Chapter IV: The Path Begins
He couldn’t remember the last night he’d slept undisturbed by his dreams, dreams he could never recall when he awoke. Perhaps the unusual mixture of Bordana and some other peculiar airborne substance he couldn’t quite identify bestowed his unusually deep sleep.
Jessar looked at the branches overhead. How long had his eyes been open?
He listened for any noise upstairs – none there. Good, his friends still slept. He heard nothing outside either. The birds, at least, should be chattering.
Then he remembered why the birds weren’t singing. That other substance in the air was ash; his neighbors had burned his gardens. No flowers, no vegetables, no shrubs, no birds, no Bordana. No Bordana! Without it, Stefir couldn’t cast the spell to reveal Jessar’s patron star. What hope had he now of ever finding out about his past or his parents?
None if he didn’t get moving. He’d have to be quiet to avoid waking Sabretha in the hammock nearby and his friends above. Carefully, he stood up from his pillowed bench, amazed at the soreness in his abdomen from his wound. Sabretha had been right – a journey this soon would be hard on him. Breathing deeply and willing himself to ignore the resulting pain, he opened the shutters above the bench and turned toward his wood stove.
He gasped and froze in mid-step. In the piercing rays of the dawn sunlight there before him lay the sleeping Sabretha in all her female glory, her clothing hanging on a branch above her. Though the chilly spring morning would have warranted a light blanket for a human, the Valkara, with her Solon heritage, apparently was insensitive to the temperature. Actually, that was not completely true, as her perfectly rounded breasts revealed. He tried to tell himself it was wrong, but he couldn’t help standing frozen, awed at her unearthly loveliness. Then he told himself it wasn’t wrong to admire her beauty. After all, her sword and sheath, angling across her body, concealed the center of her femaleness. He’d heard that in the southern Trade Lands women did not cover their breasts, so what was the problem?
As stirring as her delicate curves were, he surprised himself somewhat, now that he could examine his emotions. Instead of, or at least dramatically overpowering the burning passion warranted by the beauty displayed before him, he felt a different kind of heat. His chest seemed to swell with a warm, filling sensation, and he found himself mouthing the words, “Arien, I’d thread the maze of Fate for this solowen and brave the perils of the Pits.”
Suddenly, he grasped his own short sword from the table beside the bench and wished for a small army of enemies, so he could prove his worthiness to cradle this solowen’s sculpted body to his side. The pleasant smile on her precious lips, the gentle rise and fall of her breathing chest, and the sun-scintillating hair cascading over the side of the netting beneath her – all these things seemed to contribute to the unbearably sweet pressure inside him. Yes, he thought as he slid his sword behind his belt, he’d learn to wield the blade. Yesterday, when he’d foolishly rushed to her side in the bar fight, his unconscience had already known what he now only consciously recognized: as long as blood coursed through his veins, he’d let no harm come to this wonderful creature. Reaching back to the bench, he grasped his sheet and billowed it over the hammock, where it descended slowly atop her sleeping form. At the linen’s delicate touch, the Valkara shuddered slightly, turned her head as if to face him, and smiled again.
He stared back at her for a timeless moment until a creak on the floorboards above reminded him of his friends. He must be gone before they awoke.
Wincing in pain, he donned his gardening tunic over his bandages. As quietly as possible, Jessar stoked and fueled his wood stove. He retrieved some annuba and mint leaves from the kitchen and put them into a kettle to brew.
Stepping over to the tree trunk, Jessar placed his hand on a knot. He whispered his Word of Control, and willed the knot to open silently. Without his potion, however, the tree did not completely understand his desire, and as the knot bloomed open onto a bucket-sized cavity, the wooden sinews creaked. In alarm, he turned to Sabretha, but she only sighed and cast her right leg over the side of the hammock. Shaking his head to clear her image from his mind, Jessar thanked his patron star that he’d tossed his sheet over her.
Reaching into the opening, he withdrew and put on a set of fine ewe hide riding gloves he had bought in Plasis with part of his indenturement pay. He groped at the bottom of the secret compartment for the document he needed. The parchment found its way into one of the plentiful pockets over his left thigh.
The invigorating aroma of the annuba brew had already begun to hang on the air as Jessar dropped down the trapdoor and climbed the short ladder to a landing on a branch some twenty feet above the ground.
Taking his trelad, an hourglass-shaped, flat board, from his right thigh pocket, he threaded the rope that had been wedged into a forked branch before him through a slot running lengthwise along the board to its center. The board rested atop a knot at the end of the rope, forming a suitable seat. He sprang deftly from the landing onto this seat as he grabbed the second length of rope where it depended from the leg thick branch overhead. Letting go the silk line, it slithered rapidly over the iron sleeving protecting the branch, which served as a kind of non-rolling pulley. His seat plummeted downward in a scarcely controlled free fall. Moments later, he squeezed the rope again to bring himself to a stop just as his feet lighted on the path at the roots of the scentwood tree.
He stepped off the seat, removed it from the rope back to his pocket, and turned toward his gate. Suddenly, he couldn’t move. Scanning what had been his gardens, Jessar couldn’t believe the completeness of the destruction. The spell that had saved his tree home had been too late for the rest of the plants.
Yesterday everything had looked so hopeful. His Bordana was blooming, full of the pollen Stefir would need to solve the problem of Jessar’s mysterious past. Now, everything was in ashes, dead. Only now, with the loss, did he understood how much he’d grown to love his plants. The horticulture he’d often thought was a waste of time, especially when he had important mysteries to solve, had produced the gardens he’d grown to love.
