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.

31 January 2013

Keeping the Fire: The First Rule of Negotiation


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

╩      31     ╩


The Djaught Mehethe walked with her to a far corner of the Halls of the Pureblooded. They had spoken first in the center of those halls but clearly he wanted more privacy now that they were at the heart of the matter, now that he had revealed that he needed Luminary Polena's help. He took her down a windowless hall to small alcove that held a pair of chairs and a hooded lantern already lit for them. The chamber grew narrow here and small carven lofts set along the walls housed old books and bits of ancient curio. There had been two ministers in attendance in the courtyard, one old fat one and another young and hansom thought destined to become old and fat. They had accompanied them thus far but stopped about twenty paces away, Polena could not make out their speech and judged it not for her ears.

As she settled into her seat the Djaught produced a bottle of Maerapican plum wine and two small cups from a box of goods stored below the table.

“Since this Fortress is full of snakes and demons I thought I best to talk alone, should be talking of less official things. We have learned that it is best these past three months.”

“I thought you had arrived only last month?” Polena asked, thanking him for the offered cup.

“No. Only I arrived then. A group of my men and my ministers,” he gestured back down the hall, “they have been here three months, but we were presented when I arrived.”

“You wanted them to wait for you?”

“No, we had to wait for a taboo to pass. But you are here by my grace, so if I might be a monstrous host I would like to ask you questions,” Mehethe said, quickly adding, “Luminary.”

“I will answer them, if I can.” she replied inviting him with her informality to speak candidly. It seemed that Mehethe would not, or perhaps could not, leave behind the self depricating speech of nobles now that he was asking her help.

“This ignorant child needs to make his needs understood, so forgive the frankness. I need knowledge, the kind you have. I am a man of swords. I keep my rod close to hand and while I am not an embarrassment to my teachers, I am not their first-picked either. But you show me skill that I wish my own possessed. Yet, you of the Alliance have little need to help me, and I suppose little desire as well.”

“Why do you think I can help you though? Wait, that is the wrong question. How do you think I can help you? I have said words against your dream of their being a first poet. How could I be expected to change my mind?”

“By finding her,” Mehethe said, leaning closer. Finally there was the hint of passion in his voice, though it was the barest of hints. “The clay tablet that was presented to the king of the Fortress. It was produced in these lands, in the Dehali valley or north of it. The Delen people are the only ones who fire clay in the style, or so my ministers tell me. More over, it is held that this tablet was produced from clay taken from the earth of Djasho's tomb.”

“So there is a tomb then?” said Polena smiling.

“There is. We know it to be so.”

“In the Dehali valley?”

“That is what we do not know.” Polena smirked, but Mehenthe continued, “I am prepared to offer you something unprecedented. Access to the Royal Archives. In return I ask that you help us find this tomb.”

“And help you prove me wrong?”

“Or prove yourself right for all time,” replied Mehethe, “You are a diplomat, one sent to a place such as this awash in treachery. I am a soldier Luminary Polena, but I say that you people have as much a love of competition as any champion of mine does. You may fight with word, treaty, and intrigue in place of blade, wit, and footwork, but the passion is the same. I offer you a chance a competition, a duel, and chance to test your art and win or lose. Do I judge you wrong?”

Polena Considered. What he said was, in a way, true. While she was a scholar at heart, she did so because she wished to be right, because she wished to outwit and out perform others. This same drive caused to her pursue many other things one would not believe her to want, in position, in training, in love. In most cases, she triumphed because of her drive. In some she failed because of it. But this, a chance to have her name forever associated with final disproof of the legend of Djasho, this was a bait well picked. Still, she remembered the first thing she had been taught by her mentor when she learned the art of negotiation. Until you have your promise in hand, never say yes.

“You judge rightly Djaught Mehethe. Speak to me on the morrow, perhaps we could talk in the Archives themselves? Then I may have more of an answer for you.”

The Djaught agreed, and in so doing, stripped away every fear Polena had of him. He would not prove a worthy opponent.
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30 January 2013

Keeping the Fire: Abianen


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

╩      30     ╩


The first greeting had been casual. If this had gladdened Mehethe he did not show it over well. In fact, Polena began to notice, as they went through the perfunctory requests and inquiries required of traditional Westin culture, that he show very little emotion at all. It was not the poise that Coralm had, but almost a numbness. However, he must have been glad, because once a break did come in their conversation, one facilitated by the arrival of hot honeyed anise-root tea the Djaught said “you do not know how good it is to speak to someone who knows the noble kindnesses.”

“I have studied them as long as I have studied the Djashar speech Djaught. I would not want my words to be lacking.” Polena replied.

“No, they have not been lacking even when I have found them out of place.”

And there was the first barb. Polena had made up her mind that Mehethe was a proud, vicious, deplorable man despite having only a single meeting to judge from. She had steeled herself for whatever she would have to face, and to keep her temper for once.

“Well truth does not wait for the right place and time, though perhaps its volume could have been kept in check, and for that I apologize.”

“It is not needed. Your insult the first day of our meeting showed me that you may have something I might require.” His voice was full of the words of the noble speech, encumbered by indirectness. She would not be so.

“And what is that, Djaught?” Polena replied.

“First, I would ask an explanation, a badge of your merit, since we are of different lands. Tell me why should you know more than myself or my scholars of our fine poet?”

“Well, it was a matter of my study in both a Dunish administered Academy and amid the Scholaret where I took up my vocation. More than that, though, I was raised in an Orphan's home set beside a Library, and my mentor, Luminary Elmar, he had something of an obsession with the Proper.”

“But why do you care for Djasho, that is what I ask Priestess.”

Priestess was not a term used for a Luminary. While the mistake was quite common among the Edgarans she judged that he must know the difference. If it was a colloquial respect, it was one she did not know. She bit her tongue and tried to answer the question instead.

“Well, Djasho is one of the Five Poets, and I think it was her honorific name that first intrigued me. The others seem simple, those like Heghenkhol who knew True Suffering, Yashika called Shapfo who knew True Love, or even High King Westa, Westa who knew True Sorrow. But Djasho, Djasho who knew True Wonder, that intrigued me. We don’t have a word for it.”

“There is no word for “Wonder” in Eddinite?” asked Mehethe, not to confirm but coldly, as if he was awaiting the rest of the joke but in poor humor to hear it.

