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 DargonZine                                     Distributed:  7/20/2002
 Volume 15, Number 5                            Circulation:        679
========================================================================

                                Contents

 Editorial                    Ornoth D.A. Liscomb
 Malice 2                     P. Atchley             Firil 5, 1018
 A Matter of Pride 1          Nicholas Wansbutter    Sy, 1009
 Spirit of a Woman 2          Rena Deutsch           Deber 2, 995

========================================================================
 DargonZine is the publication vehicle of the Dargon Project, a
 collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet.
 We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project.
 Please address all correspondence to <dargon@dargonzine.org> or visit
 us on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/, or our FTP site
 at ftp://users.primushost.com/members/d/a/dargon/. Issues and public
 discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon.

 DargonZine 15-5, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright July, 2002 by
 the Dargon Project. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb <ornoth@rcn.com>,
 Assistant Editor: Jon Evans <godling@covad.net>. 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
                            <ornoth@rcn.com>

     Unlike last month, when I had to fill you in on all the details of
our most recent Writers' Summit, there's really no pressing news to talk
about this month. Sure, I could prattle on about how significant it is
that this issue contains our 350th Dargon story, but after 18 years,
talking about such milestones starts getting redundant. Or I could
manufacture some topic of discussion and use this space as my personal
soapbox to disseminate my views.
     However, this month I'll be lenient and limit myself to simply
introducing the contents of this issue. We begin with the continuation
of P. Atchley's "Malice" series, which I'm sure you'll find engaging.
That is followed by the first half of Nicholas Wansbutter's "A Matter of
Pride", which continues to follow the hero of his first series, "A
Matter of Honour", printed in the first half of 2000 (DargonZine Volume
13). The issue is completed with the second chapter in Rena Deutsch's
"Spirit of a Woman", which began earlier in the year.
     And looking forward, we've already begun putting together our next
issue, which will continue the "Malice" and "A Matter of Pride" series.
You can expect it to be distributed over the weekend of August 11th. So
hopefully we'll see you again in just three weeks!

========================================================================

                                 Malice
                                 Part 2
                             by P. Atchley
                        <dpartha@surfindia.com>
                             Firil 5, 1018

          Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 15-4

     Donato, a young man who worked as manservant to Burian, son of
Einar, a gem-merchant in Dargon, hurried down the Street of Travellers.
He was concerned, for he had received a message from his sister's
employer, Ballard Tamblebuck, proprietor of the Inn of the Serpent where
she worked as a waitress, that she needed help. The bald, no-details
message had cost him a sleepless night and he had set off as early as he
could.
     He entered a large, dirty building and went up the flight of stairs
two at a time to the top floor. The staircase opened onto a long
corridor with doors on either side; Donato strode to the very last door
and knocked. No one answered, and a few moments later, he tried the door
handle. It gave, and he opened the door and stepped into a small room
with a fireplace in one wall. An unmade bed was pushed against one wall,
and a skylight let in a little sun. A countertop against the far wall
had some utensils stacked haphazardly on it; the cupboard beneath had
one door open.
     In the center of the room, a small red-haired woman was retching
over a bucket. The similarity in features between the two hinted at
their familial relationship: they were brother and sister. Donato leaned
against the door jamb and watched her. He wondered if she had indulged
in one tankard too many; perhaps that was why Ballard was worried about
her. If that were the case, he would certainly give Raizel a strong,
older-brotherly talk.
     She patted the ground next to her, feeling for the small bowl of
water sitting there and proceeded to wash her face and rinse her mouth.
When at last she turned and saw him, she gave a start, one hand on her
chest. "Donato, what are you doing here?"
     "Ballard sent me a message and asked me to check on you. Said you
were awfully upset about something last night," he stared at her
narrowly. "Raizel, what's wrong?"
     She rose slowly from the ground but did not meet his eyes.
"Nothing's wrong. I was just a bit tired, is all."
     "And that?" he nodded to the bucket. "Why were you throwing up?"
     Raizel turned away quickly, one hand holding her mouth closed, the
other at her stomach, and did not answer. She heaved dryly into the
bucket and when she was done, she said, "I just had something bad to eat
last night."
     Donato wondered if that were the truth, but she had never lied to
him in the past and he was reasonably certain that she would not start
now. "Come sit," he said gently. "Let me make you some breakfast. I wish
I'd known. Isla made fried bread; I would've brought some for you." He
heard her retch and turned back to see her heaving into the bucket
again.
     At length she said, "Just some weak tea."
     For a few moments, there was silence except for the chink of
utensils as he worked. The fireplace actually had wood laid for a fire,
which didn't surprise Donato; his sister was a neat housewife. At length
he poured the tea he had brewed into a mug and brought it to Raizel who
was sitting on the bed. She accepted it and cautiously smelled the
contents before she took a small sip.
     He waited until she finished half the tea before he spoke. "Want to
tell me what's wrong?"
     "Donato," she said, and then paused. "Donato, you can't tell me
what to do because you're only my brother, not my father."
     His eyes narrowed at her opening statement, and he was absolutely
sure that whatever she had to say would be something he did not want to
hear. "Want to tell me what's wrong?"
     "Not really." She licked her lips and put the mug down on the
ground, still not meeting his eyes.
     He did not answer, experience having taught him that when a woman
started a conversation with an irrelevant preamble, the main topic was
going to be something unpleasant. It didn't matter who the woman was --
sister, friend, lover, or housekeeper, they all seemed to think that an
important discussion should be preceded by an unimportant introduction
that restated a fact that everyone knew.
     Raizel began to pleat the rumpled bedclothes. "It shouldn't matter
to you what I do, straight?"
     "What are you planning to do?" he asked, sighing in resignation.
Raizel had always been unpredictable and even though he, as her older
brother, was responsible for her, she fought him at every step if he
tried to guide her ways. Most times, he lost.
     "Don't you think children are nice?"
     He was totally confused, almost certain that he'd missed the point
of the conversation. She had switched topics on him already. "Raizel,
what do children have to do with whatever you're planning to do?"
     "That's sort of the point, Donato. I'm planning to have one." She
met his eyes then.
     "Planning?" Donato stared at her for a moment before it dawned on
him that she had been vomiting because she was pregnant, not because she
had drunk one tankard too many. "I'll kill him," he swore. "Who is he?
I'll kill him. Who's the father? Does he think my sister is a whore?
I'll kill him," he repeated. "I don't care who he is. Who is he, Raizel?
Tell me, tell me now!" Unable to sit still, he rose and began to pace.
     "Don't you dare," Raizel snapped. "I wouldn't even have told you,
but it's hardly something I could keep hidden from you like -- well, it
doesn't matter."
     "Tell me who he is!" He threw the words over his shoulder, pacing
back and forth.
     "What does it matter who he is?"
     Donato took another turn around the room. "It matters who he is
because I'll make him marry you! And I can't do that unless you tell me
who it is."
     "I don't know if I want to marry him."
     "Raizel, please don't say that. Think of the baby. You don't want
people to call your child a bastard, do you?"
     She snorted. "I'll raise my child properly. And if, in spite of
that, someone calls him a bastard, he may deserve it!"
     "Raizel! You don't know what you're saying!"
     "Stop shouting," she said testily. "I can hear you, and I know what
I'm saying. If you don't want to listen to what I'm saying, I won't talk
to you."
     He folded instantly, knowing that Raizel was capable of doing
exactly as she threatened. "Listen to me," he pleaded. "If you won't
think of yourself or the baby, think of the father. Think of how he'll
feel if you refuse to marry him."
     She laughed at that. "I'm pretty sure he won't want to marry me,
and I'm more than sure his father would rather give me a bag full of
gemstones than let me marry his precious Burian." As Donato's expression
changed, she grimaced.
     "Burian!? You know Burian?" Donato felt his world crumbling; the
sister whom he had constantly sought to keep safe was beyond his
protection. He had always taken care to keep Burian, the man he worked
for, away from his home, because Burian was a man filled with vice: he
drank nothing but spirits all the time; he bedded any woman who was
willing, and he was as dishonest as ever a man could be. Donato, who had
refused to let Raizel visit him at the house where he worked lest she
meet Burian, had forgotten that Raizel had every opportunity to meet
Burian at the Serpent where she worked. When he had found out that she
knew Burian, Raizel had promised him she knew how to take care of
herself. He had even talked with Ballard and made the innkeeper promise
to keep an eye on Raizel. And now this! Donato turned, ready to go and
threaten Burian with a knife if he had to, in order to make him marry
Raizel.
     "Donato! Where are you going?" There was a real note of fear in
Raizel's voice, and she was clinging to his arm so tightly that he knew
there would be crescent-shaped nail marks when she let go.
     "To kill Burian, and maybe Tamblebuck as well, while I'm at it," he
growled, trying to dislodge her. "He was supposed to have been taking
care of you."
     "He didn't know! I swear, Donato, that Ballard didn't know; he
doesn't know!"
     "Stop screaming," he said, turning his face away slightly so that
his ears were away from her mouth, shuddering at the high pitch of her
voice.
     She obligingly lowered her voice, but continued to speak. "Ballard
doesn't know. It isn't his fault. And as for Burian, well, it does take
two, you know. Promise me you won't try to kill them or something
equally idiotish. Promise!"
     "Straight, straight! Get your nails away from me, witch!" He
couldn't shake her away and his arms hurt already.
     "Sorry." She took her hands away, and as she glimpsed the nail
marks on his arm, she gasped and smoothed them. "I'm sorry, Donato, but
it was your fault."
     "What?" He couldn't believe it. She had lain with Burian, of all
people -- Donato's gorge rose as he even thought about it. Now she
refused to marry the father of her child, and it was his fault! It was
exactly like Raizel to say something perfectly outrageous!
     "Well, if you hadn't gotten so mad --"
     He interrupted her, "I'm still mad and I'm still going to see
Burian and --"
     "You promised not to do anything foolish, and that includes getting
into a fight," she said, staring up at him with a pleading expression on
her face.
     "I did no such thing!" He knew he had not explicitly promised
anything, but Raizel had a terrible fear of fights. Their parents had
both been guards and frequently come home with black eyes, sore ribs,
and the occasional broken limb. Raizel had always hated it, and when
their mother had died in a fight, she had cried for days. Ever since
then, fights had scared her.
     Now she said firmly, "Well, you're not going out of here without
promising."
     "Oh, and are you going to stop me, radish?" The childish nickname
slipped out and he knew he would promise her what she wanted. He had
always protected her and she had needed more protection than most,
partly because of her small build but mostly because she acted first and
thought later. Consequences were not for Raizel; after all, he had
always been there to deal with them for her.
     He said, "Look, I promise I won't get into a fight."
     "Promise me you won't talk to Ballard or Burian about this," she
begged.
     "I promise I won't say a word to Ballard. But how can I not talk to
Burian? I work for him," he pointed out sweetly. And he refused to make
any further promises in spite of Raizel pleading with him. Although
after a while, she did seem to realize that she had gotten all the
concessions she was going to from him.

