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 18 -=========================================================+|) D D AAAA RRR G GG O O N N N Z I N N N E || Number 4 DDDDD A A R R GGGG OOOO N NN ZZZZZZ I N NN EEEE || \\ \ ======================================================================== DargonZine Distributed: 5/13/05 Volume 18, Number 4 Circulation: 610 ======================================================================== Contents Editorial Ornoth D.A. Liscomb Liberated Hope 2 Ornoth D.A. Liscomb Yuli 26-30 1018 The Lost Opportunity 2 P. Atchley Yuli 25-29, 1018 ======================================================================== DargonZine is the publication vehicle of The Dargon Project, Inc., a collaborative group of aspiring fantasy writers on the Internet. We welcome new readers and writers interested in joining the project. Please address all correspondence to or visit us on the World Wide Web at http://www.dargonzine.org/, or our FTP site at ftp://users.primushost.com/members/d/a/dargon/. Issues and public discussions are posted to the Usenet newsgroup rec.mag.dargon. DargonZine 18-4, ISSN 1080-9910, (C) Copyright May, 2005 by The Dargon Project, Inc. Editor: Ornoth D.A. Liscomb , Assistant Editor: Liam Donahue . DargonZine is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivs- NonCommercial License. This license allows you to make and distribute unaltered copies of DargonZine, complete with the original attributions of authorship, so long as it is not used for commercial purposes. Reproduction of issues or any portions thereof for profit is forbidden. To view a detailed copy of this license, please visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/1.0 or send a letter to Creative Commons, 559 Nathan Abbott Way, Stanford CA, 94305 USA. ======================================================================== Editorial by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb It's pretty amazing that we're already up to the fourth issue in our ongoing Black Idol story arc. After working two long years on these stories, I was beginning to suspect we'd fallen into some Sisyphean alternate reality, that we were doomed to revise these two dozen stories for the remainder of our earthly days. So it's a bit of a shock to realize that not only are these stories actually done, printed, and behind us, but that with this issue we have completed the first third of the story arc. That feeling of endless labor is rapidly giving way to amazement that we've come so far, and an understanding that it's time for us to start working on the direction DargonZine will take after the Black Idol series is done. Back in the Editorial for DargonZine 18-2, I introduced you to Rich Durbin, whose timely intervention back in January 2004 saved much of the Black Idol arc from foundering. A number of writers have made huge contributions to the arc, and I'd like to tell you about another one today. P. Atchley has been with the project off and on for the past five years, and has been one of our best and at times most prolific writers. Her critiques have always been detailed and insightful, and she did the project a great service by running our new writer mentoring program for a while. Back in 2003, Ms. Atchley was our local host for the Austin, Texas Writers' Summit where the Black Idol story arc was begun. Although she contributed ideas to the overall storyline, she opted not write an arc story herself. In fact, due to other factors she took a break from the project later that year. After a six-month absence, she returned to the group during a time when we were desperately struggling to get the Black Idol stories out. She volunteered to assist Dave Fallon with his story, "The Lost Opportunity", and successfully completed the second half of that recalcitrant story. In addition, she teamed up with Rich Niro on an excellent three-chapter arc story that will appear toward the end of this year under the title "Out of the Rubble". Although she had initially made no commitment to produce a Black Idol story and was absent during its formative months, upon her return Ms. Atchley made a huge contribution to the success of the arc, In fact, she is now at least partially responsible for one-sixth of the arc's anticipated volume. For that effort she deserves our expressed thanks and admiration. In addition to Ms. Atchley's conclusion to "The Lost Opportunity", this issue also features the second half of my own "Liberated Hope". Both those two-part stories were begun in our previous issue, DargonZine 18-3, and conclude here. As I alluded to above, the arc will now begin to transition into its second of three parts. Dargon veterans Rena Deutsch and Jon Evans will pick up the story of the Black Idol in our next issue, which should appear in your mailbox near the end of June. Until then, I hope you enjoy this installment in the continuing tale of the Black Idol. ======================================================================== Liberated Hope Part 2 by Ornoth D.A. Liscomb Yuli 26-30 1018 Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 18-3 Anarr looked down at the shards of milky white crystal in his hand. Only moments before, they had been a single translucent spherical green stone that was sensitive to the presence of magic. The gem acted like a lodestone, and in the vicinity of the stone idol in the cave behind him, it had resonated so strongly that it had actually given off a feeble light of its own. Anarr, in more than a century of arcane study and practice, had rarely seen a stone register such powerful magic. The magus had travelled to Northern Hope, the primary settlement in the newly-founded royal grant of Nulain, with the intent of locating the cause of the region's remarkable ill luck, removing it, and then returning it safely to Parris Dargon, the unscrupulous young upstart who had contracted his services. Anarr had traced the curse to a cave near the peak of an isolated mountain called the Mariencap, then to the statue, but had yet to figure out what the idol was, or how to properly ward it so that it could be safely moved and brought out of the mountains and back to Dargon. His first experiment had been with the lodestone. Its greenish glow had indicated the presence of powerful magic. He'd decided that the next step would be to use his magic to ward the lodestone from the effect of the curse, because if he was successful, the stone would visibly prove that the idol's malevolent power could be contained. It would also confirm Anarr's ability to neutralize the curse. The complex warding spell had gone well initially, but his casting had been interrupted by a sudden wave of heat and nausea. When his vertigo had passed, Anarr had discovered that the lodestone had cracked and broken into a pile of milky white shards, rather than the smooth, translucent green orb it had formerly been. Now standing outside the cave's entrance, Anarr reflected on the statue's power. For days, it had thwarted his every attempt at spellcasting. Back in the village of Northern Hope, twenty leagues distant, he'd tried to use a Daeltis hawk to scout out the area, but the curse had confused the bird such that it flew directly into the wooden paddle of the town mill's water wheel. It had also caused a sudden gust of wind to blow a tree he was felling toward his pack animal, nearly striking the beast. The previous evening, it had augmented a simple foxfire he'd cast in the cave into a flash of light that had blinded him for several menes. "And now this," he muttered as he let the now-useless fragments of the precious lodestone fall to the ground. The idol was much more powerful than Anarr had thought, but the lodestone had been, after all, only his first attempt to ward an object from the mysterious curse. It might be a good idea to test something else. He could always use a small mammal; they were plentiful and never missed, and were close enough to human physiology to make them a good indicator of what might happen to a man. Still standing at the foot of the cliff outside the cave, Anarr let his mind cast about for a nearby squirrel or chipmunk. Finding one near at hand, he touched its mind just enough to prod it toward his position at the cave's entrance. It wasn't until the beast slinked out of the bushes that Anarr discovered that he'd summoned a brown rat from one of the crevices in the rock wall. Still, it would suffice. He put the rat into a sound sleep, then brought it into the cave, where his lantern still burned. Forty paces from the vine-obscured entrance there stood a large pedestal and the jet-black stone statue of a man sitting cross-legged, a sword across his lap, screaming his pain toward the heavens. Anarr placed the rat on the uneven floor of the passage, scoring the ground around it with a sharp stone, and began chanting and gesturing. Anarr half expected the sudden rush of heat that had accompanied his previous spell's collapse, but it never came. At the end of half a bell, the casting was complete. Anarr released the animal from its sleep, and it quickly scuttled down the nearest bolthole. Anarr watched suspiciously. While he couldn't be entirely sure, it appeared that the warding spell had been successfully cast. The next step was much more ambitious. Rather than keeping the idol's magic out of a very small area around a stone or an animal, ultimately Anarr would have to focus on containing the curse within a very small area: the statue itself. The principles were complementary, so the spell would be similar, but would have to be an order of magnitude more powerful. Yet the rat-casting had gone off well, so he decided to test himself against the statue directly. Again Anarr began tracing magical symbols on the floor and walls around the dais. About himself he arranged six candles, each of which contained the blood of a different animal mixed within its wax. Once more he chanted long sequences of arcane syllables. Because he wanted the warding to be absolutely secure, Anarr put all his skill and puissance into the casting. Outside the cave, the sun had passed its zenith when Anarr completed the most demanding spell he'd performed in years. He had just had time to catch his breath when he was lifted and blasted from his feet by a sudden wave of intense heat and the accompanying sense of vertigo. The blast snuffed out his lantern and blew it clear of the cave, leaving him blind in the darkness. He could hear the impact of large stones striking the ground outside. The warding hadn't held. He crawled on his hands and knees back toward the light at the cave's entrance. Once outside, he sat down on one of the stones that had just fallen from the cliff behind him. The cliff formed one wall of the shallow box canyon that contained the cave, a rushing mountain stream, and what had once been a small settlement. Frustrated, Anarr knew there was nothing else he could do at the cave. He had no idea what to try next, and even if he did, he was mentally and physically exhausted. However, he did have the handful of books he had brought with him, which he'd left at his campsite in the little settlement. He'd return thence and see if they held any clues about the nature of the screaming warrior idol. And while he was there, he would also look through the one surviving building: the ransacked home where the night before he'd seen the remains of a presumed monk who had died a few years earlier. Perhaps he would find a clue to point him in the right direction. The building stood just as it had when Anarr had first arrived at the settlement a few bells before. A single standing hut, complete with thatched roof, sat anachronistically amongst a number of ruins that showed no sign of having been inhabited for a century or more. Yet