Now that he thought about it, he realized his efforts hadn’t been wasted. Dimly he recalled that today, the ninth of Growth, was his birthday: He was thirty one. In all the excitement about his friends’ visit, he’d forgotten. Three years ago today, he’d arrived here in Silarom with his friends. He thought back to that day, when his neighbors had trampled his gardens before. He’d wanted then to return with his friends to the West, to find all the answers he sought in an impetuous rush. Only his friends’ hasty departure and his own feeling of commitment to restore his mother’s treasured gardens had stopped him. He’d worked diligently and hard at that task these three years, and, as recently as yesterday, the grounds had been as beautiful as he’d remembered as a child. Yes, during that time, his gardening had taught him something: Patience – that things required time to grow, that everything had its season.
Even in their devastation the gardens were still teaching him. Now they were showing him a new lesson. He’d fulfilled his commitment; he’d restored his mother’s estate to its prior brilliance. But now they again lay in ruins – only this time it was different. Yesterday, Jessar had a vague plan to attend the Council with his friends and return here again to await the day of his journey of discovery. Today – well, there was a message in the finality of the ashes still smoldering around him. The season of mutual growth for he and his gardens was over. Although his plants wouldn’t see the rest of the season of Growth, the season of Prosper would follow nevertheless. That’s what his gardens were telling him: He must grow on his own; it was now his season, and soon he too would get his chance to prosper.
Yes, he was no longer temporarily departing for the Council. Today he’d begin his journey, the time of discovery of his past and the search for his parents. Looking up from the destruction, he focused his eyes at the top of the gate ahead. He started slowly down the path. His steps quickening, he knew he would not return after the Council, at least not for a long time. Part of him had already known it; why else would he have the deed for his mother’s estate in his pocket?
So, he resolved, if the wizard couldn’t solve his problem by identifying his patron star, he’d have to do it himself, no matter how hopeless things looked; it’d just take longer. Besides, in just one day, he and his friends had learned a lot.
No, that wasn’t exactly true: Yesterday had raised more questions than answers. Somehow, he got the feeling that would be the way with things – for every question answered, there’d be two more.
By the time he reached the still-intact hedge, he moved in long, confident strides. So, today he would finally start down the road to his past, but it looked to be much longer and more winding than he’d expected. If yesterday had been any example, he wondered where the road might take him in the end and what he’d find when he got there.
The Lynx walked out and across Infamy Avenue. To his left, the sun crowned the horizon while, to his right, a lamp lad extinguished the last lantern. He opened the green slatted gate in his neighbor’s cedar hedge and entered the estate. Mishar, the tall elf who had come to Jessar’s defense, owned these gardens and had lived here alone since his son had joined Galbard’s Border Guards.
Looking about, he noticed the differences from his own now destroyed gardens. No Bordana grew here: His experienced nose detected none of the pollen. Unlike Jessar’s paths, Mishar’s wound in graceful intersecting curves.
As he approached the central scentwood, he saw, in increasing numbers, ebony-petaled mourning roses. Did Mishar raise them for export? Doing so had become popular since the king had started allowing it.
Could the flowers memorialize a death in Mishar’s family? His companion, as happened too often with elwen, had died while delivering her son before Jessar had even been born – much longer than the twenty years elven protocol required for mourning a companion’s death. Now only his neighbor’s only relation was his son. That left only commerce, but Mishar hardly seemed like the trader type.
Jessar pulled the cord hanging from the boughs overhead, sounding a terse gong. Staring into the gloom above, he stood uncomfortably, trying to see the trapdoor.
Finally, after some muffled noises, two lengths of rope slithered to the ground and a sleepy voice said, “Come.”
Jessar used his own trelad to get to the landing. After that, two ladders led through the branches to an open trapdoor.
He stepped into Mishar’s common room. The home was hexagonal, like most Galbardian homes, and of similar construction to Jessar’s, from what little he could see in the dim light. Closed shutters kept out the chill of the morning spring air along with the light.
The Lynx couldn’t see Mishar, but heard a surprised exclamation from the kitchen: “Why, Jessar. What brings you here?”
A candle flamed to life a few feet away, and he saw Mishar in a disheveled wool pullover of a night shirt. Jessar found himself staring uncomfortably at his taller neighbor’s chest. “Greetings, Mishar. I know this is irregular, but I have some business with you. Also, I wanted to make sure our neighbors hadn’t injured you when they dragged you from my gardens.” Jessar noticed the cruel scar on Mishar’s hand. A wound from the Border Wars? Probably, few Galbardians who lived through military service returned unscathed.
“The Yitrava just paralyzed me for a few minutes. I came out of it fine after they put me on the grass outside your hedge.”
“Good. I can’t thank you enough for trying to stop them from destroying my instruments. In a way, however, last evening made everything easier.”
“No need to thank me, Jessar. I owe you more than you can possibly imagine.”
Now what did that mean? The silence started to grow awkward, but then a whistle sounded from the kitchen. “I had put on some annuba, would you like some? Please, I forgot my manners. Have a seat on the bench, Jessar. I haven’t had much company since my son died.” Mishar lit a second candle and headed for the kitchen without waiting for Jessar’s answer.
So the roses were for a death in Mishar’s family after all. The Lynx knew how it felt to lose a loved one and live in nearly absolute solitude.
Other furnishings loomed out of the flickering candlelight now, including a stove and furniture that matched the function, though not the style, of Jessar's. The rugs and decorations of Mishar’s home shared a typically elven nature theme.
“I’m sorry to hear about your son's death; I hadn’t known….”