     That night, the Inn of the Serpent was almost overflowing and
Ballard looked around with satisfaction. The carders' tables were full,
and the rest of the crowd seemed the well-behaved kind. That was good,
because it meant he wouldn't have to break up any fights. Such fights
usually degenerated into free-for-alls and that was bad for the
strongbox. His eyes started a circuit round the common room and his
smile dipped a notch as he recognized Burian, seated at his usual center
table with two tankards before him. The boy seemed to be drinking deep.
Tamblebuck sighed. The waitresses, especially Raizel, always complained
when Burian drank too much.
     He continued to survey the room until his gaze came to the card
tables set up against the far wall opposite the staircase. A frown
replaced Tamblebuck's smile as he recognized one of the carders. It was
Ludovic, Burian's twin, playing with single-minded concentration at one
of the tables. Ludovic was a slender young man of medium height, and at
that moment, his brown eyes were focused completely upon his cards.
     "Ol's piss," Tamblebuck swore. Whenever the twins saw each other in
public, it usually ended in a loud disagreement. Rumor had it that they
were competing to become heir to their father's shop; although Ballard
did not normally give credence to rumors, this one had come from a
source he trusted, his friend Farquhar. Besides, he had noticed that the
arguments between the twins had become worse lately, almost always
ending in fisticuffs. Tamblebuck had, only the previous sennight, had to
throw Burian out when an argument between the two had erupted into a
brawl. By his tally, at least three patrons had taken advantage of the
melee that night to leave without paying for their drinks. It looked
like his hopes for a quiet evening were not going to be realized.
     "Deserae, give Burian as much as he can drink. The sooner he falls
flat on his face, the sooner I can throw him out," Tamblebuck said as
his daughter approached the bar.
     He handed her the drinks she asked for, and continued to observe
the room. Every now and then, people wandered in and Tamblebuck served
them absently, for he was waiting for the fight that he knew was sure to
come that night. After some time, Deserae smiled in his direction and
mouthed "good night" before going upstairs. Tamblebuck nodded to her, a
little surprised at the time. He hadn't realized it was that late and he
wondered if the evening would actually pass quietly.
     "You jug-bitten goat! I'll kill you."
     Tamblebuck turned sharply at the loud voice. The twins were
standing in fighting stance near the staircase. Ludovic's chair had been
overturned, and cards littered the table. The other three participants
were backing away from the impending struggle. He approached the twins
noiselessly and said, "Boys, you don't want to fight."
     "Ballard, you don't understand. He's getting married," Burian
wailed. "I'll kill him. Who do you think you are? I won't let you
inherit. Do you hear me, you thrice-cursed, plague-infected son of a
hyena? Do you hear me? I'll kill you."
     "Shut up. I will become the heir no matter what I have to do.
You're nothing but a drunk, and I'll kill you before I let you inherit."
     They closed with one another, Ludovic with both hands on his
brother's neck and Burian trying to pull them off.
     Tamblebuck watched, thinking that rumor had been right after all.
He was on the ready to intervene if necessary but as long as the fight
did not disrupt too much of his business, he was willing to let it go.
After all, he reasoned, a good fight would let off steam, and Ol knew
that the twins needed that badly enough. Although, he mused, he had
heard something in both their voices, something that marked this fight
as more serious than the ones he'd observed before. Was it that each
voice was pitched higher? Or perhaps it was that the words were sharper.
Whatever it was, he was fairly certain that there had been an underlying
urgency in the twins' voices. There was a glint of metal between the
two, and Tamblebuck moved forward quickly.
     "Help me!" he roared to one of the carders who was watching the
fight. Tamblebuck separated the twins and pushed Burian aside roughly,
but not before Ludovic had landed a punch to his twin's stomach. Burian,
his body pliant because of it, rolled backwards, hit a table, and
collapsed on the floor. The carder was holding Ludovic from behind when
Tamblebuck turned to face them.
     "I'll kill him," Ludovic muttered. "I'll --"
     "I know, I know: you'll kill him," Tamblebuck said. "Boys, I think
it's time for you two to go on home. Where're your shadows?"
     Donato stepped forward from the entry way saying, "I'm here; I'll
take both of them home."
     "Where's Karanat?" Tamblebuck was used to seeing the twins escorted
home by their manservants, although Ludovic was seldom so drunk that he
required the assistance of Karanat.
     "I will take them," Donato said again. "They will not fight now."
     "I don't need anyone's help," Ludovic said rudely, and stormed out
of the common room.
     Tamblebuck sighed. "What's with them? Lately it seems like they
mean what they say when they fight."
     "They do. If they could, they would kill each other," Donato said
expressionlessly. "I'll go now."
     Tamblebuck watched Donato drag the unconscious Burian into a chair
and throw some water in his face. Burian came awake, sputtering. Within
moments, both of them exited the inn, Burian leaning against Donato for
support. Tamblebuck turned, and saw a knife gleaming in the corner. He
sighed and picked it up; it must be Ludovic's -- the boy always carried
a knife. Tamblebuck looked around the room and then cursed under his
breath in annoyance. Just as he'd thought, two patrons had taken
advantage of the fight to disappear without paying.

     The following morning, Ludovic was shaving in his room. A loud
knock sounded from the door and he swore as he cut his chin.
     "Come," he said, patting away the blood that had welled up and
pooled at one end of the cut with an old rag. He glanced at the mirror
and straightened as he recognized his visitor, a short, dumpy woman
dressed in brown.
     "Iolanthe, what are you doing here?" Iolanthe was a woman who was
an herbalist with a gift for healing animals. Ludovic frequently took
her strays that he found, and other animals that were abandoned to die.
She cared for them, and sometimes they went back to their owners.
Ludovic supported her on his erratic gambling wins.
     "There's a horse in my yard," she began abruptly. "Someone has had
him whipped so bad that the weals are bloody. And his knees ..." She
shuddered, and Ludovic threw down his shaving knife and turned to her.
     "Ludovic, I need more cora and I need more oats; I want to make a
hot mash, and I need money." Her voice rose angrily toward the end of
her litany.
     "Calm down, Iolanthe," he said softly, reading her anger in her
narrowed eyes and pursed lips. Her body was stretched taut like the
strings of a lute. "You can help the horse, straight?"
     "Yes, I can." She took a deep breath and her face resumed its usual
indifferent expression. Ludovic marveled at it, because he could never
control his anger, much less to the extent of wiping the expression off
his face. Even though he and Iolanthe had been working together to help
animals for almost two years, he knew very little about her. Although he
wondered about her once in a while, he had never made the time to get to
know her beyond their work together in helping the animals.
     "I need money," she repeated. "I have been expecting some money for
helping a man care for his niece but I don't know when he's going to
give it to me. Meanwhile, I need the money now so that I can heal the
horse!"
     "Straight, let me think." Ludovic's game at the Serpent the
previous night had broken up because of a fight, and the winnings he had
been counting on were not available. "I could ask Father," he said
slowly.
     "I'll wait here," Iolanthe said immediately. "Go." When he
hesitated, she said again, "Go."
     Ludovic went slowly downstairs and into the dining room. "Father,"
he said, seeing Einar finishing up his breakfast.
     "Ludovic!" Einar looked up, a surprised expression on his face.
"You've only shaved one side."
     He grinned sheepishly, hoping that the sight of him with one side
shaved would put Einar in a good mood. It seemed that lately they fought
more often than not, and he was glad to see a smile on his father's face
directed at him. "Well, you see, Father, I'm going to. I will. I just
had to ask you something."
     Einar laughed. "Straight, what is it that's so important you forgot
you had only shaved one side?"
     Encouraged by his father's light demeanor, Ludovic decided to go
directly to the matter at hand. "Could I have some money, Father?"
     Einar threw down his napkin and rose, the smile gone as if wiped
away. "Money, money, money, is that all you ever think of? No. I will
not pay your gambling debts."
     "Father it's not --"
     "Well, if it's for another of your wretched animals, you're still
getting no money from me, you hear?"
     "Father --"
     Einar brushed past him and was gone before Ludovic could complete
his sentence. Ludovic stared after him, wondering where to get money,
unsurprised at his father's reaction. It had been a long time since he
had held any conversation with his father that didn't degenerate into an
argument. Their interactions had deteriorated from unpleasant to
downright acerbic ever since Einar had decided that Ludovic would marry
Jessamina.
     Ludovic sighed as he slowly climbed the stairs. He would worry
about that situation later. Right now, he needed to think of someone who
could lend him some money. When he was almost at the top, the door on
the left side of the landing opened and Donato, his brother's
manservant, came out. They nodded to each other and Ludovic stood on the
landing and watched Donato go downstairs.
     The thought gave birth to action. Ludovic was inside his brother's
rooms before his mind could think of arguments for or against. The horse
needed a hot mash; he needed to pay for it, and he would get the money
in whatever way he could. He headed straight to the small dresser on the
far side of the room. Snores sounded from the bed, and he knew that
Burian would never wake; he had seen how much Burian had drunk the
previous night.
     A few moments later he was back in his room, handing some money to
Iolanthe.
     "Thanks," she said. At the door, she paused and turned. "You know,
after I heal the horse, I can sell it. I could use the money for all the
supplies I don't have."
     He laughed. "Be sure to sell it to someone who'll take better care
of it. Need a hand with the horse?" He picked up his shaving knife again
and turned to the tiny mirror before him. "I have something to do this
morning, but I could come if you need help."
     "No, I can manage. Go gamble," she said with a smile as she left.

