D is for Dragon

D is for Dragon
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Welcome to the Hearthside

The Hearthside is a blog for the writings of Nathaniel Hart. Check out the sample stories to the right. Check Below for updates on appearances, readings, and current work.

26 February 2013

Keeping the Fire: Innocence


Don't know what this is? Check out the Pages section to the right to learn more about the Keeping the Fire project. 

      57      


Were it not for water they would have died, but the roots granted them water. Both Polena and Mehethe could fast, she through practice and he through training. But their methods differed. Her way was always to be meditative, to be present in all things. Right now, she was so aware that she felt the darkness on her the same way one might feel the sunlight. Mehethe’s way was to shut down, to deny the hunger. He simply pretended there was no hunger, no pain, no darkness. Polena mused they had been down here almost three weeks. He was breaking first. She knew it. She also knew that there was someone crouching, waiting in the darkness. She had survived and recovered by force of Will, her own or that of the People. She had exhausted Hewava, or whatever spell or wickedness had lingered here but if that power had the strength to come again it would be through Mehethe. Polena knew all of this, but she dared not tell it. It would do no good. Instead she tried to keep him present, keep the Djaught from slipping away.

She did this first by common speech. She found out he had two wives, two sons and a several daughters, though he seemed to know them only distantly, as one would a cousin distantly. He had been a soldier all of his life as had his father and his grandfather before him. HE had seen many battles but no wars. Of Polena, he inquired nothing. She wondered if he did not care, or if the asking took too much energy. When they did not speak, they dug, but it felt slower and slower every day. Some time, maybe a day or two after she had first found him digging, he grew fevered and she feared that death or something worse was upon him. She could get nothing with common speech, nothing with courtly discourse. She would have to speak to a soldier as a soldier.

“ Djaught, who do you serve?” She asked, adopting the brisk tone Djaughts always used in poems and stories. Mehethe’s response was just as fitting.

“I am in service to the Vakhe of Concordance, Master over Thunder Falls, Shodje Shevake.

“How many men do you take in his service?”

“Thirty Hava in my duty.”

“How do they serve?”

“The Djahava Rhemu serves with distinction and is eager to advance our aim, the Djahava Medju is adequate but shows sign of bitterness at following coarser duties…” he went on this way, speaking of each and every soldier in his command, including those presumed dead at the Barrow. Polena let him speak, but as he did the thought came to her that he would answer any question she asked.

“Djaught Mehethe,” she said, trying to hide the hesitation in her voice, “what is Fiedjan’s purpose in this valley?”

“To gain the favor of the Fortress and take back the south from the murderous tribes that call themselves the downtrodden and ceaselessly raid the north.” The common line, she knew it, but even though she was trying to help him Polena did not want to lose a chance at the truth.

“Your Vakhe commands you Djaught, what is your true purpose here.” Mehethe was hesitant.

“I must not say.” He sounded pained, as if tired and drugged.

“Your Vakhe commands and I speak in his name. Tell your men their purpose Djaught.”

Mehethe’s breathing became taught and sudden. Polena reached to Mehethe and found his rod where it was tucked into his belt. She took it up and placed the metal of it on his shoulder, proving it’s authority.

“It is commanded!” she said.

“To strength the Priestess’ Peiyadja’s claim for the throne, to deter the Flinish attempts to take the Council from us. To make ready the way for the Vakhe’s army.” There was fear in his voice, the first fear she had ever heard in him. It stunned her, it seemed so foreign a sound, as if he used a voice that he had not spoken with since he was a small child.

“Why do you fear me knowing that?” Polena asked.

“Because I have failed. The fault is mine lord, I do you dishonor. I pursue the poet for more than the advantage her grave would bring us. I pursue her for myself.”

“Why?” Polena asked, her voice at once her own.

“Do not make me say it, please. Please.” He was broken. Polena felt a deep hollowness in herself. She saw an advantage and leapt at it. But in so doing she had found out the truth to this man Mehethe, one he buried so deeply that it was hidden even from him. He did not fear reprisal, he did not failure. He feared the showing of fear. He feared joy, tenderness, weakness. He could not show these things, for they filled him with anger or shame that she could not fathom. It was his hand that wrote those poems to her in his first letters. When he showed anger at court it was not because she had opposed Fiedjan or opposed him, but because she had insulted the poet. He had taken risks, had disobeyed his orders to pursue the poet and now his was afraid not because he would be punished, not because he had was almost certain to die entrapped in the darkness, but because someone might guess that he loved her, that he loved the poems. She could not harm him further.

“Djaught, I call you to rest you have done well,” then, thinking quickly she added, “as the First Poet says, “silence enfolds us,” rest, recover your strength, and take up duty honorably in the morning.”

The sigh she heard told her all she needed to know. Soon he was resting again, and within a time she felt his fever falling. She could not rest. They had been tricked here, both of them by people he sought power over fidelity. But she felt, as he slept, the full weight of her words and deeds since coming to the Fortress. It made her question if the only innocent one here was the child’s voice she had heard shiver forth from Mehethe’s mouth. The roots offered no reply but the distant drip of water.

        


25 February 2013

Keeping The Fire: A Luminary's Hands


Don't know what this is? Check out the Pages section to the right to learn more about the Keeping the Fire project. 
╩      56     ╩

The oldest winter houses of Easterners are built into the ground. It stays warmer there, holds the heat, fights against the strongest winds. Eastern men found better ways to build, better hearths, tighter windows, and thicker walls. But thankfully, the winters are never as harsh in the east. In the west, the winter houses are all still built into the ground. It is too cold for innovation and the People of such lands must fight and labor just to survive. As she crawled along the packed earth and tile floor of the tomb Polena thanked the Will that she had this small blessing of a tomb below ground. Even with spring coming it surely was too cold on the surface for anyone to live.

More and more she felt herself again, but spent and weary. It was the pain like that after a fever, where the bones still ache and the body must be forced to get it to move. The first thing she had sought had been water. Within the tomb it was black as the space between the stars, but any sound was redoubled. She was drawn to the drip of water and crawled for what felt like a hundred paces to reach it. She barked her shins, bashed her head, jabbed her fingers all along the way in the darkness. The place had gone from caressing her to attacking her. In time, she found it, a puddle of water about as deep as two fingers, tricking down the roots from the trees above and pooling in the cracks between two tiles. She drank carefully, threw up until her sides retched, rested, and began to drink again. Some time later she thought to find Mehethe.

She was too hoarse and weak to call out, but she listened until she heard noise, the sound of breathing and a rhythmic scraping of metal on earth. She crawled to it. It was too dark to see a thing and the Barrow was full of small treacheries, pits, snags, and sharp stones. But the plan of it was straight forward enough, and besides Polena felt as if she knew her way, like the lay of the place had been scored into her eyes and was still there when she closed them. When she got close to the noise it abruptly stopped. There was a long lingering moment in the darkness until Polena managed to feebly call out.

“Djaught?”

The scraping and breathing resumed again. As Polena crawled closer, Polena felt soft, cold earth under her fingers and she realized that he was trying to dig his way out of the Barrow with his blade as a shovel. She sat by him, let him work, judged him. She did not know how long it had been, but the fact that he was still alive and at this labor meant it was not years. Of course it couldn't have been that long, and rather than be frightened at the animus that might give her such a thought, she instead managed a smile at the absurdity of thinking it. He moved without haste and she could tell by his breathing he was exhausted. She tried to figure out by the lay of the main hall where they were in Barrow. To her recollection it could not have been anywhere near the side of the hill.

“Do you know where you are digging?” she asked, then, when he did not answer “do you know why you are digging that hole Djaught?”

“To get out of the tomb.”

“And do you know that this is not the right way to reach the surface?”

“Does it matter to you, ghost?”