someone -- a monk of some sort, judging from the brief glimpse he'd taken when he first arrived at the settlement -- had lived here until about three years before. Obviously, the first thing to do was to learn what he could from the indelicate corpse that lay in the building's main room. It wasn't that Anarr was squeamish, heavens, no! It was just a natural discomfort with death that caused him to hesitate. For ten of his sixteen decades, he had lived his life for one purpose: to avoid death. He'd known even as a headstrong teen that one good way to do that was to avoid the places where death had been. One didn't stay healthy and strong by associating with corpses, madmen, and the diseased! Of course, that had been ages ago, and Anarr had learned many better ways to keep death at a distance. He'd done well, living three men's lifetimes before that awful day when he'd been forced to grudgingly make his peace ... Only to wake the next day to discover the awful trick that had been done to him. Waking from his deathbed, Anarr had inexplicably found himself restored to his youth and vigor. He still had no idea whether his friend Dulas was right in believing that it had been due to the intervention of his fictitious one god. Anarr himself had spent three of Dulas' lifetimes studying spells and incantations to keep death at bay, yet somehow he had been duped, restored to the body of his youth. Worse yet, Anarr had woken to find one of those morbid Stevenic nooses hung symbolically around his neck. In the eight years since then, Anarr had redoubled his research efforts, both to find the explanation for what had been done to him, as well as to preserve his precious, newly-regained youth. That was certainly worth clutching onto, yet he was now about to violate one of the first rules he had ever learned about self-preservation. Therefore it was with some trepidation that Anarr crossed the threshold and passed into the company of the dead. Anarr laid his cloak on the floor and very quickly rolled the body, now little more than bones tangled in some rotting clothes, onto it. He breathed shallowly, to shield himself from the noxious vapor of death. Then he dragged the whole distasteful bundle outside, where he could examine it in the open air, rather than the fetid atmosphere of the dwelling. There wasn't much to see, thankfully. The monk's robe was torn and stained with black patches of old blood, indicating a violent death. Anarr also noted from the pelvis and skull that the priest had been a man, but there was nothing else worth noting about the body or its possessions. He dumped the unwholesome passel in the garden behind the building, and shuddered when he thought about reclaiming his cloak. He left it and turned back to the hut. Freed of the penumbra of death, the building took on more of an air of mystery to Anarr. The common room was a shambles. An otherwise sturdy-looking table lay cock-eyed and broken in one corner. Stools were scattered around like driftwood after a flood. A nest of hornets had taken up residence in the rafters above the one shuttered window. In a pantry, dried herbs hung from the rafters and a well-used mortar and pestle stood atop a barrel of beets. Another barrel was full of potatoes that had sprouted and then died, leaving behind an eerie tangle of white vines. A straw bed that was now sodden and infested with bugs took up one end of the narrow bedroom. At the opposite end of the room, where a window faced west, were the remains of what could only be described as a little shrine. A stone shelf was built into the wall below the window, and strewn about the area were objects that, to Anarr's mind, signified religious observance. On the floor to one side of the shelf was a small blue and black piece of clay pottery that had once held blood of some type, judging from the burgundy-black stain next to it on the floor. Beside that was a colorfully-patterned cloth that would have just covered the shelf's smooth surface. On the floor closer to Anarr was a piece of wood that had been carved into the shape of a warrior from ancient times. Its figure and attire seemed reminiscent of the statue in the cave, yet this rendition had been made with a smooth, blank surface where the warrior's face would have been. And hidden underneath the shelf, back so far that it normally would escape notice, was a book. Pulling the book out, Anarr flipped to the first page and struggled to make sense of the difficult script. Looking about a little furtively, he brought the tome outside and set it atop a basalt block to examine it in the daylight, using the former bit of wall as if it were a lectern. An unadorned brown leather cover encompassed several stitched vellum signatures: a simple codex that one could obtain in any proper city. Script filled about a third of the pages in an ornate but spidery hand. The letters were Beinisonian, but archaic. Still, Anarr had been educated in the south, and could decipher the substance of the writing, albeit with some time and effort due to the knowledge that had been robbed from him when he had been restored to his youth. The book seemed to contain rituals for the worship of the Beinison war-god Gow, and the last few pages had been ripped from the tome. A realization began to come together in Anarr's mind. The Beinisonian script, the religious paraphernalia, the warrior carving: this was a long-isolated settlement devoted to the worship of Gow! The thought of Beinison, of course, reminded Anarr of his old friend Kebero, who was one of the foremost authorities on the Beinison Empire. Anarr loped over to the packs he'd unloaded from his donkey the night before. Among his magical books and equipment he had brought a copy of Kebero's "History of Beinison". He found the description of Beinison's religion and read the all-too-brief passage. It told a myth of how the god Amante had coveted Gow's mate Alana, goddess of the night, and taken her by trickery and force. In the ensuing confrontation, Gow had struck Amante in the face with his sword of flame. Amante had been stripped of his position and fated to forever wear a mask to hide his shame and disfigurement. Kebero went on to describe Gow's typical appearance as a powerful warrior with a flaming sword. Yet he also observed that the Beinison had always strictly forbidden any depiction of Gow's facial features because they believed Amante, in his vengeance, had laid a curse on Gow. That explained the faceless carving he had discovered in the monk's dwelling, but Anarr was confused. Although its similarity to the carved icon was obvious, the statue in the cave still didn't make sense. Had he perhaps stumbled upon an ancient image that actually portrayed Gow's visage? To find such a totem here, in the back woods of Baranur, far away from the Beinison Empire, was almost unbelievable. Helping his employer solve Northern Hope's curse might be a minor matter, for Anarr would become renowned as the person who finally gave a face to Gow! His friend Kebero would be astonished! But the question remained: was there a way to nullify the baleful influence the statue exerted over everything in the vicinity? Anarr set Kebero's book aside and returned to the monograph of Beinison ceremonies he'd found in the ill-fated monk's dwelling. As late afternoon approached, Anarr sat cross-legged before the statue of Gow. Before him was the small blue and black dish that he'd found in the settlement's last standing building, and a piece of the blood-stained robe worn by its former occupant. Anarr had made all the preparations to perform a warding ceremony except this one that he was about to undertake. Anarr had spent bells deciphering the monk's book, but it had indeed linked Amante's curse with the idol and even mentioned the kinds of misfortunes that had befallen the unlucky settlers in Northern Hope. Better still, it had described a ceremony that could free the statue of Amante's curse. However, one of the components of the ceremony was the fresh blood of a devout priest of Gow. There was no such priest within five hundred leagues, but without it, the warding would presumably fail. The closest Anarr had to fresh blood was his own, however he was anything but a religious man. In his search to prolong his life, he'd studied all the beliefs known to man, and none had offered him any demonstrable truths, including the worship of the Beinison pantheon. If the magic required the blood of the faithful, his own blood would certainly not suffice. The only follower of Gow he could find was the long-dead monk who had lived in this settlement. However, a thought had come to Anarr: if his own blood could provide the vitality, and the dried blood from the monk's robe could provide any necessary faithfulness, it might fulfill the spell's requirement. He just needed to figure out how to infuse the one with the traits of the other. Yet that required the use of magic, and he knew very well that the idol's curse had interfered with his ability to work magic for days. Still, it was the only idea left to him, so he dipped the piece of clothing with the long-dried blood stain into the water contained in the pottery bowl. With enough kneading and wringing, he managed to squeeze out a very thin brown solution that hopefully would provide the needed qualities. Next, he took the bowl and stood before the statue of the screaming warrior. Running his thumb along the edge of one sharp ivory tooth, Anarr cut his finger and added several drops of his own blood to the mixture already in the bowl. Returning to his former seat on the floor of the cave, he made several passes with his hands over the bowl, each time putting a little more strength into the spell that would imbue his blood with the presumed faith that he lacked. Detecting no aberrations in the spell or interference from the idol, he finished his preparations. But would it work? Unfamiliar doubts loomed in Anarr's mind like a mountain range at night, detectable against the darkened sky only by the absence of stars. He got to his feet and began what he hoped would be a plausible recreation of the ancient ceremony that would temporarily free the image of one foreign god from the curse of another. The appeal to Gow featured a number of chants and arcane entreaties, but was otherwise very alien to Anarr. Unlike his own magic, the ceremony was accompanied by a lengthy series of specific footsteps and complicated gestures that seemed to be half language and half dance. It had taken a long time to decipher the instructions, and they were still not very clear to him. During the first sequence of movements, he bore a single birch switch, which he swung and moved in certain patterns, being careful to avoid getting tangled up in his robe as he twirled this way and that. As he did so, the setting sun began to cast a faint orange light into the cave, sparkling off the keen edge of the idol's silver sword. Next came the critical point: the blood. Anarr grabbed the blue and black vessel and approached the idol. He once more traced the idol's razorlike tooth with his thumb, but instead of letting the resulting blood fall on the statue's tongue, as the book had specified, he deftly substituted the magically-enhanced blood from the bowl. He then stepped back, picked up the birch stick, and began the final part of the ceremony: another long series of movements of hands, feet, and wand. As he did, the sun behind him continued its descent. Anarr could tell that it was close to setting, because it had turned from light orange to a deep red, but had become more direct, streaming through the cave's entrance such that he could clearly make out his own shadow against the back wall of the cave. As he watched his shadow's movements, he also saw the shadow