“Well no… instead of “Abianen” we say “Wonder” but it does not mean the same thing. That is the wonderful thing about Djashar, it has so many words.”

“I had known our language was rich but I had not known that the eastern languages were poor.” replied Mehethe, and she judged a query in it this time, not an insult.

“Well, that is not to say we are poor in words, but maybe it’s better to say our words are finite. Abianen, think about what it means.”

“It means, “the breathing in of the heart” does it not?”

“Yes,” she did not think that a Djaught would be wise enough in Poem Words to know the old meaning of the word. That was a pleasant surprise. “Yes, that is how it came about, but what it means... To say that one word we have to use several. We say words and phrases like awe, trembling, joy, excitement, uncertainty, racing heart, lost in thought, confused, rushing, hysterical, crazy, contemplative, humbled. All of these words have their own meaning. But Abianen, is all of them. You can feel it just as sure as you can feel hunger, or sorrow, or fear. It’s there, almost like a sensation. To say “I feel wonder,” that means something of it, or maybe, to “be in awe” would be the best way to say it. But there is not a true translation.”

“The way you say it, it is as if we in the west have a different emotion than you,” replied Mehethe his cold voice giving only the slightest hint of passion.

“Yes, it almost is like that. Can you imagine it? It’s like I told you there was a color in Meeda that you have never seen before, one that we can see but you can’t.”

A respectful silence fell over them disturbed only by the bustle of the Djaught’s slaves cleaning, packing, unpacking, and from somewhere the distant call a response of Westin Guardians in drill.

“So it is because of a word that you learned of the First Poet.”

“Yes, Djaught, just that one word. And I still think there is much power in a single word, in picking just the right meaning for it.”

“You showed me that clearly enough on my first day here Priestess.”

Polena could not help but sigh.

“Now that you have told me what I asked,” Mehethe continued, “I will tell you what I have need of.”

“Please do,” Polena replied ready to at least hear him out.

“I need you to find her. Djasho, who knew True Wonder. I need your help.”

"Ah, Abianen." Polena replied with a wry and half sarcastic smile. She had him trapped.


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29 January 2013

Keeping the Fire: Qwimiren


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

╩      29     ╩

Polena was certain to arrive exactly when the Djaught Mehethe had requested. Yet, she was not surprised that she was made to wait almost an hour. It was a sign of his power and position that he made her wait. It was also a testament to the multitude of rituals, ceremonial conversations, and extensive preparation needed for what she soon realized was to be a full diplomatic discussion. It was more than she had planned for. Much of Djashar is implied by context. By way of example, one cannot say “good morning,” but instead says “Qwimiren”. Literally it means, “it has become light,” but the suffix "ren" implies uncertainty and begs confirmation. In part this is because it is believed words hold great power. Classical Westin scholars taught that anything that is said certainly is certain, made true by the words themselves. Therefore, Djashar had hundreds of superfluous words, hedge phrases, or empathic so that one could be indirect with poise. Such care was not for peasants, but for high lords or important deeds protocol must be observed. In her heart, Polena was drawn to that part of Fiedjan. 

When finally she was allowed to meet with the Djaught she was taken aback by the surroundings. Certainly she had though that Fiedjan being one of the oldest allies of Fortress Edgar, they would have been given opulent accommodations by the Edgarans. But upon seeing it, the Hall of the Purebloods seemed more like a temple than a barracks. It had its own courtyard, a wide square open to the sky with the two floors above it set with walkways looking down into in. The lotus arched doors were set perfectly to the four directions, and at the corners of the courtyard four great pillars ran from floor to roof. Those stout pillars were spiral carven and set with capitals depicting the legendary beasts conquered by High King Westa. There they were, the great Aurok, nature manifest within a bull to the southwest; the biting winds, mouths full of icicle like teeth, to the northwest; the winged coven of Rhaxmia, the dreaded harpy women to the northeast; and the retched starving men, gaunt figures of the damned cannibals clutched to the southeast. Any one of these carvings was fine enough to have been a temple’s centerpiece, and every carved story panel on dais around the courtyard, every elegant lotus lattice above the doorframes, every thick and vibrant banner set along the walls, each of them seemed a priceless treasure. 

All around her, the Djaught’s staff seemed to be full of activity and in a constant rush. She wondered if it was for her benefit, or if there really was that much work to be done here. At the center of the elegant courtyard sat the Djaught Mehethe awaiting her at a simple table of dark wood built knee high in the Edgaran style. He stared, she supposed purposely, with intensity at an open book of poems, as if he were trying to coerce the pages into speaking. He did not get up when she came to him, nor did he ask her to sit down. Gawking at the wonder of the surroundings she forgot initially that she would be expected to speak first, and it took her some moments before she looked down and remembered her place. He looked up to her slowly, a firm and authoritative glace. Yet, it was at once distant, as if he might look back to his book were she not to say anything or say the wrong thing. It was full of implication. Everything in this visit would be, she could not expect the Djaught to try and bridge the gap between their cultures. She made herself ready to interpret both tongue and heart. She took in breath, and then in a loud, clear voice, asked Mehethe a question that need not asked which served as a greeting that need not be made. 

“Qwimiren,” she said. 



╩ ╩

28 January 2013

Keeping the Fire: An Honest Smile


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

╩      28     ╩

The grey granite walls of Fortress Edgar reflect the light of the sun, dulling its focus but redoubling its warmth. In the summer it is unpleasant, and the wealthy put up tapestries to take in the heat, making the halls of the nobles blaze with the summer colors of orange and yellow. But in the winter, as now, the reflection of the light keeps the Fortress warm. It is one of the essential strategies, one of the cunning tricks, necessary to survive in the Westin winter. For, one cannot survive it honestly.

Honesty was on Polena's mind this morning. As had been expected, the king had expressed worry to the Djaught Mehethe as to Fiedjan's claims and Mehethe had asked for the Ministers to vote on the issue. That vote had been arranged for the day before the singing of The Coming of Drakur, for any vote on or afterr that somber remembrance day would be in poor taste. Again, this was as expected. Unexpected, by any, had been a missive from the Djaught Mehethe sent directly to Polena asking for a private face-to-face meeting two days before the vote. She had called Tavya for advice, and Alembic being unavailable, she had allowed Delhay in at the last moment. The Minister Tavya arrived with her small staff and was immediately skeptical, though she seemed equally worried by the presence of the Whale.

