Chapter XII: The Lessons Begin
For the second night in his adult memory, Jessar didn’t dream. In fact, he only awoke when Stefir shook him the next morning. “Jessar, Jessar, wake up.”
Stefir’s excited tone shocked the Lynx instantly awake. A bright sliver of the sun protruded above the horizon, as if it were arising from the river. Wisps of fog ascended from the water, reinforcing the illusion.
“Stefir, what’s wrong? Where’s Ogador?”
“I don’t know. We went to sleep early last night, and I awoke at the first glow on the eastern horizon. He was already gone. I’m afraid he may have tried something stupid.”
Stefir’s lapse into informality convinced Jessar something serious had happened. As the two rapidly struck both tents, the Lynx remembered how Ogador had spoken privately with the black marketeer yesterday. “Do you remember how he talked to the elven boy yesterday? I’ll bet he’s trying to trade for some Bordana.”
Stefir nodded. “I believe so, Jessar. He knew the turtle master would not wait past sunrise for us, so I assumed he would be back by then, but—“ Stefir glanced meaningfully to the east.
“We’ll just have to go back and find him.” Jessar flung on his pack and grabbed Ogador’s.
The wizard put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Wait, Jessar. We don’t even know where to look. If we went in for him, Ogador might later be waiting for us while we rotted in the king’s jail.”
Knowing the wizard was right didn’t ease Jessar’s frustration. “But . . . but, we’ve got to do something.”
“We will. First, we’ll go to our turtle and get on board. Then we will wait for Ogador as long as we can coax the turtle master to permit. If the prince doesn’t show, then we will look for him.”
Reluctantly, Jessar nodded. It was the best solution, he grudgingly admitted.
The chronologist peered closely at Jessar with a what-the-devil-happened-to-you expression. “Jessar, when did you start cutting your own hair?”
“Huh?” He reached up to his curly hair, and was surprised to discover clumps of hair missing at various points around his scalp. “What in the Pits?”
The wizard shook his head. “No time to worry about that now, Jessar. We have to get to the ship.”
When they entered Galvek, they found a sharp contrast to the day before. The turtle people were everywhere. They hurried about, readying their ships for the giant river turtles. Already, one of the creatures, burdened with a two story structure resembling a ship above the waterline, plodded down the bank toward the water.
The reptiles were even bigger than Jessar had imagined. Six of them crawled about lethargically on the bank this morning. Each had an oval shell of about forty by thirty feet. When the beasts stood, the bottom of their plastrons rose a few feet above their squat masters.
Most of the other turtles also carried a ship on their back, secured by two thick hawsers girding the turtles’ shells just forward of each pair of legs. Large winches on the decks of the odd structures maintained tension on these lines.
Luckily for the travelers, however, one turtle had still not been saddled, and it was this creature Stefir hurried toward. As the two friends approached, the turtle leaned backwards on its pillar-like legs and swung its neck away from its master’s harpoon blow.
The beast’s agitated master looked as if he wore a suit of muscles. Over this coat, a complex network of straps that formed a leather harness served to define even further the angularities of his frame. He scowled at the two approaching elves. Beside him, his sons wore sarongs of turtle hide and mirrored their father’s expression. The Lynx wondered what peculiar tradition explained the father’s odd harness.
The turtle master chided, “Where you be?” as he prodded his turtle’s neck with his harpoon again. Jessar winced at the small wound the weapon’s barb tore in the animal’s leathery flesh. Other such injuries, in various stages of healing, circled the turtle’s neck, along with numerous scars.
“The gracious Goddess blessed us last night, and I am afraid we awoke rather late,” Stefir explained.
“Ummph.” The master nodded, apparently mollified for the moment. He pointed to himself. “Almek.”
Jessar and Stefir introduced themselves, inclining their heads forward slightly and closing their eyes according to the custom of the civilized peoples.
The short man turned and shouted orders to his sons in their native tongue. Looking as much like their father as Jessar’s left hand to his right, the four were all in their early double digits, spaced apart in age as closely as nature permitted. The younger brothers and sisters would still be at their home village like the children Jessar had watched playing yesterday. The boys repeated most of what their father had said and took stations by four wooden pillars pivoted the the ship’s decking to hold the structure high enough off the ground for the turtle to crawl beneath.
The turtle master was having trouble driving his turtle. At every opportunity, the reptile craned its neck toward an adjacent turtle. Gradually, its master bent it to his will, and it plodded up the beach toward the ship. The frustrated man turned to his passengers. “Very near mating season. Has mind elsewhere. Like you last night?”
Jessar flushed red, knowing the master meant Palin. He watched the master in fascination, occasionally checking out the beach for Ogador.
“I wonder what happened to Sabretha,” Jessar mused.
“I would not worry about her. She is very capable of taking care of herself.”
The great turtle crawled under the hull, stepping over two hawsers hanging from the deck above. Just before its shell struck the ship, the master struck his charge on top of its neck with his harpoon staff. It slowed and crouched low to the beach. Almek moved out in front and put his hand on the turtle’s beak. It stopped, its burden now directly over its back.
Responding to a second tap under its neck, the turtle fully stood and lifted the ship off its stilts. Almek barked another order, which the boys echoed. The oldest pair scurried up knotted ropes hanging from the port and starboard lower deck railing. Once on the deck, they each ran to one of the winches.
Another order from their father, and they reeled the winches using the pegs along the inboard side of the wheel rim. Soon the ropes held the conformal hull to the turtle’s shell. The two sons locked the winches against the uprights supporting their axles to maintain tension.
“But how will we find her again?”
“Jessar, we have more pressing things to worry about, like Ogador. She knows where we are going and will find us.”
The remaining brothers climbed to the deck and coiled the climbing ropes on a stowage hook. With a final order, each brother turned a crank, pivoting each of the support pillars into its sailing position alongside the deck.
Almek climbed onto the neck of his great turtle. He hooked his harpoon barb over a ring attached to the prow above him. With one muscle-knotted arm, he hauled himself high above the turtle’s neck. Using his free hand, he fastened shoulder rings affixed to his body harness to chains hanging from both sides of the hull.
Thus hanging from chains, the turtle master started tapping the left side of the turtle’s neck with the blunt end of his harpoon. Ponderously, the reptile turned to its right until it faced the river.
Almek next rubbed his weapon’s blunt end the full length of his turtle’s neck, and the creature moved down the bank and into the river. Once his ship was waterborne, he used additional tactile commands to maneuver parallel to the bank, where the turtle held position against the current. He barked something to his boys. Disconnecting two ropes spanning a break in the port railing, they lowered a folded brow onto the beach.
The master peered curiously at Jessar and Stefir. “Get on. Where is Man?”
Stefir lied, “Oh, he will be along in a minute. He lost something back at the campsite.”
Almek nodded. In a deep baritone that fit his expansive chest, he said, “Mmm. Must go soon. Get on ship. Pay oldest son.”
Jessar glanced at Stefir nervously; they had precious little coin. The wizard nodded again and walked unsteadily across the tossing gangway. Jessar followed.
After the passengers boarded, the boys retrieved the brow and restrung the ropes across the gap in the rails.
Jessar surveyed his potential home for the next couple of fortnights. The ship was a two deck, hexagonal, tiered structure. The roof of the second deckhouse formed a sun deck. Around the periphery of each level was a wooden railing. Numerous open shuttered windows gave the rooms an open feel.
Each of the houses had the same hexagonal shape as the hull itself. A signal mast protruded through the after third of the second deck. Near the top of the mast hung a blue lightning bolt-shaped pennant. Other rectangular flags draped from the yardarms, and atop it all sat a crow’s nest.
A voice demanded his attention. “Coin now.” The older son held out his hand to Stefir.
The wizard searched his pockets and pouches as if he were looking for the fare. Jessar wondered how his friend would get out of this one.
At that moment, the noise of many loud voices erupted on the Galbardian side of the river. The friends and the sons ran around the railing to the starboard side to see what the ruckus was about.