How could he not know such a fundamental thing about his neighbor? Probably because he had only spoken to Mishar once, when his son had marched off two years ago.
Jessar expected what came next, as Mishar fussed with the brew in the kitchen. “It was the Border Wars, you know, a year ago, during the Bulk Insurgence. A score of the brutes ambushed his unit and overran the post, trapping the force in a grotto. When the reinforcement troop arrived, they identified my son’s unit only by a company banner.”
Wincing inwardly, Jessar considered how it must have been against the notoriously savage Bulks. They defiled their victims, whose vital organs they ritually consumed before rigor mortis, preferably while the victims still lived.
From the kitchen, the tall elf continued, “What bothers me most is the Bulks. Why and how had they come out of the mountains? And why did it have to happen while my son manned the watch posts?”
The questions had no answer, at least as far as Jessar knew. Many others, especially King Avril wondered the same thing. Supposedly, the Bulks hadn’t descended their mountains since the Sacred Wars thousands of years ago. Why now, and were they fighting for the Bulk-men or independently?
Mishar returned to the common room with two earthenware mugs. Fully adapted to the dim light, Jessar noticed the haunted, hollow cast to his neighbor’s eyes, as if the elf stared inward at the gruesome scene of his son’s death.
The Lynx sipped at his frothing mug. “Mishar, I know how lonely you feel. This news makes part of my visit meaningless.” Who else could the half-elf trust?
Mishar sat in a bent wood chair across from Jessar. “No, Jessar. Tell me how I can help. If the king had accepted the other nations’ offer of arms assistance that you brought from the Council before, my son might still be alive.”
As the foreign minister, Jessar had, of course, heard of the offer. In fact, he had counseled the king to accept it. Instead, Avril had turned down the offer, ostensibly because he refused to enter trade agreements with the other nations. Sometimes, the Lynx wondered if his liege would agree if the other countries offered to give him the troops he wanted. “I owe you then, Mishar. As you may have heard, the Council has been summoned again. And I will represent the king as his foreign minister. But this will be my last Council. I have nothing to come home to now. As you know, my people have rejected me, so I will go west with the friends in my tree home.” Jessar reached into his pocket and withdrew the deed.
“But—“
“No, Mishar, there’s no way to avoid it. This is the deed for my property. I wanted your son to have it, but…. In any case, it’s yours. Do with it what you will. I ask only that you preserve the contents of my tree home. There are many items there of sentimental value. Someday I hope to reclaim them.”
The grieving neighbor didn’t even look surprised, a surprising thing in itself. Instead, he had the look jewelers used to examine a raw stone before striking their first cut – much like Stefir’s penetrating gaze.
“Jessar, I wish our countrymen’s words last night were only threats. But we both know they were serious. There are still many of us left who survived the Great Plunder, and some will not allow the rest of us to forget. I will accept the deed, but only as caretaker. I hope instead things will change and you may one day return."
His kinsmen had been prejudiced isolationists for over nine thousand years. What could possibly change them now? “Without my formula, I don't think I want to return, Mishar. In only a few more days the potion’s effects will wear off and my Word of Control won’t work. No, I can never restore my gardens.”
The half-elf looked from the roiling surface of his drink to his neighbor. “It’s best if we don’t plan on my return. I’m in your debt.”
“No, Jessar, you’re not. I am embarrassed at what my people did.” Mishar diverted his gaze to the floor momentarily before standing up from his chair and retrieving something from a cabinet drawer near the tree trunk. He held the item, a blade of some kind, in his hand in front of Jessar. “You should have this back,” he said as he opened his hand to reveal the knife with the Temple etching. “I managed to take this last night before the Yitrava paralyzed me.”
Smiling, the Lynx reached for the knife. “Thanks, Mishar. Again I owe you. The wizard in my treehome was concerned that it might come in handy—“ Jessar paused, noticing that Mishar was staring at the hilt.
“Jessar, I didn’t get a good look at the engraving there, the Temple of Fertility you said, until yesterday, but now that I have – Jessar, I have seen that sign before.”
“Well, that isn’t all that remarkable, I suppose. In the Sacred Wars it was an icon of evil, and I suppose the Cult of Vyxana may still be active somewhere today.”
“No, you don’t understand. The last time I saw the symbol was a little over twenty one years ago, the day your mother was kidnapped—“
The Lynx interrupted, “Wait a moment, don’t you mean the day she left?”
Mishar shook his head and looked sympathetically at Jessar. “Jessar, have you actually thought all these years that your mother abandoned you?”
“Well, I never understood it, but that’s what King Avril told me when I returned.”
“That bastard! He gives elves a bad name. He is the one who sold you into indenturement a mere three days after Gilana’s kidnapping. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out he had something to do with that too.”
Jessar was reeling. Deep down, he’d always known his mother would never have abandoned him. And now – to learn that his own king had sent him into slavery…. “I’ve never liked him very much, and now I know why. But what of the Temple?”
“Yes,” the elf said as he stared at the dagger hilt, “the night your mother disappeared was the last time I saw this design. Now that I think about it, I believe the elf who took your mother may have been Ludar himself! His height was about right, and I’m pretty sure I noticed a scar on his face in the lamplight. I had gone to close the shutters on my north window when I noticed a fancy, black horse drawn coach in front of your estate. I heard some struggling inside the coach and Ludar, I believe, left the driver’s seat and entered the coach. Next, I heard a scream like I’ll never forget.”
“My mother?” Jessar almost shouted.
“No. If I’d known that night it was your mother in the coach, Jessar, I’d have done my best to save her, please believe me. It wasn’t until the following day when she failed to answer the King’s summons that I realized she must have been in the coach.”