of the statue slowly growing, and it almost looked as if it were moving. Suspecting that the sun wasn't solely the cause, Anarr looked behind him, toward the cave's opening, but was unable to see anything but the bright red sun, setting in a rosy blur of heat haze. Returning his gaze to the back wall, Anarr saw that the gestures of the ceremony's dance caused his shadow to make what looked like very realistic movements. Suddenly, he realized that his shadow was enacting its own little play! Anarr's shadow was taunting the shadow of the idol with a short blade: the birch wand the wizard bore. He watched, transfixed, as the shadow of Gow slowly stood and raised his sword against the harrying shadow cast by the mage. Anarr only had a moment to grasp that the shadow-play was mimicking the confrontation between Gow and his rival Amante, and that his shadow represented the masked god who had been dealt a crippling blow by the warrior-god Gow. With a single irresistible stroke, Gow's shadow-sword came down against the sword borne by his tormentor, Amante. The birch wand in Anarr's hand snapped in half, and the wizard was slammed to the ground by an invisible blow to his face. Before he passed out, Anarr thought he saw the shadow of Gow standing triumphantly behind the black idol, whose former grimace of pain was turned directly toward him in a victorious smile. When Anarr woke, the last twilight of evening was fading from the sky. The magus glared at the idol. The ceremony was complete, even if he hadn't understood its nature or its violent climax until the very end. After expending so much energy, he was drained and looking forward to a well-deserved night of rest. However, there was one final task before him: to see whether the curse had indeed been lifted. The easiest way to do that would be to perform a little magic. Feeling self-indulgent after such a challenging casting, Anarr let his mind travel over the mountainside, searching for the one beast that would best suit his purpose. Having eaten his fill and then some, a black bear rolled happily in a tangle of blackberry vines, his thick hide oblivious to their thorns. In the shadow of a mountain valley, a doe and two fawns emerged and picked their way along the driftwood-choked edge of a small lake. Then Anarr found a laska, the great predatory cat of the high forest, sleeping with his legs splayed over the sides of a tree limb. Anarr slipped cautiously into the feline mind, careful not to trigger any of the cat's twitchy reflexes. His host was already feeling the stirrings of hunger, and it was a simple thing to amplify this into an insistent desire to hunt. Anarr thrilled at the sensation of power and grace as he felt the cat drop to the ground in a single silent, fluid leap. The cat knew the best spots for hunting much better than Anarr, so there was no conflict when Anarr insinuated the thought of the lake into the cat's mind. Anarr was carried off as the laska loped effortlessly downhill alongside a noisy mountain stream. The laska came upon the deer as they were drinking at the lakeside, and spent tense menes approaching them: each step more silent than a leaf fall, yet as taut and close to explosion as a crossbow. When the moment came, the sleek cat dismissed the fawns and chased the bounding doe, his powerful legs allowing him to close on his prey while still following her erratic, swerving attempts to flee. Anarr was transfixed as the cat demonstrated for him its amazing agility, power, and grace. The outcome was a foregone conclusion, and came far too soon for the wizard, leaving him breathless and exhilarated. More importantly, after the divers problems with his magic over the past few days, this lengthy spell's success satisfied Anarr that the warding had worked. The curse of the idol was no longer able to wreak havoc on his magic, nor the surrounding lands, including Northern Hope. The next morning, Anarr woke well rested, and with the memory of the chase still vividly replaying itself in his mind. The day's goal was to return to the village of Northern Hope. He hadn't wanted anyone with him while he'd sought and neutralized the town's curse, but now that he had successfully warded the statue, he would go back to Northern Hope and return with someone to guard the statue and an animal to bear it thence. His own donkey was already heavily burdened with his books and magical paraphernalia, and Anarr preferred to have others perform any strenuous manual labor. After bringing the idol into town, they could proceed to Kenna and then downriver to Dargon, where Anarr would deliver the statue to his employer, Parris Dargon. However, before he could set out for Northern Hope, Anarr wanted to perform the much more modest ritual of reinforcing the warding he had established the night before. The dead monk's notes had been quite explicit that the initial warding would dissipate in a matter of days without regular renewal, but the required rite was quite simple, really. So Anarr found himself returning to the idol's cave once more, bearing a handful of fustian leaves. The monk had once cultivated the bushes, but a few of the plants had gone wild and survived. The leaves wouldn't be so large as when the monks had cultivated them, but they should suffice. Next he would have to capture and kill a small animal. As luck would have it, a rat scurried across the overgrown path just as he was walking toward the cave, and Anarr quickly snared it in a magical grasp. The animal stopped in its tracks and looked up at him, but when the wizard approached, it bounced carelessly away from him, completely disregarding the magical restraint. He repeated the spell, reinforcing it with additional strength, but again the rodent simply bounced away again as Anarr approached. The wizard stood in the midst of the path and swore. Had the statue's curse overcome his warding so quickly? If so, he was fortunate to have discovered it before something more dangerous had happened. According to what he had read, the warding should have been effective for a measure of days, not merely a few bells. However, this brought his plans into question. "Ill-begotten rat!" In the middle of the oath, a sudden revelation came to Anarr. Before he'd warded the statue, he'd first tried warding another rat such as this. Sure enough, when Anarr probed, he discovered that the rat indeed bore a masterful spell of protection. Anarr had tried to capture the very rat that he himself had made immune to magic! "Very well, little gnaw-face. Go live your brief life, free of the interference of meddling magi." Anarr laughed and found himself a tree rat that was more suitable for his needs. Finally, Anarr approached the stone idol. The ritual to be performed was quite straightforward. Anarr reached forward and touched one of the statue's ivory fangs with his thumb. The knife-sharp edge cut him cleanly, and a few drops of his blood fell onto the warrior's midnight black tongue. As he withdrew his hand, Anarr watched as the statue slowly moved. Where once the mouth had depicted a warrior's scream, the jaws were now agape, revealing a small opening down the statue's gullet. Despite having expected this, Anarr remained transfixed for a moment before recalling his prepared package: the freshly killed tree rat, wrapped in fustian leaves. He placed the packet into the hollow space down the statue's throat and carefully withdrew his hand. As he backed away, the stone portraying the idol's mouth slowly returned to the half-open grimace of pain that it had borne before. Two days later, Anarr supervised as his new bearer Edmond packed up the idol. His trip back to Northern Hope had been made easier by the fact that, with the curse neutralized, Anarr was free to use all his magic to sidestep several obstacles and hasten his pack animal along. Of course, Anarr's previous arrival in the tiny community of Northern Hope had already created a major commotion. His self-confident boast to Moritan, a bartender at the local tavern, that he was seeking the source of the curse had spread throughout the village before the next five bells had struck. Thus, when he returned from his expedition to the Mariencap, everyone in the village had looked to him for any indication of whether his mission had been successful. Although none were bold enough to approach him directly, it was obvious to him that both skeptic and believer alike viewed his seeking a bearer as confirmation that he'd found something. When Anarr had first arrived, Northern Hope had been a community that accepted its curse as the misfortune of fate, and his presence alone had restored their hope that the curse could be lifted; little did they know that it was already done! Because his presence was so carefully scrutinized by the locals, he'd had no problem getting his primary need fulfilled: someone who didn't mind getting paid to get out of Northern Hope for a while. Anarr had chosen Edmond for his strength, since the statue was large, heavy, and would be awkward to move. Edmond was even enough of a ruffian to warrant the title of "guard", although to Anarr he was little more than an unskilled bearer. The first thing the magus had done when they had returned to the abandoned mountaintop settlement had been to check the wards he had placed on the statue. After a day and a half, there seemed to be no problems, and he repeated the brief ritual that reinforced the wards. Then he'd turned Edmond loose on the problem of moving the idol and attaching it to the back of their pack mule. Anarr had watched the brute struggle with the awkward stone figure, then drop it heavily to the stone floor. Fortunately, the statue had been undamaged, and Anarr yielded grudgingly to Edmond's pleas for magical assistance. When the last vestiges of dusk failed, the idol had been moved to the mouth of the cave and placed in a heavy sailcloth haversack. When morning came, Anarr had Edmond load the bulky burden onto the burro's back, and they departed. Anarr once again sped the return to Northern Hope with some minor magical assistance. Edmond didn't even notice that fallen trees never blocked their way, nor that they found paths that skirted the usual swamps, thorny berry patches, and steep ravines. If the burro was aware of Anarr's easing its burden, it selfishly kept any expressions of gratitude to itself. By late afternoon, they passed the first hunters' and woodcutters' cabins on the outskirts of Northern Hope. Soon the news of their return -- and the big, mysterious package borne by their mule -- had spread. By the time the animal plodded into the center of town, a large crowd had gathered to see whatever was to be seen. More than a score of people lined the street in front of Lord Araesto's Cat, the country tavern where Anarr had hired a room. As he led his procession toward the inn, three men advanced from the waiting throng, intent on speaking with him. "Greetings, milord Anarr, and welcome on your return to Northern Hope!" nodded the leader, clearly unsure how to properly address someone like Anarr; magi weren't well accounted for in the protocols of small-town politics. "I am Kael Forester, the regent of these lands," he continued. "I wonder if I and my fellow councilmen might share a word with you?" Anarr studied the men briefly. Forester was tall and angular, with long, black hair that hung straight and flat. Beside him stood a stolid bear of a man who probably was the village smith. A little apart stood a wiry man whose narrowed eyes caused both his brows and his nose to wrinkle. Knowing all too well that the town's leaders might feel threatened by his presence, Anarr fabricated a disarming smile. "Gentlemen, I am at your service." Kael leaned forward, obviously wishing to get his message across