     Later that morning, Karanat, Ludovic's manservant, walked toward
his aunt's house on Murson Street. He was a sturdily built man with
broad shoulders; his nose curved sharply, a sign that it had been broken
at some time, and a tiny scar ran down one temple and across the eye. He
entered the house without knocking.
     "Oh, Karanat, I'm so glad you came!" His aunt, Francesa, threw
herself into his arms and began to weep on his chest.
     Karanat patted her back absently and threw a quick glance around
the room. It was a small house, and his cousin Ruarc lounged on the
single chair in the living area. In general, he presented a dirty, but
youthful appearance with fine brown hair framing a triangular face set
with watery eyes. At that moment, however, Ruarc sported a black eye, a
swollen nose and a torn lip.
     "Auntie, everything's going to be fine," Karanat murmured, his
eyebrows rising in question as he caught Ruarc's gaze. Ruarc grimaced
and gestured to the kitchen behind him and Karanat said softly, "Auntie,
don't worry, I'll take care of everything."
     His aunt, a buxom woman with wheat-colored hair and blue eyes that
were presently swimming in tears, hiccupped and wiped her eyes off with
a corner of her apron. "Why did you introduce Ruarc to Burian? Answer me
that, Karanat."
     Karanat remembered when Ruarc had approached him for an
introduction to his employer's twin brother, Burian. Karanat had obliged
because he had believed that Ruarc was trying to sell ale and Burian was
a potential customer.
     "If only you had asked him why he wanted to meet Burian." Francesa
hiccupped again, wiped a few more tears and said sharply, "You talk to
him, Karanat. He simply won't listen to me. It's all because of that
wretched Burian, and if I could kill him myself, I would. But that isn't
the answer, is it? You tell him, boy." And then, in an abrupt change of
subject, she said, "Have you had anything to eat? Probably not. Let me
go put on a bowl for you." She went into the kitchen and Karanat stared
after her.
     She was a smart woman; he had always known that. He knew she had
deliberately left him to have a word with Ruarc. He sighed. He owed
Francesa more than he could ever repay. His aunt and uncle had taken him
in when his mother had died and Francesa had loved him as if he were her
own. Ruarc was only two years younger than he, and had always resented
the affection that his mother had showered on Karanat.
     "What happened, Ruarc?"
     "I -- Burian and I had an argument," Ruarc said hesitantly.
"Listen, Kar, there's really no need for you to get involved. I can take
care of myself."
     "Yes, so well that you have a broken nose and a black eye," Karanat
snapped. "Tell me what happened."
     "I -- Kar, please," Ruarc begged. "Let me handle it. I feel
terrible about it. I have to fix it myself."
     "But what happened? Ruarc --"
     His aunt entered the room. "I'll tell you. This boy," she said the
word "boy" in tones of such withering scorn that Ruarc winced and turned
his face away, "decided he was going to get into the ale business.
Burian told him he was looking for some special ale, so this boy got
with an alchemist, paid him twenty Sovs -- ten years of my savings, boy
--" tears filled her eyes for a moment before she got her voice under
control. "Well, what do you expect, if you actually believe what a
drunken sot tells you?"
     Karanat sighed. Ruarc had always been gullible, but this was truly
hard for Karanat to believe. "What on 'diar possessed you to take your
mother's silver?" Aware that his voice had risen, he struggled to bring
his anger under control.
     "Instead of yelling at me, why don't you go and ask Burian to pay
for the ale like he promised?" Ruarc asked sulkily.
     "So you gave the alchemist the silver and he did what?" Karanat
wasn't sure what exactly had happened, but he did know that Ruarc had
outdone himself in foolishness this time.
     "He made the ale special," Ruarc said.
     "Yes, he changed the ale to water," Francesa snapped. "And of
course, Burian refused to pay for water."
     "What happened to the alchemist?"
     "He wasn't there. And this boy," once again Francesa's voice was
scornful, "tells me that the alchemist looked uncommonly like Burian. He
thought it was Ludovic."
     "What?" Karanat couldn't believe his ears. "That's impossible!"
Karanat had worked at the house for years, and Ludovic and he were very
close indeed, and he knew that Ludovic was incapable of blatantly
cheating someone like that. Burian, however, was another matter; he
could believe it of Burian easily enough.
     "Yes, don't think I don't know," Ruarc said sarcastically. "Karanat
thinks Ludovic is special, don't you?"
     "You shut your mouth. Don't you dare talk about your cousin like
that. He's worth ten of you and then some," Francesa snapped.
     "Ma, he lies with men; he's a farking, codless --"
     A cracking noise stopped Ruarc's words. Francesa stood over him,
face white, bosom heaving, and Karanat stared at them both, unable to
string together a single, coherent thought. In all the years he'd known
them, Francesa had never once slapped Ruarc.
     "Aunt --" Karanat's voice quavered, and he swallowed, trying to
gather some poise.
     "Karanat, you're my sister's boy and I've always loved you like you
were my own. What you choose to do doesn't matter. Just -- I --" Tears
filled her eyes again and she turned and went quickly into the kitchen.
     Karanat stared at her receding back. He'd never seen her so upset,
even when his uncle had died. He went after her into the kitchen.
"Aunt?"
     She turned and looked at him, sighing. "Burian dressed up as an
alchemist and took all the money, Karanat," she said. "I went and talked
to Burian. He told me, and he laughed. They met at the stables behind
Spirit's Haven. All my silver, Karanat. Everything I was saving to buy
this house from Coragen. What's going to happen to me? A worthless
lackwit for a son, who'd do anything if he thought it'd make him rich,
and he can't even tell the dross from the gold." She sighed again, her
eyes swimming in tears which she brushed off with a finger.
     Karanat stepped closer and hugged her tightly. "Aunt, while I'm
alive, I'll never let anything bad happen to you. You'll always have a
home with me; you do know that, don't you?"
     She sniffed and then smiled up at him through her tears. "You're a
good boy, Karanat. Come, have some stew." She wiped her face with her
apron and silently began to dish up the stew. After a moment she said,
staring down at him, "What are you thinking about? I know that look.
What are you plotting?"
     "Aunt, Burian is an odd man, you know. Ludo isn't like him at all.
Isla says Ludo is like his grandfather," he smiled to himself as he
recalled the look on the housekeeper's face as she made the comment. She
had come to Einar's household with the twins' mother and remained to
raise them after the death of their mother, and she knew both of them
very well.
     Francesa placed a mug of mead before him, and Karanat returned to
the thread of thought he was pursuing. "Ludovic is worth twice his
brother, and as for Burian, well, he doesn't do anything well ..."
     "Except get drunk and get laid," Francesa put in dryly.
     "Hmm. What do you think he'd do if someone threatened to kill him?"
Karanat swallowed the last of his stew and smiled up at his aunt. "You
do make the best stew in all of Dargon, Aunt."
     "Thank you, dear boy." She patted his head absently and said
smiling, "Why, he'd probably piss in his pants. I don't think he's very
brave, do you?"
     Karanat smiled, plotting ways to retrieve his aunt's savings and
get some revenge on Burian for the hurt he had inflicted on her.