She decided it did not. Of all the things she could do, she thought that touching him would be the least safe. That was what made her do it. She lean up to her knees, reached tentatively from the darkness, and put her hand on his shoulder. He stopped moving. There was no blow in response. Just haggard, breathing. She felt, in that touch, as only a Luminary can. She had seen soldier back from the front, had felt the heaving of a dying man's chest after he had worked himself to death, knew the pain of chronic injury, the sting of trauma, the bite of cold, the stain of bitterness, the resignation of the damned. All of these things she could feel in his body, each like the color of a thread in a tapestry. In his words, in his expression the Djaught showed no emotion, or at most anger. His whole life he had worked for the sole purpose of hiding his true nature. He had carved out a place inside himself where his heart ought to have been. But his body betrayed him. He was tired, bitter, resigned, and frightened.

“Rest,” she said, “You have worked enough Djaught. I will dig a while.” He would not move, would give her the blade, would not even reply. So she did as she said she would, crawled passed him, and began to dig in the cold soil with her hand scraping out clay, sand, and rock with tired fingers. In time, she heard him recline, and in time beyond that, she heard him sleeping. Then she stopped, sat, and made to pray. But when prayers were not strong in coming she thought instead of writing. She composed a letter home to Denza. The grace it granted her was just as nourishing.
╩      ╩

24 February 2013

Keeping the Fire: A Piece in Five Movements

Don't know what this is? Check out the Pages section to the right to learn more about the Keeping the Fire project. 
╩      55     ╩

From their door steps, high windows, or in company of the cobbled street the people of Dehali watched the lady's progress. She walked slowly and her cloth was fine, though certainly not of royal sort. She wore a veil as the Flinish do when in morning so the folk were careful not to speak to her. It was just sundown and the people of the city were on their way to their homes or pubs, some sat at their tables trying to catch the last light of day, others traded words in the streets. The lady ignored them all and kept to the center of the street. Folk in Dehali, as with any place, know it is best to leave such folk to their own business.


As she walked down one of main streets of Dehali, one of the few to be fully cobbled, the Duchess shivered. To Tavya, Dehali felt as foreign as the roaring of the ocean to a landlocked shepherd. Every person here was of common blood. They seemed to care little for their conduct, less for their appearance, and least at all for their space. Offal and sewage were cast into the alleys behind the houses. Each house had a little covered porch and each of these had a table that was used for everything from the butchering of meat to the sewing of a child's clothing. The only merit she drew from this was that the folk must be as ignorant as any of slave, for not one of them accosted her or even so much as spoke to her. Though she was tense with fear she could not help but smile a little to think of her wit to be passing undetected among these common folk.


From where he watched, a stoop beside a narrow alley Dama could see the lady walk. He knew at once she was from the Fortress. She stuck out to his trained eyes as clearly as a flower amid the grass. He had to pay dearly to get inside the wall and were he to get this right it would be worth the toll. The Dorrishman had paid him half up front to get him the lady in the veil, and after he failed to take the Luminary Polena he would have too prove his worth if he were to get back into the Fortress. It is rare for anyone to get a second chance with the Weatherclock. He stepped up, ready to make his move, but there were already others moving up on her. Just where the men had come from he did not know, but the certainty and coordination of their movements, told him he was over his head. They were professionals.


Antebrote had planned the movement so many times, both in his mind and in practice with his three men that when they began the action of it he had to remind himself that it was really happening. Two behind, himself in front, one to the side to watch, the steps were as poised as a courtly dance. He could not see her face but the shock in her eyes and the dart of her head told him she was quick to realize she had been entrapped. Now that the fear was there it was time to give the bait.

“Lady Tavya,” he said, “we have come ahead of you at the behest of the Whale. This city is not fully in the hands of the Watch and we are to take you to a safe place.”

“I do not know your face.” She replied

“But I know your's,” he answered, “as does the assassin sent after you.” He permitted himself a glance to Ormede, the one on watch. His repeater crossbow was barely concealed beneath his parn, he had warned him about that before and would have to bring it up again afterwards. He wanted nothing less than perfection.

“Where is it?” Tavya asked.

“A short distance,” Antebrote replied, adjusting his cloak as he did so to “unintentionally” show her the broach he wore on his chest, a fair imitation of the one's worn by higher ranking members of the Watch. She nodded, the group moved around her, and like that, they were off. As smoothly as he had planned it.

The water was still at the Fountain of the Young Mare. It played only when a brazier before the statue of the reclining horse was lit and the mood of that water, dark and still, fit the mood of the crossroads it was built at. Gabre had been waiting for his lady to come. He had known her despite her clothing and that thought brought a simple joy to him. How good a servant he must be to know her by her walk alone, she whom he loved and served so well. He had let her approach rather than give sign of himself. But at about a hundred paces from him she had been quietly accosted and taken away. Panic rose up in him and he wanted to cry out. But there would be nothing for that. Either these men were sent by the Whale or the Weatherclock, and either case would mean the Watch here would do nothing. He breathed deeply, swallowed the shame and self doubt that always plagued him, and started off the way the men had left. He would follow them from a distance, find out where they were taking her, and then get Uhen. He would know what to do. Not a street away was he in his chase when he realized that he was not alone. By his walk too he knew the other that followed, Dama. His lady had ordered him to follow this man before when he was spying on Polena, he had been close enough to intervene when that thug had tried to kidnap her. Now he was again a spy following a spy.


From their door steps, their high windows, or in the company of the cobbled street the people of Dehali watched the last travelers of the day slip through their streets. Though many of them knew some mischief was afoot, not one of them was fool enough to get in its way. Not in Dehali, and especially not in times like these.

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23 February 2013

Keeping the Fire: A Place in the Story

Don't know what this is? Check out the Pages section to the right to learn more about the Keeping the Fire project. 
╩      54     ╩

Polena remembered a story, an important one. It was one of those told so often and with so much importance that you cannot remember where you heard it first. Presumably it was some time when you were a child but the story is now so familiar to you that it is part of the weave of your life, a story inseparable from your own. In this story there was the Grandmother Fate, Stone-Hearted Fate who creates and destroys without emotion. All of Creation was Her's but it was a creation meant to grow and change on its own. Soon she no longer understand it and so she bore children, the gods, who dwelt above Her creation and helped Fate understand it. But once we allow something to grow we cannot always control that growth. The grandchildren of Fate came, unexpectedly into the world, born of the dreams and emotions of the gods, and of these the first and highest was called Maela, or Luck. Honey-Eyed Maela helped the gods to rebel, to steal Fate's crown, smash it to pieces and cast them to burn forever in the fires of the All-Wurm Honary, whom mortals call the sun. But Stone-Hearted Fate is defeated, not broken. It is still Her course that the world travels, Her players that move the plot, Her world when at last it reaches its ending. But for luck. But for lady luck, be she smiling a bright as the glory of morning or coy and quiet as the smallest candle flame, Honey-Eyed Maela let's us break the chains and plot our own course. She is fickle, but she is there. And that was the gift Polena drew from that story. 

There was another story that Polena remembered, this one just as important as the other but somehow shadowed. It was like the recollection of a dream something that had to be nurtured and constantly relived or she felt certain it would wash away and be gone forever. In this story there was a great castle of stone, it's halls so twisted and arbitrary that it felt like the houses one finds in a dream. It was full of people, all of them kind until you looked away from them. It was bits and pieces, less of a story and more a hani, the djashar word “poem” sharing the same meaning as “plumb” something to be savored but for a moment. This story was removed from her now. At times, when she was most in pain but her thoughts most clear, she felt that it was her story, only, that she had been sent from the stage, her pages pulled out of the lectern, the runes that made up her name long forgotten. She was in the darkness now, kept safe by the cool hands of the roots. They urged her to forget such stories the way a mother urges her child to forget a nightmare, to go back to sleep.

“Be calm, think little, sleep here. Let go.”

But Polena would not forget those stories. The darkness was strong there, as strong as the deepest stones, but she felt there was a little light in it. It was just a candle, a fragile and lovely thing hundreds of miles removed from her. Yet, are not the glittering stars but as small as a candle light to we distant watchers?

“Be Calm. Let go. Stay Here.” the roots told her.

“Denza,” she replied. After that, the roots felt more a dream and her own life more and more the waking.