Armored elves, shouting furiously, were running down Promontory Avenue, just like yesterday. They were chasing someone, also like yesterday. It had to be Ogador, from the look of the traveling cloak trailing in the wind of his flight.
Stefir ran to the prow. “Almek, if you will get closer to the other bank. That man the elves are chasing has your fare.”
Shouting curses in his own language, the chain-suspended master prodded his turtle into the current. Angling upriver, the reptile swam across the Veinous.
Meanwhile, Ogador had widened the gap from his pursuers. He arrived at the waterfront several strides ahead of the elves. Without pausing, the prince dived into the river.
Jessar watched the water, waiting for the prince to surface, but nothing happened. When the elves arrived at the quay, Jessar noticed they had learned from yesterday: They had bows this time. And they put them to use, nocking arrow after arrow, lacing the water with projectiles. It would be hard to avoid the arrows without swimming deeply.
The prince had been under far too long. By now, he should have surfaced. Just when the Lynx decided that the governor must have drowned, one of the armed elves yelled and pointed at the surface. The hail of missiles ceased, and a cloaked figure floated to the surface. Fletching and the end of a shaft protruded from the body, which drifted motionless down the river.
An impotent rage overcame Jessar. His curse had already taken one of his friends. “NO!” he bellowed, throwing down his pack.
His cry diverted the elves’ attention. One of them recognized the wizard and Jessar and gave a call of his own. Again the soldiers bent their bows. Most of the missiles fell short, but several struck the deckhouse on either side of Jessar, so close he could hear the hiss of their flight. Hollow thuds sounded like drum beats as more of the archers found the range.
The ship lurched down river. Apparently, Almek had had enough: The turtle swam strongly with the current.
Jessar climbed the rail, intending to swim back for the body, but Stefir grabbed him, spinning him around. “Jessar, you cannot help him. Come, or we’ll be killed, too.”
The Lynx continued to struggle, however, tearing himself from the wizard’s grasp. Before he could dive overboard, though, his head whipped from the force of a blow. Stefir had punched him!
“Jessar, calm yourself! I’ve more of those if you don’t.”
“Look out!” a female voice from somewhere overhead called out.
The Lynx turned around to the bank in response to the warning. While turning, however, he felt an intense pain raking across his back. The arrow that had ripped across his shoulder blades thwacked to a shivering halt in the planking of the deckhouse, narrowly missing an open window.
The sting on his back brought the Lynx back to his senses. Looking above, he searched quickly for whoever had cried out the warning, but saw no one at any of the windows. For a moment, he’d hoped it had been Sabretha who cried the warning.
He allowed the wizard to lead him out of the line of fire. Running at a crouch, they made it safely to the sheltered side.
Jessar stopped abruptly, staring at the weatherdeck in disbelief. There, pulling himself over the railing, was Ogador. Soaked and wearing only his underclothes, the prince appeared otherwise in fine health.
Stefir took it in stride. “Well, I see you are back from the dead.”
Jessar had so many things he wanted to say, but all he managed was, “How?”
Ogador clambered onto the deck. “I swam under the wharf after I dived in. Once there, I discovered that some driftwood had wedged itself against a piling. I took off my cloak and stuffed it with the debris. Then I swam out into the river and released the makeshift effigy to float to the surface. I stayed under the quay until my ruse had diverted their attention. By then the turtle was close enough that I swam over here in one breath. By the way, I managed to find this while I was back there.” The prince tossed a vial to Jessar.
It was Bordana, of course. “But how? You didn’t have enough for this.” Before Ogador had a chance to respond, Jessar noticed the prince had no sword.
Ogador shook his head. “It had a few nicks anyway, Jessar. I had to do it. After all, your neighbors probably wouldn’t have burned your gardens if I hadn’t been there.”
Before Jessar could protest further, the master’s oldest son stepped up to Ogador with a rough hand held out. “Pay.”
Ogador fished five coins out of his sodden pouch. The son counted and examined each carefully before moving off.
“Ogador, that was Angdrel, demon slayer, an heirloom sword. You told me in my treehome that it once belonged to Lord Vasaron the Unthroned. That is too high a price to pay.”
The prince glanced downward briefly and then smiled. “Jessar, no price is too high for a friend. I think Vasaron would understand, and my father would certainly approve.”
Stefir nodded. “Yes, you are right. It was the kind of thing King Mendanaron would do. Sometimes, Ogador, you really surprise me.”
“As do you. I didn’t notice any arcane assistance with my exit.”
“Well, you were out of spell range for so long and then—“
“It was my fault, Ogador. I lost control when you dove in, and Stefir was trying to protect me. My curse—“
“Hey, I’m still alive. Don’t worry about it. I would rather hear about your adventures last night.” He dug an elbow in Jessar’s side and wrapped a wet arm around Stefir’s shoulders.
The chronologist shrugged off the prince’s arm. “If you will excuse me, Ogador, Silentwing returns.”
The owl swooped to Stefir’s shoulder. The eyes of the wizard and his familiar darted about as they did when communing.
“Getting the bird’s report, Stefir? I guess you’re glad you had him watch over Jessar last night, huh?”
Jessar looked at Stefir suspiciously. “You didn’t, did you?”
“Of course not.” Stefir looked just a little too shocked, leaving Jessar to wonder if he’d just been had. Turning quickly, he caught Ogador’s wink.
Between the turtle’s powerful strokes and the steady flow of the river, they soon left the Bilaron wharf and a troop of frustrated elves far behind. Almek rang a bell hanging just over his head. The oldest two sons ran out of the deck house to their stations at the winches.
The bell tolled again. On his side, Jessar saw a boy release the winch brake, relieving the tension on his hawser. The ship settled down into the water one plank deeper and began to lag behind the turtle.
The bell rang a third time. The youngest son climbed a set of ladders on the side of the deckhouses up to the sun deck. Once there, he continued, right up to the crow’s nest.
The second son carried his harpoon and relieved his older brother at the forward winch. There he folded a seat down from the deckhouse wall to rest on the rail. The boy leaped up on this high perch and leaned against his harpoon, scanning the waters ahead and to the side. The older boys returned to their quarters.
Jessar waited for Almek to come up, but the man remained hanging under the prow, in a position he would rarely leave in the days ahead while they were on the river.
For several minutes, the travelers leaned against the rail, watching for the turtle’s neck as it came up to breathe, some hundred and fifty strides ahead. The constant strain on the ropes testified to the creature’s strength, and the banks slipped by rapidly. They had already come more than a march down river from Bilaron.
The Lynx turned to Ogador. “Actually, Prince, Palin did tell me a few things that you’ll find interesting.”
“Great, but I think we’d better get you inside and have a look at your back.”
At Ogador’s reminder, Jessar remembered his new cut and felt the slow trickle of blood down his back.
The travelers headed forward to the double swinging doors opening into the deckhouse. They entered a common room.
Jessar surveyed the space, flooded by the sunlight from four wide-flung shuttered windows. A few feet before them, a ladder stretched to a trapdoor in the ceiling. Lining each side of the room were ten double bunks. Between these stood a rectangular board, and two smaller circular tables covered with hard-boiled leather. The mast, fully a foot thick at this level, passed through the deck and overhead amidst the pair of round tables. Beyond the mast, swinging waist-high doors led to the kitchen.
“The turtle people may not be a handsome folk, but their hospitality toward paid passengers is nothing short of legendary.” The wizard tipped his staff toward the nearer round table, where he and Jessar sat with their backs to the ladder after depositing their packs on a bunk.
As if on queue, the turtle master’s wife came through the swinging doors. “Welcome.”
“Kind mistress, this is Stefir; I am Ogador; and this is Jessar. Sorry for the trouble,” Ogador said.
“Madra,” she said, pointing to her chest. No trouble. Arrows nuisance. You,” she glanced at Jessar’s back, “hurt. Let Madra see.”