     That same day, Einar sat down to a solitary luncheon, frowning as
he did so. "Well, where are the boys, Isla?" he asked. "This is supposed
to be a celebration dinner for Ludovic's wedding and both of them aren't
here. I --"
     "I don't know," Isla said sharply. She was a stocky, well-built
woman, gray hair heading toward white.
     Einar looked up at her, wondering anew why he put up with her. He
had kept her on after his wife's death because she had been so good with
the boys. The one time he had sent her away for a brief period to his
father-in-law's home, the twins had created havoc. Udele had advised him
to bring Isla back and he had. Now that the twins were men grown, he
wondered if perhaps it was time to send Isla away. But then he would
have to find a housekeeper and cook, and well ... Isla did make some
wonderful fried bread. He sighed and then said sharply, "If they do not
wish to be here, that's fine. But by Ol, they will come to the church;
Ludovic will marry Udele's girl, and Burian will do his brotherly duty
and present the wedding chalice; this I promise you, Isla."
     "Young master, why do you force Ludovic to do this? Surely you know
--"
     "Enough!" Einar said softly, and his voice shook on the word. He
knew Isla doted on Ludovic, but he would not let her encourage the boy
against his father's wishes. "Ludovic will marry the girl. If that
doesn't cure him of his ridiculous fancies, nothing will. She's a pretty
enough chit; why I myself --" he caught Isla's disapproving gaze and
stopped. "Well, never mind that. Where are the boys?"
     "Upstairs," Isla said.
     Einar reflected that the one-word answer meant that Isla was
probably sulking. She tended to do that when she was annoyed. "Did you
send anyone to tell them that luncheon is served?" he asked irritably.
"I want to talk to them about the wedding. It's in less than a sennight,
and Udele wanted me to pass on some instructions."
     "If you want to see them that badly, you can go up to their rooms,
you know. You are their father," Isla said huffily and left the room.
     Einar sighed. Perhaps it was a good idea to go up and check. He
left the kitchen and went up the steps to the top floor. The staircase
opened on a small landing with a door on either side, each door leading
to one twin's room. He knocked briefly on Ludovic's door and entered
without waiting for an acknowledgement.
     Ludovic was sitting in an armchair, staring at a deck of cards on
the small center-table. The cards were spread out in the game of Akelet,
a game that could be played by one person. Einar glanced around almost
anxiously but there was no one else in the room. Ludovic looked up
suddenly and flung the cards in his hand carelessly on the table.
"Father, I am honored."
     Einar said, his anger mounting, "Did I not send word that you were
to have dinner with me? Why didn't you come?" His voice softened on the
last question, his face reddening.
     "I did not come because I have nothing to celebrate." Ludovic
glared at him.
     "I do. My son is getting married," Einar said. "Ludovic, you will
come down with me now. Remember, I could always name Burian as my heir."
Einar crossed his arms and stared down, waiting to hear the response to
his blatant threat.
     "Ah, the loving father," Ludovic mocked. "You think you can force
me to do anything you want, do you?" Nevertheless he rose to follow his
father as Einar turned to leave the room.
     Einar did not show his satisfaction when Ludovic capitulated, even
though his feelings were tempered with annoyance at his son's comments.
What was the point in showing his feelings except to set up Ludovic's
back upon seeing his father's gratification? Einar prided himself on his
practicality and believed in a light touch in getting his sons to do
what he wanted them to do.
     At the landing outside Ludovic's room, Einar knocked briefly on
Burian's door and entered, once again without waiting for permission.
"Burian?"
     Burian was lying casually on the couch and Einar's irritation
flared anew. "Burian, I requested that both my sons have dinner with me.
Must I come up here to -- Burian! Ludovic, get in here, now!" Einar felt
his breath trapped in his chest as he approached the couch and glimpsed
red on Burian's clothes. A beautiful, ornate knife stuck out of Burian's
stomach, pointing downwards. "Burian?" he whispered.
     Burian lay half-sprawled across the sofa, with one arm bent at an
awkward angle. Einar looked at the knife and the blood that had seeped
onto the clothing. A part of him, the pragmatic part, said
dispassionately that Burian was dead; yet the father in him denied it.
     "He's dead, Father," Ludovic answered from behind him, his voice
trembling.
     Einar spared a glance at his living son, who was staring at the
blood. Ludovic had a blank look in his eyes, and just for a moment, his
resemblance to Burian twisted something within Einar; an almost
forgotten image of the twins as rambunctious boys flashed through his
mind.
     He swore angrily, "Saren's own curse! What're you smiling at? This
is your brother who lies dead here." Einar knelt beside the sofa and
touched Burian's arm. It slipped and hung lifelessly from the sofa.
"No," he whispered. "Wake up, you drunken excuse for a son. Wake up!"
     "Father, he's dead!" Ludovic placed a hand on Einar's shoulder.
     Einar shrugged off the hand and stared at Burian, but could not
bring himself to even think of the word "body"; it was Burian, his son.
Wastrel, drunkard and wencher no doubt, but it was still his son.
Suddenly it didn't matter that Burian had been more often drunk than
sober; at least he had not had strange fancies like Ludovic. People said
that Ludovic did not like women and that he had never bedded one. If
Burian were dead, how was his line to continue?
     "I know." Einar sighed. Something damp fell on his hand and he
touched the drop to his mouth. It was salty: tears, his own. He felt
surprise that he could cry and then he felt more surprise that he could
still feel. He was conscious of a strange reluctance to move. It was as
if something kept him staring at Burian, at the body. He could feel
himself begin to shake as he accepted the word "body". No longer his
son, it was just a body. The bibulous air that had always clung to
Burian when he had been alive had deserted it, the body.
     "Ol's piss!" Ludovic took a quick step near the couch and fell to
his knees, face paling. "That's my knife."
     "You killed him, didn't you?" Einar whispered, a part of his mind
shocked at the death of his son, while yet another part of his mind
lamented the fact that now there was nothing he could use to force
Ludovic to do what he, Einar, wanted. He could not ever threaten Ludovic
to disinherit him, for there was no other heir. "You killed my son." As
he repeated it, its full meaning floated through his mind; if the knife
was Ludovic's, he had killed his brother!
     "No, I didn't. Father, you must believe me, I did no such thing.
And what do you mean, your son? Am I not your son?" Ludovic's voice was
high and faint.
     "You did this because I don't condone your ridiculous fancies.
Murder! Fratricide!" Einar's voice trembled. He reached out to the body
but his fingers seemed to close of their own volition before touching
and he shuddered. Ludovic had killed Burian!
     "Master?"
     "Ludo?"
     Two voices sounded as one at the door, and father and son turned to
face them. Donato and Karanat stood at the entrance.
     "My son's dead and this man killed him," Einar said, a blank look
in his eyes, the enormity of the situation crashing down on him in
waves. Forget about forcing Ludovic to do what he wanted, Ludovic had
killed Burian! "You killed him because you didn't want me to choose him
as my heir!"
     "Father! Kar, do something," Ludovic pleaded.
     "May I summon the guard, master?" Donato asked in a dispassionate
voice.
     "Summon the guard?" Ludovic's voice trembled.
     "It appears you have killed your brother with your own knife, sir,"
Donato replied. "Master?" He looked at Einar for instructions.
     Einar turned violently away from the body, feeling something inside
released. "Yes. Summon them --"
     "Father!"
     "You killed him!" Einar could not comprehend the fact that Burian
was dead. Even though Ludovic had been the better one of his sons, in
some ways Burian had reminded Einar of himself in his youth. Until he
had met Udele, he too had made a practice of visiting as many beds as he
possibly could, and he had hoped that Burian would eventually meet the
right woman and change. "You killed him," he repeated, unable to accept
the reality of that one statement.
     "Ludovic, everything will be fine," Karanat came close to Ludovic,
and Einar turned on him viciously.
     "Leave him alone. Get away from him. I'll have you put in jail,
both of you. Unnatural, that's what it is. Criminal! How dare you? I
should never have let Ludovic keep you on. I should have made him marry
Jessamina and everything would have been fine; I would have had a
legitimate grandchild. All of this is because of you!" He raised his
hand to Karanat angrily and Ludovic stepped in.
     "Father, stop it! What's the matter with you?"
     "With me?" Einar drew in a deep breath, feeling his stomach roil
unpleasantly. "You and he have a relationship that is never going to
give me heirs. I ignored what people whispered and this is the result:
he kills his own brother because I would choose him heir." That sunk
into his mind with a blaze that rivalled the furious heat of the month
of Sy; he had ignored what was common knowledge, and now he had no heir,
with one son dead by the hand of the other, and no possibility of ever
having one ...
     "Father, no, please," Ludovic said, his voice trembling. "It's not
true; I didn't do it."
     "It's your knife! You killed him!" Einar snapped, his stomach
heaving, his thoughts running into one another. He couldn't think past
the punishment Ol had meted out to him. He turned to Donato. "Call the
guard! Now! I will have you punished for what you did, both of you.
     "Let us go down to wait for the guard." He waited and everyone in
the room filed out before stepping out and closing the door. The silence
stretched tight, only broken by the sound of steps as Ludovic and
Karanat preceded Einar into the small bookroom that served as his
office. Donato went ahead out of the house on his errand to inform the
guard.
     Einar went to the window and stared out. It was just about midday,
and somehow, he found it surprising. It seemed like he had sat down to
luncheon a very long time ago. The silence continued uninterrupted for a
long time. The sounds of the outside world filtered in through the open
window: tree rats chittering, and the occasional dog barking.
     After several menes, the quiet was broken. "Father, please!"
     "Don't, Ludovic. How could you do it? How could you have killed
your own brother? Whatever he was, drunk and wastrel, he was still your
brother and my son. How could you?" Einar breathed heavily, still
looking out of the window. He could not bear to turn around and face
Ludovic, the living image of the dead son.
     Ludovic drew in a breath and it sounded to Einar like a suppressed
sob. "Father! How could you think that of me? I didn't kill him; I
didn't do it. Look at me, Father!"
     Einar turned at that. "It was your knife; you said so." He wondered
if perhaps Ludovic wasn't the killer after all. A great hope rose in his
mind; perhaps he would not lose both sons in one go.
     "Yes, it was my knife, but I didn't do it. How could you believe
that of me? That I would kill? And that too Burian, who is -- who was my
twin!" Ludovic moved his arms, as if the force of his feelings was too
much for him. "Yes, I didn't like him, and yes, I wanted to be your
heir, but Father, he was my twin! You don't know what that means. I
could never kill my own brother!"
     Doubt entered Einar's mind. He wanted to believe Ludovic. The boy
couldn't possibly have killed his own brother, could he? Even if Ludovic
was not much of a man, surely he wouldn't done this?
     The door opened abruptly and Donato entered, followed by two guards
in uniform; the first was a stocky man with greying hair and the second
was a young woman. The man spoke. "Ludovic? Master Einar?"
     Einar stepped forward and said, "I am Einar and this is my son
Ludovic."
     "Sir, I am Sergeant Cepero. I am sorry for your loss." He paused
for a moment and when Einar nodded, he continued, "I understand that the
knife that killed Burian belonged to your son, Ludovic. I'm going to ask
that he go with us to the guardhouse to help us get at the truth."
     "But I didn't do it! It wasn't me. I won't go!" Ludovic turned, a
fierce light in his eyes.
     "I am sorry, but you must go with us. If you didn't do it, we will
find the real killer," Cepero said, and Einar heard the implacability in
his tone.
     Cepero placed a hand on Ludovic's arm and turned him toward the
door, saying to the other guard, "Let's go upstairs first."
     "Father, I didn't do it. You must believe me. Father!"
     The door swung shut behind him as everyone left Einar alone in his
bookroom, alone to contemplate the loss of both his sons and the end of
his line with no possibility of heirs, even if Ludovic were innocent of
fratricide.