╩     ╩

22 February 2013

Keeping the Fire: Alembic and The Other


Don't know what this is? Check out the Pages section to the right to learn more about the Keeping the Fire project. 

╩      53    ╩

“So you are certain they mean to take the valley by force?” Alembic asked.

“Of course,” the man across from him replied, “it was your belief that the Alliance would send a soldier to replace their murdered speaker. App Devenov is a spy, certainly, but Captain Brysh is the very definition of a soldier. He follows orders flawlessly.”

“Yes, well, it's who's orders he follows that more worries me. For the Alliance to send armies to the Fortress outside of Dehali valley, that would be posturing. To send a military strategist like Kaira Volaire is a different matter.”

“She is still... untested.” replied the other, musing off to the distance.

“Untested is not unproven. Lord Karmish called her the best military strategist he has ever seen and many would reserve that title for him. I had my fellow mage send me our observations on her from the academy. She's a sage of eighty in body of a twenty year old.”

“It is the youth that should worry you.” Alembic paused, partially because he hated the obfuscation that the other preferred to speak with but also because he was afraid he heard foot falls from the hallway outside. It would not be good to be discovered here.

“Explain what you mean by youth.”

“To be gifted and untested is one thing. But gifted, untested, and young is a more dangerous creature. The young have ambition and being untested makes them impatient. Look what Polena did with impatience alone.”

“And look where it put her,” replied Alembic, “but without commentary, I understand what you say. So the Alliance means to take the Dehali valley and perhaps the Fortress for themselves. Yet, they are still preparing. Fiedjan seems to be trying the same thing, but by a slower road. If Fiedjan were to do something drastic though...”

“We would see a wave of chaos as we are now witnessing. Rumor, suspicions, and the deaths of spies all of them good men and women. If Dun wishes to support the status quo it will need to make both parties back down.”

“Well the Whale is not doing that, nor is that Flinish rat doing her part. The Weatherclock may have to intervene.”

“In due time, I think that would not be wisest yet,” the other said his gaze focused intently as if thinking on a problem in Thrones, “both Tavya and Delhay are looking for him to act...”

“--And both,” Alembic interrupted, his face bearing that frustrating smile of his, “are about to leave the Fortress for Dehali city on a fool's errand.” The other looked back at him, making eye contact. There was forcefulness in his gaze, perhaps from anger at being interrupted but Alembic secretly hoped it was the humiliation of being out thought. “You have something a'course for them on the road, don't you.”

“Me? No, certainly not. But it is a dangerous road and a contentious city. Accidents happen, misunderstandings abound, and both of them are trusting to secrecy to keep them safe. Losing a brute like him or a snake like her would be best for the Fortress in the long run and both are prominent enough that it would force the Alliance and Fiedjan to deny involvement and step carefully. It would buy time.”

“More over, if Tavya and Delhay were... indisposed, the Weatherclock could take more public actions and influence the path of the Edgarans.” Alembic smiled as the other put it together.

“Your wit never ceases to surprise me Alembic. I take it you already have a few assassins in mind?”

“I do, and I can think of no crossbowman more careful with their aim in the entire fortress than those I would use. So I am off to my task.”

“Alembic,” replied the other, “you do intend this to work in favor of the greater good, don't you?”

“Our greater good my friend, our greater good.” Alembic replied, and he left the other to ruminate on that riddle.
╩      ╩

21 February 2013

Keeping the Fire: Men of Diverse Skill


Don't know what this is? Check out the Pages section to the right to learn more about the Keeping the Fire project. 

╩      52     ╩

By the time they reached the city of Dehali the lanterns were already lit. Uhen nodded to the guards at the gates and they let them in without a word. Gambre his unwanted companion, made the mistake of announcing that they were “only passing for the night,” which seemed much more suspicious than saying nothing. The guards at the gate watched them long afterwards and Uhen cursed below his breath at this, only the most recent of his tactless companion's blunders. He knew he was being too hard on the man. It was hard to be forgiving when one felt so unsafe. The walls of the city were almost nine feet high but to one that had lived so long in the Fortress they seemed squat, paltry things. The streets were too wide and the buildings too small. If one felt sheltered by the size and age of the Fortress one felt exposed by the smallness and youth of the city. He arranged their stay at an inn in the town without Gambre playing any part in it. That night, they were the last by the fire.

“So quiet,” Gambre remarked, and Uhen only sighed. “Well it is, you know.”

“Yes, I know that. We are lucky. Just try to stay out of the way and we will find out what we need to and be gone.” Gambre frowned and looked down at his stein of ale.

“You think I am slowing you down.”

“No I don't,” replied Uhen, wanting to avoid argument.

“Yes you do. I can hear the resentment in you. The Mistress sent me along to help, but I know your type, you don't want any lower rank being equal with you.”

That was true. Slaves in Flin would never be anything more than slaves, but the Statia Codecca, which laid out all the laws of the land did account for many orders and ranks of slave. Those above the fourth rank all the way up to the seventh rank could even own property, and those of the eighth rank, the highest, could marry commoners and have their children be free born. Rank was something no slave liked to discuss yet was never for a moment gone from their mind. Both of the men knew who was higher.

“I am certain the lady sent you with good reason Gambre, but you will forgive me. I normally work alone and I feel... uncomfortable in this place.”

“Well you should. It is quiet as a tomb. This is a merchant's inn, you can tell that by the size of the stables outside. It's almost spring and what with the roads all about you would think this place would be teeming with folk. Something has them all spooked away. It's like everyone knows something bad is about to happen in the city.”

Uhen looked around. No wonder he had felt exposed. Gambre was right. Dehali sold the salt mined from the rocks near the Fortress. It was cheapest now as it ever would be and the winter had been mild enough in the valley there should have been a run on the place. He simply did not know to look for it.

“The lady did not error in sending you Gambre. I never would have known that until you pointed it out. It shows me we are in the right place. Whoever is responsible for the disappearance also has the grip on this town.” Gambre smiled in his stupid looking by endearing way.

“I think I'll turn in after this pint.”

“Aye, a good choice,” replied Uhen, “we have much to do tomorrow.”

“Oh? What are we doing then?”

“Well first we are going to pose as salt buyers. I suspect that the people here will tell us they haven't had many because of bandits or other trouble on the roads especially in the direction of that Barrow Iven told us to look for. And after that, I am going to get arrested.”

“Arrested?” cried Gambre.

“Yes, arrested. Because then I will have reason to get further into the Governor’s blockhouse than they would allow me and overhear first hand what fear is in the people here. Also the Govenor will become aware that there is a Westin spy in his town which will make your job easier.”

“What is that?”

“You are going to give a letter to him from the lady, which I will write, and tell him just how dangerous a spy I am. All you need to do then is tell me what he tells you and give me whatever letter he sends back.”

“How you think of these things I will never guess.”

Uhen smiled to himself. His lady had not erred in sending them here. Fool or not, he was happy to have someone with him who, by his mere skin, could seem an ally to the folk here. It was a courtesy he was rarely extended beyond those tall walls of comforting stone where normally he plied his dirty trade.

╩          ╩

20 February 2013

Keeping the Fire: Making Their Stand


Don't know what this is? Check out the Pages section to the right to learn more about the Keeping the Fire project. 
╩      51     ╩



The men of the Watch stood on Stand at the Barracks of the First Tower. It was the oldest and most secure of the stations given over to the Edgaran military, men who served as the town watch, or kept the roads and fields of the Dehali Valley safe from aggressor, bandit, or beast. Every man must serve, for at least two seasons in the Men-at-Arms, a millita that supplemented Watch in war and served as it's basic training. Much of that time would be spent on training, learning the law of the Fortress, performing those unskilled labors that the Fortress had in plenty. But for those that stayed on long, for those that wished to join the City Watch, they had first to take their Stand. The old blockhouse had been the first building built upon the spire and it still stood, if albeit now cracked and weather worn. It offered the grandest view of the valley spilling out to the south for miles in any direction. No enemy would be coming from the south without warning for days or weeks. Yet the first duty was to Stand here, to watch to the south. They would not be relieved until they had stayed on their Stand for three days and nights of total silence without water, food, or encouragement. Delhay always came here when he was troubled. He was a cynic and cared not for such traditions and false expressions of strength. Yet he cared for the man who did. He came to the Barracks of the First Tower when he was worried because he could be sure to find Sir Rovan here and that man alone he trusted in the Fortress.