The woman, squat like her husband but obese in the way of the best female cooks, stood behind the Lynx and removed his jerkin. She clicked her tongue and one of her daughters rushed into the common room. “Gelda,” the matron said, poking her daughter’s chest. The woman rattled off several instructions in her own tongue.
“Jeshar,” she bungled his name, “take off,” she indicated his linen tunic.
He complied, seeing the bloody gash along the back top of the garment. The girl took the shirt and jerkin and disappeared into the other room.
Ogador put a hand on the ladder. “We have three private rooms on the port side of the second deck. I’m going up to put on some clothes. Order me a brew.” The prince climbed the ladder, flopped open the trapdoor, and disappeared in a passageway above.
The girl returned, bearing a tub of steaming water, cloths, and sewing materials. She placed them on the round table and left again.
Madra dipped a cloth into the tub and cleansed the new wound. Jessar winced. “Back hurt before,” she observed, tracing the Lynx’s previous wound with a stubby finger.
“Yes, a man slashed me with a sword.”
“New cut not so bad. Just sew a little.” She completed cleaning his wound and reached for a needle and thread. The daughter returned and set three mugs of an aromatic brew on the table.
Stefir took a sip from his mug and sighed. “It has been too long since I last tasted the mead of the turtle people. Very good,” he nodded toward the matron.
The clatter of hard soles sounded on the ladder rungs.
“I thought the thud of mugs on a table would bring you back,” Stefir said as he turned to his right to welcome who he clearly expected to be Ogador back to the common room. The chronologist gasped, however.
Jessar craned his neck to look back over his shoulder and almost fell over as he found himself looking at silky long legs.
“I just can’t believe it!” Sabretha began as she rushed over to the table. “Your friend’s dead and here you sit drinking!”
“Sabretha—“ Jessar started to say.
“And what happened to your hair?” the Valkara asked, furrowing her brow.
Ogador, who had just apparently noticed the Lynx’s missing locks, asked, “Yeah, what did happen to your hair?”
Jessar reached up, wondering just how he looked. “Well—“
“Don’t start with me, Lynx.”
“But—“
“You especially should be ashamed.”
“I—“
“He told me this morning he was returning on your behalf.”
“It’s—“
“You deserve that new scratch.”
“You—“
At that moment, new, heavier footsteps clambered down the ladder. “You didn’t start drinking without me, did you?” Ogador asked.
The Valkara whirled around, her lips forming a silent O and her delicate hand rushing to her mouth.
“Hello, Sabretha, you look especially fine in your old outfit,” the prince remarked, referring to the short skirt and brief tunic she again wore.
“You— How? I saw you floating with an arrow in your back.”
“That’s what I was trying to tell you, Sabretha,” Jessar said. “He stuffed his cloak with debris to trick the elves. I’m the only one who got hurt.”
Ogador removed his left glove, downed half his mug, and wiped the back of his gloved hand across his moustache. “Ahh. Yes, I’m quite whole. Women of the world can rejoice at my fortunate escape. But I am touched by your concern, Sabretha. Won’t you join us?”
“I wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for the fact that the other turtle ships were all rigged for cargo only. As for you, Prince, females everywhere should mourn your continued existence. And, Lynx,” she turned to Jessar, “I am pleased you have found another nursemaid.”
She stormed toward the ladder, pausing only to smile politely at the matron, “If you don’t mind, I will take my meals in my stateroom. I cannot bear to share a board with these lecherous individuals.”
“Be still and quiet,” the matron ordered.
“What happened back in Bilaron – that is if you can tear yourself away from your brew long enough to answer?” Stefir asked.
“And why shouldn’t I be drinking? One of us has already done a little work this morning, and of the other two, one has never done any work in his life.”
“And the one who did the work this morn only does so when he cannot get good drink.”
“That at least is true, oh summoner of that which is already present.” Ogador drained his mug. He waved to the serving girl.
The wizard stared intently at Ogador. “Well?”
“Oh, yes, the Bordana. I awoke early this morning and went to Galvek. I ran into Sabretha, who was purchasing passage on Almek’s turtle and told her my plan. She insisted on accompanying me—“
“Huh? She did? Why would she do that? She hates me.”
“Jessar, you have a lot to learn about females. She only says she hates you. What she really feels,” the prince shrugged, “well, who knows? Least of all her, I’m sure.”
“Okay, then how did you get her not to go?”
Ogador scowled. “Actually, I had nothing to do with it. The Yitrava did it.”
“Huh?”
Stefir leaned forward. “The Yitrava? How did she enter this mess?”
“You know, that’s the odd part. When the Valkara and I walked to the bank, we had to find a way to get across the river. We could swim, of course, but we would surely draw attention in wet clothing, particularly Sabretha,” Ogador grinned as if he were imagining the scene. “The ferry, of course, is gone, and the turtle people don’t stoop to using boats. We searched the bank, however, and what did we find but a boat concealed under some sheaves of wheat downstream of Galvek. With a silent prayer to Arien, we prepared to start across, but then the Yitrava shows up—“
Stefir snapped his fingers. “Jessar, she is the one who took your hair.”
“Yeah, that was the first thing Sabretha noticed about you, Jessar, even before she noticed your new wound.”
The Lynx thought he understood. “So, the gypsy witch is…“
Not to be outguessed, the wizard interrupted, “…making a Yitrava summons using your hair.”
“But why would she do that?”
The chronologist put his fingertips to his forehead. “Let me think—“
Ogador pounded his again empty mug on the table. “I’ll bet I know.”
“What then?” the wizard asked in irritation.
“Jessar, you wanted to know why Sabretha didn’t go. It was because when the Yitrava arrived, she refused to take the Valkara with her.”
The wizard smiled. “Ahh, I see.”
“Well, I don’t. What’s the story?”
“The Yitrava is intensely jealous of Sabretha, Jessar.”
Now the Lynx was really confused. “But why? She hates me, too. She cursed me, remember?”
“Yes, Jessar, but if you’ll remember her words in your garden, she said she was only doing it because Ludar made her do it. And she also said she had foreseen that the two of you would be lovers.”
Jessar groaned, and the matron chose that moment to stab the needle through the skin on his back. “Ouch,” he jumped.
“Be still.”
Stefir smiled more broadly. “That is reinforced by the gypsy legend of the Liberator, who is said to be the consort of the gypsy witch queen.”
The Lynx thought he saw some flaws in his friends’ logic. “Look, there are problems with that. She is not the gypsy witch queen. In fact, as far as I know, they have no queen at all. Every tribe has an elder who governs.”
“Jessar, the gypsy legend implies that the Liberator saves their entire people from some great threat. In such an environment, they may well band together in response to the threat. And who better to lead a people than a mystic of power?” the wizard reasoned.
Ogador leaned over the table suddenly. “I’ll tell you who, Wizard: A warrior of great strength and renown. Wizards are generally awful leaders. They’re too focused on their magical powers, present company included.”
“Are you saying I could not—“ Stefir began.
“Gentlemen! I know another fault with what you say, Ogador. Even if the gypsies make a queen, who is to say that our Yitrava is the witch who will rise to the position?”
“That I can answer after my boat ride with her, Jessar. It turns out that our Yitrava, Vilia is her name by the way, is the last of the the gypsy witches. All others have perished. So, if the gypsies are to have a witch queen, it must be Vilia.”
“Wait, there’s still an issue: All I have to do to avoid this is simply not to find her again.”
“Jessar, are you just not thinking today? Why do you think she took your hair?”
It hit him finally, and it was just too much. Sabretha, Palin, and now the Yitrava.
The prince smiled. “Jessar, why the long face? Three females have or soon will be yours: A goddess, a solowen, and an elwen. Not a bad haul.”
The matron completed her stitching. “Too many women for one man,” she remarked as she headed for the kitchen.
Stefir nodded. “Yes, I agree, but, Jessar, it seems you are trapped in a net of Prophecy.”