“You cannot take up this offer Luminary,” Tavya begged, he voice tinged with a persuasive worry, “it is a trap.”

“I can see that possibility, but why should I ignore the chance? Maybe he simply wants to ask some questions, maybe he wants to try and bargain, and maybe he wants to threaten me. In any case I am stronger for knowing it than not.”

“I must protest,” Tavya said, “you are not considering all of the possibilities. He would only call you if he had some scheme. He must mean to entrap you or gain some intelligence of your strategy. What if he means to use this to find out who is close to you, and then threaten them?”

From where he stood by the hearth, warming his hands Delhay scoffed. Tavya did not break eye contact with Polena, as if she had heard nothing. Polena, indeed, had thought of someone threatening those she was close to. Yet, there were few here. She knew it was not wise to tip one's hand, knew that she was in danger here. But something of the Djaught's letter gave her pause. It was the honesty in it.

“There was a poem in the letter,” Polena said, “an old one that doesn't translate well. It means something like “I have never seen the forest before I saw it this day.” It was written by Djasho and while the rest of the letter seemed formal and in a workman like hand, this poem was given special deference. There is no hidden meaning to that poem; It is in the common style and cannot be given a True Reading. But the hand that wrote it showed a greater love there than with any other word in the letter.” Tavya reached to take Polena's hand, but the Luminary had drawn it away. An awkward moment passed between them as Tavya realized she had become predictable. Her eyes hinted fleetingly at an apology.

“Polena, that care is for you. My rider is found of telling me, “When you hunt a wolf, you don't bait with leeks,” this careful hand is careful bait. This Djaught is certainly involved in the man that tried to abduct you. Maybe too in the assassins and even in Knight Luminary Coralm's death! Why would you give him anything?”

“I thank you for your worry,” Polena replied, very formally, “but I would like to hear the council of another before I decide. Delhay, what do you think?” the great man looked away from the fire, but his gnarled hands didn't leave it. Such a hearth must seem a luxury to one who spends so much of their day out of doors or in cold halls.

“Well, your meeting would be in the Halls of Fiedjan. It is their sovereign territory. If he meant to kidnap you he would only need to tell us that you had decided to stay there a while and we would be able to do nothing. If you think he has tried to kill you then you would be stupid to go there. But I bet that the Duchess here is more worried that the People's Alliance is about to get an offer of concessions, some agreement or treaty in return for support in the Djasho matter. It's something she would rather have for Flin, or herself, no doubt.”

Tavya looked hurt, and the genuine seeming honesty of that display filled Polena with equal parts sympathy and suspicion. She did not like being manipulated. While the Minister of the Keepings swore her innocence, Polena considered. She was still thinking when a silence fell over the three of them.

“You going? If you do and you go alone, I can't offer you much,” said Delhay

“I am going.”

“Good.”

“Polena please don't do this. I beg you, this man is trying to manipulate you.”

“I don't doubt it my friend. Before this meeting he told me that you had called yourself by the name Weatherclock in a gathering of your allies this past Autumn's Observance.”

Delhay stood up, as if he had openly cringed to hear that secret revealed. Polena did not look to him. Her eyes were instead on Tavya, who had look of horror on her face. Her attendants came closer, like they were rallying about their mistress to shield her from a blade. Polena pushed her point.

“You are not the Weatherclock, though I could see that you might claim to be. You were lying that night, or he is lying now. I intend no offense to either of you. You are both trying to twist me in the direction that is best for your own People and that is laudable. It shows me that you both hold your duties in good faith. But so also does this Djaught, and so must I as Speaker for the People of our grand Alliance of Creace. I am going. That is my choice and no others.”

Polena had a tendency, when ignored or passed over to get angry. She had come to this place to try and make a difference in the world, but she had been denied the means to do so. To flex her strength now and to do it using only the truth, filled her with a sense of power she had long coveted. Polena felt herself smile for what felt like the first time in the whole of this long, cold winter.


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27 January 2013

Keeping the Fire: Poems of Djasho


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

╩      27      ╩
Leaves thick as blades of grass in gold Shagga field,
Trunks hard as the stone of old Kharna mountain,
Roots deep as winding caves below pure Altaena,
I have never seen the woods before today.

I have taken liberties with the translation and in the process lost the syllables of the last line, which is a shame but our Eddinite has not single word for “Viewing for the first time” as does the Djashar. This is as certain a style of Djasho as we can hope to find. Her work is always characterized by a intense love of nature. Of the five great Poets of Westa, she is always called “Djasho, Who Knew True Wonder.” Again, Eddinite fails us, for we don't consider wonder an emotion in quite the same way. For us, wonder is a state of being, not an emotion like fear, love, or anger. It is something that you participate in, or something accompanying events. The Westins see it much differently.
Astute readers will also catch the references in this Poem to places in Free Westa. Shagga Field below Fortress Westa, old Kharna mountain, thought to be the Bearded Mountain before it erupted and lost it's peak, and Lake Altaena famous for the sacred caves below it's temples. All of these places were new discoveries to the migrating Onea tribes that would one day become the Westins. They came out of bondage, out of fear and persecution, out of starvation and constant struggle, into a land that seemed endlessly giving, endlessly new. It is no surprise, perhaps, that they would see Wonder as an emotion rather than a sate of being. In our lives filled with maps, borders, and understanding we have little room for mystery, little appreciation for endless spaces. We have traded this child like joy for our jaded understanding. Such is the price of civilization.

-Caltius Bun Daemonstae, from his work:
Regarding the Style and Meter of the Westin Poet Called Djasho in the Eddinite Tongue, and Comprising of Several Poems in Translation to the Eddinite for the First Time.

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26 January 2013

Keeping the Fire: Inheritance


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

╩      26     ╩

Getting Mage Alembic and Minister Tavya in the same room at the same time had been a trying endeavor in itself. Getting them to speak to one another seemed a second, and greater one. They regarded each other just like two cats who happen to be trapped in the same space. It was as if by avoiding direct eye contact they could pretend that they simply had not noticed the other yet and could go on about their business. The mutual dislike was clear. What it stemmed from Polena did not know. While the Flinish were less trustful of the Dun Mages than Polena's own People's Alliance of Creace, the Domineerists of Flin did not actively shun the guild. Similarly, while loathe to operate in any nation that did not cede them both respect and privacy, Dun had never fully abandoned the old lords of Niccanor and gave Flin their council and sciences. These two, then, must have some special disgust towards each other. It came out in passive aggressive comments, interruptions, and other petty displays of power. Polena would not let it stand.