Sir Rovan was the Djaught of Guards and Wards. His duties call upon him to keep the walls maintained, their entrances guarded, and the City Watch in good working order. He would attend to his business here, on a round topped battlement, facing the backs of the men on their Stand regardless of the weather or the season. He was balding, but well kept, aged but still full of strength; tall and keen eyed he spoke his words slowly but they were always worth speaking. When Delhay found him, it was still quite early and a chill clung to the walls, the hoarfrost still to be seen in their shadows.

“I smell blood Rovan,” Delhay said as he came up. Rovan was looking over a ledger that had been handed to him, a cup of steaming tea in his other hand.

“You always smell blood Whale. But it is good to see you here.”

“I smell blood on the wind Rovan, you knew I would be here. Certainly his grace brought my words to you. He gives me no reason to ignore them.”

“None that you wish to hear from him,” Rovan replied, looking up from the ledger, “You know that His Grace will not give you sweeping powers. There is a fear in the Fortress right now and too brisk of a response will send the wrong signal. In war domestic or foreign, we must be a hawk that takes a single rat from a field, not a boar that crushes the wheat under-hoof.”

“It is different this time,” Delhay said, looking around himself. He always felt exposed on this bastion, the surrounding towers were higher, the men on their Stand close enough to catch fragments of their speech, almost anyone could be lurking in bow's reach or earshot. Sir Rovan clearly preferred it. The Djaught of Guards and Wards stared a long time at Delhay before he spoke.

“Why?” was all he asked.

“Because the others are treating it differently. You say we need to be a hawk that takes a rat, fine enough if you let me be an owl, the hours please me better. But let me tell you that I see more rats than I have ever seen before. War is coming, maybe a coup, and the Watch will not see it from the south wall.”

“What do you see Delhay?”

“Don't play games with me Rovan.”

“Don't make me then, Night Keeper.” Delhay winced at hearing his title spoken. It was an archaic one and not discussed publicly. Delhay used it and tolerated its use the least of any. He found that anonymous authority was always more frightening than any grand name. To hear it, he felt as if a dog suddenly finding the end of the chain on his collar.

“I see men taking their Stand,” he did not wait for Sir Rovan to prompt him further, “I see that they are young, dedicated, and that there are less of them than I have ever counted here. Didn't it used to be double ranks around the time of the Hollow Sun War?”

“ Triple,” replied Sir Rovan, “and in the times before that it used to be a real test. Only the last one hundred each year would be taken. The others were refused and there were always many of them.” Delhay could hear a sadness in Sir Rovan's voice and knew it was a feeling that he would never understand.

“You were going to tell me something else I bet,” the Whale said.

“Yes. I was going to tell you that my duties are the walls, their gates, and the men who watch them. I can do the whole of my task from this bastion because I can watch the men. It is the Watch that keeps all other things. Know the wit and will of my men and I know the strength of the walls.” Sir Rovan set down his ledger and tea and adjusted his cloak back over his shoulders.

“You need my help Delhay, but I cannot give you the things you ask the king for. He refuses them at my request.”

“Then give me something else. I have my own in the Watch but I fear they are becoming known to spies from abroad. Give me some of your men, some who know the valley. My hand out there is weak.”

“No deaths.”

“None that are unnecessary.”

“No deaths. Any one they take comes here and faces the Adjudicators.” Delhay hesitated like a gambler before a round a bidding.

“Alright. Your best ten that know the villages and by ways all across the valley. I want them to follow up on a few things.”

“Looking for that Djaught who has gone missing?”

“No,” replied the Whale, “if I need his body I can collect it whenever I wish. I will expect someone to meet me tonight so I can send a message with orders.”

Sir Rovan, assented with a nod and the Whale left him. Delhay found himself walking quickly, happy to be getting out of the sunlight. He sent a look back over his shoulder. Sir Rovan had left his post at the bastion. He stood now just a step behind the men taking their Stand. He was as perfect among them as a stone set amid a long wall. Delhay would never be like him, but he was grateful that the Goddess provided for men such as that.
╩          ╩

19 February 2013

Keeping the Fire: Two Definitions of a Fair Price


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╩      50     ╩

When the Fortress Edgar was first built it was a wide wall cutting off the tiered spire and a singe stout blockhouse almost a half mile away. A second and higher wall was soon built outside of the first and further down hill, creating a cramped bailey that was the first city of merchants and common folk. Over the years the Fortress expanded from the block house until it absorbed entirely the old walls. But that old bailey was kept and filled with small houses of wood, rough stone, and mud brick. This became the Old Town and it was a stage to the miserable stories of a thousand beggars, criminals, and discarded folk. The Edgaran's liked to pretend places like this did not exist. But there is no city without a slum just as there is no tree without roots sunken in the vermin ridden earth.

Two souls met in the Old City that night under cover of darkness and a thick freezing fog lingering from the passing of a late winter storm. Both of them were of high status, yet both knew the need for a place like the Old City as only a scholar or spy could hope to. They were Alembic and Tavya, and they had come here to be free of any prying eyes, even that of their own.

Alembic stared across at Tavya, she back at him. He had taken a risk in following her summons. She had sent him a message hidden in secret words concealed within a sealed jar of pickled tomatoes, a delicacy of her kingdom, and smuggled in with his daily provisions. She had asked him to come alone, to tell no one, and to meet in the Old City. It was because of the secrecy that he considered it safe. Indeed, a public meeting or an officially sanctioned one would be more likely to be an assassination attempt. He did not fear Flinish magic, but he did distrust it. Their people had a remarkable talent for producing witches and an ill disciplined spell is much more of a threat than one of a great scholar. Thus, rather than befuddle her as he would most others at a meeting like this he simply kept her eye, and waited for her to make the first move. She did not disappoint.

“You know this is important or neither of us would be here. I need the assistance of Dun.”

“Is that so?” he replied, and let her continue.

“I need two things. Firstly, I need to know what you know about the Djaught and the Luminary. Polena never shared much with me and though you were a foe to Coralm, I suspect that you were closer in her council than I.”

“That would be a wise guess.”

“We'll toss wisdom. It's more my old grudges that tells me it than any sagacity. You haven't asked what the second thing I wanted was. I take it that this is because you are playing that game of yours where you wait for your opponent to get frightened that you will leave and they give you everything to keep you here. Well toss that as well. I am not in a mood for tricks.”

“That would be evident from your arguments the Mehethe's minister, were it not self evident from our own arguments.”

“No games.”

“Did I say we were playing one? Oh, I'm sorry, I did not intend to confuse you Tavya,” Alembic smiled. He was being a fool but the chance to take a dig at Tavya was too good to pass up. Indeed, he had never forgiven her for her work to block and out a lengthy and valuable contract he had been preparing with a Monan minister. Had he succeeded more than half of the Fortress's foreign trade would have gone through cities allied to Dun and under their discrete taxes. Instead Tavya spoiled the whole affair and had he not the wit to see it coming Alembic would have been ousted from the Fortress in disgrace. The fate of such mages when they return to Dun is not good. It often involves a few decades of remedial scribe work in the Tower. To see her brought low was something of a treat to him, and he chose to indulge.

“I suppose Tavya that you have come to me because you have no one else to go to. I suppose you didn't think that the minister would refuse your advances, that the Whale would get wise to your contraband, or that the King would learn just how many of his records you have rented out to prying eyes. Which one is it?”

“Mage, I don't have time for this,” Tavya replied, her voice shaking with controlled anger.

“Neither do I, but if a little humiliation is the price for my aid, I think you can take it.” Tavya lowered her eyes. Some would see this as submission or shame. Alembic knew it was the opposite, and that he should stop now.