“Of course, Mishar, I’m sorry. I know my mother thought highly of you.”
“And I her. I’m just sorry I couldn’t stop what our people did to your estate.”
“You’re only one elf, Mishar. It wasn’t your fault. Please continue.”
“Yes, well, anyway, after the unhuman scream, the coach began rocking vigorously, probably your mother struggling. The coach door briefly flung open and a cloak fell to the ground. That’s when I heard a second scream, female this time. I ran out to the street as fast as I could, but the horses fled as if chased by demons. By the time I got to the street, the coach was over the hill to the east. I picked up the black cloak, and it had the same symbol on it as this dagger. Then, as I stood there staring at the cloak, a brief but fierce wind arose. All the lamps on the block suddenly extinguished. In the ensuing darkness, a carrion-smelling chill swept by me. As Arien is my witness, I felt something brush against my bare forearm, and the black garment was wrenched from my grasp.”
“I am grateful you told me, Mishar. That must have been terrifying, but in a strange way it gives me hope, for it sounds like an awful lot of trouble for someone to have gone through if all they wanted to do was to kill my mother. I believe she’s still alive – I’ve always thought that.”
“Yes, what you say makes sense, Jessar. Someone or something with the kind of power I felt that night could probably have killed your mother with less effort if that’s all they wanted. I’m not sure I’d take any comfort from that, however, Jessar. Whatever the mysterious being wanted your mother for is sure to be the vilest evil if he has anything to do with the Cult of Vyxana.”
“You may be right, but it’s all the hope I have.” The Lynx pressed his neighbors fingers around the knife’s hilt. “Mishar, for what you did last night and that night twenty one years ago, I’d like you to keep the dagger, along with the deed to my estate. I know you may be thinking the blade is evil, since it has the Temple on it, but I sense that’s not the case. A few years ago, Stefir told me that the original priests of Vyxana had noble ambitions – to restore fertility to the Solon – before the Cult took over. Consider this: Ludar himself got rid of it. Surely he would not have done so if it was an instrument of evil.”
“Perhaps. Very well then, I’ll trust your judgment on the matter, Jessar; I’ll keep it. However, only on one condition.”
“Say it.”
Mishar stood and moved toward the tree trunk ladder. “Today is your birthday if I remember right, and I have a gift for you. Wait here one moment, please, Jessar.”
“I’m flattered you remember my birthday, but I’ve earned no gift,” the Lynx called out to Mishar as the latter disappeared upstairs.
He returned, carrying a Galbardian female’s gardening attire. He held up the vested skirt and ankle-high, multi-pocketed trousers. “First, these clothes were my companion’s. I just remembered you’ll need these for the lovely solowen in your treehome if she is not to attract any attention while you travel in Galbard. Although, as beautiful as she is, she will always be a problem.”
“That much is certain. Thanks.” Jessar accepted the clothing.
“Please don’t take this wrong, but, if I may ask, however did you get such a wonderful creature to come here to visit you?”
The Lynx laughed. “Oh, Mishar, now that’s funny. I just met her yesterday, and it’s a long story, but one thing I can assure you is that she wouldn’t have crossed the street to come see me.”
“Well, you know your business, but I’d suggest she’d make a wonderful companion. She’s very fetching.”
Still chuckling, Jessar nodded. “Yes, she is as beautiful as a lioness, and just as tame. I can’t say I haven’t thought of it, though.”
“Very well then.” The half-elf’s neighbor shrugged and extracted a small box from the waist pocket of his night shirt. “As for the gift—“
“I can’t,” Jessar began.
Mishar shook his head. “No, trust me, you’ve earned this. My people owe more than they can imagine to you and your mother.” Mishar reached below his bench and extracted a small wooden box. “When you find yourself missing your home and gardens the most, break the seal on this chest and open it. It will bring you peace.”
Jessar accepted the box gratefully. Sealed with wax along its opening, the box also had a small brass clasp. “Thank you, Mishar, but I can’t see myself missing my lonely tree home.”
“You will be surprised.” Mishar rose from his chair.
Thinking the visit complete, the Lynx also stood and turned toward the trapdoor. Mishar grasped Jessar’s upper arm. “Wait, Jessar, I see you acquired a ring to hide the fact that the King sent you to slavery before you got your real star ring. I know you have no star name, so I’ll begin this-“
“No, Mishar, don’t. Remember my curse? If you give me your star name, you will come to great harm.”
Mishar shook his head and held up his hand. “Jessar, what more harm can come? My beloved companion died long ago, and my son also now roams the winds of Center. Besides, I shirked my duty to you for too long. Everyone else I cared for is gone: I no longer fear death.”
The elf paused. “So, after all the years of wrong I let pass, I’m pleased to find the courage to help you now. My star name is Mishar of Laviunel, and you may have the good of its use, to call upon at your need, from any land, in any hour. I deem you star friend eternal.”
Jessar had heard those words only twice before. The ritual wasn’t quite proper, since Mishar, the elder, had initiated it. Nevertheless, as Jessar stared at the cloudstone on Mishar's middle finger, the stone cleared to reveal the star chart below.
Since Jessar couldn’t see Mishar’s star there, Laviunel must be an elf star, invisible to humans and most half-elves. Jessar hadn’t inherited the true sight. Not for the first time, he wondered how the heavens looked to a real elf.