without alerting the entire town. "It would be best if we could speak privately. We would like to discuss your ... ah, expedition before rumor sets the town in an uproar." Anarr nodded. What the regent meant was that he wanted to hear the story before everyone else, so that he could in turn deliver it to the town. That was fine with the magus, for there was no way Forester or anyone else would be able to deny him credit for finding and neutralizing the source of the curse. At the same time, Anarr wanted to make it clear to these petty officials that he wasn't going to be intimidated by them. After all, they weren't even nobility! They were mere peasants, refugees from a land their king had lost in war and written off. So he decided to let them cool their heels a while. "Milord Forester, I appreciate your discretion, and will place myself at your disposal. However, I have spent the last five days trudging back and forth through the forest and performing magics sufficient to bind the very gods. I must see that my cargo is safely secured, and then I am going to enjoy the best meal that this backwater hovel can prepare. I hope that you and your councilmen will find it convenient to seek me in my quarters here at, say, second bell of evening?" Squint-eyes looked put out, but Forester met Anarr's gaze and nodded. "Indeed. Very well. Second bell." As they retreated, Anarr swung back toward the tavern, only to suddenly bump into another obstacle: some adolescent black-haired girl. Anarr took a moment to register surprise upon seeing that she'd painted her lips blue, and she took the opportunity to launch into a speech she'd obviously expected to deliver under different conditions. "Anarr. I need to talk to you. I need your help to lift a terrible curse which has afflicted my family for gen--" "Silence!" shouted Anarr, and her words were choked off, though her mouth continued to move silently for a few moments while Anarr fumed. Wherever he travelled, when people learned that he was a magus, nobles and peasants alike would come out of the woodwork, asking him to cure their petty ailments and problems. Save our crops! Heal my son! Bless my sheep! Anarr knew that every person in the world harbored hidden demands that would suddenly burst out in the presence of anyone with the least suggestion of the supernatural about them. "I am here because I choose to be here," he resumed. "I am not here to cure your afflictions, or those of your family, or your god-forsaken village! Nor am I bound by some silly creed to help every diseased or misbegotten peasant who crawls up to me. I have far more important works to do. Begone!" With that, he rounded on his bearer. "Edmond! Bring the artifact up to our room." Edmond, flustered, stammered, "But ... but the room's on the second storey! You hired me to guard the statue, not carry it everywhere you go ..." Infuriated, Anarr spat back, "Then get one of your local buddies to do it. Or hire someone; I already gave you two Rounds! I don't want that thing out of your or my sight until we're safely in Dargon." With that, he stormed into the inn, his fists clenching and unclenching as he ascended the staircase with improbable strides that spanned four risers at a time. "Have you really done it?" It was the question that thirty score souls in Northern Hope wanted to put to Anarr. With the town's seven councilmen stacked in the small bedroom he and Edmond had been given, it was almost time to finally give them an answer. "Done what, Regent Forester?" "Lifted the curse on our town, you arroga-- uh, your grace," interrupted the squint-eyed councilman he'd seen earlier that day. The regent had introduced the man as John Thomaso, the town weaver. Having bathed and replaced his travelling clothes, a dapperly dressed Anarr gifted Thomaso with a smile that the councilor might later swear contained fangs. "Yes, milords, I have." Anarr's gaze slowly traversed the candlelit room where the town's leaders uncomfortably stood. "To put it in terms you can understand, I went into the woods and discovered the source of the problems that have plagued you. High on a mountain, more than a day's journey from here, there is an abandoned settlement that for centuries was devoted to the worship of a foreign god. Legend has it that this god, Gow, was cursed by another powerful deity, and that curse afflicted not only the graven image of Gow, but also all the lands around it. It has been the source of your longstanding misfortune." The evening breeze freshened and caused the shutters to creak, and a distant rumble of thunder eerily punctuated his speech. Seeing his audience appropriately rapt, he continued. "I came to Northern Hope to find this artifact and take it away from here. I pitted my own skill against the magic wrought by one of the most powerful gods of Beinison, and I have put an end to your troubles." "And how do we know that you've really done what you say? That the curse is lifted?" jabbed the squint-eyed John Thomaso. Anarr smiled and leaned forward from his seat on his bed and clasped his hands, as if he were explaining something to a child. "You don't need to believe me, Thomaso. It is done; your belief or disbelief is of absolutely no concern to me." "Then why did you come here? What do you hope to gain by convincing us that you've done us some great favor?" The candlelit room was briefly illuminated by the flash of distant lightning flaring through the cracks in the shutters. Anarr made a show of chuckling condescendingly. He had no intention of revealing his employer's identity or purposes to these bucolics. "It is you who are asking to be convinced, John Thomaso! I have no need to convince you of anything. Neither you nor any of your people have anything I could possibly want! Even the glory of lifting the curse is something that will be determined by whether or not the town's fortunes change hereafter. So I have asked nothing of you. Yet it is you who have sought me out; have you not come here to ask something of me?" Thomaso looked at his feet, at a loss. The regent stepped in. "Anarr, we are just trying to understand what you have done, so that we can stand before the people and give them the truth. Since your arrival, your boast to rid the town of the curse has been the only thing anyone has talked about. We simply want to know the truth." Another, much closer lightning strike caused everyone to jump. In the silence, Anarr stood and walked over to the loosely-wrapped object on a side table, then whispered, "No, regent, you do not want your people to know the truth, for the truth is more harrowing than your imagination could devise." With that, he whisked the blanket away to reveal the idol. The councilmen gaped at the ancient, ink black stone, the wicked silver blade, the baleful ruby eyes, and the knifelike ivory fangs. The silent, agonized scream of a god, once frozen in stone, seemed loosened to eldritch movement in the flickering candlelight, which was suddenly shattered by the dazzling glare of another nearby stroke of lightning. The accompanying thunder rolled and echoed off the surrounding hills until it seemed the entire valley was filled with the growling hunger of this long-forgotten god. In the long silence before anyone spoke, the oncoming storm broke on the town. Rain battered the roof of the inn and the wind drove spatters of it through the gaps in the shutters. Another councilman, named Carron, who had been silent up to now, stepped in to state the obvious. "It's raining." Anarr winced at the memory of his Daeltis hawk slamming into the water wheel of the man's newly built gristmill. He also recalled that the town had been waiting anxiously for the mill pond to fill up. "Feh," grumbled Thomaso. Yet Carron was visibly moved, and persisted. "John, you know as well as I do that we haven't had rain in fortnights ... Nay, months! My stream dried up a fortnight ago, and the mill pond hasn't filled more than half. Everyone's been grumbling that it is the curse. Now it's raining barrels full. Whatever you think, people are going to say that Anarr has lifted the curse, and after seeing this thing," he gestured toward the idol, "I for one am ready to admit that they may just have the right of it!" Anarr simply watched, for he'd made it clear that the villagers' problems were, indeed, the villagers' problems, not his. Darvale, the village smith, at least, had seen this, too. "Well, if that's the case, I think an announcement -- and a celebration -- is in order!" Forester, their leader, turned to Anarr, who provided an answer to the unspoken question with a nod. Although his reputation would only be proven with the passage of time, it wouldn't hurt to foster the town's adoration a little bit. As he looked out over the crowd of townsfolk the next day, Anarr couldn't help but feel pleased with himself. Just days ago, their spirits had been broken, laboring against a constant deluge of ill fate that they couldn't explain. Today they celebrated their liberation with newfound hope and rekindled aspirations, and every one of them knew that he was to thank for it. The town council had declared a general holiday to celebrate the removal of the curse, and the bells of the meetinghouse and the town's two chapels had first started up around the second bell after sunrise. Roused early, Anarr had escaped the noise and attention by taking a long solitary walk in the woods, but not before he had been cornered once more by the woman he'd run into the night before, the blue-lipped girl who had claimed her family was cursed. The day before, Anarr had dismissed the woman with the barest glance when she blurted her demands in his face, but later he'd realized with a shock that he'd seen the harp-and-stars insignia of a bard on her belt. A bard would be well travelled and educated in the mysteries of the world. If this woman said her family was suffering under a curse, she at least deserved a hearing. And it couldn't hurt to have a trained bard enhancing his reputation with stories of the curses he had lifted! So when she approached him in the street that morning, he'd given her the opportunity to relate her story. She took up far too much of his time in getting to the point, but that had given him the opportunity to examine her in more detail. She had the vivaciousness of youth, her lips painted the same shade as her blue eyes. Her black hair was comely, if a little disheveled by the wind-driven rain. In the end, Anarr had warned her that he had urgent business to attend to, and that he'd be leaving for Kenna at midday, but that he would sit down with her to discuss the matter again after the town's little ceremony was complete. After that, he'd gotten away from the town and spent a couple bells in pleasant solitary contemplation. It was good to have this time to prepare himself for the inane crowds and attention that would follow. He returned to Northern Hope around mid-morning. Although the rain from the previous evening hadn't let up in the least, the majority of the town's six hundred inhabitants were out enjoying the celebration. Tents of all shapes and sizes had been hastily erected out of canvas, wooden planks, burlap sacks, old woolen blankets, and any material that had come to hand. Many of the local craftspeople had set up small booths to sell their wares, such as fabrics, quilts, and pottery. Anarr even saw one man busily carving small wooden statues that bore a rough but recognizable resemblance to the statue of Gow. No doubt his work had been informed by one of the councilmen, and he was doing quite a brisk trade. There were also several booths giving out food. It being Yuli, the seasonal dishes were strawberries and fresh peas in milk, but Anarr also saw bread and mead being served. In deference to