal request for the support of all of the Siizhayip? She heard her father ask, "Why?" Nikorah didn't know what her father was trying to clarify, but she began paying attention hoping that everything would become clear. The one in the middle, with the braid of the Spring-Bok clan, said, "Chosen One Demahh, you have heard how the numbers within the clans are growing again. The winters have been mild, and the hunting has been good, and the Siizhayip as a whole are prospering. But even the Great Steppes are not boundless. The clans are running out of room, Chosen One. "Our remedies are few. We could leave the grass, and become one with the Kuizhack." The way he said it made it sound like he would rather be tied between four horses and ripped apart. "Or, we could reclaim the Rihelbak." "You are aware," said her father, the Chosen One, "that barely a moon-cycle ago the treaty was confirmed. That land is overseen by the Kuizhack of Grahk." Her father's pronunciation bore no hint of approbation. "I have noticed the increase in our numbers," he continued. "And while it has gladdened me that we are prospering, I also realize the difficulties it presents us with. But we cannot look to Rihelbak. It is not our land to grow into." "But, Chosen One," began the one on the left, a woman from the Prairie Cat clan. "Those Fretheodan of Grahk, they do not use the land. Rihelbak lies empty, unlived in, unhunted. It is an offense, Chosen One, to waste the land so, with no one to thin the herds, with no one to burn the grasses to stem their growth; it is an offense against the way of the Anhilizharnoh, the Lords of the Sky." Demahh was silent for a moment, thinking. Nikorah hadn't thought about the treaty in those terms. She frowned when she thought about what a state the Rihelbak Plains must be in after being neglected ever since the treaty had first been signed. It *was* an offense! "You know that the Fretheodan waste the Rihelbak?" asked the Chosen One. "Perhaps they have some other Kuizhack use for the land." "We have ... seen, Demahh Chosen One. We have sent scouts into the Rihelbak. Never has one of the Grahk people entered the plains before the group who went to the treaty signing. Not in more than two hands of summers!" Demahh shook his head, but whether at the Prairie Cat clan's spying, which had to mean that they had done the forbidden and entered the plains, or at the waste by the Fretheodan, Nikorah didn't know. He took a deep breath, and said slowly, "What do you ask?" The third one, a young man from the Red Cup clan, said, "We do not ask for rebellion. We know that the might of the Fretheodan Kuizhack is greater than our own. So, if we cannot claim the land as a right of battle, then all we can do is ask. Present our petition to the one who rules Grahk, let that man know of the struggle that is beginning in the Great Steppes, as our numbers grow beyond what our home can support. Surely they are capable of seeing the sense in our request. Surely they will understand that we could put that land to better use. Surely they will allow us entry into Rihelbak." Nikorah wondered whether the Red Cup speaker was right. The Fretheodan were strange, different. That room of rugs they had built out in the open air like that ... so strange! Could they understand the plight of the Siizhayip? Would they allow the clans to grow into land they controlled? Demahh was silent a long time, and finally he said, "You have all spoken eloquently, and I have seen the wisdom in your words. We will send a delegation to the home of the leader of the Grahk, and we will do as you suggest: we will ask them for more room. Their answer, however, is in the hands of the Anhilizharnoh." The petitioners bowed, then stood and rolled up their rug. Their leader, the Spring Bok man, said, "Thank you, Chosen One Demahh. Your words contain wisdom." Demahh nodded in response, and said, "I shall appoint Kendra to organize and lead this delegation, as she has experience with the people of Grahk. The delegation should be ready to leave within the quarter-cycle. You may go." The meeting continued, and Nikorah's attention wandered again. She didn't think much about the proposed delegation, since she was fairly sure that Kendra wouldn't allow her to get anywhere near the heir, after her previous words on the subject. The information that Kendra had been to the Grahk stone house before intrigued her, though. She wondered who she could learn that story from. When the meeting was over, Nikorah returned to her ghur. She drew her lute and the cat-stone out of their storage places and set about making music. Somewhere in the middle of her playing, a thought came to her. She stopped playing and concentrated on it, her hands and feet caressing the cat-stone absently. Of course she wanted to go to the home of the Grahk people. Why shouldn't she? She would simply ask Kendra, and Kendra would agree. It was simple. Wasn't it? If her sudden decision to go with the delegation startled her, what surprised her even more was the way Kendra actually did just agree. What was even stranger, she realized much later, was that she never once thought of heir Bralidan as she made her decision. Bralidan once again stood in his father's antechamber waiting for an audience. This time, though, Bralevant wasn't in the reception room just beyond, but in his quarters getting ready to meet their just-arrived guests. Bralidan was here to let the duke know just who those visitors were. They had come riding up to the gates of Plethiss totally unexpectedly, and it had been Bralidan who was in a fit state to greet them. So, he had gone to the mansion's forecourt and greeted the ten riders, who were still sitting atop their fine horses. He had welcomed them to the ducal residence of Plethiss, and then asked who they were and why they were here. He knew who they were, of course, at least in general. One of the ten riders was the woman he had seen at the treaty signing just over a month ago and whom he had been unable to stop thinking about since. Nikorah was her name, and she was the daughter of the One of the Sun clan. The eldest of the riders, a woman in her fifties judging by the lines on her face and the grey in her brown hair, said, "We are a delegation come from the Siizhayip, the People of the Grass, to speak to the ruler of these lands and the one who holds the rights of Rihelbak, Duke Bralevant of Grahk. We have a petition to put before him." Despite the cold formality of her words, he thought that she was looking at him rather tenderly, an odd light in her eyes. Bralidan had arranged for the horses to be taken care of and had escorted the Siizhayip into the audience hall to await the duke. Then he had hurried to his father's rooms to let him know who his visitors were. Bralevant appeared at the door to the antechamber dressed in hunting clothes, Osirek at his side. The aide was adjusting the fit of the leather tunic, and brushing imaginary dust from the hide leggings. Bralidan thought that his father's choice of dress, perhaps meant to emulate the clothing of the visitors in some way, was a mistake. The duke's pristine hunting leathers, never before worn and never likely to be again, did not have the comfortable, worn-in look of the garb the Siizhayip wore. Bralidan imagined his father would look like a preening mockery, and it embarrassed him. The duke impatiently dismissed Osirek, and said, "So, Alin, what did they have to say?" Bralevant started walking through the antechamber and out the front door, leaving Osirek standing there looking like there was more he wanted to adjust. Bralidan followed his father and said, "Well, they said that they are a delegation from the Siizhayip and that they wish to petition you for something. That's all they said. They didn't even introduce themselves, though one of them I already know. I saw her at the treaty signing last month. It's Nikorah, the daughter of Demahh of the Sun clan." "Ah, yes. She was quite striking. Very green eyes, right? And that nose! I remember her as well." Bralidan glanced at his father, wondering about the tone in his voice. The look on Bralevant's face -- a sort of pleased leer -- made Bralidan feel guilty for a moment as he realized what he might have looked like while he daydreamed about the beautiful Nikorah. And then he felt intense jealousy. His father couldn't possibly be interested in the girl! She was so young! And while Bralevant had been without a wife since Bralidan's mother, Omelli, had died shortly after giving birth to Biralvid, it still wouldn't be decent to take up with a girl younger than that youngest son! Bralidan tried to figure out a way to determine just what designs his father might have on the daughter of the One of the Sun, but he was too flustered by the thought of competing for Nikorah with his own father. By the time he had straightened out his thoughts, the two of them had arrived at the doors to the audience hall. Not standing on ceremony, the duke opened the doors himself and walked in. Bralidan followed two paces behind. The Siizhayip were standing in three ranks in front of the small raised dais that the duke's throne sat on. Someone had placed an orange rug edged with white stripes