Like countless other elf stars, Laviunel helped elevate the night sky from the mortals’ scene of simple beauty to the elves’ panorama of wonder. Elf stars also transformed the nameless star patterns of mortals into the vivid constellations of the elves. Laviunel and a few other elf stars caused The Arrow to become the Flame Brand of Arien. The Lynx knew that Mishar’s star marked the pommel of the great sword, and he smiled to think he had now seen the constellation’s real incarnation.
“May Laviunel brightly light your path and see you through a long and fruitful life.” Jessar looked into Mishar’s eyes and found sorrow, regret, and understanding, but no pity. Yes, his neighbor was a worthy star friend.
With the deed transfer behind him, Jessar felt relieved. “Good bye, Mishar. I wish I could give you my own star name in exchange. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to return.”
“You can never tell where Fate may take you. I meant every word of the ritual. Good bye, Jessar.”
He returned to his own gardens. By the time he pulled himself up to his house, he was whistling the “Battle March of the West-realm” in his eagerness to depart.
Stefir and Sabretha sat at his table, enjoying the annuba and breakfast. The sword maiden gestured to the head of the table, “Will you join us, half-elf? I found some trail bread mix, honey, and salted pork in your larder. I was beginning to think I’d have to go looking for you.”
Why wouldn’t she use his name? He hadn’t noticed it before, or at least it hadn’t bothered him. He draped the clothing over the back of her chair and put Mishar’s box in his pack. “Sabretha, I had to find some clothes for you.”
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” she asked, looking over her shoulder at the Lynx behind him.
Jessar, standing behind her chair, now found himself looking straight down her tunic. For a moment, he remembered how she looked on the hammock, but then he forced himself to turn and take his seat. If Sabretha had noticed his embarrassment, she showed no sign of it.
Stefir, however, gave him an accusing smile before he turned back to Sabretha. “I must agree with Jessar, Sabretha. Surely after last night, you can understand that, here in Galbard, it is imprudent to be recognized as foreigners.”
Her lips took on the slightest pout. “I suppose you’re right, but I’ve rarely worn anything else.” She stood and unfastened the clasp of her tunic.
The Lynx coughed, almost choking on the piece of bread he’d started to eat.
The wizard laughed and put on a charming smile. “Sabretha, I believe I hear the annuba coming to a boil in the kitchen. Would you do me a favor and fill my cup? While you are there, you could change into the clothes Jessar brought.”
“Sure, I’ll get you some tea, Stefir,” she began.
Jessar wondered how the wizard could get her to serve him. Come to think of it, the wizard always got everyone to serve him.
The solowen continued, “But I can just as easily change right here.”
“Perhaps, but your changing out here does not seem to agree with our young friend’s composure.”
Recovering from choking, the Lynx gave Stefir the best I’ll-get-you-for-this expression he could manage.
Sabretha glanced at Jessar, her confusion evident. “Very well.” She gracefully swept aside the brocade covering the kitchen entry.
Stefir whispered, “Actually, Jessar, you owe me. I know you did not wish her to disrobe before me.”
“And just what is wrong with not wanting that?” the Lynx asked defensively and loudly.
“Wrong with what?” Ogador clambered down the ladder into the common room and took a seat next to Stefir “Sabretha, be a dear and bring me something to eat while you’re in the kitchen.”
“Get it yourself,” she said, flinging an arm through the split in the brocade and casting her Valkara’s clothing at the prince.
Ogador ducked too late and caught her skirt square in the face. He sat still the barest moment before peeling the garment away and glancing at Jessar with raised eyebrows. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said, smiling, and heading spritely for the kitchen.
“She is dressing, Ogador,” the wizard said.
“Oh, I know,” the prince said, grinning, and grasping the brocade.
“Look Ogador, can’t you just stay out here?” the Lynx asked.
Shoulders sagging, the prince turned back to the table. “I suppose.”
Despite her words, Sabretha returned to the common room bearing Stefir’s tea, a pot of steaming water, and a plate that she set before Ogador. “I’m feeling nice,” she offered by way of explanation.
“Looking that way too,” the prince said with an appreciative expression.
Wondering how a female could look particularly attractive in the working attire of a Galbardian female, Jessar turned. Despite the fact that the high-collared, vested portion of the skirt, along with the ankle-high, rather baggy pants covered all but her ankles and arms, the Valkara had in fact found a way to make the clothing enticing. Only one of the vest’s buttons, midway down, was fastened. What should have been a belt securing the tunic over her skirt had become instead a cinch holding the top behind her back. The net effect left the vest straining against the single fastened button at her breast. The Lynx gulped.
The wizard, taking his tea from the Valkara, was the only male who looked displeased. “Sabretha, how do you expect to blend in—“ he began.
She looked down at her bare midriff and reached for her sword. “Wizard, I couldn’t reach the Flame Brand for the vest. You cannot expect me to compromise my safety just for appearances. By the way, half-elf, do you have a mirror?”
Jessar gestured around the tree trunk toward the parlor area. The sword maiden gathered her Valkara’s attire before setting the pot on the table by the bench. She then went to the mirror and quickly appraised herself. “I feel like I can barely move in all these clothes. Still, Bidmaron might approve of my attire now that less of my skin is showing, as if that should make a difference.”
“Oh, I can assure you he approved before,” Ogador commented between bites.
She stuffed her old outfit into her small pack. “Now, half-elf,” she said, gesturing to Jessar, “Bidmaron said I was to soak a cloth in the steeped herbs and give your back a rub down. The bench looks like a good place to do it.”
“I agree Sabretha,” Ogador said, winking at Jessar.