Ol, whose worship decreed that pork be eaten on festival days, a pig had been slaughtered and was roasting on a spit near the center of town. Anarr had noticed people with fiddles, drums, recorders, and dulcimers playing beneath a shelter, all being led by the bard, whose name, he had learned, was Simona. Adolescents, children, and a few oldsters danced in between the raindrops, while a pair of hounds capered with them. Then the town's bells had redoubled their commotion, and the musicians had led everyone who wasn't already under the big tent toward it. Now Anarr surveyed the crowd from the base of a speaker's platform. Far too big for the town's meetinghouse, people still spilled out the edges of the tent and into the rain beyond. While the town leaders probably made speeches every so often, the opportunity to see a real wizard might only happen once in a lifetime, so even the housewives and children had attended. The musicians stopped, as did the town's bells. Anarr watched the town's regent, Kael Forester, as he asked where certain people were. Turning to Darvale, the town's smith and one of the councilmen, who stood next to him, Anarr asked what they were waiting for. "Kael is waiting so that even the bell-ringers can see you." After a few moments, Anarr saw three youths come running down the main street. Anarr wouldn't have been surprised if even the town's rats had come out to see him! Forester raised his hand for quiet, and got it from everyone except a few infants and animals. Anarr thought he made an odd-looking ruler, with his thin, angular features and limp black hair, but he spoke well and with authority. "Today is the biggest gathering that Northern Hope has seen since we settled here three years ago." A few tentative cheers broke out, but the majority of the audience listened quietly as the regent continued. "And that's as it should be, because today is indeed the most important day since the town's founding. Today we celebrate the end of the curse!" This time the entire audience joined in the cheering, which seemed loud enough to echo back from the surrounding hillsides. "As you know, today is a general holiday. In honor of our liberation, and in honor of all of you who persisted in staying here despite setbacks and accidents, I and the council have agreed to declare this an annual holiday of celebration and thanks." More sporadic applause was punctuated by many nods. "By now you have all heard rumor of the young man who came to Northern Hope very quietly just six days ago. I hope we can make his departure a little less quiet. Now is the time to thank him for finding and removing the curse that has blighted our town. I give you our deliverer: the great mage Anarr!" On cue, the magus stepped up onto the platform and, with his arms solemnly folded across his chest, let his gaze penetrate each person it fell on. Half the crowd seemed to be trying to make as much noise as possible, to show their thanks, while the other half were staring at the unique and powerful man who stood before them, as if trying to etch the memory in stone. Anarr inclined his head to acknowledge their thanks and then stepped down from the stage before the applause had begun to slacken. When it eventually did, Forester continued. "Anarr, as the governor of this land, I can tell you that you have saved this settlement. Your coming here will never be forgotten, and you will always be more than welcome to return as an honorary citizen and hero of Nulain." Anarr nodded his acknowledgement to the regent, and then began making his way out of the tent as Forester began to wrap up his speech. "And I invite you all to see the first proof of Anarr's work, in Carron's Stream, which is flowing once more after drying up a fortnight ago. We believe the new mill pond will be full by tomorrow afternoon, when Carron's new gristmill will begin operation ..." As he walked briskly back to Lord Araesto's Cat, Anarr was joined by Simona, the young bard. At the inn, he'd relieve Edmond of guard duty and let him enjoy a little of the feasting and dancing before midday. Then they would load the statue of Gow onto the mule and begin the final portion of the job Parris Dargon had hired him to perform: bearing the idol through the mountain passes to Kenna, and then on to Dargon itself. ======================================================================== The Lost Opportunity Part 2 by P. Atchley Yuli 25-29, 1018 Part 1 of this story was printed in DargonZine 18-3 Dourg stalked the mage in the forests near Northern Hope, a small village between the duchies of Narragan, Dargon, and Asbridge. The path was fairly narrow and he had given the mage on the donkey a head start. The summer day looked to be hot, although under the woodland canopy, the promise was as yet unfulfilled. It was humid though. The chittering of the birds and tree rats was loud enough to cover his footsteps, so Dourg allowed his thoughts to wander. Originally from Pyridain, Dourg had fled to Northern Hope with refugees from the Beinison War. Unfortunately for him, bad luck had dogged him in his new home, although the truth was that misfortune had beset everyone in town. Untimely illnesses and strange accidents were common, such as winter fever in the summer, heat sickness in the winter, the cobbler falling into the river, and the miller's barn falling down not once, but twice. One time there had even been an attack by strange beasts that no one recognized. Over the years, the citizenry had been forced to believe that they were laboring under a curse. It impacted every aspect of their lives and it could not be escaped, until now, when a mage named Anarr had come to remove it. Ahead, the sound of gurgling water gave Dourg pause; he brought his wandering attention back, stopped behind a tree and took a careful peek at the mage. Anarr and his donkey were at one of the smaller streams, and as Dourg watched, the mage forded it without much difficulty. Dourg waited until his target had passed beyond sight before following. He continued thinking about the events that had conspired to bring him here, following the mage. When he had come from Pyridain, he had brought part of his inheritance with him and had tried to start a trading business. But his venture had failed, and his money had dwindled, until, finally, he had accepted the insistent invitation of Ailo to join a group of bandits who ambushed travellers. Of course, the curse's effects had been inevitable, and the ambush had gone terribly wrong, leaving Dourg running away from the wagons, helter-skelter. In his mad dash, he had found a statue of a demon in a cave on the western face of a mountain, the Mariencap. Unable to move the idol, he had decided to return with help but then had forgotten where it was: yet another result of the curse. It wasn't until Anarr had come to the village and bespelled Dourg that he had remembered the statue's location. He had then realized that the idol was the curse's physical embodiment. He glanced around, trying to see if this was the path he had taken on his earlier trek, and recognized the area. They were climbing now, and the terrain had gradually become rocky. Every now and then the path crossed little valleys that forced Dourg to hang behind until the mage on his donkey had gone beyond sight. It was windy, although they were not yet high enough for it to get cold. Dourg knew that a small valley was coming up and found a convenient rock to wait behind. He watched the mage ride down into the small vale and up the other side. For some reason, there were not many trees here; the path went down and then up, completely open to the sky. The ride took awhile, forcing Dourg to wait for Anarr to move well ahead and vanish up the winding path before entering the valley. His thoughts went back to his goal: the statue. It was of a figure seated cross-legged, with rubies for eyes and a silver sword across its lap. Dourg, son of a successful trader, had known it would fetch a high price the moment he had seen it two fortnights past. He had hoped to take it to sell it and start his trading business again, which was why he was now following the mage. Dourg smiled as he thought about the reason for his decision to restart his business. Myla, the girl he had been seeing, had just told him that he was going to be a father. The thought both pleased him and scared him at the same time. The idea of having a little boy call him 'Father' was exciting. On the other hand, he knew that his current behavior of drinking and drifting probably needed fixing, for he would have to marry Myla. He planned to get the idol and contact his father's agent in Kenna. The smile vanished from his face as he thought of his father, a stern disciplinarian. He remembered the real reason for his departure from Pyridain, and his mind swelled with bitterness. The loss of his cousin, his best friend, still had the power to sting. "Hey Dourg, what'cha doin'?" Dourg looked up from the quarterstaff he was oiling. He was sitting in the open courtyard of his father's house, a small, rectangular area outside the main building. On all sides, the roof extended out for a few feet over the courtyard, leaving the center open to the sky. It was a dull, overcast day, and the exposed area was dismal and gloomy. The dark clouds above promised rain, and soon. "Uzhain! Look at this." Dourg extended the staff, and his cousin, Uzhain, ran a gentle hand over it. "Looks good. I prefer beechwood, meself," Uzhain said, sitting down beside him and extending his long legs as he leaned back against the wall. With closely shorn wheat-colored hair and brown eyes, he resembled his cousin enough for the two of them to be mistaken for brothers, especially since Dourg's father had brought Uzhain to live with them after he had been orphaned. "What're you doing here?" Dourg asked. "I thought you were going to go to the marketplace today." Before Uzhain could reply, there was a loud clatter at the far end of the courtyard, and a man entered. He was tall and broad-shouldered and carried a quarterstaff. "Dourg!" "Gage," Dourg muttered under his breath, a thrill of excitement and fear running through him. "He's here already." A thought suddenly came to him. He turned to the young man sitting nearby. "Is that why you came?" Even though he had shared the details of the impending meeting with Uzhain, Dourg didn't want to hear yet another attempt to dissuade him from the fight, but he suspected he would be treated to one anyway. Sure enough, Uzhain sat up, his brows contracting. "Listen Dourg, don't do this. Don't fight him. You know you did wrong --" "Wrong? You're my cousin, not my father. Now is not the time for this. If you're here as my friend and my family, then support me!" Despite expecting a lecture, Dourg couldn't digest the fact that his cousin and best friend, Uzhain, wasn't wholeheartedly on his side. There was a thud and Dourg looked up, recognizing the sound of a quarterstaff hitting the ground. Gage waited, holding his staff, an ominous picture. His weapon was of standard length, a bit taller than he was. Uzhain put a restraining hand on Dourg's arm and said, "I *am* your friend, and that's why I'm saying this. You know you did badly by Gage. He might work for your father, but that doesn't mean you can roll his wife and expect him to not care when he walked in on the two of you. Listen to me. I've already spoken to Gage and come to an understanding with him, and I can make this whole problem disappear if you will only say to him that you were wrong to take advantage of his wife." "Take advantage?" Dourg's initial annoyance with his cousin blossomed into white rage as he repeated the two words with incredulity. "Uzhain, his wife will roll anything in breeches, and pro'ly skirts