“Alright Tavya. As good faith, since I know you have something worth my while, let me tell you that the Djaught and Polena are not dead. Alliance soldiers took them in Dehali. That was her plan, or should I say, Lord Commander Kaira Volaire's plan. Did you know she is the one in charge of Ledire Fortress and the Alliance's push into the valley? I suspect that the Djaught will be ransomed back at a high cost.”

“Truly?” Tavya replied, and the hope seemed genuine.

“Truly,” Alembic replied. A small voice in his head told him to worry about how clever he felt at the moment. He dismissed it, but made a note to come back to the thought later.

“What was the other thing Tavya. Do tell?”

“The other is a personal matter, but perhaps sign of the stress I have shown in my recent labors. I need a spell, one of, oh, I don't know how to say it. One of unbinding, or unraveling, or cleansing. I am troubled by an errant spirit, one of my family that has chosen not to take up residence in the Afterworld or perhaps was denied their place at our ancestor's table for some secret indiscretion. Can you offer me a charm against a spirit?”

Alembic hid his derision with practiced poise. Dun did not believe in ghosts. Miss tapped energies and unbidden aethers most certainly, but ghosts and spirits were a thing of superstition and storytellers. All the same, he knew that he could provide some protection, a dampener to disrupt any trouble she did face.

“I can provide such a charm, a brooch that would fit a lady. I am sure you have something to offer me, yes?”

“Yes--” but before she could continue he interrupted her.

“--well toss your payment. I will ask only a favor, to be determined by me, at a later date.”

Tavya looked down again and Mage Alembic could see a deep resentment in her frown.

“Alright,” she replied, almost a whisper.

“And will you swear it?” He asked with a cruel smile.



The price had been steeper than she thought, but after the Mage was away Tavya felt that it was worth the cost. She would have her brooch in the morning and Alembic? Well hopefully he would sit on his favor until he got himself exiled or killed. She intended to see it happen soon enough. He had made her swear to her ancestors in the Afterworld that she would grant him a favor. Knowing, as he surely did, how much such things meant to her, the humiliation was all the worse. There were few things a cynic like Tavya took as sacred. Her beloved dead was one of them. It was a necessary price. In the morning she would take her brooch, test it in the Royal Archives with a certain well protected book, and then leave for Dehali city. Uhen's first message had made it clear that the Djaught, Polena, and all that accompanied them left the city for an old crypt. Of that company only the Curator Ibe had returned. She would get to the bottom of this herself and no one, not the Whale, neither the King, nor the Mage would learn of it until it was too late to stop her. She only hoped that when she came to that tomb she would find something worth her while, and not yet more candles to burn when she gave her weekly prayers to the Afterworld.

╩          ╩

18 February 2013

Keeping the Fire: Personal Responsibility


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╩      49      ╩

Minister Tavya had spent much of her life entrusting things to others. Her meals were acquired and cooked by others, her clothing chosen and stitched by others, her strategies picked an implemented by others, even her children raised and taught by others. To be a noble of Flin was to be perfectly confident in your servant’s prowess or at least in their fear of failure. Of the many old sayings of that land one of the oldest is “you can judge a craftsman by the quality of his tools.”

So it was, that today was one of the few times in a very long time that Tavya took matters directly into her own hands without relying on a servant’s talents. She had to know what the Proper wanted, why they seemed so intent upon securing the Fortress’s aid to give the impression of a unified front, yet, seemed so utterly unable to organize their own diverse factions. Secretly, she hoped to learn something of Polena and the Djaught’s fate, though just why she could not justify even to herself. Her source for learning such matters she chose carefully. He was a young minister called Kanadji and he had come to the Fortress only a few months ago, the younger of the two ministers serving the Djaught Mehethe. In truth, she had been priming him for such a talk for weeks, but had not yet chosen what she would try and extract from him until that very day.

They met to play Hunar and drink tea, both of them being coinsures of the drink. She was just pouring herself a second cup of the dark leafed Renal tea he had brought when she started her attack.

“What about nonaggression?”

They had talked now and then of politics before and he often brought the topic up just so, as if going back to something of little important. Kanadji smiled and wiped his mouth.

“In regards to whom, one might ask.”

“Why who else? The People’s Alliance. You will remember that they mean to make war on my people. They have quite often in the past and though we are at peace it is only a matter of decades, perhaps years before one of their Lords of the Legion gets a whim to try again. So what did you offer them? It’s a simple question and you don’t have to answer but…” She let it drop there and awaited his response. Kanadji was about ten years younger than her and she had noticed that he tended to show deference to his elders. She also had determined that he felt himself incredibly clever for meeting with a foreign dignitary like this and the few valueless secrets she traded him always seemed to strike his fancy. He sat up as he spoke to her and she could tell she had baited the hook well.

“The Right Hand of Edjin stands poised to move into the Dehali valley and secure Fortress Edgar’s vassals against any threat. The Alliance’s Fortress of Ledire is on the doorstep of Dehali, less than a week’s march. We have agreed not to consider that fortress to be a threat.”

“Ah, but that is common knowledge. Come now Kanadji, there must be more than that? I have seen how people have been scurrying about in the Westin parts of the Fortress. There is something else afoot to this non-aggression.”

“It was a fair price to pay for the Luminary, a shame she could not uphold her part of the bargain.”

“Doubly a shame now that she is lost.”

“Quite, but if we had her studies we would have an army,” he replied, his voice becoming stilted in the old speech. It was a sign of discomfort, or perhaps of a lie. Tavya pressed him.

“I understand that this war the Djaught wishes to bring is riding on Fiedjan’s proof of mandate, but could it not bring a mandate of arms?”

“You speak unclearly.” Kanadji replied, and Tavya felt like she was going to scream.

“I mean, you have a larger army. While you might not be able to break the Fortress, you could starve it by taking its lands. That would be an easy task.”

“We are not that kind of men, Minister, you must know that.”

Perhaps there had been something in the tea, perhaps she had not slept enough that last night for fear of assassins who had killed one of her knights that past week. Perhaps she could think of a thousand other excused. None of that mattered. Tavya found herself enraged at this young minister’s gall.

“But you are that kind of men. Your nation took much of the north, you tried to invade Free Westa, and you intend to again.”

“No, we have gone where we were called. We have not been called to take over the Edgarans.”

“But what is the difference? Either way you have come and taken what you wanted often when people native to the lands have told you not too. Let us not pretend.”

“They asked us to come and give aid and we have. That is all I will say Minister.”

There was no mistaking the anger in his voice but Tavya had to speak on.

“No, listen, answer me this, I have paid for it in speech and kindness. I know how a diplomat speaks in private and in public. We are in private. Here, you speak of the world like Hunar, like people are pieces on a board. Looking at the actions of your people and of the Alliance they are the same actions. You have invaded the north, they have invaded Free Westa along its eastern borders. They are invasions, however well justified they may be both of your people and their people invade other nations. Can you not say that is true?”

“No.” Kanadji raised his voice and rose from his chair, “I will not say it, and I will say no more of this!”

Tavya leaned back in her own chair, flustered and confused but realizing she had driven Kanadji almost to the point of leaving she quickly stammered an apology in the politest terms she could find. 

She spent most of the rest of that day in rumination and recrimination berating herself for so foiling her own aims. It had been such a long time she last took matters into her own hands that she had almost forgotten how to. The only thing of value she could find from her meeting was that Kanadji seemed to be a dedicated man. Truth was a rare thing in a diplomat, idealism much more so. That night, as she thought about it, she realized that the last time she had done so had been with Polena, on their first meeting when she had decided to come directly to the Luminary’s quarters. That was the source of her anger at Kanadji, but most of all, it was why she cared so much what had happened to her. She was not a piece on a Hunar board, not a rival to be controlled or avoided, not a servant to be ordered around like a riding horse. She was a person, an equal. “Despite her status” ,Tavya thought to herself alone in her bed that night, “despite Polena’s sick attractions, or her sycophantic devotion to her controlling government she cared about her. And the realization that she had led Polena quite likely to her death filled Tavya with a hollow sense of responsibility that she found both unfamiliar and unbearable.   
       