The Lynx groaned. He went to the bench, where the Valkara unceremoniously gripped his tunic and untucked it from his belt. She momentarily fussed with the buttons before removing the garment and carefully unwinding his bandages. She motioned for him to lie down. Sabretha kneeled beside the bench and retrieved a rag from the pot beside her. Wringing it out, she then opened it up and slapped it squarely over the wound on his back. Jessar winced from the heat.
“Be still.” She folded the cloth over several times and dabbed it gingerly around the wound repeatedly. With his head turned to the side, Jessar could just make out her face at the edge of his vision. She had an expectant look on her face and placed her forefinger on her lips in her contemplative manner. “Hmm. Maybe if I massage more,” she remarked to herself.
Jessar looked over at the table, where Ogador looked on, grinning.
The wizard said, “Come on Ogador, we should clean up so we may get on the road.”
The Valkara removed the compress, dipped her fingers in the water, and placed both her hands on his back. Jessar shuddered involuntarily at her gentle touch.
“I told you to be still.”
“Sorry,” he muttered as she began to knead her fingertips into his flesh.
Carefully, she proceeded to massage him, outlining the sword slash just under his right shoulder blade. After what seemed like a heavenly long time, she paused, removed her hands and leaned over to peer at his back again. Apparently unsatisfied, she leaned back and asked, “Well, how do you feel?”
“As if the winds of Center had cleansed my wound,” Jessar replied truthfully, whether the effect was from the spearmint or simply her touch.
“Well, I suppose I can’t expect progress too rapidly,” the Valkara said without further explanation. “It will probably just take a few days of treatment.”
Jessar, who felt ready to melt into the bench, was not about to ask her what she was expecting in the way of progress. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right. A few more days, perhaps a week or two should do it.”
“Bidmaron said he wasn’t sure how long the herbs would take to work.” She looked into his eyes, clearly unaware that Jessar had no more idea what she was talking about than if she was speaking in Farshi. “Stand up and turn around so I can re-bandage you.”
He complied, raising his arms. She commenced wrapping the dressing around him. Jessar cherished the way in which her hair brushed his ribs as she leaned forward to stretch an arm around his chest in order to complete each circuit around him.
“Now, can you put on your tunic?”
Jessar turned around and reached for it. “I—“
Ogador, who stood looking on with a smirk, interrupted, “It would be better if you did it, Sabretha. Wouldn’t want Jessar to stretch his stitches, would we?”
“Of course, you’re right,” she conceded. Again she encircled her arms around him to get Jessar’s arms into his tunic. She fastened all the buttons while Jessar struggled not to get ticklish. Taking the bottom of his tunic at his side, she started to tuck it into his breeches.
“No, I can manage that,” Jessar said hastily.
“As you wish,” the Valkara remarked rather clinically.
Stefir asked, “Jessar, you did not leave this morning solely to find clothing for our Valkara, did you?”
The Lynx inwardly cursed the wizard. Now why couldn’t the chronologist just let Sabretha think that’s exactly why Jessar had left? “Well, I also had some other business with Mishar and I figured that he, as a widower, might have some clothes that would fit her. My neighbor now owns this entire estate.”
Ogador hefted a large tow sack to the table. “So, you’re taking the threats of last night pretty seriously, are you?”
Before Jessar could respond, Stefir interjected, “He had better. Elves have a long memory, Ogador, particularly when they believe they have been wronged. And your ancestors did a thorough job of wronging the Galbardians two millennia ago when they burned and pillaged Silarom in the Great Plunder. Of course, it took your people long enough to admit the mistake formally.”
At the last Council, after Jessar had arrived in Plasis, his first official duty as Galbard’s foreign minister had been to convey West-realm’s apology for the incident to King Avril. When Jessar had delivered the communiqué, an unforgiving King Avril simply remarked that a truly remorseful realm would have accompanied the apology with appropriate recompense for the damages.
Ogador winked sidelong at Jessar. “Perhaps you’d do well to remember that it is my people who currently fatten your pouch each month with ten times your worth. And we’ve been doing that since well before that mistake.”
To interrupt Stefir’s inevitable rebuttal, Jessar changed the subject. “I see, Ogador, you found my stash of trail rations.”
“Yes. I knew you’d be prepared. I’d hate to see our esteemed wizard starve. Of course, little details like food are matters beneath his attention.”
As if to prove the prince wrong, Stefir had already untied the draw on the bag and began sorting through the contents. He divided the provisions into four separate leather-wrapped bundles, one noticeably larger than the others. The wizard sighed. “It seems I have erred. Ogador, your share appears somewhat large. Though if we were to measure the shares according to body weight, you would need half again as much.” Stefir packed away his own portion.
“Really? I assume, then, we eat what we carry.”
Jessar retrieved his bundle and tried to put it in his pack, but, try as he might, it wouldn’t fit. Finally, he removed his tea tin with a look of despair.
Stefir noticed it. “If that tin holds what I suspect, you had better hand it to me, for safe-keeping, of course.” The chronologist stashed the container in his already bulging bag.
“Just let me get my sword and I’m ready to go.” Jessar looked under the bench where he’d placed it the night before, but it wasn’t there.
“Are you looking for this?” Ogador said, holding a fancy leather sheath atop his palms as if he were a squire.
“Whose is that well-appointed blade? I wish I were looking for that, but, no, I meant just the little short sword I borrowed at the tavern yesterday.”
“Oh, that sword. That was no weapon for a statesman, so I threw it out the window while you were gone,” Stefir remarked.
“But now I have nothing. I know I’m not much of a swordsman, but I would’ve felt better with something.”
Sabretha frowned. “You must admit its balance was poor.”
“I wouldn’t know the difference, Sabretha.”