too, if I know anything of her. I did not take advantage, and if Gage thinks he can get away with fighting with his master's son, his future master, then I will teach him better." "Dourg, please. If you think he's like the other teachers who taught you to spar, you're wrong. He won't give --" Dourg raised his hand. "Stop right there. What are you telling me? That I'm not good enough to fight him? That he's better than me?" Uzhain sighed, bowing his head for a moment. "Fine. Promise me one thing. If -- and I mean if -- if he wins, you will say you're sorry." "Not now, not here, not ever." Dourg moved away and then turned back to look at his cousin. The expression on Uzhain's face, a mixture of regret, affection, and fear, made Dourg reach out to the other man's shoulder. "Don't worry, Uzhain. He'll never be better than me." As Dourg stepped forward, it seemed to him that the clouds above them darkened. Was it an omen? He was not superstitious, so he dismissed the thought. The only relevant impact of the forbidding clouds was the lack of light. If it got too dark, would they be able to fight? Gage moved forward as well until they met in the center of the courtyard, about the length of a staff apart. He bowed briefly, but Dourg attacked without waiting for the courtesy to be completed. Gage raised his pole horizontally to block even before he raised his head, and the dance began. The only sounds in the courtyard were the clack-clack of the quarterstaffs, and the breathing of the two opponents that was still even, at this early stage of their fight. The initial back-and-forth was, for both of them, a test of the other's skill level. Dourg attacked side to side, staff parallel to the ground, hitting with each end in turn while moving forward. Gage defended, stepping back, preferring to deflect each blow on the center of his staff. Then he jumped backwards an extra step before striking at Dourg's head with the lower end of his weapon. Now it was Dourg's turn to defend. He didn't know what Gage learned from the initial sparring, but Dourg recognized Gage's tendency toward head and knee attacks. Stowing away the information, Dourg turned the tables again. He attempted a strike at Gage's skull, but the latter blocked it before aiming for Dourg's knees. Turning his staff perpendicular, Dourg managed to deflect the blow. Bringing his weapon up, he went on the attack, moving it from right to left and back, hitting at Gage's midriff with each end, and quickening the pace. Gage matched the tempo and blocked every blow with a force that hurt Dourg to block. Then he saw an opening to use his knowledge of his opponent's tactics. He feinted a right side body blow and immediately aimed the other end of the staff at head level. Contact! A bright red spot blossommed on Gage's temple. His recovery was so fast that Dourg couldn't even jump back. Gage's pole caught Dourg on his side. His ribs ached, and he knew that at least one was broken. His breath was coming in harsh gasps, and he knew he was very close to being spent. Now Gage feinted toward Dourg's left, and he fell for the ruse, turning his staff to deflect. Gage used the opportunity to knock at knee level again. Desperate, Dourg attempted something he'd never gotten the knack of: jumping to avoid the knee strike. It was only half successful; one leg cleared the staff but the other did not, and he tripped. Gage followed up with a powerful thwack on the back, and down Dourg fell, face to the ground, his opponent's quarterstaff pinning him. He breathed the dust, heaving with exertion. "Say you were wrong," Gage said, his breathing harsh and loud. "Say it." "No." At once, Dourg heard a clattering as a staff fell to the ground, then felt a knife against the side of his neck; the skin broke, and he felt the blood. Fear rushed through his mind as he realized that Gage would kill him just for an apology. "Say it now!" The voice was hoarse, but firm, and the breathing had evened out just a bit. For Dourg, the choice was easy. They was just words, after all. He didn't have to believe what he said, and if it meant that Gage would not kill him, then apologizing was a small price. "I'm sorry. I took advantage!" The pressure eased and there was a clink as something hit the ground; Dourg rolled over and saw the knife on the ground near Gage, who was swabbing the blood on his wounded temple with a piece of cloth. Dourg moved to pick up the knife; he was the master's son and he would not suffer an insolent servant to live. But Gage was quicker and reached the knife first. He moved forward, death in his eyes and hand. Dourg stepped backwards in an attempt to avoid the blow, and then, suddenly, Uzhain was between them. Dourg couldn't see what happened next, but Uzhain screamed, and Dourg's stomach clenched in fear. "No!" His cousin's voice ebbed away into a whisper. Dourg gasped as he tried to understand what had happened. He'd assumed that his cousin was far away from the fight, watching from the edges of the courtyard, but Uzhain had stepped in to stop the killing blow -- without success. The knife which would have killed Dourg was now in Uzhain's body. "No, no," Dourg whispered, as he lowered Uzhain gently to the ground. Dourg's mind was a chaotic mess. All he could think of was that his cousin was not supposed to get hurt. Why had he stepped between the combatants? "What have you done?" It was a new voice. Dimly, Dourg realized that his father had arrived. It took Dourg a couple of tries before the words would emerge from his throat. "Uzhain, what did you do?" Dourg was surprised to feel dampness in his eyes. As his thoughts regained the coherence that had momentarily deserted him, he realized that he could guess why Uzhain had done it: to save him. "Gage, get a healer at once!" That was his father, who then knelt and put a hand on Uzhain's forehead, pushing away the lock of hair on his temple. Uzhain whispered, "It was an accident. I only meant to stop him but ..." Dourg felt a wetness on his face and knew that it was blood as well as tears. Was he crying? Then he looked up and realized that the clouds wept too: a few drops began to fall from the ever-darkening sky. "By Illiena, you shouldn't have done it!" "Uzhain!" His father's voice was choked. "I only meant to stop him," Uzhain repeated. "Dourg, don't do anything stupid ..." His voice trailed away as his eyes stared up sightlessly. His father gasped, stood up, and moved away. Dourg stared down at the body in his arms, unable to even look at his father, his concern solely for the person lying motionless in his lap. He longed to say, "Wake up, Uzhain." He would even be willing to hear one of his cousin's endless lectures about fair play, if he would only wake up again. The sky continued to spot the courtyard with big droplets, and in the background, Dourg could hear his father and Gage. They were talking about justice and death, but if Gage could want vengeance for something so meaningless as a roll, then what about justice for this? Clarity had deserted him the moment Uzhain had died, and Dourg couldn't make any sense of what his father and Gage were saying to each other. He couldn't seem to concentrate long enough to hear complete sentences. "-- can't send him away!" "Your knife ... won't report you ..." "... bargain with your son's life." "No, not my son's life ... your life ... It would be unjust to punish anyone for an accident. We will talk more, Gage, but for now, please take care of Uzhain's body. It's starting to rain. "Dourg, come." His father's stern voice roused him. Dourg still stared at the body in his arms, its clothes and his own showing little spots of dampness. "Where? Gage ... Father, he has to be punished." "No, Gage is not at fault here. If not for your endless game of skirt chasing, Uzhain would be alive today. It was an accident caused entirely because of your behavior." He looked up at his father, a tall man. His receding, gray hair and the sharp bones with the sunken cheeks made him look old and emotionless. Even his gray eyes held no affection for Dourg. He couldn't dredge up his usual anger at his father's attitude, for Dourg's brain chanted endlessly: dead, dead, dead! Uzhain's open eyes mocked his cousin, and Dourg couldn't tear his gaze away. "Gage killed him," he said simply. "I didn't." "It's not important, do you hear me?" His father snapped. "I came to tell both of you that you need to leave, and now this! No matter. You will leave." "Leave? What do you mean?" At last, Dourg looked up, and lightning illuminated the courtyard in an eerie glitter, followed by thunder. Big, pearlescent drops fell with stunning force on his upturned face. "Come with me." His father placed an ungentle hand on Dourg's arm. Dourg laid Uzhain's body on the ground reverently as the grasp on his arm tightened. As he rose, it began to rain in earnest, and Gage hurried to pick up Uzhain's body and move it to one of the sides where the extended roof would provide some cover from the elements. Pulling at his damp clothing in some discomfort, Dourg entered the house. Inside the study, a small room on the far side, his father opened a chest with six drawers with locks, a very handsome piece of furniture that he was inordinately proud of, since he had commissioned it to store his gems and valuables. When Dourg remembered that Uzhain had designed it, the thought burned him. His father spoke, his back to his son. "Dourg, you must leave." "But Father, I don't want to go. You can't make me go. It was an accident," Dourg almost wailed. His mind was reluctant to let go of the image of Uzhain lying dead in his arms. The rhythmic beat of the rain enveloped him in anguish, as if even nature provided a death hymn for Uzhain. "I know. I saw it." "Then why? Why are you making me go? And you want me to go right now? Where will I go? What about Uzhain's funeral?" Dourg's voice broke on the last word. His father turned to face him, and now there was some expression on his face, a strange combination of grief and resignation. "Dourg, you know the war is going badly. Your mother ... Well, I need you to leave Pyridain." "Mother? What about her? And what do you mean, the war is going badly?" Dourg couldn't understand why his father was talking about his long deceased mother, while Uzhain lay dead outside in the courtyard, where the driving rain would have reached even into the sheltered area. "Several of our friends are already dead or severely wounded, and I am expected to join the fight with you and Uzhain. Well, that isn't going to happen. When your mother died when you were five, I promised her that I would keep you safe, and I'll pay even Eilli-Syk's price for that. "I've heard that a group fleeing the war is leaving Pyridain tonight. You're going with them." "Father --" "This is not a discussion," his father said harshly. "You are my blood, even if Uzhain was worth twice you, and so you will do as I say. At least one person of my family shall outlive this Kesra-damned war! That is final, do you hear me?" Dourg heard, but he couldn't seem to muster the energy to argue with his father. Uzhain's death had stolen his words, which seemed to circle in his mind like a swarm of bees that he could never hope to catch. The storm above reached a crescendo, just like the argument between father and son, the sound from the sky reaching its zenith while Dourg's emotions reached their nadir. The rest of the conversation became a monologue on his father's part, a barrage of instructions that Dourg wasn't sure he would remember. Much to his surprise, his father had apparently been prepared for the eventuality of sending his son and foster-son away. He had turned much of his wealth into a few gems that would be easy to transport. He provided Dourg with the name