just in front of the first rank, which consisted of Nikorah and three other young people, though Nikorah seemed the youngest of the four. Behind them stood the old woman who had spoken in the forecourt, and behind her stood five other Siizhayip of varying ages. For the first time, Bralidan noticed that each of the nomads was wearing different colored braided rope on their left shoulder, except for Nikorah and the old woman, whose braids were the same. He wondered what they meant, if anything, as he followed his father to the platform and stood just behind the right arm of the throne. Bralidan was looking at Bralevant when the duke lifted his eyes to the group before him and prepared to welcome them. So he noticed when his father caught sight of one of them and just stopped and stared, dumbfounded. He glanced up and was relieved to note that the duke wasn't staring at Nikorah. Then, covering for his father's distraction, he straightened up and said, "Duke Bralevant of Grahk, of the Fretheod Empire, welcomes the delegation of Siizhayip to the halls of Plethiss. You may introduce yourselves and present your petition." Normally his father didn't bother with that kind of ceremony, but normally his father didn't stare gape-mouthed at -- Bralidan checked again -- old nomad women, either. Bralidan looked at the woman in the middle rank and saw that she had a hard, almost angry expression on her face, but there was something else behind her eyes, something that she seemed to want to keep hidden very badly. That woman said, "I am Kendra of the Sun clan, speaker for this delegation." Bralidan glanced down at his father and noticed that the duke's hand was clutching repeatedly at his chest, right where he usually wore his fox-shaped brooch. The one he hadn't worn since the day Bralidan had found the Treaty of Rihelbak and that lovely falcon-carved stone. Kendra continued, her voice even and official-toned, "Before me are Nikorah of the Sun clan, here to lend the weight of her father, Demahh, the One of the Sun clan and the One of the Siizhayip, to the petition." Nikorah knelt on the orange rug, and then sat back on her heels. She looked perfectly comfortable there, and Bralidan idly wondered how long he could match her pose, if he tried. He didn't think it would be very long. Kendra said, "This is Denaln of the Spring-Bok clan, Lorrip of the Prairie Cat clan, and Tidick of the Red Cup clan." As their names were given, each of the remaining three nomads knelt and settled comfortably. Kendra went on, "Denaln will present the petition, but you should know that the four who kneel, the five whose clans are represented behind me, and more than half of the rest of the clans of the Siizhayip, take part in the words to be presented. By decision of the One of the Sun, all of Siizhayip support these words." The four kneeling young people seemed to be waiting for some word from the duke, who was still staring at Kendra. Bralidan kicked the leg of the throne hard, jarring the solid chair. No response. He did it again, and was about to reach forward and poke his father in the side when the duke said, "Please, begin." Bralidan looked down and his father seemed to have recovered himself and was looking at the petitioners, mouth closed, an attentive look on his face. The man who had been named Denaln responded with, "Greetings, Duke Bralevant, ruler of Grahk and holder of the rights to Rihelbak. We come with glad tidings and grave news to ask of you a boon. "The Siizhayip have had the freedom of the Great Steppes for countless ages. Once, the clans numbered no more than a handful, and in the vastness of the steppes our numbers were so small that we could not imagine a time when we would be stretching the resources of the great grasslands we call home. "The Siizhayip have prospered and grown. And that day that we could not imagine has come upon us. The People of the Grass are beginning to outgrow the grass." Lorrip, the woman from the Prairie Cat clan, spoke up. "Great Duke, we know the steppes and we know their limitations. We have reached those limits, and we are beginning to exceed them. "We have looked for an answer to our dilemma. Most of the solutions that would allow us to sustain more people per sweep of grassland would destroy our way of life. Leaving the grasslands would do the same. All we can see as a solution is to find more grasslands to occupy. And to our great fortune, such an area exists. "I speak of the Rihelbak. We have watched closely, and we know that you do not use the vast grasslands of the Rihelbak. You do not live upon the plains, you do not herd animals upon them. You do not even plow them under and try to make them grow foreign plants like the Kuizhack farmers do." The woman paused and took a deep breath, calming herself from the slight hint of heat that had crept into her words. Then she continued, "As you seem to have no use for this land that you control, and our people are searching for land to grow into, what we ask is that we be allowed to inhabit the Plains of Rihelbak." The petition surprised Bralidan. He didn't quite know what to think about it. Not much more than a month ago, he had managed to avert a circumstance that would have returned the Rihelbak Plains to the Siizhayip by default, and now here was a group of those nomads simply asking them to cancel the treaty! He wondered briefly whether the Siizhayip had somehow engineered the situation that had made everyone forget about the treaty's stipulation to be confirmed every five years and hidden the document itself. But that was nonsense, wasn't it? On the other hand, the nomads had a point. As far as he knew, Rihelbak had never been a useful part of Grahk, either before or after the Seven Clans' War. In the agreement the Fretheod had once had with the Siizhayip before the war, all of the grasslands from the Rihelbak to the eastern edge of the steppes had been free for use by the nomad clans. That had changed with the war that had forced Bralidan's great grandfather to punish the Siizhayip by closing the Rihelbak to them. But what use did Grahk have for the land? It had been seventy years since the war and the Siizhayip needed land to grow. What could it hurt to give it back to them? As he pondered the situation, his constant worry about becoming duke resurfaced. This was just the sort of situation that he feared, where the two sides of an argument had equal weight within his mind. If he had to decide between keeping and giving away the Rihelbak Plains, he didn't know how he would choose. He looked at his father to see what Bralevant would do, and found him staring at the orange rug, or maybe Lorrip's knees. Eventually, the duke said, without looking up, "You have given me much to think on. I will have rooms prepared for you while I ponder this issue." He stood and turned his back on the Siizhayip, and walked quickly out the door he had come in through. Bralidan followed his father as the duke walked swiftly back to his rooms. He walked into the antechamber to find Bralevant saying to Osirek, "... rooms in the north wing ready for them. One to a room I think, there are plenty of rooms available. I think they will stay at least a week." "Father?" said Bralidan. The duke turned and said, "Yes, Alin?" "Father, are you really going to take a week to make up your mind? I mean, it is a difficult situation, especially just a month after confirming the treaty, but a week?" Bralevant said, scorn in his voice, "Of course it won't take a week. I've already made up my mind! Rihelbak is part of Grahk, and thus part of the empire, and I'm not giving it away to anyone, for any reason." "But ... but ..." "But what? Look, son. The empire is falling apart, and has been for years, yes? And even though we have come to be able to rely on our own people for support and protection, it is still the name 'Fretheod' that stands behind the respect we command, yes? So, we can't let the empire down. We have to preserve our heritage, or we will be nothing. Rihelbak was gained for the empire by the blood of Grahk, one of the few gains in territory the empire has made in over a century! I will not erode the empire, give up our superior standing, just so the Siizhayip barbarians can have a little more grass to run around in!" Bralidan knew that his father revered the history and traditions of the empire, even though life on the frontier that was Grahk had little of the flavor of what the empire had once been. But he hadn't thought that the duke was so blindly beholden to that distant empire, and it worried him. His father obviously didn't think much of the Siizhayip either. If that was so, then why did he want them to stay for so long? "Father," he asked, "why are you preparing to host the Siizhayip for a week? Shouldn't you tell them your answer and let them get back to their steppes?" Bralevant got a crafty look on his face, and he said, "Ah, no, son. No. I have plans to make. Now that she is here again, I'm sure I can ... well, anyway, I will just play gracious host to the grass-lovers and see what happens from there. "And you should be happy that they're staying around, since that means that the little Nikorah will be at loose ends for a whole week. Maybe