“I see. But I will hope for a way around it all still.” He shook his head. “Now, Ogador, if you’ll finish your story.”
“Yes, but there are a few other things I learned from her.”
“Wonderful. What more could there be?”
“Jessar, Vilia is betrothed to Ludar, and it is Ludar who tried to kill us by leaving the glow worm at our campsite.”
The chronologist smoothed Silentwing’s feathers. “Of course. It all makes sense except for how she will come to leave Ludar for you, Jessar.”
“Why can’t she just stay with Ludar? How am I supposed to love her when she cursed me?”
Ogador waved for a refill again. “Jessar, who said you have to love her to be her lover?”
“Ogador, that’s wrong. To make love without feelings of love – it’s not for me. Tell him, Stefir.”
The wizard looked at the Lynx with a sorrowful expression for a moment before answering. “I agree, Jessar, but look at the positive side of things: If you are to join her, she can remove your curse.”
“Thanks, Stefir. That’s just wonderful.”
“Jessar, you’ve been spending too much time with the prince. You’re getting as sarcastic as he.”
“Okay, Ogador, you were saying….”
“Yes. When we got to the other side, the Yitrava escorted me to the tent city. The guards didn’t even look twice while I was with her. I met the conniving young elf at his tent and executed the trade.”
“I would’ve been back before you two ever knew I was gone if it hadn’t been for that scar-faced official we encountered at the gate yesterday. Why he was wondering around the gypsy village before sunrise I’ll never understand, but there he was walking toward the boy and I after the swap. I ducked into the kid’s tent, but the lob must have seen me. I led him on a chase the gypsies will be talking about for a while, through their market, across their temple, and past their gathering pavilion. But the defaced elf was worse than a tick; I just couldn’t get him off me.”
“Finally, with the sun rising, I fled for the gate. The uproar in the gypsy quarter had the guards stirred up like an ant nest, and a troop of them spotted me running down the main way. The same two unlucky gate guards had no better luck this morning keeping me inside than yesterday. Their comrades, however, were in close pursuit … and the rest you know.”
“Too bad about your sword, Ogador. I wish you hadn’t done that.”
“We’ve been over all that. The only thing I regret is I won’t be able to spar with you. Still, we’ll start your sword lessons tomorrow.”
The Lynx brightened at the idea of learning to use his sword. “Why can’t we start today?”
Stefir wagged a finger at the Lynx. “Not today, Jessar. Give your new wound at least a day’s rest. It is not as bad as the sword wound from Silarom, but you do not want to stretch or break a stitch. In fact, you really should head up to your room and rest.”
“Not yet, Stefir. Can’t we play a game of Chips or something? I’m not tired. I promise I’ll relax after lunch.”
Ogador pulled the stiff leather off the tabletop, revealing the pits of the chipping table concealed beneath. The friends took their pieces from their packs. Stefir won the spin for first player even though Jessar used one of his star stones as his lucky token. As in all the games Jessar had played with his two friends, this one wound up with the prince losing his rock to the wizard. The Lynx managed to beat the wizard this time, however, clearing his row first to win.
“Prince, you lose another piece and my pocket bulges more.” Stefir patted a full pocket.
Ogador swigged his mug. “Someday, your luck will turn and then I’ll not only keep my own stone but win yours as well.”
Jessar laughed. “Ogador, I used to agree with you, but we’ve played how many games so far?”
“Eighteen,” Ogador admitted.
“The same as the number of Dooms, and still you haven’t won.”
The prince finished another brew and turned sulky.
Overtaking one of the turtle ships that had departed before them, they continued to make good time down the river. Stefir estimated their pace at over a march an hour. At that rate, they would travel the one hundred and fifty marches to the North Veinous River in about eleven days, allowing for a one day foraging layover, the chronologist explained as they placed the stones for a second game.
They played again, and Ogador managed not to lose his lucky stone, although he still lost. Stefir won the second game. By the end, it was time for lunch.
The turtle master’s woman had prepared a beef shishkabob with a wholesome, if exotic, taste. The Lynx had been expecting fish or some other fare from the river, but Stefir informed him the turtle people used some of their earnings to purchase food and other goods. The mead was such an example; the clans neither brewed nor drank spirits. It was part of their hospitality.
“All right, Jessar, now you’d better go get some rest. I’ll bring up your dinner. Careful on the ladder,” Ogador cautioned.
The Lynx climbed the ladder slowly to avoid stretching his shoulders. The steel arrowhead had sliced all the way across both shoulder blades. If Sabretha hadn’t cried out, the arrow would likely have struck him squarely in the spine. What a fool he’d been. If he hadn’t lost control, Stefir could have used a spell to help Ogador escape. Yes, he’d have to be more careful in the future.
Emerging through the trapdoor, he found himself in a passageway running from a door at the forward end, currently open onto the veranda, toward the rear of the second level deckhouse. There were three doors on each side of the hall. He chose the closest port door and entered.
He found his room cramped but certainly adequate. A set of bunk beds lined the right wall. Next to the bunks sat a bedstand fashioned from a crate, and next to that, a rickety chair. A shuttered window along the outboard wall and another on the forward wall, an oil lantern, and a few wall hooks completed the room’s sparse furnishings.
He put his pack on the chair, flung himself on the lower bunk, and fell into a sleep lasting many hours.
He awakened to a knock on his door. “Come in,” he said groggily.
Ogador entered with a wooden tray. “Stew tonight. It’s tomato-based and has carrots, lamb, and a few mystery vegetables. Pretty good actually.”
“Thanks, Ogador. What have you and Stefir been doing?”
Jessar found himself famished. He had learned that healing was hard work.
“Napping, actually. We relocated to the sun deck, however. Of course the wizard had me do all the lifting getting the table and chairs up there.”
Downing most of his mead, Jessar wondered, “How did you do without your libations that long?”
“Oh, that was really no problem. I rigged a dumbwaiter down the aft end of the deckhouses for the girls to use. It works well if they’re careful with it.”
“What about Sabretha?”
“I haven’t seen her all day.”
Jessar wondered what she did to stay busy without anyone to talk to. Again, he reflected on how lonely she must be as he finished his meal. “Okay, I’m ready to come up and join you.”
The prince shook his head. “Stefir says you must rest tonight.”
“Ogador—“
Another knock interrupted him. Perhaps they could just chat in his room? “Yes, come in.”
Jessar sat up straight against the headboard supporting the upper bunk when he saw the Valkara stride into his room with a vat of hot water, a couple of steaming, spearmint-soaked towels, a few bandages, and some scissors. “It’s time for your treatment again.”
The prince winked at Jessar. “Sabretha, I don’t suppose I could get the treatment?”
“You’re not injured,” she said in a very matter-of-fact manner. Then she noticed Ogador’s evil grin. “You are disgusting.”
“I suppose I am,” Ogador acknowledged.
The Lynx lay on his stomach and enjoyed the aroma of the spearmint. He had grown so accustomed to the compresses each night that he wondered what he’d do without them once he healed. Of course, if he kept getting injured … it was almost worth it.
The Valkara knelt by Jessar’s bunk. With no warning, she slapped a towel across his entire back, bringing Jessar up off his bunk a few knuckles. “What was that for?” he complained.
“How was your night with Palin?”
Ogador snickered, sitting down in Jessar’s chair to enjoy the show.
Jessar groaned. “Oh, it was all right, I suppose,” he attempted in a nonchalant tone.
The Valkara lifted the towel over his old wound and commenced kneading his back adjacent to it, digging her knuckles into his muscles.
“Ouch. Sabretha—“
“Be still! So, your evening with her was all right? A goddess, and she was just all right?”
“Okay, she was fantastic.” He heard Ogador draw a noisy breath.
The Valkara poured some of the steaming water onto the small of his back, evincing another shout of pain from him. “Shades, Sabretha! What did you want me to say?”
“Why, just the truth, of course. And what happened to your hair?”