and address of his business contact in Kenna, and told him where to go to join the other refugees fleeing Pyridain. Thinking about those days still made Dourg's stomach clench with a myriad of feelings: guilt at his cousin's death; hatred that his father had seemed more upset at Uzhain's death than his son's departure; sorrow that he had never gotten a chance to grieve over Uzhain's body; and a dull ache for the life that he had lost. Even after settling in Northern Hope, those emotions had never been far from Dourg's heart, the disappointments and other disasters a constant reminder of everything his father had made him give up. Ale had become his prop, his solace, his Uzhain. A sudden noise from ahead broke Dourg's reverie. The mage and animal crossed a gorge by means of a makeshift bridge made by tree trunks that lay strategically across. Once they disappeared, Dourg traversed the makeshift bridge and followed, again stealthily. The mountain path was narrow and steep and Dourg had to watch his step carefully. Several times, one side of the path fell down in a steep incline, providing a beautiful view of the valley below. As the long summer day drew to a close, Anarr arrived at the deserted hermit's settlement that Dourg remembered from his previous trek. After a quick look around, the mage proceeded to lay out his blankets on the ground. Glancing up at the sky, Dourg knew that it would become dark before he could get to the nearby cavern to retrieve the statue, so he decided that he would follow Anarr's example. Unfortunately, while the mage had come prepared to spend the night out of doors, Dourg had not. He had no blankets, and since they had climbed the slopes of the Mariencap during their trek, it promised to be an uncomfortable night. Still, it was worth it for the statue that he hoped to acquire, and the potential benefits from its sale. The next morning, Dourg woke up stiff from the cold and the position he had slept in. Fear of the mage had forced him to rest on the hard ground away from the hermit's settlement and the night had been one of extreme discomfort. He rose slowly and stretched, raising his face to the sky. It was barely dawn, but Dourg wanted to grab the statue before the mage. Still, he had to attend to his needs first. So he went to the small stream beyond the settlement and made his ablutions first. Then he followed the path that led to the cave set in the west face of the mountain, where he knew the statue was. Just as he reached the opening, a flash of light came from within, along with a clattering sound. His heartbeat pounding like a caged bird's wings, Dourg heard footsteps approaching. He looked around but there was little cover. Making an instant decision, he moved to the far side of the rock face and knelt down beside a gorse bush, making himself as small as he could, and remained unmoving, praying that the mage would not stay to explore. Whatever gods were out there seemed to have heard his prayer, for Anarr hurried out of the cave with nary a glance to spare for anything save the path. He kept knuckling his eyes and disappeared from sight immediately as he took a brisk pace on the path leading back to the settlement. Dourg waited silently for a mene before he rose and entered the cave, but it was almost too dark to see. Still, he remembered where the statue was, so he pressed on, but when he reached it, he could not make out anything save its outline. The idol was on a pedestal, bringing its face up to Dourg's eye level. It was a seated figure, with a silver sword in its lap that glinted in the darkness. He bent slightly to pick it up. "Ah--ow. Ow!" His hands burned, and the idol repelled him with a physical force. Dourg flew backwards and hit the cavern wall with a thud. "Ow!" His head and the cavern wall met with gusto and Dourg found himself sitting a little distance away from the pedestal, feeling a painful tingle in his hand with a warm dampness that spoke of bleeding, and an ache on his head where he had bumped it. The Kesra-damned statue had pushed him away! It was the farking curse, he decided. Nothing worked because of it. Anger bubbled through him as the pain in his hand intensified, so he dragged himself up and moved toward the sunlight. Once outside, he examined his hand, and found a jagged tear all the way across his palm. Biting down his annoyance and frustration, Dourg pressed on the wound to stop the bleeding, but his action only served to increase it. He needed a bandage, and he had nothing that he could use except for his tunic. Unfortunately, this high in the mountains, it was far too chilly to go without his tunic, which was ratty enough to begin with. The dull ache in his skull reminded him that he had hit the cavern wall, so he gingerly touched the back of his head and discovered a small lump about the size of a cherry. Sighing with vexation, he began to make his way down the path which overlooked the valley on one side and hugged the hillside on the other. As he was halfway toward the settlement, he heard footsteps and realized that Anarr was probably coming back. Desperately, Dourg looked around for some form of concealment. Once again, cover was sparse; the side of the path that overlooked the valley was covered with rocks of various sizes, and the other side was the mountain face. He peered around one of the rocks and saw a tiny ledge, barely a handspan wide, open to the valley below. The footsteps approached! There was no time, and he slipped behind the stone onto the ledge. Anarr passed by, and Dourg waited in silence. He wanted the mage well away before he returned to the path. After what seemed like a long time but was probably no more than a mene, he decided it would be safe to move. He put his hand on the rock for balance as he took a step. Unfortunately, it was his wounded hand. The pain and the slickness of the coagulating blood caused him to lose his balance and he fell, dislodging the small rocks and pebbles on the ledge with a sickening clatter. It felt like a long drop. He couldn't see, because his eyes watered and he closed them. He couldn't breathe because all the air inside him was expelled through his stomach, his throat. The wind buffetted him and whistled in his ears and then there was one single, sharp instant of pain. Dourg's awakening was a gradual awareness of something wrong. His head hurt in a familiar manner, as the smiths in his skull pounded away with their hammers, and Dourg assumed he had overindulged with ale as usual. But there was a dull pain in his hand as well, and he felt very cold. Wasn't it summer? And surely Myla was there to keep him warm. An involuntary smile crossed his face at the thought of her before fading as the number of hammer-wielding smiths in his head doubled. It was time to open his eyes, he decided. A cup of something hot would do him very nicely indeed. He opened his eyes and saw the faint light that filigreed the clouds. He stared up at the still-visible stars, as his scrambled thoughts grew clearer. He wasn't at home: this was his first realization. He was out in the mountains somewhere. Then he remembered the cavern, the statue, and his fall. No wonder his head hurt. He touched the back of his skull, and there was the small lump from when he had fallen against the cavern wall. It seemed bigger now, more the size of a plum. There wasn't much he could do about it, so he decided to forget it for the nonce. His second thought was that it was getting on toward morning. The cooler, predawn air had the glowing anticipation of another fine summer's day. He glanced down at his hand, but although the bleeding had stopped, the cut seemed to glare angrily at him. He wondered how long he had been unconscious. He must have slept overnight, he decided. He glanced around and saw that he was sitting on a promontory about midway up the northwestern face of the mountain. There was no way above to get back to the path he had fallen from. Down, he spied a dusty trail a short distance away, but getting there was questionable. Of course, it would be easy for a mountain goat, but he wasn't one. He smiled at the little joke and decided that it would be best to wait a while. He didn't feel ready for the exertion of getting down to the path, not to mention the fact that it was still a bit dark. Amazingly enough, he fell asleep, and by the time he woke up, the sun was well into the sky. He judged that it was about midmorning, and decided to make his way to the path. Very carefully, he lowered himself on the side of the rock, but there was hardly any purchase. He fell a short distance, and it was enough to steal the breath from him in a gasp, although he was unhurt. Now the path was but a mene's walk away. Dourg's stomach rumbled, and he realized that he was hungry, ravenous, in fact. He had actually brought some food with him, but it was in a tree near the mountain stream by the hermit's settlement. He decided to forage near the path and finally found a small berry bush covered with ripe fruits that were a deep purple. The smell was so enticing and he was so famished that he fell upon the bush, popping the berries into his mouth as fast as he could pluck them. After he felt sated, he picked a few more for later, tucked them into his pockets, and started down the path. This time, Dourg awoke with a start. Looking around, he saw Myla standing near the fireplace, dropping something into a pot. The wonderful smell of fresh-baked bread and thyme permeated the small room, and his stomach growled. Maybe Myla heard it, for she turned and smiled when she saw him awake. "Oh, Dourg, how are you feeling?" She came to sit by him on the bed. "What happened? I was up there on the mountain ..." He couldn't remember anything after that. She frowned. "You went up to find the statue, didn't you?" After his discovery of the statue, he had expounded on his plans for it at length. Myla had tried her best to dissuade him and redirect his thoughts to some useful pursuit in the town. "Girl, tell me how I came to be here," he said, the old annoyance creeping in. At times, he felt like he loved Myla, especially when he thought of the child she carried, but other times, she irritated him so much that he snapped. "You came home yesterday morning so early that it was still dark outside, and you banged on the door and then fainted," she said disapprovingly. "I got Zakhmi to look at you, and she wasn't happy to be called away from her other patients. She said that not only did you hit your head on something and cut your hand, but you also ate overripe star berries. I found one in your pocket. Where did you get them, and why did you eat them?" Dourg grimaced. "I ate them because I was hungry. What're star berries anyway?" "Oh, Zakhmi says sometimes people make wort from them, and the berries are so strong that they make people fall asleep." Myla rose from the bed and went to the fireplace to stir the pot. "As if it weren't enough to drink here, you have to go and find berries to get drunk on." He ignored her acid comment. "Are you telling me that I was asleep for a whole day?" "Yes." She didn't elaborate and he watched as Myla picked up a bowl and ladled some stew into it. She set it on the small table and tore a piece of bread. He asked, "Where did you get the bread?" Myla smiled at him. "The baker had some fresh this morning. Dourg, isn't it wonderful? The mage removed the curse. Even the air smells different." "Yes, it does." He realized that it was true, that the dry smell of dust had been replaced with a cool breeze that carried in the perfume of the wildflowers that had managed to flourish even in the cursed land. Then thoughts of the reason behind his trip to the mountain crowded his mind. "I have to get the statue," Dourg muttered as he rose and