you can find some way to entertain her, eh?" The duke leered again, which made Bralidan uncomfortable. But his father had a point. Nikorah would be here for a week, and that meant that he had some plans of his own to make. As he left his father's antechamber, though, he wondered who 'that woman' had been. The old nomad woman, Kendra, perhaps? Why did his father need to make plans concerning Kendra? Bralidan sat at the dinner table in the small dining room in the family's wing. The servants had just departed after setting the main course of pheasant in front of him and his brother Biralvid. They were eating alone, since the duke was still making his plans, and the nomads had been given the evening to settle into their quarters. Bralidan had already spent some time choosing the outfit he would wear at tomorrow evening's grand dinner, to be held in the great hall with all of the Siizhayip invited, and most of Grahk's nobles as well. And he wondered whether he should make an attempt to meet Nikorah sometime before the party, to try to engage her interest when it was just the two of them. Trying to get to know people at an event like a grand dinner could be very difficult. Biralvid said, "So, father actually called them 'grass lovers,' did he?" Bralidan had told his brother about the petition, and his own mixed feelings on it, and then what the duke had said about Rihelbak and about the Siizhayip. "Absolutely, his very words." Biralvid shook his head. "You know, I still can't understand his loyalty to the empire. I mean, when was the last time we had a visit from an imperial envoy? They don't even try to collect taxes from us anymore! No one from here east to the sea has had any meaningful contact with the imperial province of Frethehel in thirty years or more." Bralidan picked at the pheasant in front of him and said, "I know. But I can see father's point. I mean, despite what you say, we are part of the empire, and so is Rihelbak. The Seven Clans' War might have resulted in more dead on their side than ours, but they did kill Duke Bravid after all. We earned that grassland!" "*We* didn't earn anything, brother, our ancestors did. And so what if that duke died? It isn't like they were actually fighting to gain the Rihelbak. That was just a punishment! The *we* of today, you and me and father and everyone else, has no use for that land, while the Siizhayip do. Why should we keep it from them for the sake of an empire that has given us nothing except its name and reputation for longer than either of us have been alive?" "You have a good point, Biralvid. I can see it, but I can also see father's side. I am very glad that this is not my decision to make." "Well, I would give the land back to them in a second," said Biralvid. "But since it is never going to be up to me, I guess that's worth about as much as a blade of Rihelbak grass, eh? "So, have you decided what to wear to the dinner tomorrow? I thought I'd try ..." Bralidan thought that the grand dinner wasn't going well at all. It was a perfect end, though, to a frustrating day. He had spent almost the whole day trying to 'accidentally' run into Nikorah, but the young woman had never left her rooms in the north wing. Eventually, he had resigned himself to wait for the dinner and make the best of the crowded room; but again he was to be frustrated: Kendra sat Nikorah right next to herself at the large table that had been set up in the great hall even though the daughter of the One of the Sun had been assigned to sit across from Bralidan. The food had probably been exquisite -- the duke's cooks were the best to be had -- but Bralidan hadn't tasted any of it as he stared down the table at the beautiful blond-haired, green-eyed woman he had been dreaming of. And now that the formal dining was over and people were milling around talking to each other, Bralidan couldn't find Nikorah anywhere. Kendra was talking with some Grahk nobles and trying to avoid his father -- he watched her keeping her eye on the duke, and moving around the room whenever Bralevant started to walk toward her. If she was still around, Nikorah should be too, but Bralidan couldn't find her anywhere. When Tidick, the Siizhayip delegate from the Red Cup clan -- 'red cup' was a flower, as it turned out -- cornered him, Bralidan was sure that the ensuing conversation would be another frustration, but as it turned out he was wrong. Tidick was an engaging young man who put Bralidan at ease quickly, and before long the two were comparing their experiences with wilderness living. Bralidan's knowledge had come during his attempts to learn military command. The exercises in squad and army leadership had included mock campaigns that meant that he had to live out of a canvas wedge-tent for weeks at a time. And while that couldn't quite compare to living year-round in one of those hide-covered ghur he had seen at the treaty confirmation, there were similarities. Aside from being engaged in something he felt competent to do -- leading groups of teraehran -- the experience of living on his own, away from the servants and even just the walls of Plethiss, had been a positive one. He found that he enjoyed the rough living. His officers complained about the conditions they endured as much as the regular forces, but he had found himself able to adapt to the harsh weather and terrain, to do without servants waiting on him night and day, to provide just the necessities for himself. He was surprised to find out how similar the Siizhayip way of life tended to be. They had long ago perfected the art of wilderness living, though. Their ghur sounded like a vast improvement over a wedge tent. They spent most of their time tending to their herds, or hunting the free-roaming animals of the steppes. They also participated in mock battles, sometimes as games, and sometimes as contests to determine rankings, or to settle disputes. Bralidan thought they had a very noteworthy way of life. Tidick was called away by one of the other Siizhayip, and Bralidan decided to get some fresh air and think. He strolled away from the great hall, up a few staircases, and crossed one of the wooden bridges that linked the house with the outer walls. Then, he walked slowly along the top of the defensive wall, gazing over the parapet into the darkness, which was only somewhat relieved by the light of the waxing larger moon, Nochturon. The smaller moon, Celene, also provided its share of the illumination, which, as usual, wasn't much. Bralidan eventually stopped, leaned on the parapet, and tried to think. He never consciously realized that he was staring out in the direction of the Rihelbak Plains. His thoughts swirled and tumbled, darting back and forth from Tidick's information about the Siizhayip way of life, to the request of the delegation, to his worries about being duke someday. But most often, his thoughts turned to Nikorah. He didn't notice the shape that had come up next to him until a soft voice said, "Greetings." He jumped a bit, having become used to the silence and darkness of his place on the wall, then turned to see Nikorah standing there. He couldn't help but smile, partly because after all his efforts to find her, she had managed to find him, partly because they were now well and truly alone and not at all likely to be disturbed, but mostly because of the way her eyes almost glowed in the light of the two moons, and her face shone palely as she looked up at him. "Ah, you startled me, Nikorah. You move very silently. And ... ah ... you look beautiful by moonslight." She smiled, and he thought he saw a hint of color rise into her cheeks before she lowered her head a bit. But she kept her eyes turned up to him, and he didn't want to look away from them. He waited for a moment, but she didn't seem ready to speak, so he said, "I am glad you came out here, though. I've been looking for you all day, but never ran into you. And then this evening, Kendra moved you next to her, so I didn't get to talk to you over dinner. And afterwards, you vanished again ..." Silence stretched again, as they stood on the wall facing each other in the darkness. Bralidan tried to come up with something else to say, but all that came to mind was something stupid like 'I love you' and he knew he wasn't really ready to utter that phrase. But Nikorah eventually broke the silence. As she spoke she lifted her head and stared into his eyes openly. "Well, it was Kendra. She's been acting strange ever since we arrived. She told me that I couldn't leave my room earlier today. And of course there was dinner. Then afterwards she sent me back to my room, said that she wanted to make sure that nothing happened to me. Like anything could happen to me in the middle of that huge stone place! So I left the great hall but didn't go back to my room. Instead I wandered around until I found myself out here on the walls. I spent some time on the other side of the building looking out over the town at the bottom of the hill. I was trying to figure out how those people could all live in so small a place. I mean, I suppose that it's a nice town, but compared to the steppes it *is* tiny ..." Bralidan realized that he had never heard Nikorah speak before. Her voice