Ogador stifled another snicker with only partial success.
“I don’t know.” The towel came off and more hot water splashed, on his shoulders this time. The Lynx grimaced. “That wound’s still raw.”
“It requires sterilization, Lynx. Now, what did you say about your hair?”
“Okay already. I guess the Yitrava came while I was asleep and cut some of it off.”
“While you were asleep?” she demanded in disbelief, sloshing some more hot water on Jessar’s shoulders.
“Yes, I swear by Arien’s Laver.”
Expecting additional torture, Jessar wanted to thank the prince, who said, “Sabretha, he’s telling the truth; I think. The three of us believe she took his hair to make a magical device called a Yitrava’s Summons. It’s a censer woven with his hair.”
Sabretha started gently massaging a few spearmint leaves around the scar. “What does she do with this thing?” she asked in a neutral tone.
Ogador remained silent, so Jessar answered. “When she burns the censer, it will instantly transport me to wherever she happens to be.”
“Oh, how convenient for you and her,” she said, grinding her knuckles into his skin again vigorously.
“Ow. It was hardly my idea, Sabretha. She’s the one that has the thing for me.” That earned him more knuckles.
“Push up off the bed a little so I can get a fresh bandage around your new cut,” she ordered. Jessar complied, and she gently slid a clean bandage under his chest. She wrapped several layers around him. Each touch sent a shiver through him.
“So, you’re saying you don’t like her at all?”
“No! She cursed me, Sabretha.”
“Yes, but she’s quite beautiful.”
“I guess so,” Jessar agreed. Ogador forced a laugh through his nose, and the Valkara cinched the bandage into a tight knot.
Jessar hissed. “Sabretha, look, I’m sorry. I don’t want Palin, and I don’t want the Yitrava. I promise.”
“Very well. Now, go sit in the chair. Ogador, if you don’t mind….”
Wondering what was next, the Lynx took the seat as the prince stood. Sabretha wrapped the towel, which was now cool to the touch, around Jessar’s neck. She took the scissors and began cutting Jessar’s hair, using a comb she pulled from the waistline of her skirt. During the course of the haircut, she bent over before him several times to survey the progress of her work, and the Lynx found himself staring down her ample cleavage.
Finally, she backed away a few steps and circled him. “Ogador, what do you think?”
“Valkara, no barber in the West-realm could have done better,” the prince said. Jessar listened carefully for any patronizing overtone, but it seemed the governor was genuinely impressed.
Just then the serving girl of that morning walked in the still open door. She held Jessar’s tunic and jerkin, both mended so well that it took a close examination to see there had ever been any damage.
“Thank you,” the Lynx nodded to the girl, who was probably about ten. Pug-nosed and squat-featured as her parents, she was still cute in a girlish way. Jessar fished in his pouch and found an onyx piece he carried for good luck. He’d had it since his return to Plasis, but he offered it to the girl.
“No,” she refused, shaking her head. She backed all the way out the room and climbed noiselessly down the ladder with her bare feet.
“Now, Lynx, you rest again,” the sword maiden ordered.
“But I’m not tired. I slept all afternoon.”
“It has been a long trip from Silarom, Lynx, and you have travel fatigue, you’ll sleep. Come on, Ogador, let’s leave him alone.”
Jessar returned to his bed, and his friends gathered everything they’d brought in and left.
“Good night,” he called after them.
Expecting to lie awake for hours, the Lynx instead fell to sleep quickly. He dreamed again with no memories remaining the next morning.
He awoke only when the turtle moved beneath the superstructure the following morning, bumping it slightly. He opened the shutters and peered out his window. Sometime during the night, it had showered an hour or more, leaving puddles on the riverbank. A knock came at the Lynx’s door.
“Yes, enter.”
Stefir came in and motioned the serving girl behind him to the bedstand. She deposited one of two trays of dry breakfast pastries and apple cider before departing.
“Jessar, stay in your room this morning. We will be passing Alkadek sometime this morning, and I do not want to risk being seen by any Galbardian spies from the bank.”
Munching on a pastry, the Lynx looked at the wizard dubiously. “Stefir, no one could keep up with us.”
The wizard wagged a finger. “You are quite wrong Jessar. This is not a giant falcon we are riding, so a falcon could clearly have beat us to the Galbardian village.”
“Okay, but we Galbardians are not on particularly friendly terms with the nation of Esperanza, so that’s not likely.”
“No,” the wizard admitted, “anymore than you are on friendly terms with any foreigners. Carrier pigeons could have sent a message far ahead of us.”
“Yes, but Galbard has no such system of winged messaging.”
“Well then, a network of strategically placed horse stables could get a messenger here quite rapidly; even the gypsies could do so from one of their camps to the next.”
“I suppose so, but I’m telling you the king has no organized messaging system. The post travels by horseback. The carriers travel most slowly, using the same horse the entire journey. They would not beat the downriver travel of this turtle.”
“Indeed? What about mystics? Are you going to try and tell me the king has no mystics capable of conveying messages to his key subordinates?”
“Okay, yes, he has a few mystics, and they might well be able to send directions long distances, but I doubt any such wizard lives along the frontier.”
Stefir pounded his staff on the planks. “Just humor me then, Jessar. I tell you I have a bad feeling about that official back there, not to mention the short gypsy. So close your shutters and stay in your room until lunch. Good bye.” Stefir stalked out of Jessar’s room.
Jessar took advantage of the time to study Stefir’s volume, which the Lynx had decided to name A Concise Treatise on the Dooms and Their Related Peoples. Long before it seemed as if enough time had passed, a knock came at his door. Ogador’s voice said, “Lunch, Jessar. The Wizard’s letting us out of our cells. Come on, I need your help. We’re taking lunch on the sun deck, and you know Stefir won’t help us get the furniture up there.”
Jessar and Ogador hauled up one of the round tables and four chairs, first to the veranda and then the top deck.
After they had arrayed the furniture to Stefir’s satisfaction just forward of the mast, the prince headed to the dumbwaiter. Soon, three trays bearing a bread stuffed with some form of red meat, cooked onions, water cress, and cut bell peppers filled their table.
“I studied your book again, Stefir,” Jessar said as they lunched.
“Good. Learn it well. I will head below after lunch. I have a few historical facts I wish to review with Sabretha.”
“Okay, I’ll join you.”
“Jessar, I do not believe that would be wise yet,” the wizard said with an encouraging smile.
“Give it some time, Jessar,” Ogador encouraged.
Stefir finished his meal and went below.
“Good, we’re alone. Jessar, how would you like to start your sword lessons?”
“Really? I’d love to, Ogador.”
“Without my own sword, we won’t be sparring, but I doubt Sabretha would allow that anyway until your wounds finish healing.”
“Anything’s better than nothing.”
The Prince moved the table and chairs into a corner. “First, let me dispel one notion: Combat sword fighting isn’t very noble. You get no points for artistic maneuvers. Certainly, there is room for basic decency, such as not killing a man who is down and out of action. Short of tricks and cheating, you do what you must to win, for to do otherwise has a fair chance of leaving you dead, as well as losing. I’m not telling you to attack someone from behind, necessarily. If you have an opening for a sloppy or unartful blow, however … well, take it.”
None of this surprised Jessar. He had long suspected that there was little glory in the actual act of killing someone. Glory, he thought, was turning difficult or impossible odds into victory.
“Good. I know you can’t make any serious movements, Jessar. I wouldn’t want you to rip your stitches. I’ll just show you the basic grips and the guard position.”
Ogador wrapped Jessar’s fingers around the hilt of his short sword. When Jessar squeezed the sword strongly, Ogador shook his head. “No, Jessar. The dead man’s grip will put your fingers to sleep. You must cradle the hilt, and hold the blade horizontal and your thumb on top.”
“It seems like I’m holding the weapon sideways from what I expected.”