17 February 2013

Keeping the Fire: Call and Response


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╩      48      ╩

Your Highness,

We are in an unfamiliar valley. Since the Luminary and the Djaught left the Fortress five people of consequence are dead. Two of these were known enemies of state and we are no worse without them, but the other three are suspicious. One was a knight who came with the contingent attached to Baron Mordis during his spring visit and never left. The other two died together in a fire along with a few whores in a merchant’s inn. Both where supposedly slaves owned by the Junior Djaught Curator. That they could afford such favors is about as unlikely as the idea that they would be given the freedom to pursue them. They, like the others, were almost certainly spies. It suggests a conflict between Flin and Fiedjan but I see a greater threat. That Luminary had every watcher and owned ear in the Fortress doing an idiot’s jig. With all the chaos no one could be certain what was or was not happening. No one could plan to stop her. What if all the deaths and tumult we have witnessed are more of the same thing? What if a third party has Flin and the Proper at each other’s throats and us guessing at their identity?

I know what you will say about this, that I am too concerned with chasing shadows. But what if it is the Weatherclock? What if he took the Luminary out of the game so he, or she for that matter, could take her place? I can find him if he makes a mistake, but if we are lost in false power struggles and red herrings that isn’t going to happen. This is all I ask, and I assure you that the Queen supports my belief. We must take drastic and unprecedented action. We must cancel all council, close all court, and ban all festival until after the first week of spring. It will give me the men I need to keep an eye on everyone, it will limit the number of ways spies and foreign agents can exert influence, and most importantly it will deflate the frantic mood in the Fortress.

I eagerly await your wise and most high decree,

-Delhay



Delhay,

You are, as always, a noble servant. But you are a wise one as well. You know full well that I cannot do as you ask before or after the spring festival. Ending council may not harm the royal family but it leaves our allies blind. Every day the court is closed is another arrow in the quiver of our enemies. As a man of the Watch you should be able to tell me full well the havoc that would be unleashed if I canceled a single festival day. It would be riot among the common folk. In times of chaos normalcy must be our shield, harmony our stance, and unity our sword. Solve the deaths of spies if you can, but more over be certain that you stop the next ones before they happen. Forget the Weatherclock, or if you must follow him, instead turn your mind to finding the killer of Knight Luminary Coralm, Lady Rohema of Havkarra, Deputy Harlan of Brig or any of the other unsolved murders that have haunted us these past few years. Perhaps you can add Luminary Polena and Djaught Mehethe to that list, for all signs point to their loss.

If, as I expect, you find yourself unable to investigate these matters, I will direct you to a more pressing matter. Keep my kingdom whole. Flin and the Proper at each other’s throats, the Free Westin Parliament speaking loudly about the rights of the Downtrodden Westins, the People’s Alliance amassing soldiers in Ledire and on our very door step. All of these things tell me that people have their eyes on our land. Dehali Whale, Dehali Valley is where I need you. Why do you think Fiedjan wants soldiers from us? It is not to take back Free Westa, that is only a pretense. It is to make us seem weak to the Valley. It is to encourage insurrection, to foster rebellion, to strengthen those that would starve us out. The Fortress has never been taken by force. But it has changed hands many times by the specter of famine or ruin.

Stop this threat to my reign, and I swear to you will pull up the Fortress brick by brick to find your Weatherclock.

We were the Flowstone of Nations, Delhay, but now I feel that my Fortress is barely a cobble. Do not let us become something even less.

-Jakalm
      

16 February 2013

Keeping the Fire: The Most Dangerous Man in Fortress Edgar



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╩      47      ╩

Alembic had been busy and the activity had cost him. Pushing the Dun's agenda always required a careful hand but the matter of the Proper seeking troops had provided him a rare opportunity. It was one of the few times where intervention was both necessary and profitable. Yet, he had exposed himself and his agents. For the past week he had been playing a careful game of hide and seek with Delhay the Whale. It is a difficult thing to hide from the most dangerous man in Fortress Edgar. It had taken disguises, careful planing of his travel, and a few distractions. All of this was par for the course, and the sort of thing he enjoyed doing even when he wasn't being followed. But the game was getting harder by the day. As he arrived at the small room of an associate of his, he realized that he had lost. Emerae, his man who had connections in the Guilds of the Fortress, was dead. Without checking the body he guessed poison and without further scanning the room he knew there would be a suicide note most certainly not in Emerae's hand. Delhay was here, watching, waiting to pounce. There was scant little time to prepare for that pounce and he used those seconds as only a mage could. He used them to watch.

Forcing his mind into a ridged patterning acquired from years of learning he enforced the Stratification upon the aethers of the room. The magical energies invisible to the common man were sorted, altered by the very process of their observation, into a neat strata of aethers. Such is the power of Dun Mages, these men and women who take the names of inanimate objects, who give up even their names in the pursuit of knowledge, that they can bring order even to those most chaotic of forces. Knowing the aethers meant being able to call them by their true names. Calling a thing by its true name meant power. Power was advantage. When Delhey crept up behind him, Alembic did not need to hear him, he saw his approach in the ripple of the strata and pressed the first of advantages.

“Emerae was a good man, he meant no harm to the Fortress,” he said in a quiet voice, not bothering to turn around. Delhay had been hiding in the room somewhere, he had not worked out where, but it must have been quite a feat for a man of his size. The Whale seemed confident despite being heard.

“Emerae was skinting in the King's Ward. That's treachery. Clearly, the guilt was too much for him. Don't you think Mage?”

“If I thought there was foul play I am sure I would tell the watch,” he let a crinkle of a smile escape and wondered if Delhay did was well. It took much of his focus to keep the strata in mind and all of his courage not to turn to face the thuggish assassin who stood an arm's length behind him. “You are going to ask me what he was looking for, because I can assure you, he didn't know.”

“No, I am not going to ask you because I already figured it out. You wanted to know if the King was in contact with the Luminary.”

“Heh, you are quick. Which means you also know that I mean to find out where she disappeared to.”

“No, you don't,” said Delhay, finally stepping around into Alembic's view. The mage nodded to him.

“Well, you have my attention, explain please. Unless you want me to ask you with more fear in my eyes.”

“I know that's a pointless request. They make you into such asses in that Tower of Dun that you don't know when you should be afraid. You don't want to find Polena because we are better off without here. Polena did not play by the rules. People like you and I, really, most of the Fortress, we know how to play the game. We offer bargains, offer threats, and if we have to, we make a piece trade. One of my watchmen fell from the south wall two nights past. Now I take one of your pieces.”

“I didn't kill your man,” replied Alembic, hiding fear behind his confident smile and preparing his mind to enforce its will upon the aethers.

“You did, and if you didn't then one of your people did and that is enough. Things are simple here. People like Polena, people who don't know when to quit, people that want to win everything, people that cannot accept a piece trade, they are worse than your dead spy here, worse than the lowest skint in the Painted-Lady. They make problems.”

“She was working with you Delhay wasn't she? Or was it that she caused problems for you?” It was hard to see his face in this light but Alembic made out just the hint of pride and anger in it. That was good. An emotional mind was much more susceptible to trickery.

“Enough,” the Whale came right up to him, face to face, one hand gripping Alembic's arm, the other, the mage assumed, on his blade. Now, right now, was what the mage had waited for. He turned all of his mind inward. Summoning up the aethers of the third order, he called them with words known well enough that he could speak them in his mind without even moving his lips. He tapped the aethers, tempered them, twisted them, and when he spoke aloud to Delhay there was an enchantment to it, a host of lies and influence that would confound even a studied mind, let alone an emotionally charged one.

“Delhay, the Weatherclock is moving your blade hand right now.” The Whale hesitated, as if stuck across the face and dazed. “Delhay, setting us against each other is his game. You may not want Polena here but remember that the Weatherclock reached out to ruin her. Maybe it would be wiser to let me go and think about that?” With hardly a moment's hesitation Delhay pushed him away. Then, as if flustered he pushed past Alembic and out the door of the chamber.