========================================================================

                           A Matter of Pride
                                 Part 1
                         by Nicholas Wansbutter
                         <ice_czar@hotmail.com>
                                Sy, 1009

     Aleksandr tried not to tremble as he looked over the top of his
wooden shield at his opponent, who seemed nearly twice as tall as him
and built like a tree. Indeed, Aleksandr might as well have been facing
a tree he thought, for the amount of damage he was likely to do to the
brute. Sigurdur was many years older and more experienced than Aleksandr
-- in fact years older and wiser than any of the squires, as Sigurdur
was well past the age when most squires would have become knights.
Aleksandr had learned by way of boot and fist why Sigurdur had not yet
received his spurs; through countless beatings and other cruelty,
Sigurdur had proven himself to Aleksandr as having as much honour as
highway brigand. Only the fact that he was Baron Dorja's nephew kept him
in Fennell Keep. A nasty grin covered the older squire's face, and he
spat on the ground in mocking arrogance.
     As he often did, Aleksandr wished with all his heart that he had
not been prematurely promoted to a squire by Baron Dorja Fennell after
an attempt to save the Baron's daughter, Zhilinda. Aleksandr had been
nine years old at the time, and though now twelve, he was still at least
two years younger -- and smaller -- than the next youngest of the
squires. And he was the baron's squire no less! As ruler of the
household, Baron Dorja demanded that his armour, swords, and horses be
the best maintained of all the knights' in Fennell: a daunting task for
even the most seasoned squire. As always, his wish went unrealised.
     "What are you waiting for?" a shrill female voice tore at
Aleksandr's ears. "Get on with it. We haven't all day, you codswallops!"
     Aleksandr grimaced as his heart filled with ice, and he slowly
began to approach the hulking boy -- no, man -- in front of him.
Aleksandr was terrified; so much so that he could feel his knees weak
with fear and his sword arm go limp. Sigurdur advanced with surprising
speed for his size and struck the first blow. Aleksandr was sent
sprawling onto his back. He was able to roll away from the following
attack and regain his feet before the older boy could bludgeon him
again. As he scuttled away from the larger youth kicking up dust with
his feet, he was vaguely aware of the other squires in the bailey
cheering Sigurdur on.
     "Smash the squireling!" That was Aleksandr's nickname among them
because he was a partly grown squire.
     The first terrible blow out of the way, Aleksandr was able to
concentrate more on how to defend himself and less on how afraid he was.
His legs and arms regained their strength, and he was able to hold
Sigurdur off for a time, even getting a few glancing blows of his own
in. Of course, none of them were potent enough to bring about a
mercifully painless end to the ordeal and victory for Aleksandr.
     After a few menes that seemed like bells, Sigurdur seemed to be
tiring of the endless feints and lures that had dominated the contest
thus far. He lowered himself to a knee and seemed to drop his guard.
Seeing the older squire relax Aleksandr lunged, and his eyes burned as
Sigurdur tossed a handful of sand into them. Aleksandr reeled, and tried
to get as far away from Sigurdur as possible. He resisted the urge to
drop his sword and rub at his stinging eyes, but instead tried to force
them open. Without warning, a club-like foot slammed into Aleksandr's
groin with the force of a war-horse's kick. Aleksandr dropped to his
knees clutching himself in agony. He could not breathe, and flames
engulfed his nether-regions.
     He began to cry, both at the pain and the injustice of it all,
before being laid low by a blow to the face. He received several more
solid blows from Sigurdur's wooden sword across his side and back before
Dame Lyudmilla, the squires' weapons trainer, brought the combat to a
halt.
     "That will be enough, Sigurdur." As sharp as her voice had been
before, it was now icy. "Straight. That's enough training for today. Off
to your chores."
     "Ha," Sigurdur said as he walked away from his devastated opponent.
"I smashed the squireling good this time, eh?"
     "By Cephas' boot, you sure did, Sig," another squire said.
     Aleksandr lay on his stomach, motionless save for the sobs of both
pain and humiliation that wracked his body. Tears flowed unhindered down
his face. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth and he could feel
more of it streaming out of his nose onto the ground below. Contrary to
the grand visions of knighthood he had held as a page, he now knew not a
shred of dignity, honour, or glory. He missed being a page. Among other
things, he missed Sir Igrim who had been his weapons trainer in those
happy days that seemed so long ago.
     Dame Lyudmilla knelt beside him more out of duty than any real
concern for his well being, Aleksandr was sure. She had instantly taken
a dislike to him when he had entered the ranks of squires. She seemed
not to notice when Aleksandr appeared for training with bruises given
him by the other boys, and indeed, often cursed him for being slow as a
result of stiffness from doing extra chores. She also liked to pair him
up with the biggest and strongest of the other squires when it came time
for sparring.
     "Will you live?" Her face was now right in front of Aleksandr's.
Despite a scar that ran along her forehead, she was a very pretty woman.
     "Yes, Dame Lyudmilla," Aleksandr croaked.
     "Good," she stood and put her hands on her hips. "Get up."
     Aleksandr valiantly tried to get his hands underneath him, but a
searing pain shot through his side. He his bit his lip to stop more
tears and keep a shred of dignity as he struggled to get up again.
     "I said, get up!"
     For a moment Aleksandr feared that Dame Lyudmilla, too, might hit
him, but instead she grabbed him by the back of his padded shirt and
hoisted him to his feet. "Must I do everything for you, squire? I'm not
your mother, you little piece of scrud! By the good God, I fought
Northfielders in the Shadow Wars that were more co-operative than you!"
     The words stung, all the more so because Aleksandr did require a
fair amount of extra training from all of his superiors to make up for
the years as a page he had skipped. He limped cautiously after the rest
of the squires who had left Fennell Keep's inner bailey for the cool
recesses of the keep proper. With everything else that had preoccupied
Aleksandr's mind, he only just now noticed that it was indeed quite hot
out, despite the fact that the sun was nearing the end of its journey to
the western horizon.
     Once inside, Aleksandr removed his padded shirt, and placed the
wooden sword and shield in their proper places. No sooner had he cleaned
his face of blood and grime than Sigurdur threw a shovel into his arms.
     "Your turn to muck the stables, squireling!"
     "I've done it every day this sennight!" Aleksandr protested. "And
the tournament's tomorrow. I have to get the baron's armour ready."
     "And I have to get Sir Fonnin's armour ready. So too bad for you,"
Sigurdur pushed Aleksandr back towards the door leading to the bailey.
Pain washed over Aleksandr anew at the rough contact. He had to bite his
lower lip to keep from bursting out into tears again.
     "That's straight, I'll help you, Aleksandr," Tpliki, Sir Igrim's
squire, said. He gave Sigurdur an evil glance as he picked up a
pitchfork. "You're nothing more than a bully, Sigurdur. And that's all
you ever will be if you --"
     "If I what?" Sigurdur, a good head taller than Tpliki, walked
purposefully towards the smaller squire.
     Aleksandr knew that Sigurdur would probably thump Tpliki in a
hand-to-hand fight, and apparently Sir Igrim's squire knew it too, for
he only said, "Nothing," and gently laying a hand on Aleksandr's
shoulder headed for the door.
     "That's what I thought," Sigurdur boomed triumphantly. "I don't
know why you waste your time with the whelp. You'd be better off leaving
him to rot!"
     Once outside, Tpliki let out an audible sigh. "That Sigurdur will
never be a knight. He doesn't know anything about chivalry or honour and
especially nothing about brotherhood. We'll all have to fight together
one day as knights; we are supposed to be like brothers. Turdation! If
that oaf weren't Baron Dorja's nephew he'd have been sent away from here
long ago."
     "Tpliki?"
     "Yes, what is it Aleksandr?"
     "Thank you."