“Yes, compared to most swordsmen, that is true. For a short sword, though, this is the way to hold it. Knowing simple little things like this is important. That knowledge is just one reason why it is relatively easy to be better than most swordsmen in the land. It’s getting better than the best that takes a lifetime. See, you can move your sword side-to-side for slashing without turning your wrist.”
True enough, Ogador guided Jessar’s sword arm to both the left and right without any rotation of Jessar’s wrist to keep power behind the stroke.
“Well, won’t someone knock it out of my hands if I hold it so loosely?”
“Yes, that’s where part of the art comes in. You have to tighten your grip at the right moment. Now, the short sword is mainly a slashing weapon—“
“Wait, I thought thrust attacks are preferred now. Wasn’t that why the Rudal smiths developed the new alloying techniques?”
“Good, Jessar. Yes, thrust attacks are preferred. A vital organ wound is the fastest way to kill an opponent, unless you are very good and accurate enough to sever a major artery. But, you don’t have to kill an opponent to defeat him, at least, not always. If you have to wait for your opponent to collapse from blood loss, you will be fighting for a long time. Consider your first wound. If it had been a thrust rather than a slashing wound, it would likely have been a severe blow to your kidney. Without Bidmaron’s continued treatment in that case, you might well have died. However, you probably would have lasted at least as long before you passed out.”
“Huh? You just said it would’ve been a much more severe wound.”
“True, but internal wounds generally are slower to bleed. The pressure of the organs within your body can tend to stanch the bleeding. Furthermore, since the entry wound is smaller, you are less likely to cut one of the large blood vessels that lace through muscles.”
“So, slashing attacks are better?”
“I didn’t say that, Jessar. For the less skilled, cutting attacks are better. First, as I just said, you’re more likely to cause bleeding severe enough to weaken an enemy. More importantly, however, this kind of strike is more likely to distract an enemy with pain.”
The Lynx shook his head, experimentally swinging his sword from side to side. “Sorry, Ogador, I just don’t see how a cut hurts more than a stab.”
“Many of your internal organs are relatively insensitive to pain compared to skin and muscle.”
“Hang on, Ogador. So you’re saying that the most reliable way to put an opponent out of action is with pain?”
“Unless you’re good enough to place surgical thrusts precisely at key ‘dead points,’ yes.”
Swinging his sword in a steady rhythm, they Lynx began to feel better about his weapon skills. “Okay, and what are those key points?”
“Woah, Jessar. Don’t get cocky. You have a long way to go before you’re up to that. Besides, the short sword doesn’t have enough reach to make a very effective thrust attack.”
“I see,” a slightly deflated Jessar said.
“Also,” the prince continued, gesturing for Jessar to hand over the sword. Ogador placed his left pointer finger under the blade and balanced it. “the sword is balanced about a third of the way down the blade. And it has no fuller. This increases the weight in the blade and shifts the balance toward the point. Just like you’d want for a slashing weapon.”
“But if it doesn’t have enough reach for a thrust, how does a slash reach either?”
“A good slash doesn’t have to break the skin very far. Even a shallow gash will tend to open up with the body’s motion. If you are very good at placing the wound, it will also tear at one or both ends as the wound stretches. The pain of this ripping is what will distract your opponent. He will be encouraged to limit his movement in an attempt to stop the tearing, and an opponent with limited motion will be less effective. So, a clean cut oriented along the major muscle lines will not tear so easily, and it may not even hurt in the excitement of the battle. That was why you didn’t feel your own wound at the tavern, even though you lost some blood.”
Ogador took a wide stance with his sword arm in front of him. Jessar adopted the same stance, but he found that his left arm felt awkward.
“The best thing you can do with that arm is to put a shield on it. That changes your stance and tactics enormously. Since we don’t have shields, just keep it to your side. Don’t raise it above your head, whatever you do. That will leave your side exposed. You would rather take a hit on your arm than your side.”
“The wide stance gives you stability for wide strokes. Don’t forget the vertical swing, though. It is often neglected. It’s very effective against swordsmen who have no formal training.”
Jessar took back his weapon and swung it slowly, noting how much more solid the motion felt. “Yes, Ogador, this feels much better.”
“Good, now let me show you a few vertical swings.” The prince took back the weapon and swept it in blurred, fluid sweeps. “This is not as hard as it looks, Jessar. It’s a good move against very inexperienced opponents, if you have the time to show off before you close. Against an expert, however, all you have done is to show him your own level of expertise. Remember, the first few moments of a sword fight are always the most dangerous. Each man is trying to gauge his opponent without giving up anything about his own skills.”
“Sabretha didn’t seem to do much gauging in her fighting at the tavern,” Jessar pointed out.
“There is more than one way to gauge an opponent than to cross swords. And she did trade a few parries with the first man, as you will recall. No, Jessar, she made her assessment. She has been doing this for a very long time, and she is supremely confident of her own skill. Still, she could learn a thing or two, I’d wager. She may have fought many times in a bar room and I know she has participated as an exhibiter in the Tournament. But she has yet to face real skill, I think. Most of the real sword masters never get a chance to participate in the Tournament. They are too busy fighting battles. Certainly, they never fought as exhibiters. She hasn’t learned that power is the key.”
“What do you mean?”
“Speed is important, especially since it increases the strength of a blow. But power, the sheer force behind the maneuver, that is what strikes home. A strong attack can often get past a successful parry just with its force. A steady, strong offense with carefully paced, overwhelming blows puts an opponent on the defensive. It’s hard to make a serious attack from a defensive posture. About the best you can do is foul your opponent’s blade if he’s on the offensive. Shift the balance; put your opponent on the defense. From an offensive stance, you can plan your attacks, make them work.”
Stefir climbed up. “Well, I see you two are putting the time to good use. Listen to him, Jessar. The sword is so popular because most men think that a sword is the serious warrior’s weapon. That may or may not be true. But they also think that wielding a sword is a matter of common sense since so many men use it. In fact, becoming a master of the sword, just a particular variety like a short sword, even, requires formal training or a lifetime of lessons learned by experience. True, the swordsman’s techniques do make sense, once someone explains it. So, in that way, at least, sword fighting is common sense.”
Ogador nodded to the wizard. “Thanks, Stefir. A good summary for today’s lesson. I suppose that, in some ways, learning to fight with a sword is akin to developing magical skills.”
The Lynx recognized how badly the prince had left himself open for an insulting remark and was shocked when the chronologist nodded.
“Yes, any skill worth doing requires practice and study. Speaking of which, Jessar, tomorrow we will continue your magic lessons.”
“What lessons? I haven’t learned anything yet.”
“What do you think I have been trying to do when I was explaining the River of Time and other key principles of Chronology?”
“Oh,” Jessar said, sheathing his sword.
“If you two are finished, how about a game of Chips after dinner?”
The three friends did exactly that, with Ogador losing another stone to the wizard and Stefir winning. A rematch produced the same results, after which they retired. By the time they finished, the turtle reached the next turtle people village. The Lynx watched from his window as one of the boys operated the winch on his side to reel the ship back to the shell of the turtle. Soon the giant reptile shuffled up the sandy bank, and the turtle master reversed the procedure Jessar had observed back in Galvek, leaving the ship up on its stilts for the night.
Sabretha’s voice called from outside his door, “Lynx?”
“Yes, come in please,” he called.
She entered with most of the same equipment from the night before, minus the scissors. “It is time for your compress again.”
The Lynx removed his tunic and jerkin and reclined on his bunk on his stomach. “Sabretha, I haven’t thanked you for your helping me get back to health.”
She tossed her lascivious locks over her shoulder. “I swore to Bidmaron I’d look out for you.”
“Look, I appreciate it very much.”
She actually smiled as she gently removed his bandages. Bracing himself for the same kind of treatment with the hot towel the night before, the Lynx was surprised when the Valkara instead slowly and carefully draped the steaming cloth over his back. Rather than painfully hot, this time it was pleasantly warm.