“Remember what happened here today,” the Whale said over his shoulder, as if the threat were an afterthought.

“I will not forget it, that I promise.” Alembic muttered after him. He made a quick search of the room before concluding that Delhay had scoured it clean and made to return to his quarters and plan the next move. He had let some of his hand slip to Delhay, but he hoped not too much. In truth, the Whale was right. Polena did cause problems and they were all better off without her here, at least, as far as maintaining the status quo was concerned. But there was something else that did make him care more for Polena than he ought to. It was not loyalty to Coralm. Rather, it was what happened on their first meeting. Just as he had fooled Delhay, a man of great will and wit, into believing what he said was fact he had tried to influence Polena. Not one of his sciences in that meeting or any other had any noticeable effect. Certainly, he could fluster her or distract her. But he could not mold her, influence her to actions of his own making. He had exhausted himself trying. Understanding why was worth finding her, alive or dead. It was part of the reason he was glad that she was trapped in Hewava's tomb and moreover, glad that the crown and Delhay were ignorant to the fact. Many people say Delhay the whale is the most dangerous man in Fortress Edgar. Those people do not know what Mage Alembic is capable of, and that is how he prefers it.    


╩       ╩

15 February 2013

Keeping the Fire: The Household Council


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╩      46      ╩

The Duchess had given up her title, her lands, even her children for her position in the Fortress. Each in turn she had remade for herself. Her title was now Minister of the Keepings, her lands the elegantly crafted Manor of Ind, and her children a collection of slaves, common born servants, and employees that served as her eyes, ears, and when necessary, hands throughout the Fortress. She had spent the whole of the day in the council held by the Controller General the summary of which had been “everyone be careful,” with no other information of value for her three hour investment. Now she sat in another council, her own Household Council, a quaint term she had borrowed from her homeland for a meeting that was, in essence, a conspiracy of spies. She heard updates from each in turn, quietly hiding her anger as they described being stymied and watched at every turn. Someone had turned the Whale and the Mage on her and she had not yet sussed out just who. Her manor faced the sunset and was painted in its color, thus the name Manor of Ind from the Westin word for golden-orange. Content that she could hear no more from the rest of her “children” she turned her attention to the one certain not to dissapoint.
“What have we from the Ministers to the West?” Uhen of Bleeding-Rock stepped to the table. While the others in her council sat there by a matter of decorum Uhen always stood a few steps away until addressed. Some would have read this as aloofness, but Tavya knew it was upbringing. He was a slave. Her family had purchased Uhen when he was quite young when the foresaw a need to have a window into Fiedjan. Now in his early twenties, he had proved a good investment.

“Your Grace, the Ministers to the West are, as always, divided. Those close to the Fortress have been deeply concerned with spiritual matters and have noted a frightening rise in the cases of Spirit Possession, sickness, and cleansing needed since the Djaught Mehethe was announced. They believe there to be a connection to that announcement and point to other turmoil here as likewise related. The other half of the Ministers, those closer to Westa Proper and the Priestess Peiyadja, have been pursing an aggressive series of votes, appointments, and pointed ceremonies for the past two seasons.

“The aim?” asked Tavya, though she knew already what he was going to say.

“The aim of their energy has been securing troops Fiedjan for a push into Free Westin lands held by their enemies the Parliament. I believe that the Priestess means to slow down these activities while the Djaught is missing but can no longer restrain the fervor she has built.”

“And what is wrong with dedicated servants?” asked her Eyes on the East

“Nothing. But fanaticism in the name of a lord is a vice when it weakens that lord.”

“Seems foolish,” said Tavya, pushing Uhen along.

“It does,” he replied, and the table fell silent. Tavya motioned him onward with her hand. Uhen was a very loyal man and good slave. But just as he saw fervor without caution as a vice, he himself fell victim to a vice of deference without initiative. He was clever, but afraid to show it. He cleared his throat before speaking.

“I think that Peiyadja has been caused to lose control. Someone is manipulating her servants, either gaining influence over some, but not all, or misleading those that do not support their faction.”

“My, my, that seems a familiar refrain. So strange how the Weatherclock seems to move the wind these days.” the council murmured over her reference. Tayva ignored it. Do you you have an idea of whom?”

“No, but there are messages coming from Dehali, from the Governor’s house there up to the Fortress, more often than normal. He, or someone under his protection may have a hand in it.” Tavya permitted herself a smile. She would have to remember to show Uhen tenderness today. He was always the clever one.

“It sounds to me that you have earned yourself a respite Uhen, perhaps a visit to Dehali as well.”

“I go where asked my'lady.”

“Of course. Speak to me in the evening.” Uhen bowed, almost to the point where his head touched the table, but looked up afterwords, hesitant.

“Was there something else?” she asked, giving him the permission he silently sought.

“Yes, just, a stupid question but one the Household Council has not addressed. What happened to the Djaught and the Luminary?”

“Oh, you hadn't heard? They're both dead.”

“Dead?” Uhen asked, surprised.

“Yes, well, either the Djaught had her killed but she had spies that killed him, or they both died from assassins directed by the Weatherclock, or they took on the plague in a homestead outside of Dehali, or they were taken captive by bandits and killed in a botched rescue. In any case, they are dead and the crown has reason to hide it. I thought you would have heard one of those stories by now Uhen, don't disappoint...”

“But, your grace, you believe them to be dead?”

“No, because I am not an idiot, but I don't consider them to be alive and well either. It is best if we all consider them to be both. Think of both options. In the mean while we must sort out the source of the many rumors surrounding their disappearance. And how do we do that Uhen?”

“The Govenor of Dehali.”

“Good, my child, you never disappoint.” The praise was genuine, as was the affection. She had watched Uhen grow from an clumsy and awkward child to a handsome and deft young man. That night, as she had on previous occasions, she would call him to her chamber. She would give him instructions on what to find out, where to go, what to do if discovered, all of those simple things. Then she would have him make love to her to her satisfaction. The freedom to pursue such diversions was one of the many benefits of leaving her half-mad husband behind in Flin. But even when Uhen was serving her desires she would be distracted only for a moment from the thoughts that had dominated her mind through two councils, a careful conspiracy and the throws of pleasure.

Tavya had given up everything, her title, lands, and children to be in her position of influence. Her Poet of the Hin-Hani had done the same. However much Polena had upset her these past months it was rare to meet a woman so different from her who yet shared the same drive. So it was, that even with all the distractions of business or pleasure she still thought of an enemy, a servant of foreign gods, a lap dog to usurpers and traitors. Not knowing where she was filled Tavya with a strange yearning. It was a distant echo of that of a mother missing her child.
╩     ╩

14 February 2013

Keeping the Fire: The Story of Hewava


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      45      

“People in our days call the Delen and the Peoples of the province of Concordance to the north “Windy Voices. ” It is meant as an insult, a jab and their language full of ‘Hus’ and ‘Wus’ and ‘Shus’ but the truth of the name is older, for these People have always believed that what is said in a story becomes a Wind, a Spirit. The Delen tell many stories. All of them are true. When you tell a story you make it so, even if it is true only during the telling and in the heart in the time thereafter. There is a story, and it is a true story, that they tell about Hewava.

Hewava was a Ness Caster, one of the old followers of Ness, the name means both the Goddess and myriad methods of her worship, for such things are inseparable. When People had need of a charm, they would come to him and he would throw dust across them, dust of herbs, dust of colors, dust of stones each its own power. Hewava was also a storyteller, and for this we was well liked. He was a master of his arts and it earned him gifts, a fine house, well made tools, food enough for a thousand winters and his three wives and their many many children. He could have been content with such things. He was not given the time.

Hewava kept his fame from need. When People were happy he could tell stories, but the truth was that they always gave him less for a story than a cure. What was worse, once they were healthy and safe, they began to look elsewhere for their needs to other storytellers, Djaughts, or traders. Certainly, Hewava was the Ness Caster everyone turned to. But the safer, the happier they became the less they needed him. Hewava became afraid for this. You see, he had three wives and many many children and he did love them all, but he could not care for them all without the fame he had earned.