“I guess you’ll just have to make do with this then.” Ogador proffered the short sword to Jessar.
“What –“ the Lynx began before noting the embossed words ‘A gift of West-realm to her favored son Jessar on the anniversary of his birth, 9 Growth 9012.’ He gasped and clutched the scabbard in disbelief.
“Ogador! Stefir! And, Sabretha, you’re in on this too?”
“The wizard told me this morning. After your dismal display yesterday, a fine blade from the Swordland could only help.”
“Thanks,” he said dubiously. He removed the loop of the peace string from the ivory hilt and looked in surprise on his reflection in the flat diamond-shaped chrome pommel. The grip felt as if it had been molded specially for his hand as he drew the blade slowly from its silver bound and trimmed scabbard.
“No further,” Ogador cautioned, grasping Jessar’s wrist before the blade was completely bare. “The Swordlanders in Reldrik, the capital of bladesmithing where this fine blade was crafted at the order of my father have a saying: ‘A weapon is never truly tempered that does not receive its final quenching in the blood of its first enemy before leaving its scabbard a second time.’”
“Your father? You mean the King?” Jessar admired the embossed peacock feather and winged horse formation running the length of the fuller before sliding the blade lovingly back into the velvet-lined scabbard.
“Yes. When I told him about your service for the crown delivering his communiqué of regret for the sacking of Silarom, he suggested that I commission this blade for his worthy servant.”
“I shall treasure it always.”
“Sabretha, it is customary for a man’s most cherished female to be the first to affix it to his side. Care to do the honors?” Ogador asked.
“Is that what I am, Jessar, your most cherished female?” she asked with an unaccustomed glint in her eye.
The half-elf was so delighted that she’d used his name for the first time, that he could never explain what happened next – except that it could only be his curse taking its first action. In disbelief, Jessar heard himself reply, “Well, you’ll have to do.”
Stefir shook his head in astonishment at Jessar as Sabretha whirled around. The wizard cradled her shoulders in his hands and pleaded, “Sabretha, I am certain Jessar did not mean that cruel remark. Please.” He motioned to Ogador, who placed the baldric in her hands.
“Very well. I will do so only because you ask, Stefir,” she said in a coldly emotionless tone. Averting her eyes, she callously fastened the baldric’s clasp at Jessar’s waist, shouldered her pack, and disappeared down Jessar’s trapdoor.
“Well done, Jessar,” Ogador remarked sarcastically as the prince watched her vanish. “I do really hope we eventually see her again.”
They all simply stood staring after her. Finally, Jessar asked, “Well, shouldn’t we go after her?”
The chronologist looked at his friend in disbelief. “Jessar, you are the last person on all of Talan she wants to see right now. Someday, you will explain to me just what in the Pits possessed you to say that. I scarcely believe I am saying this, but perhaps you should talk to Ogador here and learn how to talk to a female.” The wizard elbowed the prince, but Ogador was still gazing at the floor.
The prince didn’t seem to hear. Jessar realized the prince was no longer looking after Sabretha. Instead, his friend was studying Jessar’s scenic rugs. The half-elf had always cherished the battle scene depicted there, but what could the prince find so fascinating?
Ogador answered the Lynx’s unspoken question by pointing at a valiant warrior woven into the floor coverings between the banquet table and corner hutch. “Jessar, if you ever tire of your rugs, I can find a home for them in our throne room. Now that I see them in the full light of sun, I recognize that warrior. He can only be Lord Vasaron the Unthroned, shown cleaving one of the heads of Hisgoth, gate warden of New Varbistron.”
The prince stepped beside the trap door and pointed to a woman close to where he stood. “And here is the elwen he so loved that he put aside our laws and forsook his concubines. Thus, he ceded the throne to his brother, Hadaron the Older.”
“See how even now her breast tastes the poison of the foul arrow that took her life as she hewed her way to her husband’s side. Legend has it she died in his arms soon thereafter, and the Berserk came upon Vasaron. He single-handedly slew the entire Vanguard of the Warlock that afternoon before his own sphinxed knights could no longer keep up with his progress through the lines.”
Ogador drew his sword and gestured with it as he continued his oratory. “Skalds still sing of the fury in his eye that day, fury that sent the mutats fleeing in terror. And those who tarried had their souls vented to the Vortex by Vasaron’s terrible blade. With every stroke, he grew more frightful to behold. He could not be stopped, for Prophecy said no enemy’s blade would ever slay him. But the same Berserk that made him so formidable was to be his doom.”
The prince pointed toward a stately elf below Jessar’s prized chipping table. “Prince Izdain of Walanar, arriving with sorely needed reinforcements, saw Vasaron pressing through the mutat ranks back toward the Lord’s own knights. Between his righteous anger and the Berserk, Lord Vasaron looked as if he were possessed by the very demons falling around him. So it is perhaps understandable that Prince Izdain, who had never met the Lord, mistook him for one of the Undying. Woe that Izdain’s legendary marksmanship held true that evening. When he cast his gilded dagger a hundred feet, it penetrated the greaves covering Vasaron’s right calf.”
Ogador’s sword traced the imaginary arc of the dagger. From the gaming table beyond the parlor area with its cushioned bench, past the tree trunk ladder, and on to Lord Vasaron in the dining alcove. “In his enraged state, however, Lord Vasaron never felt the wound, and he fought on. After the enemy fled the field of battle, the Lord finally collapsed, wearied beyond description by both the toll of his Berserk and the loss of blood from the wound. He who bore the scars of a thousand slashes was to die from what should have been an unremarkable scratch. Too late, Izdain recognized his error as he came upon the dying lord. So did the Unthroned die, he who had never been harmed by the blade of many a Demon-Lord,” Ogador finished, with a wistful sigh and what might have been the beginnings of a tear at the corner of his eye.