     The day of the tournament was full of cheer and sunshine. Not a
cloud blemished the perfectly blue sky, and a gentle breeze played over
the town of Fennell Keep. The despair that Aleksandr had felt the day
before was gone, as the excitement and merriment of the occasion took
hold of him. As Baron Dorja Fennell's squire, he wore the baron's livery
colours though unadorned with the baron's heraldric symbols. The red and
white tunic and gorget he wore had been cleaned to a sparkling
brilliance. On the white half of his tunic over his heart, Aleksandr was
allowed to wear an embroidered red rose -- the blazon that signified an
act of great courage -- in appreciation for saving Zhilinda Fennell.
Normally, only knights were allowed to wear blazons, but such was the
baron's gratitude that he had made an exception for Aleksandr.
     The young boy stared with eyes the size of archery targets at his
surroundings as he led the baron's horse from the stables to the tent
where his lord would change when it came time to prepare for an event.
In the meantime, Baron Dorja sat in the stands, watching the tournament
from a place of honour. For now, archers from the surrounding shires
were testing their skill against one another while servants set up the
jousting lists.
     The tournament was always held on the first day of the Holy
Sennight that the Cyruzhians thought to be the sennight Cephas Stevene
had been tried and executed. After the first day's festivities
Aleksandr, and all of the other squires, pages, and knights in Baron
Dorja's household would return home to their families. Aleksandr looked
forward to returning home once again, but for now his chief concern was
the tournament.
     All about Aleksandr, knights from as far as Dargon, Hawksbridge,
and even Northfield prepared for the jousts. All were magnificently
decked in full armour resplendent with heraldry. Each knight had his own
unique arrangement of colours, devices, emblems, and crests. Bright
reds, blues, greens, yellows and whites dominated the scene.
     As Aleksandr neared Baron Dorja's pavilion, he noticed many
familiar heraldries. Sir Fonnin rode past, his black and green field
topped by a yellow lion rampant blazon, followed closely by Sigurdur.
Aleksandr's grip on the reins of Baron Dorja's stallion tightened when
he saw the older squire, also wearing his master's livery colours. In
the black and green he looked even bigger and more menacing than usual.
Ease returned to Aleksandr however, when he noted a horse with a black
caparison approaching. The knight atop it wore a great helm with a black
falcon crest atop it, signifying he had slain a Northfielder knight in
the Shadow Wars. It was Sir Igrim. When Aleksandr stopped and waved, the
knight removed his helm to reveal a weathered face that bore a
grey-streaked beard and moustaches.
     "Aleksandr," he greeted. "It has been quite a time since last I saw
you. You serve the baron well, I hear."
     Aleksandr smiled at his old master. "I try to, Sir Igrim."
     "Well, best be off with you, boy," Sir Igrim said. "You can't serve
your lord by standing about blowing wind with me!"
     "Yes, sir!" Aleksandr coaxed the horse back to a walk, and
continued toward the pavilion tent over which Baron Dorja's flag
fluttered in the soft breeze.
     Tethering the horse to a post that had been driven into the ground
near the entrance of the tent, Aleksandr set about preparing the baron's
equipment for the day's activities. He took the sword from its scabbard
on the horse's saddle and ran a cloth along it to ensure it was looking
perfect for the ceremony. After replacing it, he hauled the freshly
polished armour from the horse's back, and set it on a rack inside the
tent in such a way that he would be able to dress the baron with a
minimum of trouble. He laid the baron's tunic on a table alongside his
great helm. The crest on the helmet that accompanied his baronial crown
was a white falcon with wings splayed, symbolising Baron Dorja's bravery
in fighting the duke of Northfield in single combat during the Shadow
Wars.
     As the archery competition neared its close, Aleksandr made final
checks on his lord's equipment, even ensuring that all of the pennants
on his lances were secured properly.
     Shortly after a horn had sounded the end of that competition, Baron
Dorja rode up to the tent on one of his draft horses. The dapple-grey
warhorse that bore his red and white caparison snorted in indignation.
     The baron dismounted and patted his warhorse's neck. "Oh ho!" The
baron was in high spirits, caught up as Aleksandr was by the mood of the
day. Though his hair was grey and his face lined with age, his eyes
twinkled with a childish delight, as did those of the youngest pages.
"It seems Bardo feels I should ride only him! Well, let's get my armour
on, shall we?"
     Aleksandr worked quickly, and in short order he had his master clad
in a full suit of heavy armour, and pulled the red and white tabard over
the baron's head. On the white part of the tabard half of a black falcon
represented victory over Northfield, while on the red section a yellow
crown above a white lily denoted his rank and favour with Duke Dargon.
     With a little more of Aleksandr's help, the baron mounted his
warhorse. Aleksandr then handed him the great helm. Baron Dorja carried
his helm in his left arm and prepared to ride onto the lists.
     "Ah," he said. "It is a perfect day for a joust, eh, Aleksandr?"
     "It is indeed, your lordship." Aleksandr bowed his head.
     Restless sounds could be heard from the bleachers as the baron
turned his horse towards the lists. "It sounds like I had best get the
main event started."
     He cantered out to the centre of the jousting field. Aleksandr
looked on from his place at the tent, marvelling at the brilliance of
his master as he quieted the crowd, he and his horse shining brightly in
the mid-morning sun. Aleksandr took one last look around the pavilion to
be sure everything was in readiness for when the baron would return for
his shield and if required, another lance after the first course.
     "Gentles, please!" Once the crowd had calmed down the baron
continued. "It is my great honour to present to you this day many brave
knights who will test their skills in this first event, the joust, and
later in the day a feat of arms and melee in the fields south of the
town."
     Everyone in the stands and on the field applauded loudly. Again the
baron held up his hand.
     "And, as is a tradition at this Holy Sennight tournament," the
baron gestured to another knight who wore a crown on her shield, "we
have with us Baroness Jehlanna Bastonne from the Duchy Northfield, in
commemoration of the harmony, friendship and unity that now exists
between Northfield and the rest of Baranur!"
     More applause accompanied the courteous bow that Baroness Bastonne
offered to Baron Fennell from her horse. When the cheers quieted it was
her turn to speak. "The Shadow Wars were a long time ago and each has
forgiven the other."
     "So let us join blades in commemoration of the last blow between a
vassal of Dargon and Northfield --" the baron's speech was cut short
when he reached for the scabbard hanging from his saddle. "Cephas' boot!
My sword!"
     Aleksandr went white and his heart leapt into his throat as he
realised that the baron's scabbard did not hold a blade! The most
terrible fears of a squire realised, Aleksandr could not even move
because he was so shocked and dismayed. He could see that Baron Dorja
was crimson with both humiliation and fury.
     "Squire!" he bellowed. "My sword!"
     Aleksandr frantically cast about the pavilion to no avail. Had he
left the blade in the keep? No, he was certain he hadn't, for he had
polished it before heading into the tent to set Baron Dorja's armour on
the rack. Where could it have gone? He emerged from the tent to see
Sigurdur scampering out to the centre of the jousting lists with a sword
in hand -- Sir Fonnin's sword to be sure.
     The baron took the blade, and touched swords with the baroness of
Bastonne. The applause was less enthusiastic this time, and Aleksandr
thought he caught a smirk on the Northfielder baroness' face as she
turned to gather her lance for the first joust. Baron Dorja was still
the colour of a beet when he reached the tent. After tossing the
borrowed sword to Sigurdur, he cast a murderous glance toward Aleksandr
that said there would be trouble once he was done with the first joust.
He donned his great helm without a word. Aleksandr gulped, and handed
the baron his shield. Then, taking the up lance from its holder, Baron
Dorja moved his horse into position for the first course. His opponent,
of course, was Baroness Jehlanna Bastonne.
     In the stands, Zhilinda Fennell held the cloth that, once dropped,
would signal the beginning of the tournament. The honour was hers, as
her father was the first to joust, and her mother had died several years
before Aleksandr had moved to Fennell Keep. He supposed that Kristofer
Delborne, now Zhilinda's husband, was in the field somewhere. It had
been over a year since Aleksandr had last seen her since she had wed the
heir of Delborne shortly after her fifteenth birthday. Now sixteen, the
change in her was agreeable, Aleksandr decided, as he was just now
reaching the age where women interested him. Since he had last seen her,
she had taken on a more woman-like form, with a slimming of the waist
and swelling of the breasts. Her hair was as long and dark as ever, and
her skin like a white rose petal. Aleksandr took refuge from his
embarrassment behind the rack carrying Baron Dorja's lances lest she
glance his way.
     Zhilinda dropped the cloth, and Baron Fennell and Baroness Bastonne
spurred their horses towards one another. Aleksandr knew that Baron
Dorja was a better jouster than he was a swordsman, but he seemed
off-balance as he sped towards his opponent. With a loud crack, the
lances connected with shields and splinters flew as both broke with the
impact. Baron Dorja looked for a moment as if he might fall from his
horse, badly shaken as he was, but managed to regain his position on the
horse's back after a tense moment. Baroness Jehlanna seemed not to have
noticed that she had been struck at all and she turned to offer Baron
Dorja another course.
     Aleksandr ensured that he was in perfect form for delivering
another lance to his master as the Baron of Fennell rode past in
preparation for the next course. The next time the riders passed, Baron
Dorja was knocked clean from his horse, and landed hard on his back.
Baroness Jehlanna had been shaken too, however, and after a couple of
strides slipped from her horse's back, but landed on one knee and a
hand. She had won nevertheless, and the crowd applauded politely, but
with no great zeal.
     As Aleksandr rushed to help Baron Dorja to his feet, he noted that
Baroness Jehlanna was already there, and she had offered a hand to the
downed ruler of Fennell. Baron Dorja removed his helmet and accepted the
help, and once on his feet the baron and baroness clasped hands in a
sign of good sportsmanship. To this, the crowd cheered more lustily, and
regained much of its spirit.
     Aleksandr scooped up his lord's great helm off the ground, and
hastened to catch up with Baron Dorja, who was nearly at the tent
already, having remounted his horse that had faithfully returned to his
side after he had fallen.
     "Curse you, Aleksandr!" the baron snapped once he and his squire
were inside the tent. He struck the boy a good blow to the face to
underscore his words. "I was humiliated before countless knights and
lords just now, you dunderheaded fool!"
     "I'm sorry, your lordship," Aleksandr cringed in the face of his
master's fury. "I can't explain it -- I was sure your sword was in its
scabbard!"
     "A good squire is more than sure!" Baron Dorja thundered. "By the
good God I lost my joust to that Bastonne, too! And -- what's this?"
     Aleksandr's stomach did a somersault when he saw the baron's
ceremonial sword laying peacefully on the table. "I swear it wasn't
there when you went to the field, your lordship."
     "Don't lie to me, boy!"
     Aleksandr covered his face in a defensive gesture and huddled in a
corner of the tent. "I beg your forgiveness, baron! I'm not lying!"
     Baron Dorja continued to look darkly at Aleksandr for some time,
then said, "Well, I have no need of it now. Take it back to the keep
before it can lose itself again. And don't be slow about it; I joust
again in two bells."
     Aleksandr took the blade and gratefully scampered out of the tent.
As he was unbuckling the sword's scabbard from the warhorse's saddle,
Sigurdur walked up to him with a gap-toothed grin on his face.
     "Found the baron's sword I see, squireling."
     Aleksandr's jaw tightened and his face heated. Sigurdur had taken
the sword to humiliate him. Did his wickedness know no bounds? He had
also embarrassed the baron, perhaps all of Dargon as well. Aleksandr
quivered with anger, but knew he could do nothing. Sigurdur would beat
him as he had the previous day if he tried to fight. Instead, he
continued on his way back to the keep, staring at the ground darkly as
he listened to Sigurdur's mocking laugh.