“Alright, we don't like each other. That is well and truly clear, give it a rest and talk to me of important things. I called the two of you here at the same time because I need advice. Djaught Mehethe will not be content to wait for the king forever. Soon he will make a move. What is it going to be?” A brief silence passed and Tavya broke it.

“Well, most likely he'll call for a vote of the Ministers.”

“I doubt that, he's hardly the clout,” retorted Alembic. Tavya sighed, offended, and Polena quickly interceded to prevent an argument.

“Fine, you disagree, what do you think then Mage?”

“I think that we are more likely to see posturing. The Djaught is a soldier. He is unaccustomed to politics. He'll get help from the pureblooded ministers. I expect the Dame of Staff will make some pretense for the king and Djaught to be in the same place at the same time, a celebration or festival or something, and the Chief Ceremonial will bring up the matter of Djasho thus forcing the king to make an informal statement.” Polena nodded as she listened and instead of asking her own questions, tried to bridge the gap between her two allies.

“What would that do Minister?” Tavya leaned back, a hint of a smile at the deference she had been given.

“Well, likely anything informally said would be grounds for a formal request. The king could not say nothing. If he assents the Djaught calls on Court so he can give thanks, which compels the king to tell him what support Fiedjan can expect in war. If the king refuses then the Djaught calls on the Ministers for a vote of appeal to the king, as I said before.”

“You mean the king listens to a vote of the People? Maybe our mission has had more effect here than I thought.” said Polena, a sarcastic smile on her face. Tavya returned the smile but while Polena's was jolly Tavya's own seemed to show greater derision, as if she thought the idea absurd for a different reason.

“Well,” interjected Mage Alembic, “He doesn't have to do anything. He is the king. But enough of an uproar could force him from power. Early abdications, while rare, do occasionally happen. He would have to make quite a case to ignore the vote.”

“Well if we are agreed that one way or another it will come to Court and the Djaught calling to speak there, then are we agreed as well on how to defeat that? Tayva, can you make some historic pretext to cancel court? Alembic, could you maybe give some council that would foul things up?” For the first time both Tavya and Alembic looked at each other. Tavya frowned and Alembic smiled.

“She doesn't know,” said Alembic.

“Apparently not,” replied Tavya, then turning to Polena she continued, “Dear Luminary, there is a reason we both came to you and Coralm in the first place. As Minister of the Keepings I speak when spoken to. As Adviser for the Dunish Guild, Mage Alembic gives advice when it is asked. Neither of us are Speakers, in truth, regardless of anything our titles might imply. There is only one speaker in this room.”

“I?” questioned Polena.

“Yes, you,” replied Alembic, “if, that is, you will take up the Knight Luminary's position.”

Polena was silent.


As expected, the Dame of Staff arranged a presentation party for the young girls of the salon of princess Lin Gareth Mire, an event her father, the king, must attend. That morning, before the event, there was a session of court, and while it was uneventful it did include another presentation. The formal welcoming of Luminary Polena of Kerpsatch, Speaker for the People's Alliance of Creace. She wore her robe and sash, along with Coralm's sword that day and though little was asked of her, Polena's voice never shook in giving reply.


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25 January 2013

Keeping the Fire: The Whale and the Weatherclock


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

╩      25    ╩

Before he had been murdered, Polena met with Coralm once a week, and in careful secrecy. Tayva, she now met with openly, but did so only in breaks in the Minister of the Keepings vigorous schedule of duties and social obligations. If she wished to meet with Mage Alembic she would have to catch him, and this always required at least a day's work. Delhay the Whale seemed to be ready to meet her before she even knew she wanted him. As member of the Knights of the Nine Hours Watch, he was given over to security of both King and Fortress. This was the true sort of warden's work, the ugly, thankless, or brutish tasks of keeping the Edgaran state safe. He met with her every day, almost, and always seemed to have something new to offer or ask of her. Most vexing was his place here. While he made his role clear, a man given over to the solving of “problems,” his rank was less obvious. He had the privileges of a knight, though laughed off her attempt to call him by sir. Every member of the watch seemed to know him and could tell you where to find him, yet, when they did it was with low voices. There was a deep respect for the man but it's source seemed to be something unclean.

He met with her the Third Hour over her lunch at a small winter garden just outside of the Archives. The place was high up, open to the sky above, and had a rare view of the rooftops of the Fortress, something usually only seen from the Watch's towers. It had taken Delhey only two days to figure out who the man who tried to abduct her, the one calling himself Dama, had been. He was a bandit and thug for hire who ranged between the Fortress and the Dehali valley below and Delhay laughed to say that he was called Dama Night-Eye.

“Would you believe that he would pick so stupid a name for himself? Or worse, that he would tell you it?”

“Remarkable,” Polena mused, trying to ignore the irony of this burly man who openly called himself “The Whale” finding another person's name foolish. He snagged and ate a fingerling potato from her lunch with out her offering.

“I have standing orders to take him next time he comes to the Fortress or runs afoul of the Watch in the valley. He is careless. I'll make him sing when I get him. No word on your assassins yet, they were well planned and well paid enough to vanish. I think, though, that we will have word on that false Luminary that disappeared like some spirit trick soon enough.”

“You told me many people saw him, but no one saw him leave the Fortress.”

“That doesn't mean he didn't. I am looking into those that did leave that day. He might have been disguised. We keep records of all that leave and part of the King's tax on inns is that they record who stays in them. We'll have something there.”

“It amazes me how tightly the Fortress keeps it's walls,” replied Polena, digging in to her kale and salted mutton before she lost these as well to Delhay, “The Alliance keeps record of many things, but they way it is done here is something beyond us.”

“It is by need.”

“Aye, no doubt that.” The conversation lagged a bit and Delhay sat back as Polena finished her food. Elsewhere, one could hear a bell ringing for a ceremony of the Goddess, a crier calling that a Cathedral had been built by Fiedjan in the Protectorate of Concordance to the north and west, and a hawker promising the best of Weimadji dye at his stall. Everywhere, it was the sign of the Proper ascendant.

“Delhay, why is the King helping me? Besides the obvious.”

“The King isn't. I am. But I thought you would know this. You are weak. Westa and Flin are strong. We go to the weak side always.”