The Lynx looked down in newly found appreciation. He’d always loved all of his mother’s works, especially the rugs. But he had never known they depicted such a momentous battle. He had decorated his home entirely with her craft. Most of the works she had completed before his birth, probably even before his father’s exile.
Stefir rubbed his chin and studied the rugs. “Yes, Ogador, I believe you are right, about most of it anyway.”
“If you occasionally lowered your nose from its arrogant height, you might have noticed yourself.”
“I am surprised you could focus your eyes well enough to make out the details, with as much ale as you drank last night.”
The Lynx looked at Ogador anew, gaining new respect for the prince. Although Jessar had thought he’d previously seen the heir prince’s best oratory during the last Council, the skill with which Ogador relayed the tale of Vasaron impressed the half-elf again. “Ogador, your sword, Angdrel the Demon Slayer—“
“Yes, it belonged to Lord Vasaron in antiquity.”
“An heirloom sword then, and truly fit for the heir prince,” the Lynx mused. “Ogador, that was fascinating. I’d love to hear more stories like that. Perhaps during our trip you can tell me more about this Lord Vasaron and where he fits in your lineage, Ogador.”
“Sure. On our last visit, I noticed the statues, tapestries, and carvings your mother made, but I can’t believe I didn’t notice the rugs before now.”
“Well, it was already twilight by the time you got here last night. As for why you didn’t notice them during your last visit, well, I must admit I didn’t have the individual triangular segments arranged in the proper orientation.” Jessar wondered if all the artworks his mother created had some special significance, a meaning as hidden to him as his unknown past.
The prince pointed to a wood carving on Jessar’s tea table. “Last time, I remember telling you that the details on that piece are authentic right down to the captain’s insignia and the winged horse’s harness. It makes me wonder if your mother has ever been to West-realm.”
“As you know, she went to all the Councils, but I’m not aware that she ever actually went to West-realm.”
“Speaking of Councils, we had better be going, Jessar if we are ever to make the next one,” Stefir said as he and Ogador shouldered their backpacks and stood beside the open trapdoor.
Jessar slung his own pack to his back, immediately regretting it as the lumpy bag slammed against his wound.
“Woah, that had to hurt,” Ogador observed.
As the pain faded, the Lynx bounced on his toes, testing the pack. For the moment, he was satisfied with the balance and weight, though he suspected the latter would grow less satisfying as the day wore on.
They filed down, Ogador leading. Before long, they all stood on the path while Jessar stowed the trelad in the small message box lashed to the trunk.
“Jessar, I have journeyed to many lands, but you folks have everyone else beat for the most peculiar method to enter a home.” Ogador stood peering at the landing twenty feet overhead.
“Well, Galbardians didn’t always come and go in this way. In fact, at the start of this age, we hadn’t even adopted trees as our homes. It wasn’t until a few centuries later, during the Black Years when the mutats, orcs, and goblins burned and destroyed our homes and farmlands that my people took to the trees, especially the slow-burning scentwoods. Living aloft in the early days proved a sufficient safeguard, for the threats at that time were creatures that spawn in dark caverns; they hated plants, and feared most the trees. That was when King Avril first formed the Border Guard to repel the invaders.”
“So why not use ladders?”
“We did for many centuries – right up until the Bulk-men came. They don’t fear plants and trees, living as they do in the Dire Forest. Yes, it wasn’t until they began their nighttime raids that we shifted to using ropes and branches as makeshift pulleys. Of course, that alone wasn’t enough to stop the Border Wars –“
“Woah. I’m sorry I asked. You’ve been hanging around the wizard too long. Almost as good at stretching out a simple explanation as Stefir.”
The wizard accepted Ogador’s invitation to argue. “As long as Jessar follows my wise lead, he will at least speak using complete sentences.”
“Really? Well, as long as he listens to me, he’ll at least know how to use a contraction.” Somehow, it seemed that the round had gone to Ogador, who glanced back at the tree’s massive trunk. “I still can’t believe how big these trees are – as tall as a watch tower in the West-realm, and I daresay it’d take eight men to reach around its girth.”
“Yes, they grow only here in Galbard, especially Silarom.”
Ogador peered into the heights, hands on his hips. “I could get accustomed to that after a while.”
“A very long while. Not even the river of time runs that long.” Stefir closed his eyes. Silentwing, true to his name, swooped noiselessly to the wizard’s shoulder in response to a wordless call.
With Ogador ahead, they started down the southern path. “I’m surprised, oh historian of the most immediate past, prophet of the inevitable, that you didn’t use your penultimate magical skills to float down to the ground, thereby saving yourself from displaying your atrophied dexterous skills as you descended by mundane means.”
Stefir spoke while Jessar was still trying to figure out what Ogador had said. “There could be no greater crime against the simple laws of linguistics as when you attempt to sound learned, Ogador. In fact, as a simple matter of expediency, I did use my magical skills. However, I did so not to ease my descent but yours, lest Jessar here be crushed beneath your oppressive weight.”
Ogador's jaw tightened as he opened the gate for his friends. Once they stepped onto the road, in unspoken accord, the two westerners faced Jessar expectantly.
Giving his pack a jounce on his shoulders in a gesture of light-heartedness he didn’t quite feel, Jessar set out eastward in a determined stride. Praying silently to Arien, he said, “Though I know not where my path may lead and fear it may take many a turn and switchback, please bless forever where my path begins.”