was beautiful, almost musical, delicate and soft. He tried to concentrate on her words like a gentleman, but it wasn't easy. With her face turned up to his again, her shining visage was very distracting. Not to mention her mouth, her full red lips flexing, parting, shaping word after perfect word. All Bralidan wanted to do was to kiss that mouth, taste the lips, feel the softness of her cheek. But he couldn't take such liberties. He was practically her host, and it just wouldn't be right. He was strong; he could control himself. He knew what his dreams tonight would be about, though. Eventually, her monologue ended with an innocuous remark about the clothes he was wearing being very good looking on him, and he fell naturally into an exchange of small talk. It was only natural that his comments take on an undertone of more than casual interest, especially considering that her own conversation was leading that way as well. Bralidan was beginning to work himself into a position where he could leave her company gracefully -- his control was being sorely strained -- when Nikorah preempted him by raising up on her toes and kissing him. And not just a peck, either, but full on the mouth, hard and lingering. Their arms went around each other automatically, and though Bralidan struggled for a bit to remain the proper host and gentleman, his fortitude wasn't enough to withstand the onslaught of this particular beautiful young woman. He returned the kiss, arms moving up and down her back, basking in the moment. When she finally let him go, he knew that his eyes were shining with the same light of lust that hers were. But now that he was separated from her physically, he was able to reassert his 'proper host' self. He mumbled, "Ah, ... um ... that ... that was nice." Then, in a steadier voice, he continued, "But, ah ... it is getting late, and we should both be in ... our own rooms. But tomorrow, would you like to go riding?" They strolled back into the house arm in arm, but separated once they approached the great hall. Nikorah waved as she started walking towards the north wing, and Bralidan found himself staring after her long after the shadows in the corridor had swallowed her up. He returned to the noise and people in the great hall, but only spent a short time there. When he got back to his room, and into his bed, he slipped the falcon-carved rock from the velvet bag he kept it in. He stared at it, tracing the ribbons of metal and glass, thinking about Nikorah, about riding tomorrow, and about what they might do during the rest of the week. And once he fell asleep, he did indeed dream of just what he had thought he would. ======================================================================== The Sanity of Spirit by Brandon Haught Seber 15, 1015 "Awaken!" Rish Vogel, Lord Chronicler to Duke Dargon, grumbled something about infernal bed bugs and rolled away from the voice at his ear. "Awaken! Awaken now!" Rish rose a bit until propped on his elbows. With a shake of his head he said, "What is it? Can't it wait until dawn?" "Get up now!" Rish sat straight up. Ire burned away all drowsiness from the old man's mind as he let loose a tirade into the darkness of his bedchamber. "I will not be ordered about in my own bed! I have no problem with calling upon the services of the guard, regardless of who you think you are." Echoes sounded off the unseen walls of his room. Rish waited for an apology or quick retreating steps. A dozen heartbeats later there was still no reply. "Well?" He looked about in a futile attempt to identify the intruder. The darkness felt empty and cold. His burning anger cooled a bit as he realized he heard no breathing or movement at all, despite the voice having been practically at his shoulder. He thrust out his arm to see if someone was by his bed, but he encountered nothing. He swept his blanket off and swung his feet around and onto the floor. The stone floor's chill made him jerk his feet back up. Rish grumbled curses to himself as he felt in the dark for a candle on his bedside table. He pulled his feet back into bed until he could strike a light and see where to step. He got the candle lit, then grabbed for his slippers while looking about his chambers for the fool who had awakened him. Deep shadows cast by his one candle were his only companions. He shuffled about the room, shining his weak light into all the corners to make sure he was really alone. He checked the door, too, and found it to be firmly closed. The door squeaked against the hinges and grated a bit on the floor as he pulled it open to check the hallway. The corridor appeared empty as well. Rish shut the door and went back to his bed. With a frustrated grunt, he threw himself onto the bug-infested mat and waited for the biting to begin. It would be a while before he could doze off again. He stared at the ceiling, wondering if the voice he had heard was just a realistic part of his dreams, or maybe someone who had been talking while passing by in the hall. It had sounded so close and real, though. He scratched his arm and pulled the blanket up around his shoulders against the chill air. "I have a story to tell," said a voice right by his ear. Rish bolted from his bed. He tripped once over a stool but didn't stop until he reached his door. He fumbled with the handle and was about to pull when the voice spoke again. "My story must be told." Rish slowly turned and looked about his room with wide eyes. No one was to be seen. He gripped the door handle tight as if for support and squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to gain control of himself. He sucked in a deep breath, held it, then blew out as he eased open his eyes. He took another, calmer, look around the room, taking mental note of everything in it. With an effort he unclenched the door handle and took a slow step forward. Rish saw he was in no immediate danger and that helped calm him a bit more. He now stood erect, patient, and observant in the middle of his bedchamber. Someone was playing a joke on him, and he wasn't going to let it go one step further. "This charade will not go on any longer. Show yourself now," he said authoritatively. There was no reply. "I will find you, and I will find out how you're --" "Be seated," said the voice directly in Rish's right ear. Rish jerked reflexively but quickly calmed himself. He probed his ear and shoulder with bony, nimble fingers, and looked around to his right, behind him and even up at the ceiling. He couldn't find anything unusual. "Be seated," said the voice again. "Show yourself," said Rish in reply. "Sit down so that I can begin my story." Rish had never experienced such an elaborate trick, *and* it had been quite some time since anyone had tried to order him around. "Who are you?" Rish asked. "Be seated. I have little time in which to tell my story," said the spirit. Its voice was very deep and clear with exacting pronunciation, yet rather monotonous. Rish guessed the speaker might be an adult male, but he couldn't guess at an age. He could feel the distinct vibrations of sound in his ear, but didn't feel any breath on his outer ear or neck as he would expect from someone who sounded so close. "What is your story about?" "I am your father, Rish, and it is my death which I must tell you about." Rish snorted and cocked a skeptical eyebrow. "Are you trying to tell me you are some spirit come to haunt me? If your intention is to frighten me, then be gone. I have no inclination to spend my night listening to ghost stories." "Listen to me, Rish. It is my duty to tell you of your real family. I must tell you of the tragedy that led to scandal and torture." The words suggested commands and impatience, but the voice carried none of the emotion. It remained monotonous and precise, like a student reciting historical text for his teacher. "Be gone, prankster! The only torture you'll experience will be at the hands of the very capable guards," said Rish with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Hear me out, Rish. You must understand --" "Very well! You leave me no choice." Rish stormed over to his wardrobe, pulled out a robe and slipped it on over his bed clothes. "I am your father. Don't you realize --" "I do not believe in you, spirit," Rish said as he picked up his ink belt, a solid leather belt with ink bottles, quills and parchment dangling from it, and cinched it about his waist. "My father is dead, but he is no haunt. There was no scandal in my family. The Vogels are a proper, respectable family. Tell me who you really are." He walked over to his nightstand to get his candle. "The father you knew took you in when you were an infant. You are not a Vogel, but rather a Hadmes." With candle in hand Rish pulled open his chamber door without replying and walked down the hall to the right. "Hear me out, Rish. Let me start from the beginning," said the spirit. "Start where you will, fool, but I will not guarantee you will be heard." "I was the third surviving son of a prosperous noble," said the spirit. "My father had earned his land through honorable service to the King along with a few political favors." Rish reached an intersection and went left without hesitation. "It was a huge