“I am new to this still. Say it plain.” Polena asked. Delhay smiled.

“Want me to hang myself with my words then? Heh, alright fair enough. When our King Jacalm took a wife he had at least a dozen Flinish suitors, two or three girls, and I do me girls, sent as gifts from Free Westa and one pureblooded princess that would have brought his line close enough to High King Westa to kiss him. Instead of any of them, he married Queen Sil aup'Delen. My people, we Delen have been the ugly secret of the Fortress since the Great Migration. Edgar took the mountain and built the Fortress there. The rest of the lands he gave to our people. Some, like those in Dehali, married into Niccanoran blood and became closer with the Fortress. Some of us, we Delen, kept the old ways. We still hunted and wandered long north of the Fortress. At times we have been persecuted by whoever claimed to own the land we lived on. Every generation or two the Flinish, the Khage, more recently the Fiedjan occupiers try to kill us off. But they never get us all and my people proudly breed like rats. By marring a Delen queen our King was able to win favor with the Free Westins, who respect the plight of the old landless folk, and offer both Flin and Fiedjan a threat. It says: cause problems for me, and I will “defend” the Delen and take back lands from you where you can least afford to fight over them. This is how we live Luminary. Support the weak so that the strong must stay on their toes.” Polena looked on wryly.

“There's more. You want to do this don't you Whale? A man with a name like that knows that a name has power. I have seen whales in Meeda's bay. You have never seen one. It's the Weatherclock, isn't it?” Delhay smiled his wide, broken grin.

“I saw a picture of a while once. A fish as big as a ship with a wolf's head. That suits me. Polena, there are at least three people that claim to be the Weatherclock. You know how folk here started wearing those red beads, the kind they make at the Temple in Iiss to show their devotion to the Hinquoqwa Ness? People say the Weatherclock started that. In truth, a merchant from the region had a wagon load of the things and spent a fortune convincing the Priestess here that they were a sign of devotion. He earn four fold of what he spent selling the beads. When something happens and people don't know the reason, they blame the Weatherclock. When folk already have a good hand at manipulating the Fortress and they want to put the fear in their servants or the fire in their lovers, they say they are the Weatherclock.”

“So it is a ruse then?”

“No. It's a legend.”

“Ah, that is something more powerful. But is there one, Delhay? Is there really a Weatherclock?”

“Wouldn't you like to find out?” his grin faded and he fixed his thick mustache. Polena could see what was hidden in his eyes though. Delhay was an evil man. He got his information from fear, intimidation, and torture. Worse, he had made it plain that he came from a persecuted people. Polena had no doubt that he enjoyed doing these awful things, that it was some sort of thrill to him to feel powerful. Yet, in the Weatherclock there was something else. For this crass, brutal, and wicked man who did everything with the cynicism of a dungeon's warden, here at last was something mysterious. Until it was solved, Polena was certain she could trust him. She only prayed that she would never be on the wrong side of Delhay the Whale's grin.


╩ ╩

24 January 2013

Keeping the Fire: The King inThrones


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╩     24     ╩

The Westin game of Hunar came to the East from Fortress Edgar. There they changed how it was played and renamed it Thrones and now every nation plays it differently. Dorrishmen of Free Westa play a version with soldiers, several kings, and one High King. While the kings might move as a solider or “ride” a hook shape move that takes them a bit further, the High King moves the furthest and is harder to capture than the other pieces. The way they play it in the People's Alliance, the king only moves at the expense of another piece, by taking its place on the board. The Flinishmen play a version where the king can move as far as it likes, in any one direction it likes, and through any pieces it likes. The greatest threat to the Flinish king is another king. But in Fortress Edgar, they play Thrones only one way, and hold that it is the oldest. In the Edgaran's game one wins by killing the king, yet their king can move only a single space. He can capture any piece, but only if the other player lets him.

For King Edgar Jacalm Mire III, bearing the same first name as every first born male of his line for a thousand years, coming to Polena meant much planing. He arranged to meet with her in the Eighth Hour, when most of the Fortress was asleep and the hush of night was heavy. Polena did not know where the meeting place was, but instead was told to ask a Watchman at a certain place who sent her to another watchman, and finally to a small balcony on the East wall. It was called “Chausen's Watch” from a story now long forgotten, and it overlooked the Silver road which plied a steep and switch-backed coarse up a long slope to the Fortress from the verdant Dehali valley below. In person, cowled in a fine velvet cloak,the King seemed smaller, yet no less regal. Polena mused that in his youth he must have been taught posture and expression in the same way others were taught how to ride or farm; he seemed a man to whom greatness is a profession. The King had one of the Knights of the Nine Hours Watch by his side, a different one of whom guarded him each hour of the day, and also a great ogre of a man called Delhey the Whale. What his rank or purpose there was, was not explained to Polena yet he seemed at least as important as the Knight. The King was careful, and direct, he seemed not to speak unless he had thought of the word in their entirety. Soon though, he asked her a simple seeming question.

“Is there proof that the Djaught Mehethe can give me of the Poet Djasho?”

“No,” was Polena's answer.

“Is there a body? I have heard that in the oldest days some tribes burned their dead, as the Dol Qwai still do now. Yet, Mehethe promised me a tomb. Can he deliver one?”

Polena took a breath before answering so as to hide any emotion from her voice. The People of the Alliance also burned their dead and to think of that made her think of Coralm. She hoped that his murderer had smothered him first, or at least drugged him so heavily that he did not feel the flames. She would never know.

“If there was someone that could be called Djasho, and if that person was of Westa's tribe, and if that tribe held the same traditions as Fiedjan did in the Classical Period, and if the tomb has not been looted, and if also time has not covered or ruined the place. Then yes. There is a body. Then, as now, Fiedjan believed the blood to carry a person's soul. The blood would be trained, lest the soul return and become trapped in the body, and the body itself would be stuffed with ceder and put in a coffin of clay or stone sealed away forever. Such mummies can last forever.”

“Then we do have to worry.”

“Only if you think that all the “ifs” I gave you are true.”

“Such is the life I lead, Luminary. No phantom or trick-of-light must be ignored by me. If you would deny this Djaught's claim, I would need you as well to deny it's source. Can you offer proof against this tomb he claims to have?”

“Yes,” Polena said before considering whether she could or not. The King nodded.