“Relax, Lynx. I won’t be so indelicate tonight. It’s just that Palin—“
“I’m sorry about that, Sabretha. It was wrong, but I just couldn’t – I mean – well, she’s a goddess.”
Half-expecting knuckles to dig into his back, he instead felt smooth therapeutic massaging.
“Yes, I know. It has been so long since my Welcoming—“
“She Welcomed you as well?” Jessar pretended to close his eyes, but instead peered through his lashes.
The Valkara cast her glance at the floor for the briefest moment. It was the closest Jessar had seen her to being embarrassed. “Yes, I am one of the Creator’s creatures after all.”
“Really – I mean about the Welcoming. Certainly, you are one of the Creator’s creatures. I don’t believe he’s ever done so fine a job.” Still looking through his lashes, the Lynx was delighted to see the joyful expression sweep over the Valkara’s pristine features.
“Thanks, Lynx, for the compliment. Anyway, I had forgotten how it was, but Stefir reminded me.”
The Lynx’s eyes opened reflexively. “He did? I mean – oh, of course.”
“Yes, we talked for a long time this afternoon about events during this age.” She finished rubbing crushed spearmint leaves onto his back. She gathered her things and stood.
“Thanks, Sabretha.”
“You’re welcome, Lynx. I know you had the best intentions when you got the arrow wound, and Stefir explained what happened at the tavern.” She redressed his upper back wound.
“He did? I mean – sure,” he stammered.
“It was still stupid.” She left, closing his door noiselessly.
Why the old chronologist. Even though Stefir obviously believed Jessar’s hopes were foolish, the wizard had been playing matchmaker. Still relishing the invigorating spearmint vapors, he lay there reflecting on his sword lessons. Perhaps one day he would be able to beat the Valkara.
The third morning of their river journey dawned wet again from another night shower. Smelling bacon or some reasonable substitute frying, the Lynx headed for the common room, finding Stefir already present. The turtle, ship already on its back, waded out into the Veinous.
“Stefir, you talked to the Valkara yesterday.”
“Yes, what of it? I talked to you and Ogador as well.”
“No, I mean you talked to her.”
By the wizard’s confused look, Jessar saw he’d have to be more blatant. “Look, Chronologist, she told me you explained to her about why I got in the fight at the bar—“
“Yes, I told her you had been bragging about the fight you were going to have when we arrived at the tavern.”
“Huh? Okay, never mind that. She told me you reminded her of the raw sensuality of Palin and how I couldn’t help myself that night.”
“I expressed that you had not been with a female for many years and that you had been telling the prince and me how much you were looking forward to getting—“
Confound the wizard: He wasn’t going to admit it. “Look, you half-Solon bastard, I’m trying to thank you for getting my bacon out of the grease yesterday.”
Stefir had adopted a confused expression.
Ogador slid down the ladder uprights to a resounding landing on the deck. “You tell the bastard, Jessar!”
The trapdoor opened again, and Sabretha started gracefully down the ladder. Reflexively, Jessar looked up, only to realize just how long the Valkara’s legs really were and remembering too late her habit of wearing no underclothing.
He turned away, feeling his cheeks flush. He saw Ogador looking on unabashed, however. “Ogador!” he whispered vehemently, jabbing the prince with an elbow.
“Oh,” Ogador said innocently, letting his eyes tarry for an instant as Sabretha joined them.
“Welcome down, Sabretha. Care for some breakfast?” Jessar asked, holding out a platter of crisp strips of bacon.
“I’ll get it myself, Lynx,” she shot curtly.
Jessar shot Ogador a confused look, but the prince’s face bore a what-did-you-do-to-spark-her-torch expression. The Lynx shrugged and decided the best thing was probably just to ignore it. “Stefir, I’ve been meaning to ask: What did you learn with your mind probe spell?”
“Jessar, come up to the sun deck, I have something I want to discuss with you,” the chronologist said by way of reply.
“Oh, come on, Stefir, I’ve waited long enough.”
Almost grinding his teeth, the wizard growled, “Not now, Jessar!” and promptly marched off through the forward doors.
For the second time, the Lynx and governor shared confused glances. Even Sabretha followed the chronologist from the room with her eyes, a puzzled expression on her face.
Ogador shrugged, and the three finished their breakfast, although the Valkara sat at a table by herself. “Jessar, you’d better go see what Stefir wants.”
The Lynx went out onto the foredeck. The wizard was leaning on the port rail with the unmistakable carriage he adopted when communing with Silentwing.
Jessar quietly joined Stefir at the railing and waited patiently. He began to wonder what was happening, since the silent communication was taking so long this morning.
When Stefir finally spoke, Jessar started. “We are fortunate that all the turtle people camps except Galvek are on the south bank.”
Knowing that was his queue, Jessar asked, “Why’s that?”
“One of the orc clans is on the move ahead. They are moving downriver as if the Shades of Shadrak are after them, a forced march through day and night. I wish there were a way to warn your people, Jessar. If they get across the river—“
“Klapek is only a day or so ahead, and Jintaron beyond that. Can’t we have the turtle master fly the proper message pennants for a threat of this nature?” Jessar gestured toward the signal mast atop the sun deck and was surprised to see several new ones hanging from the yardarms.
“Yes, the turtle master is already displaying the signal: ‘Danger on the Frontier, Orcs.’”
“Perhaps we can leave a message at the next turtle village. When the next Border Guard patrol comes by, they will check with the natives.”
“A good idea, Jessar.” All traces of the wizard’s earlier anger had vanished.
“This isn’t what you wanted to discuss,” Jessar suggested.
“No, not exactly. It is time to continue your lessons in magic.”
The Lynx forced himself to behave nonchalantly, although he was excited at the prospect of learning more. “Fine, where do we start?”
The wizard arched both brows. “I thought you would be more eager. I have never taken an apprentice, so I am not exactly sure where to start.”
“Huh? You’re the most mighty chronologist of the age and you’ve never taught magic?”
“Jessar, you must learn to pay more attention. That is not what I said: I said I had not taken an apprentice. A novice is quite a different student than the wizards I have instructed previously.”
The Lynx shrugged. “Remember, I may not exactly be a novice. We think the old elf was my mentor, don’t we?”
“Yes,” the wizard gave Jessar one of his long, evaluative stares. “But do you remember anything you learned?”
Jessar hung his head. “No.”
Stefir turned to Jessar, smiled, and placed a fatherly hand on the Lynx’s shoulder. “Since this is one of your first formal lessons, you can pick the topic yourself. Go ahead, ask me anything arcane.”
Woah, where to start…. He’d come out here to find the wizard communing….
“Okay, Stefir. My mentor the old elf didn’t seem to have a familiar, and I doubt he could be more powerful than you. Yet you have a familiar. Why?”
Stefir raised his finger. “Jessar, there are three classes of mystic, excluding talents—“
“What’s that got to do with familiars and what’s a talent?”
“Do you want your answer?”
“Yes.”
“Then you will kindly let me answer my way. A talent is someone who learns to cast spells without formal training, without conscious thought in some cases.”
“Like witches?”
“Actually, Jessar, some witches do receive formal training. A hag may take a promising young woman under her tutelage. But you are essentially correct: Most witches are a type of talent.”
“Aside from training, what makes a talent any different from other mystics?”
“That is a hard question. Perhaps nothing. More than anything, they are unique. Their powers are usually confined to a very narrow scope, though their ability in that area may be unparalleled among mystics. Usually, they cannot teach their techniques to others. In fact, they often do not know how they cast their own spells; they may just think about the effect and it happens. Those are the most dangerous kinds of talents.”
“They’re dangerous?”
“Some are. But then again, I can be dangerous when I want. So can Ogador.”
“I see your point. What about regular mystics then?”
“Yes, that is what you originally asked.”
“No, what I originally asked is why you needed a familiar.”