section of land, good for farming and grazing. The borders were clearly delineated by a river to one side, a tributary of that river on another and a forest on a third border. On the eastern and final border sat our home; a magnificent keep that was easily the envy of all the lords for miles around." The voice was still at Rish's ear. It didn't falter or change pace. It stayed with the scribe just as if a bird were sitting on his shoulder telling the tale. As an experiment, Rish covered the assaulted ear with his free hand. "Moving into our new home was an adventure, though." The voice was still right at Rish's ear despite his hand. It wasn't muffled at all. He dropped his hand down to his side. "How is this being done?" he wondered. "And why was I chosen for this prank?" He shook his head in frustration and sped up his pace a bit. "The property did not just magically appear for our benefit. It had recently belonged to another lord who had fallen out of favor with our monarch and so was forcibly removed but a few sennights before our arrival. He was forced to another holding, but it was less than half the size of his original. It was all very political and quite frankly beyond my understanding and interest. Such things were more in my older brothers' and my father's arena of interest." Rish descended a flight of stairs and headed into the section where the keep's guards were headquartered. After a few strides, Rish noticed the voice had ceased. He slowed his pace and eventually stopped. He could hear some talking -- normal talking, not the monotone drone of the spirit -- coming from the guard's ready room just a few doors down the hall. "Has he given up?" wondered Rish hopefully. "Where are you going, Rish?" asked the spirit. Rish jumped, nearly dropping his candle. He clenched his jaw and balled his free hand up into a tight fist. "Damn him!" he thought. Rish didn't answer, but resumed his march to see the guards. He reached the ready room and entered. Inside, four men could be seen in the steady glow of a lantern. One was seated on a bench with his head down on a table, apparently asleep. Another was next to him idly carving the table top with a dagger. The remaining two were standing on the other side of the table deep in conversation. No one noticed Rish's entrance. "Rish. Rish, listen to me. I only have until dawn to talk to you." "Why? What will happen at dawn?" The three awake guards looked at Rish; the one with the dagger was startled while the two conversing just seemed curious. "What did you say?" asked the guard with the dagger. He stood up, sheathed his dagger and approached Rish while the other two went back to their conversation. The sleeping guard never budged. "I will lose my ability to talk to you," said the spirit. Rish studied the young guard for signs that he had heard the ghost. The guard just rubbed his left eye, stood before Rish, and waited for an answer. "Can you hear him?" Rish asked the guard. The guard looked around uncertainly. "Who? Them?" he asked, pointing at the two talking guards. "No," Rish replied then held a hand up to hush the guard, just as the guard was about to speak. He waited a moment, concentrating on listening for the spirit. The spirit kept silent. "Speak, prankster. Let this guard in on your little joke," he commanded. "This is no joke, Rish," said the ghost. "I am trying to tell you of your past and you are here wasting time. Return to your chambers so that I may continue." Rish turned his free hand palm up and gave the guard a look as if to say, "Well?" The guard narrowed his eyes and shook his head slowly. "You didn't hear that just now?" asked Rish in disbelief. "A loud monotone voice talking about wasting time?" "I'm afraid not." The guard then raised his voice a bit and glanced over at the other guards as if to get their attention. "You're the Lord Chronicler, aren't you?" Something about the guard's tone alerted Rish that this man thought something was funny and he wanted to share it with his fellow guards. "Yes, I am, young man," Rish said imperiously. "I am seeking your assistance in tracking down someone who has invaded the privacy of my bed chamber and is insistent upon playing an elaborate prank on me." "Jole, Bantu, come here. The Lord Chronicler needs our help," said the guard to his buddies. Rish could hear the intentional emphasis the man put on "Lord Chronicler." The men walked over to Rish; one of them was trying to hide a smirk. "Who is this person? What does he look like?" asked the first guard. "I don't know him and I don't know what he looks like," explained Rish. "I was awakened by a voice telling me it is my dead father come to tell me of my past. It is obviously not my father. It is some fool thinking it funny to play tricks on an old man in the middle of the night." Rish unflinchingly stared at the young guard as if he were a wayward apprentice. He silently dared the guard to joke about the voice. "Are you hearing the voice right now?" asked the smiling guard who was still trying to hide his mirth. Rish took a moment to size the man up before responding. These men obviously thought the entire situation was just the wild imagination of an old man. Their eyes were full of disbelief and they were each barely containing their laughter. "At the moment, no," said Rish. "But I did hear it when I first entered this room." "What was the voice telling you?" chimed in the third guard as he nudged his partner playfully as if to tell him, "Can't wait to hear this one." "It was telling me that idiots like you need to be shoveling manure rather than be trusted to guard the duke's home," snapped Rish. All three guards paused uncertainly for a moment then roared shamelessly with laughter. Rish opened his mouth to fire off another retort but instead shook his head, shut his mouth, and turned around. He realized he would not be getting anything reasonable out of these men. Rish stepped out of the room and heard among the guffaws one of the guards holler at him, "Maybe it's the gong farmer calling you back into the sewers." Fresh gales of laughter followed that one. Rish's face flushed with the heat of embarrassment and anger. Tales of Rish being found in a very compromising position in the company of the keep's insane waste chute cleaner were well known by nearly everyone in the keep and probably half of Dargon itself. Now this little incident would undoubtedly make its way through the keep in just a few bells' time too, thought Rish. Rish was tempted to walk quickly -- almost run -- down the hall, but he forced himself to walk at a normal pace. He might be the butt of a tasteless joke, but he would not be chased away like a whipped dog. Rish turned a corner and exhaled long and slow. He could feel the hot redness of his face fading, but his jaw felt sore from having clenched it so hard and he was gripping the candlestick holder tight enough for it to be painful to his old, bony fingers. "Well, spirit, you have my full attention now," announced Rish with anger heavy in his voice. "I am now on a mission to reveal your horrid prank for what it is." His only answer was the soft whispering of his own feet on the stone floor. "Speak up now!" hollered Rish. His impotent fury was mounting higher. He reached his room and shoved the door open, stepped inside and slammed it shut behind him without slowing his step. He marched directly to his writing desk and with movements exaggerated by his anger, he assembled his writing materials. "Are you afraid to face me now that your joke has run its course? Have you had all the laughs a 'spirit' can handle for one night? I am ready for you now." Rish uprighted the stool he had knocked over earlier and settled himself onto it. He sat quietly for a few moments, composing the words he wanted before committing them to paper. Once he had it all organized, he dipped his quill into the ink and began writing an account of what had taken place so far that evening. He wrote fast and yet in a tidy, small script, pausing only to re-dip his quill. He wrote down everything in detail to include his own reactions and thoughts. Even the confrontation with the guards was recorded without editing; Rish would never consider changing or deleting facts, even if they were embarrassing to him. Menes slipped by while Rish busily wrote. There was no sign, verbal or otherwise, of the spirit. Rish finally caught up with the present time in his writing by quoting himself as having said, "I am ready for you now." Rish put down the quill then flexed his writing fingers while reviewing his work. He nodded in satisfaction, picked the quill up and added, "I have not heard from the 'spirit' since returning from --" "Apparently the previous lord's departure was very quick," said the spirit suddenly, startling Rish yet again and causing him to smear a blob of ink in the middle of writing a word. "Either that or there was not much room where the lord was moving to, because there were furnishings and decorations still about the place. However, they were all smashed, torn, and mutilated beyond any sort of use. The old master was obviously not happy with his loss of land and station and had left these pieces as obvious signs of his