========================================================================

                           Spirit of a Woman
                                 Part 2
                            by Rena Deutsch
                          <Rena3@hotmail.com>
                              Deber 2, 995

          Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 15-3

     Anna walked slowly across the snow-covered path; waddling was more
like it. Her body, gravid as it was, would not move as gracefully as it
used to. Anna didn't care; she felt restless and needed to move around.
One hand on her abdomen, the other stretched out to control her balance,
she made her way down to the river, taking deep breaths to fill her
lungs with fresh air.
     It was early in the morning and she had quietly left the house to
have some time to herself. During the last few sennights, Zarit had been
constantly at her side, making sure she would not lift anything heavy.
Anna had complained, but to no avail. Her husband Sarim only laughed and
told her to rest. Any argument with Zarit at this point was futile. Anna
had learned long ago, that Zarit was stubborn and would not give in when
she believed something was in Anna's best interest.
     Anna sighed inwardly. A little bit more freedom was all she wanted.
Zarit, on the other hand, liked to know where everyone was at any given
moment. It had been that way ever since Anna had come to live with her
and Jerel after her guardian Tobias had died. How proud Tobias would be
of her. If only he could see her now, hand fastened to Sarim and
pregnant with her first child. Forgotten was the time she had spent with
Sarim's parents and the warning her father-in-law had given her on the
day she had left with Sarim to return to Zarit. Forgotten was the story
about her ancestors and a curse cast several generations ago. Sarim had
calmed her, told her it was just a story with nothing more to it than
coincidences and Anna believed him.
     Anna stopped for a brief rest, one hand against a tree trunk to
keep her balance. When she heard footsteps behind her, she turned.
     "There you are, Anna! I was wondering where you had gone this early
in the morning." Quickly, Sarim covered the distance between himself and
his wife and embraced her gently. "I am going hunting with Jerel; we
should be back by nightfall."
     "Good hunting, my love." Anna kissed him and watched as he hurried
to catch up with Jerel, who waved from afar.
     Anna continued on her way to the river, her restlessness
increasing. Suddenly, she felt a wave of pain traveling through her
abdomen. A look of surprise on her face, she took in a deep breath and
waited for the pain to subside. Shaking her head, she continued to walk.
Her midwife, Rebecca, had told her the day before she'd have at least
another fortnight before the baby was going to come. Could Rebecca have
been wrong? Sarim had only left to go hunting because of Rebecca's
forecast. A second wave of pain made her halt and lean against a tree to
steady herself. Before she could go on, the pain came back, and she
realized her time had come. Careful not to slip, she waddled back to the
house, interrupting her walk each time pain overcame her.
     "Zarit!" she called out as she reached the house, "Zarit! It's
time!"
     "I can see that," Zarit remarked and stepped outside to aid her.
Gently, she guided her in and helped her take her coverings off. "I am
going to fetch Rebecca. I won't be long." All Anna could do was nod
briefly, as another wave of pain traveled through her abdomen.

     Zarit's and Rebecca's patience was put to the test as Anna's labor
progressed. By midday, Anna was screaming and yelling with every
contraction. In between, she was moving around restlessly.
     "How much longer, Zarit, Rebecca? Please, make it stop!" Anna
pleaded, exhaustion showing on her face. "I can't do this anymore."
     "You're close," Rebecca answered calmly before Zarit could say
anything. "It's your first child, but you're making good progress."
     "Just get it out of me," Anna yelled as another contraction
started.
     "Remember to breathe," Rebecca instructed, putting one hand on
Anna's shoulder and the other on her back for a gentle massage.
     "There's so much pressure," Anna said after the contraction had
stopped. "I feel like I'm tearing apart!"
     "Then it's time for the baby to show itself. Remember what we
talked about?" Rebecca looked at the young woman. Anna nodded, a scared
look on her face.
     Zarit placed her hand on Anna's abdomen. "It's starting, Rebecca,"
she informed her.
     "Anna, take a deep breath and bear down," Rebecca instructed.
     "I --"
     "No more talking," Zarit interrupted. "You need all your strength
to push the baby out."
     "Push, Anna, push!" Rebecca reminded her several contractions
later.
     "It ... hurts! Zarit! I ... can ... not ... push ... any ... more."
Anna squeezed each word between breaths. Pearls of sweat collected on
her forehead.
     "You have to, come on, I can see the baby's head. You are almost
done." Zarit wiped the sweat from Anna's forehead and offered her a sip
of water. "You can do it!"
     "Noooooooooo," Anna screamed through the next contraction.
     "It's a girl, Anna," Rebecca held the baby up for Anna to see and
then placed her into Zarit's arms, who wrapped her into a blanket. "Good
work, Anna, she's a fine lass."
     "Let me hold her, please," Anna asked and stretched out her arms.
Zarit placed the wrapped bundle in her arms.
     "She is beautiful. Look at all the black hair!" Anna placed a kiss
on the baby's forehead and smiled, then handed the baby back to Zarit.
     "I --" Anna began, but interrupted herself, surprised when she felt
a kick inside. "Zarit! Rebecca!" her voice sounded frightened.
"Something is kicking me inside."
     Rebecca placed her hand on Anna's abdomen and felt movement. "By
Stevene! There is another baby!"
     "You mean I have to do all this again?" Anna whined.
     "It will be easier," Rebecca assured her.
     Two bells later, a little baby girl was placed beside her sister in
a crib next to their mother. Anna turned to her side and looked at the
babies with pride. "Where is Sarim?" she inquired looking at Zarit.
     "He went out hunting this morning with Jerel, remember? The men
should be back shortly. It's almost nightfall. What do you want to call
your babies?"
     "Simona and Megan!" was Anna's quick answer. She grinned. "Sarim
wanted to call the baby Simona in case we had a girl; I wanted to call
her Megan. I wonder what he's going to say about two daughters."
     Zarit let out a brief laugh. "I guess he'll be quite surprised,
because I think he was counting on having a son."
     "I just wish Tobias was here to see them." Sadness showed on Anna's
face as she remembered the man who had given her shelter and a home
after her mother had died. She still missed him. His tragic death on the
day of his return from Dargon had left her orphaned again. Zarit and
Jerel had taken pity on the child and let her stay with them.
     "Megan was your mother's name, was it not?"
     "I think she was called Meg, Zarit. I don't remember too much of
her anymore. You know, I still wonder if Tobias ever found Drew. I
should have gone with him."
     "You were too sick then, Anna. When he brought you to us that day,
you didn't know what was going on around you, and Tobias said he had to
leave for Dargon the next day. You should put the past behind you. You
have Sarim to take care of you and two little girls to look after. Just
imagine Sarim's surprise when he finds out he has not one but two
daughters. Now rest!" Zarit smiled and tucked the covers around Anna.
     "You are right, as always," Anna smiled and then remembered. "I got
the answers Tobias was seeking after meeting Sarim's parents. I --"
     "Go to sleep, Anna," Zarit interrupted. "You can tell me later."
Dutifully, Anna closed her eyes and fell asleep.

     Cold, tired, and hungry, Jerel reached his house. Carefully, he
placed his heavy load into a large crate in front of the house and
covered it, making sure animals would not be able to disturb it. He
shook the snow off his outer coat, scraped his boots, and entered.
     "Welcome home. Did you have a good hunting?" Zarit greeted him
excitedly. "I've got some wonderful news for you. Just wait 'til Sarim
comes in. I can't wait to see the look on his face when ..." Zarit
halted when she noticed Jerel's face was ashen and had a grim
expression. She hesitated for a moment then asked, "Where is Sarim?"
     Jerel swallowed hard, fighting back tears. "There has been an
accident, Zarit. He will not be coming back."
     Zarit stifled a cry. "By Stevene! What happened?"
     "Where is Anna?"
     "She is sleeping. She had twin girls about two bells ago."
     "Twin girls," Jerel repeated, shaking his head. He sat down and
buried his face in his hands.
     "What happened out there, Jerel?" Zarit placed a mug with hot brew
in front of him. He looked into her concerned face and took a deep
breath.
     "Zarit, I tell you, that was the most vicious attack of shivarees I
have ever seen. I still don't know why they attacked to begin with. One
moment we were inspecting and resetting our traps and the next they were
upon us."
     "Did you get hurt?" Zarit began a closer inspection of her
husband's arms, but Jerel stopped her.
     "I'm not hurt. It seemed they just focused on Sarim and ignored me
completely. I took out six of them, yet more kept coming. After Sarim
fell down a ravine, they just disappeared." Jerel shook his head, ran
his fingers through his hair and then let his arms drop. "I tried to get
him out of the ravine, but by the time I got down, he was dead." Jerel
choked back tears. "What am I going to tell Anna?" He had spoken softly
and cast a worried looked toward Anna's room.
     "She's asleep," Zarit assured him, got up and stirred the stew she
was simmering over the fire. "The poor child," Jerel heard her
muttering. She turned and he could see tears in her eyes.
     "You tell her the truth! No need to lie. Anna is strong, and sooner
or later she will find out anyway." Zarit placed a bowl with stew in
front of Jerel and joined him at the table.
     Jerel moved his spoon back and forth in the stew, then forced
himself to bring a spoonful to his mouth and eat it. Glancing at this
wife, he noticed she had not touched her food.
     "I can't understand it. What would prompt shivarees to attack
without provocation?" Jerel pondered his wife's question, but failed to
answer her.
     "Jerel?"
     "I don't know," he responded quietly. "I have never seen anything
like this happen before. It took me the better part of the afternoon to
retrieve his body and bring him back. I don't understand why the
shivarees let up once he was dead. Usually they make a feast of their
prey. It's like they were bewitched or something." Jerel wiped his face
with his sleeve to hide the tears he was unable to stop and then buried
his face in his hands again. He didn't want his wife to know just how
much he was hurting inside; didn't want her to see how guilty he felt
for surviving the attack unscathed when Sarim lay dead. And then he
asked the one question, which had been bothering him on his way home.
     "Do you think it has something to do with the curse Anna mentioned
after she returned from Tench?"
     "Don't say that Jerel!" Zarit looked scared.
     "I am sorry Zarit. I didn't mean to scare you; it is just that ..."
Jerel fell silent.
     "It is just what?" Zarit wanted to know.
     "It all seems to fit into what Sarim and Anna told us. The birth of
a daughter and the death of the child's father on the same day."
     "Straight. But Sarim also said that it's just coincidences, nothing
else. And Anna had twins, remember?"
     Jerel nodded. "I wonder ..."
     "What?"
     "Never mind. We need to arrange for a cremation. The ground is
frozen solid."
     Zarit only nodded in agreement. Silently, each stirred their now
cold food without having a bite.