“It makes me glad. I shall take leave then, but not before giving you over to Delhey here.” the great man smiled, his stained teeth missing or cracked in several places. Her was shaved bald, scared, his arms hairy and a proud, thick mustache above his intimidating grin. Surprised at how little the King wished to ask her Polena turned to the massive man.

“And what does, um, what do you do Delhey?” she asked.

“Why my'lady,” Delhey answered in a voice rough from pipe smoke, “There has not been a problem as acute as yours in the Fortress for some years. Political infighting; yes, Power plays; to be expected, assassinations or attempts; you would be foolish to think they don't happen. But what has happened to you and dear Knight Luminary Coralm? May the Crow Woman hold his soul gently, but it was an awful death for him. Something so brazen as these attacks is a serious problem for our appearance of security. And I, Luminary, I fix problems.”

Polena could not help but feel that she was gaining an ally but in the process she was losing some freedom of movement. And as the King in Thrones will tell you, no mater which version of the game you play, freedom of movement is everything.


╩      ╩

23 January 2013

Keeping the Fire: Once Around the Circle


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╩     23     ╩

She had thought carefully before meeting again with Mage Alembic. When she decided she would, it was harder done than she surmised. An attempt to find him in the First Hour, when dawn was still fresh, sent her on a wild chase throughout the day. It seemed that in the third hour he was either in the outer wall, along the Knights Keepings in the Fortress' east, or in the south at the Ward et Equivelentia. In each case, when she got to the next location it seemed he had just left it for the first.

At the calling of the Third hour, she was at her wits end. She resolved to simply sat down in Maela's Circle, and wait. Maela's Circle was the only circular public square in all of Fortress Edgar. It was given over to discourse and because nothing but people obstructed the traffic it was also the easiest way to get between anywhere in the Fortress and she waited for him here while the storytellers, criers, and speakers of gods and men gave their calls. As the Forth Hour came, and the Edgarans left their duties and made for home, she finally spotted him moving quickly and carefully through the crowd. His hood was up and he wore a parn, a half cloak, over his left shoulder in the fashion of the fortress, yet there was no mistaking his color or his gate, energetic and playful.

“You are hard to find.” Polena said, as she took pace with him. He looked over only slightly from under his robe more to see if she was alone than to note who it was.

“That is especially true when I wish not to be found. Come walk with me, I can give you once around the circle and then I must continue on to the Archives.” He kept his pace but started it around the circle witter-shins, and she moved with him.  

“I am heading to the Archives myself,” Polena lied, “I'll go with you.”

“No, you won't. It isn't safe or wise for either of us to be seen together. Make it quick, only fifty paces left.” Polena had many arguments in mind but she threw them all out in an instant and went for the one thing that vexed her most.

“Coralm said the Weatherclock attacked him. Who is that and why. Simple?”

“Not so simple as I don't know whom the weather clock is. The only context I have for it is the device. A Weatherclock sits atop a high place and points the direction of the wind.”

“I know what it is, but who Alembic. Give me something. Tavya may well be innocent and I would like to know if I am in danger.”

“You are in the Fortress. You are in danger always. But let me be simple. Ask anyone here and they will tell you a thief, nay, a Djaught of all the Thieves in the Fortress, or all of Free Westa, goes by that name. Ask anyone wise and they will tell you that it is a myth. Why didn't you tell me Coralm said this to you before the attack?”

“He didn't he only just said it now.”

“Ah. Awake. Is he still awake? Twenty left paces by the way,” he continued dodging around a pair of Knights of the Watch who eyed them carefully.”

“No, he is asleep again. Listen, you came to his room, you know everything that goes on here, and Dun has you running like mad from one end of the Fortress to the other. Give me something Alembic. It's a basic law of comerse. You ask, you have to give.”

Alembic was silent the last few paces and stopped.

“That way ahead is mine. Yours is somewhere else. I have advised the King that you are someone he can trust to tell him the truth. The truth is a rare delicacy for monarchs and while he feigned disinterest I suspect he, the queen, or someone close to them will come to you shortly. Other than that we have only two things to do.”

“What are those?” Polena responded, making ready to grab Alembic's robe if he tried to rush away.

“Well, we hope that by the distraction of Grandmother Fate Coralm lives, or by the attention Lady Luck that the Djaught dies.” At this he made eye contact with her for the first time and smiled broadly. “May you walk with the People, and, hopefully, the right People.” And he took his leave.

“What about Tavya?” She said to him as he turned. Alembic only shrugged as he walked away. Apparently even the Mages of Dun have their limits. She stayed a while in thought until the last light of the day left the smiling cheek of the Maela, the Goddess of Luck, the tearing thread in Stone-hearted Fates carefully woven stich.

Polena made her way back to the house of healing to see if Coralm was again speaking. She found the bed empty. He had seemed better last night and better still in the morning. Thinking he had risen she got up and came into the main room of the House. As she did it was as if she had broken a great pot, everyone of the healers stopped and looked to her.

“Where is Coralm?” she asked, her face falling. An old woman among them came up and took her arm gently.

“I am so sorry my Priestess, but the lad we sent could not find you. The fever took him so suddenly and your other, the older man Luminary bade us take him at once to the pyre made ready at the place of the dead outside the walls.

“But there is no other Luminary here. It is I and Coralm.”

“He said he had recently arrived. We tried to wake you Priestess. I am so sorry, but he is gone to your People now.”

Polena could not contain her breathing. Already she knew what she would come to find. A pyre in the place of the dead nothing now but blackened embers and bones, a description from the Watch and onlookers of an aged and bearded man in Luminary's dress who put a very still body to burn there in the Forth Hour, and no one waiting in the place in the Fortress given over to the People's Alliance. Before she had always felt alone in the Fortress. Now she truly was.
╩          ╩

22 January 2013

Keeping the Fire: The Ninth Hour


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╩      22     ╩

In Fortress Edgar they kept the old Westin measure of time that divided the day into nine long hours starting at dawn. They had just called the Ninth hour which meant that it was either very late or very early, depending on one's mood. As Polena sat beside Coralm she preferred to think it early. He had stirred in the sixth hour and awoken in the eighth of that day, though his fever had not quite left him. Only now, in he ninth, did he seem strong enough to speak, but only just. It was as if that effort strained him. His first words had been:

“Where is the pen? Bring me the pen.” But when Polena brought him one along with paper, he pushed them away. So she waited, brought him water and ale when he asked for both of them. Then sat with him a long quiet time as he stared blankly at the fire. They were in the healing ward of the castle called the Hinbothu, or “pure house” by its doctors many of whom still praised the Westin herbs even as they sewed with Flinish needles and taught with Dunish medicine. They treated Coralm with a smoking poultice of wax and Weimadji flowers and bade him drink a musky smelling tea of comfrey which he turned away after one bitter gulp. Then the healers left them again. And the call of the Ninth hour came, and at last he spoke again.