rage." "Stop!" commanded Rish. "I have some questions for you to answer before you continue." "Another touchy matter was the serfs working the lands," droned on the voice. "When we rode in, the reception was icy. As we passed the farms and huts the peasants stopped to stare at us with eyes filled with venomous hatred. So far as we knew, these people knew nothing of us, but they still showed a silent malice that went beyond what rowdy mobs could possibly do. Our buoyant morale at moving up in station in this land deflated mightily." "You don't seem to understand," Rish interrupted. "Your tale means nothing to me since I do not believe in you. Prove to me who you are and I might record the rest of your story." The argument seemed valid from Rish's point of view, but apparently the spirit didn't see it that way. "There were no servants for the keep either," went on the spirit. "And the few personal ones we had with us were not enough to man such a residence. So my father had my brothers and me round up a few of the serfs residing nearby. It was very difficult, but not in any way that I would have expected. They didn't put up an actual resistance so to speak, but neither did they oblige us easily. They merely stood about as if they didn't speak our tongue. They fell to the floor whenever we so much as reached out to grab one. We had to drag their limp bodies to the keep and had to stand guard over them lest they simply walk away when unattended." Rish ground his teeth in frustration. He sprinkled some sand over the ink blob he had made earlier and scrubbed away the errant mark. The voice was very annoying. It felt as if someone had their lips all but pressed up against his right ear. It was irritating like a mosquito could be when it buzzed about the head. What was even worse was the droning quality of the voice. Without emotion or inflection or even natural pauses, it was hard at times to determine the meaning of some of what was said. The spirit was going on about how the previous lord had warned all the serfs that their new lord would be cruel, dangerous and bloodthirsty. Rish had to shake his head to snap his attention back to the tale. "My father was wise enough not to immediately punish the serfs for their foolishness. After all, they were just reacting to their previous lord's warnings and wouldn't think any different until such warnings were proven to be false. He showed the peasants kindness, fairness and loyalty. It took time but eventually their attitude started to turn around, even though there were plenty that still acted like rabid shivarees, ready to strike in the most insidious ways at the slightest provocation. "After the initial struggle, the tensions and conflict settled down enough to allow for the household to be set up properly. With my brothers handling most of the work, I took it upon myself to read and write and simply observe the world. I found the arts fascinating and in direct opposition to my feelings on running the land and dealing with politics." "Fool," said Rish. "What kind of prankster are you? You are making yourself out to be a complete idiot. Why not tell me you are some war hero or high ranking noble instead of this ridiculous fop of a son? This tale is boring and torturous to hear." The spirit paused for a moment and Rish hoped that the spirit had taken note of him and would get angry enough to reveal itself. However, the ghost resumed its story and Rish groaned in response. "Caravan wagons loaded with goods had to pass through the old lord's lands before getting to us and so often the caravan was redirected, ransacked or held up for long periods of time." "How old are you, prankster?" asked Rish. He tried to talk over the spirit's voice, but the ghost kept right on going without pause. "It got so bad that my father had to hire guards of his own to supplement the caravans'." "Why is it I can't see you?" Rish went on challenging. "Don't ghosts usually appear in some physical form?" "I loved to talk with these guards when they had escorted the caravan safely through. I would often write about their exploits. I would stay up late into the night, writing feverishly by feeble candlelight my own embellished versions of these adventures." "What happened to you when you died? Tell me of your afterlife, if you can." "My brothers hated me and my father barely tolerated having me at the dinner table." "I will not be ignored! Your tale is going unheard and is not being recorded. You are failing in your purpose!" "I tried not to let it bother me though. I left the castle at every opportunity and in foul weather stayed in my chambers soaking up the heat from my fireplace while I wrote of happier places and times from my imagination." Rish gave up on the direct approach. His candle was burning low, so he lit a new one and with it in hand proceeded to give his room a thorough inspection. The voice buzzed on without pause about discovering a fair maiden, or maybe the woman had found him, or possibly he already knew her but was just now discovering feelings for her. Rish wasn't even bothering to keep track of what was being said now. He focused his concentration through his aging eyes, which needed all the concentration he had; things at a distance had become more and more blurry in recent years. Movement caught the scribe's attention. Just on the edge of the candle's illumination Rish caught the barest shift in a shadow. He could just make out a hole in a brick along the floor. It looked as if about a quarter of the brick was gone and Rish thought he had seen something move within that opening. "I've found you!" thought Rish in satisfaction. With swift, confident steps, Rish walked over to the hole. He stopped there and listened to the ghost for a moment to see if it was aware of his discovery. "I was confident my father would not notice. He was so involved in the running of his land and in the growing conflict with our neighbors that I felt no fear of discovery. My brothers were taking up arms. There were clashes amongst our own peasants; some were still loyal to their past lord and others had wisely sided with my father. Things that had never really settled into a routine descended into chaos. My father's nerves were on edge and the entire household had the atmosphere of one under siege. "This was in such contrast to what I felt within my heart. Love is so bright as to shine through the darkest of times and mine burned like a field afire, high, bright and heated, fed to even greater fury by the very fact that our love was forbidden. My father would surely sever my head himself if he knew what kept me from descending into the hell our lives were becoming." Rish rolled his eyes and shook his head in disgust. Pursuing forbidden love during a family crisis was irresponsible and irrational. Rish knew that he had brought honor and respect to his family with his present station as Lord Chronicler. He would have never allowed lust to creep into his life; he had always been determined to achieve the highest status possible. Rish was reaching his tolerance level very quickly. The voice was now actually hurting his ear. His left ear heard only a faint echo of what his right ear was getting in full force, causing him to feel a bit unbalanced. He stared at the hole in the wall a moment longer and detected more movement. "This fool's teary story is about to end," he thought. He slowly lowered down to his bony knees and set the candle just off to the hole's side. He again listened to the narrative for any signs the ghost had noticed his movement. "We kissed passionately. It might have been our last for all we knew and hearing movement nearby we darted off in separate directions so as not to raise any suspicions," droned on the voice. Rish frowned and bent down to be on eye level with the opening. He could hear scratching and crunching with his left ear but failed to make out anything by sight other than indistinct shadows. He shoved three fingers inside, all that would fit, but couldn't reach anything; the brick was too thick. He was determined though and tried to pry more of the brick free. A flash of pain suddenly laced his fingertips and Rish yanked them out. Blood flowed freely from his index and middle fingers. Something squeaked from within the hole and a rat thrust its head out like a grumpy little bear defending its cubs. It eyed Rish angrily and gnashed its teeth before disappearing back inside. Rish jumped to his feet as soon as his initial shock wore off. He mentally kicked himself for not thinking of the vermin that infested the keep before wiggling his fingers in a hole in the wall. "One cold night, when the first snows fell, my father called me into his audience chamber. Surrounding him were my brothers. They all looked somber, with downcast eyes. I was very nervous, as I had no real idea what could be happening. I knew our enemy had been particularly voracious of late, but I didn't know quite to what extent. "I stepped up to my father and he gave me a cold, haggard stare. His cheeks had become so sunken and his eyes so murky. He shoved a scroll at me and told me to take it and depart immediately to the neighboring lord. I was to present it to him and wait for a reply. "I took