Stefir ignored Jessar’s fine point. “The beginning mystic is just that, a mystic, though apprentice is the more proper term. Most mystics never make it past that stage either. It takes enormous discipline to achieve the next level of achievement, that of the arcanician or spell weaver. The major advantage of achieving the level of an arcanician is the ability to create new spells. The cost is the mystic retreat. If an arcanician ignores his internal urge for a retreat, his power will fall off, slowly, at first, but dropping at an increasing rate as time passes.”
“Is that when he picks up a familiar?”
“No, not necessarily. The last stage is, of course, where I am.”
“Of course.”
“Yes, of course. A wizard. There are not many of us in Talan at any particular time. Even in the heyday of magic in the Sacred Age, there were less than a thousand wizards.”
“Anyway, a wizard can endow objects with magical abilities. Even the weakest wizard can produce single-use items, such as powders, potions, and gases. But the most mighty can enchant a medium permanently, such as a magic sword, or an artifact that recharges itself.”
“Like my star stones?”
“No, those are relics of the Gods, perhaps even the Creator himself.”
“What did you do to earn your wizardhood?”
“A wizard’s first arcane creation is his symbol of power.”
“Your staff. What does it do?”
“By focusing my power on or through it, I can use that power more productively. I can, for example, make a spell’s effect last longer, make it reach farther, or affect a larger area.”
“I suppose creating a symbol of power requires intensive effort.”
Stefir traced a grain pattern on his staff with a fingernail. “Yes, it requires a remarkable singleness of purpose.”
“With all that, Stefir, you never touched on a familiar.”
“I was getting to it. Any mystic, even a fledgling, may have a familiar. The problem is finding a familiar that will have you. Only certain animals have the temperament or desire for it.”
“What kind of animals?”
“Many species are suitable, but so few of them have the desire. Wizards have had dogs, weasels, groundhogs, cats, parrots, and snakes, although the later is rare. In the case of Lagus the Meteorologist, his familiar was a dolphin. Our friend Bidmaron has a bear.”
“Is Bidmaron a mystic or arcanician?”
“Many rangers are actually talents. Bidmaron is such a ranger, but he has augmented his natural abilities and functions at the level of an arcanician now. With the exception of Ednaron, there have been no ranger wizards; their skill at arms requires too much time to hone, detracting from their arcane studies.”
“How do you find a familiar?”
“Often, they find you.”
“And when they don’t?”
“Then it is not easy. There is a spell to be cast, kind of an advertisement that you are looking for a familiar. Then it is a matter of wandering until you come within range of an acceptable animal, which may take moons. During the time of searching, any other use of magic will negate the effect. That is the primary reason many mystics have no familiar. As to why your mentor had no familiar….” Stefir shrugged.
“I see. So far, it seems that every power has its cost. What is the disadvantage of having a familiar?”
Stefir looked uneasily around the deck before heading aft. “Come, we must not be overheard.” He didn’t stop until they reached the point of the poop deck.
The wizard lowered his voice to a whisper. “That, Jessar, is one of the deepest secrets of the Art. The disadvantage of a familiar is that if someone kills your animal friend, you will probably die too, especially if you were communing with it when it died.”
Jessar scanned the skies for Silentwing, finally spotting the bird high overhead to the north and in advance of the turtle. “You mean—“
“Yes, the owl is almost as old as I am.”
Jessar looked at the wizard in disbelief. “How can he—“
“I do not know myself. Perhaps it is a side affect of my frequent use of the Flux. The death effect is mutual, though, Jessar: If I die, Silentwing will certainly perish.”
It seemed like such a severe handicap. Why would a mystic do it? “Are the benefits that great then?”
Stefir started to raise his finger but then paused, looking out at the river and then toward the bird as if considering something. Finally he nodded. “I can show you better than I can tell you. To do so will require most of my power for today, but I think the risk that I will need that power later is low. Yes, I will chance it.”
Remembering how the mind probe spell left him unconscious for hours, Jessar stared at Silentwing dubiously.
“It will have no effect on you, Jessar; I think. I have never actually tried this though….”
Jessar looked askance at Stefir. “What are you going to do?”
“Cast a sense share spell, a series of them, in fact. It is not a spell within the chronological school, so I am not very efficient with it. That is one of the reasons it costs me so dearly in power. You will sense what Silentwing does, an effect very similar to what I receive when I commune with him during his flight.” Stefir got the far away look in his eyes for a second, and the owl came back toward the ship to hover on a thermal over the northern bank.
“What do I do?”
“The spells will be easier to start if you block as much of your own senses as you can. Close your eyes, put your hands over your ears, and breathe through your mouth.”
“But I’d like to watch you cast the spells.” Since he had learned of his magical ability, Jessar wanted to learn as much as he could, and this looked like a good opportunity.
A stern look from the wizard convinced Jessar to obey, however. As he closed his eyes, he saw the chronologist reach into his smock for something.
His covered ears kept him from making out Stefir’s droned words. There came a brief pause that marked the spell’s end, and then Jessar heard no more words….
A rush of wind saturated his auditory sense like a gale from an approaching thunderstorm. He heard what Silentwing did. Then, as if the owl had turned its head, the noise in his right ear rose to a roar, while in his left he heard first water lapping against the ship, then the piercing keen of a far away hawk. It would take nearly as many heartbeats as he had tail feathers of steady, windless flight to reach that other bird. Odd how that measure of distance seemed as natural now as … how had he marked distance before?
While he struggled to remember his old distance measurements, a second sense flooded his mind. His head reeled from the gulf between himself and the water below. Even in his years as a – a featherling? – when he had climbed to the top of his scentwood tree, the ground had never looked so distant.
He dove and the angle of his view changed. A sandy bank rushed toward him. Somehow things looked different than they once did, plainer perhaps. Then something leaped for attention: movement. A delicious, tiny, hairy four-leg it was, and it plunged toward him as he plummeted at a pace he knew he should fear. Over to his right, on the edge of his vision, a sudden move of a peculiar upper limb marked the location of his tall two-leg sense partner, that one the other two-legs called Stefir. All around, everything that moved against the background beckoned for his attention, as if it were a torch in blackest night. He had never noticed movement so vividly before when he was a two-leg.
The plunge ended in a fraction of a heartbeat. Then came the joy of the kill. He rejoiced at the agonized squeak of the little beast in his talons.
Blood! The third sense took effect. The blood smell quickened his heart and sent a wave of elation through him. Sampling other smells, he found the tiny beast’s musk, the near overwhelming smell of water, and the wild odor of the forest to the south. The latter aroused an almost irresistible urge to soar among the tree limbs.
Then the fourth sense came, bringing the metallic, sweet taste of bloody flesh. The taste came repeatedly as he pecked the creature in his claws. The flavor was nirvana, surely only wingspans from the unreachable top of the sky. Quickly he finished his snack and took to the air again.
Then, more pronounced than wind in his – down, was it? – he felt minute vibrations throughout his body with the arrival of the final sense. Air passed over his feathers. He felt the overwhelming potential of strength in his pumping chest and wings…
But then his world reeled. Wood was only a few knuckles, yes that had been the measure of distance, below his beak. No, that wasn’t right; below his nose. As the color returned to his vision, he realized the element missing from his sight a few moments ago. Rapidly, his senses were falling back to his two-leg body. Sight already, now smell, then taste. Touch was the most violent: He flailed his arms against the deck. Hearing came last, when he heard loud guffaws from overhead.
He willed his arms to stop and rolled over. Above him, Stefir laughed, head back. Jessar stood painfully. “What’s so funny?” He rubbed his sore arms.
“I forgot how hard it is to get accustomed to sensory input from a different animal. You should have seen yourself when I endowed you with the owl’s sense of touch. You fell to the deck and started flapping your arms.” Stefir laughed again.
Jessar looked at the wizard crossly. “It’s not so funny, Stefir. I think I bruised the heels of my hands.”
“Sorry, Jessar. But do you see the advantages now?”
He could visualize how having a remote pair of eyes, or any other sense for that matter, might be useful. “Yes, I’m convinced.”