“Did it go well?” It took Polena a moment to understand what he meant.

“Comae, you can hardly care about how the council went.”

“It is why I am here.”

“Don't worry yourself on something so trivial, you have so many other things to do beyond my stupid poet.”

“I meant it is why I am in the house of healing. Your stupid poet.” His smile was so pained, that Polena could not hold back tears.

“I am glad to hear your voice Coralm.”

“I am glad to hear anything Polena. So were they successful? Did they stop the council, the ones who fired that bolt.”

“Yes, but the king has yet to rule so the damage is not permanent yet. They have delayed us, not stopped us.” Coralm stared at her a while. His mouth hung open a little and Polena thought to herself that if it were closed he would have that falcon's cast to his face that always made him look so intimidating and wise. Now he looked only distant and lost.

“Well that is a shame. I am a mess. You will have to take care of it from here.”

“I am trying.”

“Good.” He said, as if that was all that needed to be said. Polena did not want to lose a chance to speak with him and pressed closer to the Knight Luminary.

“Coralm, who did this to you? Do you have any hint? You warned me the night before it happened you must have known something was afoot.”

“The Weatherclock did this. But I had warnings, warnings only. I had plans. I...” he seemed to be becoming delirious, “Polena it is not important who's killed me. It is important what you do now.”

“You are not dead, nor will you die. The worst is over.”

“You need to move forward Polena. You need to end this matter with Fiedjan. We must have no more troops near the Dehali, no one to threaten the Fortress.”

“Comae no one threatens the Fortress. Its walls hold as they have a thousand years.”

He leaned closer as if trying to impart volume his voice could not.

“Polena, this has happened to save you. You must not waste time and you must not be a fool about it. If the People say the Fortress is threatened then it is under threat. You who take words as your lover, you more than anyone should know this. Threat is in the mind, not the eyes. Fear is from the soul and the soul's breath is words.”

“Comae, please, you need speak no further.” Polena pleaded.

“Luminary!” Coralm urged.

“Knight Luminary!” Polena interupted, “Peace! Take comfort. Take rest. I can listen and I have heard. I will not let war come to the Fortress, war of words or war of arms. Rest. Trust your Comae to carry you.”

He breathed fast, his eyes stared on past her, as if seeing something she could not. He squeezed her hand.

“You will go home to her Polena.”

“I will. And you will too Coralm.”

It was not that he fell asleep at once, nor was he entirely silent, but slowly, gently, he receded back into the bed. To her he seemed to be breathing stronger than he had in days. Polena drank ale they brought her and sat by his side but when she too drifted off to sleep she could not say. In waking she knew first warmth from two sides, that of the sunlight on her face and from her Comae's hand beneath her own.

╩          ╩

21 January 2013

Keeping the Fire: The Mirror Prayer


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╩      21     ╩

The low moan of the keyed fiddle droned a backing for the melody of a twin pipe in the Chamber of the All-Wurms. While the temple given over to the old gods above had twelve fine oriels that filled the chamber with light, the place for the All-Wurms, which lay directly below it, was a dark, wet, and chill dungeon. This was by design. The old gods worshiped more commonly among Flinish folk and a fair number of alliance citizens were also worshiped more in times of merriment, social gatherings, and auspicious events. One went to the All-Wurms for only two things, foretelling and death. It was held in Flin that the All-Wurms were four primal forces so great, that the white moon was said to be the eye of one opening and closing as it looked down upon the world. One cannot pray to these beings any more than an ant can understand the dealings of a human being. Those few that tried often went mad or at least, failed to further comprehend the affairs of the mortal realm. Such people made fine fortunetellers and had a knack for bringing messages to and from the dead. For a lesser mortal, drawing the notice of the wurms meant drawing their ire and a guarantee that they would seek brutal vengeance against whatever was asked. Thus Tavya was there to take part in one of the oldest of Flinish rites, the mirror prayer. One implored the attention of the beings and asked for exactly the opposite of one's desires. Make a prayer for success of your foe in hopes that the wurms grant failures, pray for rain when one wants sun, for a child when one wishes none, and for death when one wishes to make it through an illness.

Tavya had come here for such a prayer, setting her words down on paper and burning them before statue of the four faced dragon, praying as only the wealthy could afford to pray. Polena waited for her respectfully behind one of the many conical pillars that supported the roof. She observed water dripping down the spiral of the pillar and wondered where it came from. This whole place was anathema to her, was part of everything the People had rebelled against. Yet she knew that Tavya had not invited her here as an insult. To be brought into the temple and await an audience was a sign that someone valued your time second only to the ancestors and the gods. It was an honor to wait like this. Tavya came to her at last as the piper had finished, the keyed fiddle still droning on, lower now and joined by the gentle clack of incense holders brought for the next rite by attendant priests. Tavya bade Polena sit on a low bench near the entrance of the temple, and she did but it was no more comfortable here than before. It seemed the Minister was trying to hide tears below a veil, but either the matter did not trouble her overly or she hid her sorrow well, for she was first to speak in the djashar as they had always done.

“I thank you most graciously for your visit and my apologies that you should have to come ot me here. I trust that Gambre brought you my missive?”

“Yes he did and it is not a bother to meet you here,” Polena lied, “but I did as you asked and have found no sign of any warning Coralm had.” Tavya had found many reasons to delay Polena's visit, but those delays were forgotten the moment she promised to share what she had found in Coralm's papers.

“Nothing? Or nothing that you can find? Perhaps there is some hidden meaning to his words you don't understand, some secret or hint.”

“Perhaps. Dangerous things often hide in plain sight. You looked down on me from the alcove just before we were attacked.”

“I did,” replied Tayva, her voice offering nothing for Polena to cling to, “I was very anxious to see your words before the king. Do you think I would miss that?”

“Of course, anyone who is anyone would have been there. But you were there. The men that attacked used crossbows. Quite skillfully too. It is an eastern weapon.”