made his way to the table. Myla ignored his words and continued blithely, "Now that the curse is removed, we can be safe here. We should get married. Zakhmi knows I'm with child, and soon Dora will know too." Dora was Myla's aunt, and the town gossip. She would also be very angry if she thought Dourg had taken advantage of Myla, and she would probably get the town elders to put him in the stocks. While he wanted to marry Myla, he certainly didn't want to be forced into it by a woman who was so wedded to propriety that she frowned upon a little bit of tickle and giggle. Meanwhile, Myla continued to speak, and Dourg tried to focus on what she was saying. "-- know he will help you. And when our baby is born, we can be so happy." "Yes, we will be happy when the baby is born if only we had money," Dourg's voice was bitter. Myla's smile disappeared. "We will have money; of course we will. All you have to do is work. Don't you remember, back when we first came here, you wanted to work with Darvale? Dourg, don't get angry." The teary note in Myla's voice made him feel bad. Dourg sighed as he stared down into his half-full bowl. "Myla, I want more for my son, more than just two meals a day. I want him to learn the things I learned growing up, and for that I need money. I want him to have the finest sword I can buy, and I want to buy silks for you. I want to hire the best teachers for my son." He looked up at her, staring earnestly into her eyes. Then he rose and went to kneel by her, putting both hands around her waist. "My father and I didn't see eye to eye on many things, but he made sure I was taught skills, Myla. I want the same thing for my son. Don't you understand, sweet?" She smiled at him and leaned forward to place a soft kiss on his lips. "Of course I do, but what things are you talking about? He can learn whatever he needs from everyone here in Nulain. If he wants to be a baker he can, or if he wants to be a smith, he can. Why, we even have a chandler if that's what he wants to become." Myla's voice was full of awe as if making candles was a highly prized skill. Then she added in a caustic tone, "Besides, you don't know if it's going to be a boy." Dourg clenched his teeth and rose in a fluid movement. "By Illiena, woman, don't you understand what I mean? It doesn't matter if it's a boy or a girl. All I want is for my child to learn his numbers, learn to read, and learn to fence. I want him to learn to fight with a quarterstaff, and I want him to understand the qualities of wine, and the difference between quartz and rubies. I want him to learn the finer things in life, and all you can talk about is chandlery. Arom-Nok's dungeons, Myla, don't you know anything?" Myla was weeping by the time he finished his diatribe. He knew he had hurt her, but he couldn't help it; the anger that crept up from inside him, as if from an endless well, made him lose all control. "Are you so much better than me because I cannot read?" she cried. "You can read. You can do your numbers. What good has it done you? You are here, in Nulain, in this once-cursed place, same as I. What makes you think you are better than me?" Her voice began to throb with anger. "Once-cursed, aye, that's true, but I will still get my money," Dourg snapped. "I will go and retrieve that statue. And I will --" "Ha!" Myla laughed. "Why are you laughing? Do you think --?" "Yes, I laugh," she interrupted him again. "I laugh because you think you can touch that accursed statue and make money from it. Well, don't deceive yourself no more, because that mage is taking it away. He fetched it down from the mountain today, and he leaves tomorrow, taking the accursed thing with him." "What?" Dourg roared. "No! It's my statue. I need it. I will get it. It's mine!" "Stop it! Stop it! It's cursed. Let it go, Dourg," Myla wailed. He bent, lifted the table and shoved, yelling aloud, "Mine!" Myla screamed as the pot of stew, the two half-finished bowls, and the bread scattered on the far side of the room. The shrill sound of her voice penetrated Dourg's mind at last. "Stop screaming. Now!" He approached her purposefully, and when she did not stop, he slapped her, once. The hysterical sound ceased, and Myla stared at him, her hazel eyes wide open, with tears streaking down her dusty cheeks, slight chest heaving. Without another word, Dourg left the cottage. By the time he reached the tavern, his ire had subsided to a simmering frustration. The wellspring of anger within him had seemingly stopped for the moment. "Hey Dourg!" The bartender, Moritan, greeted him as he entered the tavern and seated himself before the counter. Dourg didn't respond, and, momentarily, a mug of ale was placed on the counter before him. He picked it up morosely and said before taking a sip, "Thanks, Moritan." The ale soothed him a little, but it also made him think about the events of the past two days. His failure to get the statue, his fall, and the loss of two days because of the Kesra-damned star berries were enough to make him lose all hope of profiting from the idol. His thoughts wandered as the bells passed and his mug was replenished until at last Moritan's words broke into his reverie. "Ah, there you are Myla. I was looking for you." Moritan smiled in the direction of the doorway. A niggling sense of shame rose within Dourg, strangling the impulse to turn around and look at her. He didn't want to see if his hand had marked her cheek. For a moment, the enormity of his act seemed to stop his very breath in his chest as he heard in his mind's ears his father's voice saying, "Never raise a hand against someone weaker than you." Dourg expelled his breath forcefully, realizing that as the sun set outside, the tavern had begun filling up. He had sat at the bar all afternoon, he realized. The air of jubilation in the tavern made him crabby. He didn't want to celebrate; he wanted to continue doing what he'd done all afternoon: brood over his failure to secure the statue. Then, as he took another sip of the ale, a tiny voice inside his mind that sounded very much like his father's said, "And what have you done, that you might celebrate?" He banged the empty mug down on the counter, but the crash was unsatisfying, drowned out by the rising noise in the tavern. Outside, it was raining quite heavily, the patter of drops on the roof a strange counterpoint to the singing. Dourg listened to the chorus of voices, peppered by the stamping of feet in time to the beat. "Rain, rain, come today, Come to help us grow For 'taters and corn we sow. Rain, rain come today, Come to help us grow." The refrain went on and Dourg sighed. It was a song sung mostly by farmers' children, and his father with his ideas of making a lawyer out of Dourg had discouraged such pursuits. Various conversations continued around him as Dourg moped. He took a sip from the refilled mug. He needed to get to the statue. A small voice inside wondered why that seemed so important, but the thought of the idol made the banked resentment within begin to boil, overpowering the sound of that tiny voice. He turned his attention without, seeking to ignore it. "Aye, Edmond helped bring the cursed thing for the mage," a voice said. "We will be well rid of it," said another. Someone entered the pub and there was a chorus of welcome. "John Thomaso, welcome you be. Moritan, some brown ale for John. Tell us what happened." That was one of the council members. Several others joined in, urging him to speak. "It's safe upstairs in the magus' room," Thomaso said. There was an immediate cacophony of anxious voices. "The bad luck --" "In the building!" "The statue is safe," Thomaso said. "It's bad luck, that's true, but Anarr has warded it. Thank Cydrian the lord will be leaving with it tomorrow." The conversation flowed, and Dourg finished his ale. As he replaced the mug on the counter, an idea, blinding in its splendidness took hold of his mind. His hand shook as the plan unfolded by itself. He would go now, when everyone was otherwise occupied, and get the statue. By Illiena, he would do it at once, and he would be free. Dourg slipped away silently, and, in the celebrations, no one noticed him leave. He climbed the steps to the second storey where he knew the mage had a room. The corridor was silent and dark, every now and then illuminated by a violent flash of lightning that seemed to almost jump inside the building through the small window. Two of the doors were ajar in the manner of empty rooms but the last door was tightly shut. Dourg knew that this was Anarr's room. He crept forward and tried the latch. It unfastened! He crouched as the door slid open. Inside, Edmond slept. He slept! Dourg's heart quickened as he thought how easy this would be. The statue sat beyond the guard, staring upwards with anger flowing from ruby eyes that seemed unbelievably wide to Dourg. Its ugly teeth were filed to pointed spikes, making its face look monstrous. The silver sword in its lap gleamed dangerously in the moonlight, while the larger, unadorned one next to Edmond had none of the former's beauty. The sound of the rain on the roof increased to a deep thrum, and it inexorably reminded Dourg of the last time it had rained this heavily. Dourg paused mid-step, his mind overpowered by memories. Slowly he put his foot down, the drumbeat recalling the death hymn sung in his home town in Pyridain. The boiling within receded and he could think again, feel again. And he felt fear. He looked from the sword to the sleeping Edmond. Dourg knew that Edmond would wake as soon as the statue was moved. The moment Dourg thought of the idol, his glance moved back to the furious face. The answer was simple: kill Edmond. Still looking at the statue, Dourg leaned forward to pick up the sword. When he looked at what he was doing, he shuddered. He was going to kill a man. A sleeping man. An innocent, unarmed man, just like Uzhain. Above, the tempo of the sky's tears was rhythmic, and memories held Dourg in their thrall. Gage had killed Uzhain by accident, but Dourg was about to kill on purpose. His father's voice filled his mind. "Never raise a hand to someone weaker. Discipline is the symbol of chivalry." The voice grew and grew, changing from his father's to Uzhain's. "Honor is the path to Illiena's heaven. Fairness pleases the gods." The face of the statue blurred and became Uzhain's, and the voices fell silent as the storm above reached a crescendo. His heart lifted as Dourg realized that he could no longer sense the boiling anger inside. He could hardly believe that he had considered killing, and that, an unarmed, sleeping man. Shame coursed through him, filling him with a bittersweet pain. His exile was deserved, and even a lifelong penance would be insufficient, for Uzhain's life would never be again. Dourg had not wielded the knife, but his cousin was dead, nonetheless. "Uzhain, I'm sorry," he whispered aloud, retreating without looking at the statue. He had stopped himself from killing, and he felt a fragile peace within. The anger was gone, washed away in the rain that continued to pound the roof of the inn, reminding him of how he had held Uzhain's body under a weeping sky a few years past. Dourg embraced his grief for the first time since then, and it cleansed him. The anguish he remembered was gone, and the sorrow tinged with bearable regret. He thought of Myla and his soon to be born child. The decision to change, to fulfill his promise to her and his duty to his unborn offspring was easy, and the will to make it grew from the bittersweet memories of his past. He wouldn't lose this opportunity to redeem himself. "I'll do better," he vowed as he exited, and the rain drummed against the roof in agreement. ========================================================================