the scroll hesitantly and tucked it away in my tunic, all the while uncertain of what was going on. Why was my father sending me on this errand when he would typically send one of my more able brothers?" "Sending you to your death most likely," mumbled Rish. He held his bleeding fingers tightly wrapped in his robe and glared about the room, surveying it for real clues as to the origin of the voice. The voice was doing much more than just irritating him now. It was offending him. Its very persistence at telling him this wholly unbelievable story burned Rish to the core. "I was nervous, but dared not question my father. I suspected something was terribly wrong about this whole errand. I left the hall and prepared for the trip. It would take the better part of two days to reach my destination. "My eldest brother had one of the few worthy steeds for such an occasion, so I took it without a thought. I rode out into the dark with a preoccupied mind. "The wind was cold and determined to freeze me to my very heart. I ached to see my love again. She would warm my heart, my body, my very soul. It was not to be, though. I would have to deal with just the faint ambient glow that memories with her induced in me. "I pushed on through the day, afraid all the while of what I might meet. It was all a gray gloom, though. No living thing broke the landscape. The trees stood stark, naked without even a coating of the snows. I wept for the beauty of spring and ..." "I don't care if you're a ghost or not," muttered Rish. "But you are definitely not my father." The spirit's meandering, pitiful story was completely at odds with Rish's steadfast devotion to unembellished facts. His real father had been a devoted, determined master of scribes; completely unlike this idiot rambling on about his 'feelings.' "I am a Vogel," Rish said to the spirit, even though he knew it would ignore him. "Nothing you can say will convince me otherwise." Olat was nervous and according to his partner, Trulan, he had every reason to be. Olat was taking breakfast to his new master, Master Vogel, and according to Trulan, it was a task requiring strength of heart and fleetness of mind. Olat and Trulan were young scribes apprenticed to the strict taskmaster Rish Vogel. Master Vogel was notorious for attention to detail, strict obedience to orders, and hard -- really hard -- work. He was not known for being pleasant in the morning. Trulan had confided in his rotund charge stories of young apprentices returning from Master Vogel's chamber in tears after the old man had drilled them relentlessly about every insignificant detail of bookkeeping and letters. Thus the hallway where Master Vogel resided was referred to as the Hall of Tears. "How could something like that make one cry?" Olat had asked in disbelief. Trulan had just widened his eyes and shrugged. "You'll see ... you'll see." Olat was in the Hall of Tears now, carrying a laden breakfast tray in unsteady hands. The rattling of crockery echoed softly off the walls. Olat looked over his shoulder to make sure Trulan was still following him. Olat had begged and pleaded with Trulan to come along for support. Maybe Trulan was just trying to scare poor flubbery Olat as a joke on the new boy, but the older boy was so serious when telling his tale that Olat couldn't help but believe him. Trulan was faithfully tagging along, just a few paces behind him carrying the lantern. Trulan made shooing motions with his free hand and whispered, "Hurry up!" Two more doors on the right and Olat was there. He sucked in a nervous breath and glanced once more at Trulan. Trulan just stared impatiently at the younger boy. Olat balanced the tray on one hand and raised the other to knock on the solid wooden door. He knocked twice quickly and immediately a muffled bellow rang from inside. He stood frozen and wide-eyed, staring at the distorted, menacing shadows playing on the wood. His free hand was frozen in its upward position. The hand holding the serving tray felt suddenly weak and cold, barely able to support the tray's weight. He squeaked once and took a hesitant step back. "Calm down," said Trulan. Olat just swallowed hard and concentrated on not dropping the tray. The door was suddenly flung wide open. Framed within the doorway stood a very irritated Lord Chronicler. But instead of his master’s obvious fury, the first thing to stand out to Olat was a blue haze just behind his master’s right shoulder. It slowly swirled like a wispy, round cloud and just barely perceptible within the mist was -- a face? But Olat couldn’t be sure. Olat stared at it in supernatural fear. The strange mist immediately brought to his mind a ghost story his father liked to tell by the fireplace during the Night of Souls. The ghost in his father's story would roam in search of the lonely and depressed, and like a tick on a dog, fasten itself to its host. Then it would slowly sap the spirit from its victim, leaving the victim feeling weaker and weaker until he had no more will to live. The victim would then commit suicide and the spirit would move on to find another sad soul. There was no doubt in Olat's mind that he was looking at a real, bona fide spirit, possibly the very one his father had told him about. Master Vogel stood just staring at Olat with barely controlled fury. Olat didn't even notice. He stood quaking in the hallway while fearfully clutching the breakfast tray. "Olat brought you breakfast," calmly stated Trulan. Master Vogel's eyes shifted to the older boy. Olat wondered if Trulan noticed the apparition, but he couldn't bring himself to turn his head to look at the other boy. What if the ghost tried to get him? What was it doing to his master? It looked like its lips were moving. Its eyes were staring straight ahead and were bulging and lifeless. Then the mist swirled and the face disappeared only to return a moment later. "Breakfast," Master Vogel finally mumbled to himself. "Yes. May we take it into your chambers?" asked Trulan. "It's almost time, then," said Rish, completely ignoring the question. "Is your morning routine on schedule, Olat?" Rish looked expectantly at Olat. The boy just stared dumbly at the mist. Master Vogel looked back over his shoulder to see what his apprentice was looking at and then looked back at the boy in suspicion. Olat swallowed hard. His master had just stuck his face right into the mist but didn't seem to know it. "Do you see something, boy?" asked Master Vogel slowly. Olat tore his eyes from the ghost and looked his master in the eyes. "He doesn't see it!" he thought. Olat's mind went blank. Tears welled up and threatened to pour down his cheeks. All he wanted to do was run away. He wanted to leave this spot, but couldn't. His feet were cold and immobile with fear. "Olat!" whispered Trulan. "Speak up." Olat squeaked but didn't answer. Trulan took over. He stepped forward between the frozen boy and Master Vogel and swiped the tray from Olat. "Yes, we are on schedule." Olat sucked in a sudden breath as he realized Trulan didn't see the spirit either. "Am I just imagining it?" he thought. Master Vogel tilted his head a bit to see Olat behind Trulan. He looked at the boy with narrowed eyes. Olat couldn't take his master's scrutiny or the fear the mist struck deep in his gut and so averted his eyes to stare intently at the back of Trulan's head. "Good," said Master Vogel finally to Trulan. He paused a moment as if considering whether to ask another question. Then he asked, "Have either of you noticed anything ... unusual since arriving here?" He looked behind Trulan at Olat again. Olat's eyes, as if of their own accord, flicked over to the mist and Olat saw it still hovering by Master Vogel's head with the eerie face fading in and out of sight. Trulan thought for a moment and said, "No." Master Vogel continued to look at Olat. The boy quickly shook his head in the negative and went back to studying the back of Trulan's head. Master Vogel ground his teeth and sighed heavily. "Trulan, go to the library and find anything you can on the family name Hadmes." Trulan nodded and held up the breakfast tray. "Your breakfast, Master Vogel?" "No. Take it with you to the library. I have no time for it now." Without waiting for the boys to leave, Master Vogel went back into his room and shut the heavy door with a hollow bang. "What is wrong with you?" Trulan hissed at Olat. "Is your mind still your own, or have the spirits snatched it from you?" Tears finally poured freely down Olat's face at the mention of spirits. He knew what he had seen, even if no one else had seemed to notice it. Snot seeped from his nose and he swiped at it with his sleeve. "Let's go," said Trulan in disgust. "*You're* going to do the work of looking for the Hadmes family." Trulan gestured at the lantern he had set on the floor earlier. "Pick it up and come on." Olat sniffled, brushed some of the tears from his eyes and said, "Okay. I ... I'm sorry, Trulan." "You're going to be real sorry if you keep acting like this. Did you see how mad he was? You're going to be copying the flora and fauna books for sure." Olat winced. The other scribes had shown him the impossibly huge volumes just the other day. Master Vogel always made any