And so he made a choice. Some stories say that he brought an illness to the People, one he could cure always, but in so doing took a cost from them. He never took more than they could spare, but it was a theft all the same. Other stories say that he spun stories about horrible winds, outsiders, and orcs that he had killed or kept at bay with his power. The act of doing so was so taxing, but so necessary, that he could not take care of his worldly needs and so it was only fitting that the People do it for him. Some other stories say that he gambled with his power, tried to beat a Wind out of a ration of luck that was meant to be given to another. He won, but the cost fell upon other families and brought them ruin. All of these stories are true. When I tell this story, I say it thus: Hewava was a clever storyteller and a good leader of his community. But once you are held up on the shoulders others, you start to care more for staying in your place than you do for those that hold you. His tongue went from salve to tool, and it cost him.

Hewava was caught by the People. They dragged him through their town, beat and killed his wives and took his children for their service. The whole time, none of his power would save him. This was the worst humiliation for him, to be abandoned not by those he loved, but by that which was given to him. To have his gift turned to rot. They buried him in earth, buried him in a place that was not meant for him, a place that bore another’s name. They meant him to die there, broken to the point where he could not dig himself out again, but he was bitter. And so Hewava did what he had the whole of his life. He turned his prison of roots into his ally. Like all things with him, it was a seduction at first, but that gentle caress soon became a cold grip. He lived on, drinking water from rocks, eating old preserved offerings, roots, the leather skins used for writing poems, who can say what else?

Hewava survived. But he did not do so by living. He did so but never letting go. And still he waits. He waits as a reminder not to forget where our gifts come from. Even the air we breathe is ours only while we hold it. He waits eager to flee the darkness and the roots. But he the same tether that holds him to life holds him here. He waits for People to use, People to be his servants, People to give him a life again.”


The Djaught Mehethe had been listening carefully. Polena had been talking to him in the Khaobishar for a long time now. He did not know whether this was really the old speech, for it was lost, or if she was making up sounds to fill the spaces between the real words. But these last few words, these last few “he waits” he knew. He leaned close to Polena. The blessed candle fixed to his hat had long burned out. Only the feeble lantern light remained. He took Polena’s hand softly, and spoke to her clearly, taking here eyes with his.

“Polena, where does he wait?” Polena smiled, but it seemed more a smile of realization or familiarity than one of joy.

“Just there, just outside the candle light.” The Djaught looked into the darkness. There was nothing that he could see, just the same empty stones, the same dangling roots, the same endless darkness that had been there for hours. All the same, he held his rod close. The lantern was a large one, and it burned for three of the nine hours when it was full. By now, it was nearly empty. He had the strange sensation of being by the hearthfire with his grandmother who would tell him the old stories. In those days, when he was a child, he would fall asleep before the end of them. When he would awaken in the morning or just before dawn, the fire would always be out. He had never seen it go out before. He wondered what it would be like to watch the darkness swell around him in those last fading seconds of light.
     

13 February 2013

Keeping the Fire: Voice and Echo


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      44      

How long had she been down here, weeks? She heard the voice echoing though the hallway. It could not answer that question, but it had an answer to everything else.

“They put you here because they hate you. They hate your wisdom, hate your skill at manipulating them, hate that they have failed. They hate you for being a woman and they hate you more for who you love.”

“Wrong,” she replied, “they love their countries and their People. Hate cannot come from love. They are competitive and they fear a loss because it is a loss for those they love.”

“They are afraid of you. They fear that you will bring the east down upon them. They fear your freedom, fear who you serve, fear what they cannot understand.”

“Wrong,” she replied, “fear is a mark of ignorance and these People are given power because they are wise. Wariness is a virtue and they are wise to show it, so they are not at fault.”

“You are the problem. You have failed in your mission here. In your vain attempt to control and manipulate those around you, you have squandered all of your allies. Coralm died because of you, the Fortress will be forced into servitude because of you, and the Alliance will know war because of you.”

“Wrong,” she replied, but there was hesitancy there, and so she went to meet it.

“You are foolish, prideful, overconfident, but worst of all, you are dishonest. No one know your true self, you… What is that light?” at the last comment her own voice had seemed foreign to her, but there was light and its presence after so long in the darkness seemed beyond understanding. She shielded her eyes and then turned her head away altogether. The light stopped about five paces from her.

“Who are you talking to Luminary?” came the voice of the Djaught Mehethe. At first she could not respond. She had been laying on her side because it had felt most comfortable to lay that way, but she straightened up and put her back to a wall, her knees up to her chest. The light was still too great to look at, but she tried to face him even as she shielded her eyes.

“I am talking to myself. It is a meditation of Poentry’s method. You send every fear, every fallacy back at yourself and solve them, reveal their flaws. We make our problems bigger than their parts, imagine dragons where there are rats. This place is good for such meditations.”

“I will trust your judgment in that.”

“How long have I been down here?” He hesitated before responding.

“Let me see your face.”

“The light is too bright.”

“Let me see it and I will tell you.” She looked to him, he eyes pierced by the pain of that light.

“Three days,” he said, and there was a wet flop by her side, “water for you.” She fumbled for the skin and drank from it greedily. After a coughing fit, for it was colder than she had expected, she turned her head back towards him, still shielding her eyes.

“Why am I here? That is what I have been asking myself. I think that I have not been myself recently.”

“No, no you have not. A spirit of the dead rides you. Djasho, or perhaps some other poet or deadman. We had no choice but to put you here when you would not submit to the Curator. Have you changed your mind.”

Rage welled up in Polena, but she found the strength, or perhaps the pride, to calm it.

“I will not. I am a servant of the People. His words are of no value to me. Besides, I feel much better now.”

“Yes, because it is trapped down here, the spirit does not see any value in riding you. But that means only that it is still here with us. I bear a candle upon my brow, and blessed lantern, and my own rod and sword. It cannot harm me.” Polena was impressed with his confidence. In it she heard the same certainty she always took from him, as if every phrase was as truthful as “the sun shall rise tomorrow.”

“So why did you come to me?”

“To give you water, and to see if you were dead.”

“Well, I am not. Do you want to know what I think about the tomb?” A silence passed. Somewhere in the distance there was a great crash. The light shifted unsteadily.

“Wait here,” he said. Polena could hear him retreating, could tell the light had passed, but the pirceing spots on her eyes had not gone away. Now that he was gone she felt the presence of that place in on her again, as if someone were sitting beside her, watching. At first, this feeling had been terrifying. Now it was familiar, almost inviting. She let it sit, and listened. Past the sound of her own breathing, past water dripping somewhere, past a whispering that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, she could hear Mehethe calling. She could not make out the words at first for the echoes, but after a few repetetions she caught it. It was three words, demanding and angered, more emotion than she had ever heard from him.

“Open the door!”

Now he was trapped too. Slowly, she picked her way, crawling along the ground. The presence in the darkness crawled with her, in time with her, almost atop her. She heard another loud crash and stopped a moment. The presence stopped as well. It was a wet, strange, heavy thing that moved with her. After a while she went on. When she came into the light, still afraid to look directly at it, the presence left her.

“They closed the door on us?” she asked. The smell of fresh dirt mixed with that of the candle wax.

“Closed it and then collapsed it,” he was quiet a moment, just a moment and in that silence Polena felt like she saw more of him than ever she had with her eyes. “We have been tricked. An ambush maybe? My men are dead, or worse, traitor to me.”

“So we have time then?” no response.

“Djaught, would you like me to tell you what I think about this tomb?”

“When the candle burns out, Luminary, you are going to be upon me.”

“Maybe. Does that change anything?” A silence.

“No.”

“That is Right,” She propped herself against the wall again and pulled her knees close, eyes still shut against the light. She was dirty, starving, parched from thirst, and sore beyond recounting. She cracked the barest hint of a smile all the same.

“Let me tell you a story Djaught.”

She could feel him listening. At the edge of the light, lurking out in the darkness, something else listened as well.