     In the adjacent room Anna woke up. The silence in the house was
unsettling. Usually Zarit would move around doing one thing or other and
the noise she created had always been of great comfort to Anna.
     "Zarit?" Anna called out, "Are you there?
     "I'm here, Anna," came a soft reply, "I shall be there shortly. Is
there anything you need?"
     "Is Sarim home yet?"
     "No Anna, he is not," replied Jerel and walked over to her bed. "I
..."
     "What is it?" Anna saw Jerel's expression and felt the blood drain
from her face. She was very afraid. "Where is Sarim?" she inquired
hesitantly.
     "You have to be brave now, Anna," Jerel began, choking back tears.
He pulled a chair next to Anna's bed and sat down. "There has been an
accident."
     Anna listened quietly to Jerel's account of the day, yet not really
hearing what he was telling her. Just this morning she had kissed Sarim
good-bye and wished him happy hunting. Sarim couldn't be dead. Any
moment now he would walk through the door, laughing, saying this was
just a cruel joke. He would pick up his daughters and tell her how proud
he was of her. Then he would sit next to her, looking at his girls,
kissing them, gently touching their soft skin. No, Sarim was still out
there, just late. Any moment now he would burst through the door,
already having heard the news about his twin girls from their neighbors.
He was just late because everyone stopped him to send well wishes. Any
moment now ...
     "I'm so sorry, Anna," Jerel finished, tears in his eyes.
     "What's keeping Sarim from coming in?" Anna asked. "Jerel, tell him
to come in and see his daughters!"
     "Anna, he's not coming. Sarim's dead!" Jerel shook her gently by
the shoulder. "His body is right outside."
     "Tell him to come inside and warm up. He shouldn't be standing out
in the cold!" Anna replied, getting ready to get up and tell Sarim to
come inside herself.
     Jerel stood up. "I'll go get him."
     Anna settled back into her pillows. Any moment now Sarim would walk
in. Expectantly she watched the door. Menes passed, yet the door was
still closed.
     "What's taking Jerel and Sarim so long, Zarit?" Anna asked
impatiently.
     "Jerel went to fetch one of our neighbors to help him bring Sarim
inside," Zarit replied, wiping tears from her face.
     "Why are you crying, Zarit?"
     Zarit stepped next to Anna's bed and sat down. "Anna, haven't you
been listening to Jerel? Sarim's dead. He was attacked by shivarees and
fell down a ravine."
     "Jerel said Sarim is right outside!" Anna insisted, refusing to
believe her beloved was dead. "He went to get him."
     "Anna ..." Zarit began, but was spared further explanations when
the door opened and two men carrying a large board between them entered.
     "Sarim! You ..." Anna shouted joyfully, then stopped mid-sentence
when she realized who was laying on the board. Disbelieving her eyes,
she got up slowly and walked over to the table where the men had set
down the board.
     "He's hurt, Zarit. Come, help me take care of his wounds." Anna
reached for a clean rag and a bowl of water and began cleaning Sarim's
face.
     "Anna! There is nothing you can do for him." Zarit spoke softly,
touching Anna's shoulder. "He is dead."
     "Noooooo," Anna yelled angrily, "He is just sleeping." She insisted
and began shaking Sarim. "Wake up, Sarim! Wake up!" One of Sarim's arms
slid of the board and hung lifelessly from his side. Anna reached for it
to place it on his chest. The coldness of Sarim's hand startled her. She
held his hand between hers trying to warm it, pressed it against her
cheek. Finally, reality sank in. "Sarim ..." She whimpered, letting go
of his hand. "Sarim!"
     Zarit guided Anna back to her bed and insisted she drink a cup of
warm milk. Obediently, Anna took the cup and emptied it. Sarim was dead.
He would not come back to her. He would not see his daughters. He would
never again hold her and tell her he loved her. Anna barely reacted when
Zarit made her lay down and covered her with a blanket. Sarim was dead!
Anna pulled the covers over her head and sobbed uncontrollably. She did
not hear Zarit when she picked up two wailing babies, nor did she notice
when they were brought back, sleeping. Several bells later, exhausted
from crying, Anna fell asleep.

     A gentle shake woke Anna the next morning. She turned and slowly
opened her eyes. Zarit was standing next to her bed, holding a mug in
her hand.
     "How do you feel, Anna?" Zarit looked concerned. "I brought you a
mug of milk."
     Anna managed a slight smile and reached for the mug. Hastily she
emptied it to the last drop and handed it back to Zarit. "Thank you. I
feel so empty. I ..." She turned her head, choking down tears. "Tell me
he's not dead, Zarit. Tell me he'll be back any moment now. I want him
to come back!"
     Zarit sat at the edge of the bed, took Anna in her arms, held her
tight, and rocked her gently. "I am so sorry," she whispered in Anna's
ear. "I know you want him to come back, but he won't. You have to be
strong now, Anna. You have to be strong for Simona and Megan."
     "I can't!" Anna sobbed.
     "Yes, you can! And Jerel and I will help you." Zarit promised,
holding Anna in her embrace until her crying quieted down.
     The cry of a baby drew Anna's attention. She took a deep breath and
wiped her eyes dry with the back of her hand. She watched as Zarit
picked up the crying infant.
     "Time to feed your daughter, Anna." Zarit handed her the little
bundle and assisted her as she put the baby to breast.
     "She is so tiny, Zarit," Anna remarked as she watched her little
girl nurse. Gently she touched the baby's head and cheek. "And so soft.
Is that hair of hers red?"
     "Looks like it, Anna, though the other baby's hair is black. May
change though. You'll know in a few cycles. Are you hungry?"
     "Not really, just thirsty."
     Zarit reached for a mug and filled it with water. "I shall also
make a brew with the herbs Rebecca left for you. They will help with
your milk. I have some stew ready. Just need to warm it."
     "I'm not hungry. Where is Jerel?"
     "He went out with the others to gather wood and set up for
tonight."
     "What is happening tonight?"
     "Anna, Jerel brought back Sarim's body." Zarit returned to Anna's
bedside. "We have to cremate the body. The ground is frozen solid.
Otherwise we will draw shivarees or worse."
     "I want to see him one more time!" Anna demanded in a voice that
would not take a denial of her wish. "I need to know, need to see ..."
she broke up, crying silently.
     "All in due time. First you need to feed your babies and eat
something yourself, then we need to get you cleaned up and dressed."
     Zarit's tone of voice made it clear that she would not take any
arguing either. Anna finished nursing her daughter and placed her back
in the crib. When her other daughter started wailing, she proceeded to
feed her, looking at her with the same admiration she had for her other
daughter.

     Anna had spent the better part of the day readying herself for the
moment Jerel would bring in Sarim's body so they could prepare him for
the funeral. Yet when Jerel, with the help of a neighbor, carried the
lifeless form that had once been her husband inside, she broke into
tears.
     "Sarim! Come back, Sarim! Don't leave me! Sarim, please!" she
sobbed and placed her head on his chest. Several menes later, she felt a
hand on her shoulder.
     "Anna, we need to prepare the body," Zarit said softly. "Our
neighbors are almost done setting up outside."
     Anna shrugged the hand off and straightened herself. Together the
women set on their task; Anna with a grim expression on her face, Zarit
with a worried look every time she glanced at Anna. Despite the mauled
state of his limbs and body, Sarim's face had not been touched by the
shivarees. Anna took a rag and cleaned his face.
     "I want to be alone," she said, turning to Zarit.
     "Anna, --" Zarit began, but Anna interrupted her.
     "Please, I need to!"
     With a nod, Zarit gave in. "I'll go and get Jerel. I'll let him
know we're done."
     "Thanks," Anna replied softly. She handed Zarit her shawl and
waited until the door closed.
     "Why, Sarim? Why did this happen?" Anna muttered and reached out,
closing the distance between her and her husband's body. Gently, she
placed a kiss on his forehead and held his hand one last time. Next she
went to the crib and picked up her sleeping daughters.
     "Look, Sarim! Look at your beautiful girls. They were born the day
you died ..." Anna's face went ashen. "They were born the day you died,
Sarim," She whispered more to herself than anyone else. Anna held on
tight to her babies as she staggered towards their crib to put them
down. She needed to leave the room. Wrapping her shawl around her
shoulder, she stepped outside into the cold winter air. It felt good to
be outside. She watched as her neighbors finished building a wood stack,
setting torches at each of its corners without realizing what it was
for. Her thoughts circled around one understanding. "The girls were born
the day their father died."
     One of the neighbors and Jerel returned, Zarit not far behind. A
young girl followed her eagerly. Anna, however, wasn't noticing
anything.
     "Anna, it's time," Zarit's gentle voice shook her out of her
thoughts.
     "Time for what?" Anna replied confused.
     "The funeral. Remember?"
     Anna nodded. "Who will watch --?"
     "I'll watch the babies. Mama says I'm good with babies," the girl
interrupted. Anna looked at her and recognized the face, but couldn't
remember the girl's name. Before she could ask Zarit, Jerel and their
neighbor emerged, carrying the board with the now covered body.
     "Take good care of the babies," Zarit said and sent the girl
inside. Then she reached for Anna's arm to give her support.
     Anna and Zarit followed the men to the funeral place. Soon the body
was laid upon the wood stack and Jerel began to speak. Anna barely
listened to Jerel's praises about Sarim. When Jerel handed her the torch
to set the wood stack afire, she carried out her task methodically. She
missed the concerned looks exchanged between Zarit and Jerel as well as
some of her neighbors.
     When Zarit finally asked her what was wrong, Anna whispered, "The
girls were born the day their father died. Just like my mother's father
died the day she was born, my grandmother's father died the day she was
born, and her mother's father before that. It all happened just as
Sarim's father said it would."
     "Anna ..." Zarit pulled her close.
     "I'll find a way to end this curse," Anna vowed, moving away from
Zarit. "I will find a way!"

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