scribe who displeased him copy from the books for bells on end. Trulan walked down the hall. Olat picked up the lantern and slowly turned his head to look at the Lord Chronicler's door. He imagined a grotesque face popping out through the wood to get him. The shadows cast by the lantern's bars shifted a bit as if to accommodate his fear, making Olat squeal and charge after Trulan. Fresh tears blurred his sight as he ran down the hall: the Hall of Tears. Rish closed his door and tried to make sense of his own scattered thoughts. The spirit's unceasing narration drove overpoweringly into his mind now, making it hard to concentrate. Had the boy seen something? Rish couldn't be sure. It was obvious Trulan had not suspected anything was awry, but Olat had acted so scared and had refused to look at Rish directly. The boy had only recently begun working for him and so was too new for Rish to read. "I was escorted into the main hall. A bit roughly I might add, especially after a long, hard trek such as the one I had just endured. These fools thought they were so royal and all-powerful. I could see the rips in their flowing capes and the stains on their ugly green stockings. They were just barely of a higher stature than the servants that cooked their meals and cleaned their shabby home." "No, there was nothing to fear but me," thought Rish. "The boy was just frightened by me." He shook his head in an attempt to focus his attention back on the ghost. "Dawn is fast approaching, fool," taunted Rish. "Get to the point of your tale and be gone." "I presented my father's letter to the lord," said the ghost. "I stood tall and proud before these buffoons. As the lord read the letter, I composed in my mind the story I would write about this trip and these pretentious fools. As a matter of fact, I thought I should even edit some of the material I had already written -- the stories about the caravans -- as I believed I had made these men entirely too impressive in my writings, when in fact they weren't impressive at all." Rish sat down at his writing desk and resigned himself to enduring the last of the spirit's tale. His bones ached and his eyes felt weary and strained. "I was interrupted from my reverie by a sudden laughing outburst from the lord. 'A truce sealed with blood!' he said happily. 'I accept! I accept!' "I was mystified by that comment about blood. What blood? What was this man so happy about? The lord then pointed to me and said to those assembled, 'His own father has offered his head as part of a truce. I take this man's life and leave the old idiot and his lands alone. What a deal!' "I must have turned white with shock. The lord took one look at me and said something about the look on my face being worth the whole past year of misfortunes. All I could think about was my love, Marlene. Father must have found out about my sister and me. We had been so careful, but now that I look back on it, we were so stupid to believe we would get away with our affair. So stupid ..." The ghost had finally stopped after what must have been nearly a bell of non-stop talking. The silence felt strange to Rish, like he had been standing next to a raging waterfall that had abruptly run out of water. "Stupid," agreed Rish with a nod. He snorted, stood up and stretched. "It took several chops to sever my head," continued the ghost. Rish bowed his head and rubbed his temples. Rish hoped this fool was going to be true to his word and leave at dawn. It should be only a matter of menes before the dawn bell would ring. "Rish," said the voice and the scribe paused massaging his head. Something about the voice caused him to stop. There was still no emotion or change in volume, but Rish could sense the spirit was pleading for attention. There was some feeling behind the word that came across without any real sound. Rish was amazed to look at his arm and find goose bumps. "Rish, you must understand and believe what I am telling you. This is a story of utmost importance to you. It is ..." Rish rubbed the crawling skin of his arms and stared at a stone in the wall before him as if it was the speaker. "... it is your history I am telling you, Rish. It is where you come from and what you are. You are my son. Only by the grace of good health and appropriate composition were you permitted to live. Your mother, my sister and lover, was kept locked in a cellar for months and freed by our brothers only under the condition of her fleeing as fast and far as she could." "You lie," said Rish in an even tone that matched the spirit's emotionless voice. "I have given up all to tell you this. Rish, I needed to tell you this. Your mother would wish you to know the truth, and I owe her so much for the pain she endured. Take what you now know and hold it close to your heart. Live for us, Rish. Live for us." The dawn bell finally rang and Rish lowered his hands to his lap. He listened anxiously for the spirit, trying to determine if the voice had made its final exit. He sat with his back straight, his hands folded neatly in his lap, and his eyes staring unfocused at the wall before him. Eventually the quiet around him slowly gave way to the increasing activity of the keep. Distant doors slammed, unintelligible conversations drifted just on the edge of hearing, and more and more footsteps could be heard going up and down the hall just outside Rish's door. Rish took a deep breath, let it slowly out and stood up. "Well done, prankster," he said aloud. His statement had a sense of finality to it, like a decision made after much deliberation. "You have stumped an old, weary man. Try this trick again, though ..." He paused for effect. "... and the final laugh will be on you." Rish adjusted his belt, smoothed out his robe, and then opened his door. It was time to begin the day. The library was suddenly quiet, causing Olat to sneak a peek over his shoulder. The cause of the silence was Master Vogel's arrival. The dozen other apprentices in the room had immediately seen the thunder in their master's expression and so had scattered to avoid his wrath. Olat snatched his head back around to the front and studied the book on his desk without really seeing it. He mumbled a few quick prayers -- one each to the variety of deities popular in Dargon, just so he was covered -- and made every effort not to look in the Lord Chronicler's direction. Or rather the ghost's direction, if it was still hovering over Master Vogel's shoulder. After a few moments, the room was still quiet. Olat was having a tough time keeping his eyes locked on the _Dargon Land Owners' Lineage_ text before him. Each and every passing mene was slow, painful agony. "There is no ghost. There is no ghost," the boy thought to himself over and over. "Oh, please let there be no ghost." Someone touched his shoulder and Olat squeaked fearfully. He jerked around, tearing a page in the book in the process because he had been clutching it so tightly. Staring at Olat like an ancient, stone gargoyle was Master Vogel. The hard, displeased look on the man's face demanded attention like no spoken word could. Olat shook in fear. He couldn't see the horrible mist hovering anywhere, but Master Vogel's eyes were so stern that Olat didn't dare look anywhere but directly into his eyes. Master Vogel looked down at the torn page. Olat took the opportunity to glance to each side of the man's bald head. No ghost. No strange cloud. Nothing out of the ordinary at all. His tension released a notch or two. "You're going to copy that entire torn page, Olat," said Master Vogel. He spoke slowly and quietly, as if to make his point clear. "Neatly and without mistakes, understood? You are careless. You are much too easily distracted. Such attributes will make you a poor scribe." Olat just nodded dumbly. "Pride and honor, Olat," Master Vogel continued. "They are what matter. Take pride in your work. Your performance always reflects upon yourself and your family. Honor your family heritage by adding your own positive works to it. Do you understand, boy?" Olat had no idea what Master Vogel was rambling on about. All he knew was the ghost was gone and he was in trouble. Honor, pride, family ... the words were like chaff in the wind to the young apprentice. But to appease his master, he bobbed his head in the affirmative. Master Vogel nodded back and removed his hand from Olat's shoulder. "Work hard, boy, so that you may honor your family name as I have the Vogel name." He put an extra emphasis on his name as if reaffirming a point. Master Vogel turned to walk away and Olat quickly asked, "Master, should I continue to look for the Hadmes family in these records?" "No," said Master Vogel without turning back around. "It's no longer important, boy. Go on with your other work." Olat sighed in relief. Researching family records was so mind numbing. He watched Master Vogel walk through the library towards the door and studied him for any signs of the ghost. None. No signs at all. He sighed once more and stood to fetch some paper and quills for the copying he had to do. "At least the Lord Chronicler didn't mention the flora and fauna books," thought Olat happily. ========================================================================