“One also adopted by the Right Hand of Edjin, some of whom came with the Djaught,” Tavya replied, “But please Polena, do not speak so. You act as if you mean to accuse me of something. Yet I have helped you at every turning. I gave you access to the library, my man saved you from that mercenary in the weaver's hall, I now have offered my assistance in finding those that attacked you and Coralm, why would I want you to fail when all of my aims are met by your success?”

Polena bit her tongue. She was used to honeyed words and used to berating, but this tonic of both was something different. It was made worse as Tavya took her hand in that familiar Flinish fashion but stoked the underside of her wrist when she drew it away. It was deliberate, manipulative, and so upset her thinking that she had to work to control a her voice as she replied.

“I told you I found a suspicious letter while looking through Coralm's lectern. Indeed, I did, but it was not one of his. If Coralm had plans or fore warnings, he did not write them down. The letter I found was yours. Read this line please.”

“Polena,”

“Please!” demanded Polna, thrusting the paper to Tavya. The Minister looked at the folded letter, writ by her own hand and in her own color – green ink upon a warm cream colored velum. After a moment her eyes turned questioningly to Polena's.

“That first line Tavya: “I am saddened to hear of this dreadful attack. Someone tries to silence you, but I am filled with gladness that their bolt did not meet it's mark.” all the talk of the Fortress is on the attack against Coralm. He was shot, I was not. The assassins fled afterwards. I have told no one,” again a lie, for she had told Mage Alembic, “that the bolt was meant for me. How did you know that?”

“Well of course it was meant for you,” Tavya said, seeming terribly hurt, “who else?”

“Coralm, speaker for the Alliance here.”

“Coralm is a diplomat and a keen negotiator, but everyone knew his sage was coming to speak. Why not kill the sage?”

“You really claim that you knew nothing?” said Polena, moving her face closer to Tavya's. The Minster recoiled slightly, sucked in air a little, and seemed to fight for the right words. Underneath her prayer veil Polena could not see her eyes, only the gleam of candle light from votives burning near the four faced statue that served as alter. She felt a sudden doubt fill her. In the clear light of Coralm's room as she sat at the balcony above the hall this morn this treachery had seemed so clear. Now that she made the accusation it seemed childishly paranoid.

“I see,” said Tavya at last, then, regaining her composure she continued somewhat more loudly, “I see, Polena. I had hoped we could get passed this common conflict that your People and my People face. This age old hatred, I thought we could overcome it, you and I, but maybe I misjudged how deep such hate is rooted. I meant you no harm, I mean you no harm, and I shall do you no harm in the future.”

“I just,” said Polena, trailing off as she gave voice to her doubt.

“Say no more. I can't speak of it now. Please come back to me on the morrow.”

“Tavya, please understand.”

“I do.” replied the minister taking the Luminary's hand, “but this was not my intention. But misreading truth from illusion is a failing even of dragons. On the morrow.”

That was the last of it. Tavya left first, taking her attendants along with her. A heavy, damp silence filled the chamber. Polena sat a long while reading and rereading the letter Tavya had sent her. What seemed clear proof of treachery in Coralm's room now seemed a clear misrepresentation. She could not believe that she had read so much into oddly phrased words or baroque sentences. Clearly writing across the gaps of their two cultures and in a language of yet a third there were bound to be unintended messages. How had she thought any different. On the morrow she would have to swallow her pride and apologize. Tonight she would go reread all that she had read that day. Yet, even now she felt some terrible foreboding that she would gain no further understanding from anything she read. It was a chill similar to the one the Chamber of the All-Wurms gave her, a deep, heady chill that came from knowing just how much one cannot fathom.
╩      ╩

20 January 2013

Keeping the Fire: An Unannounced Visit


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╩     20     ╩

The glean of light upon the crux was what drew her notice at first. A fine pewter crux with a center of polished blue quartzite had been set on Coralm's doorway, and it was only by a reflection of light upon that center that Polena realized both that the door was open and that someone had a light burning within. She approached the door very slowly, listening to the sound of gently shuffling papers, barely audible over the growl of a small fire in the hearth. She looked carefully and silently through the open threshold only find a man in the Knight Luminary's room. We wore robes of fine spun, yet lightly adorned purple with a complicated crest of shaped metal on his chest. He bore a small well groomed beard that matched the roguish play of his hair and handsome, if albeit, wan figure. He was standing at Coralm's writing lectern and openly looking though a pile of his private documents with casual interest. Though she had been all but silent as she peered into the room the man looked up at once at her, but went back to his task as if he were doing no wrong.

“You ought to have been here sooner. Didn't you hear my knocking?”

“No, who are you? Be out of here at once!” In truth she had heard knocking earlier that day but had spent much of it on her balcony and had expected her callers to go away.

“As for who I am, the robe should tell you some of it. As for why I am here I think that to would be obvious. Why you haven't gone through Coralm's letters yet is what's it what confounds me.”

“You're a Dun mage,” Polena said with clear frustration, “and while the People appreciate Dun's assistance in our works I seem to remember your tower wanting to keep itself independent, perhaps I should say “mercenary” rather than act as full partner with us. So if you please mage...”

“Alembic. We have met, though I suppose you would not remember with everyone else you have had to learn here. I am Speaker for the Dun Mage Guild here and looking into anything so inharmonious as an assassination attempt is good for business. That is where we are now.” He made eye contact for the first time with a wry smile that could not help but frustrate, then turned back to the papers. “My turn. Why haven't you looked through these Polena? Don't you think Coralm had some portent of this, some warning?” All the while Alembic never ceased reading the paper in his hands. It was as if the act was secondary to him, as natural someone walking while they talked. Polena came closer into the room and stood by the lectern. Alembics manner disarmed her. She had no context for an unabashed spy and had not decided yet whether she should flee the room or snatch the papers from him. Clearly getting angry at him was not going to make him go away. So she considered.

“Dun is closer ally, or should I say, better merchant to the Alliance than it is to anywhere else.”

“We offer our knowledge to all nations, but largely that is true,” Alembic retorted.

“You would be perceived as an Easterner here and likely shut out from business with Flin. Therefore, Coralm would have been your ally, if not publicly at least privately. You would have been to this room many times and would know where to find his important things.”

“True again. Bring it around and finish it.”

“And since you have not seen any sign of me you suspect that I do not care to know who would want him dead. Therefore you have come here to see if there is any hint in his papers and how I react to finding you here will determine if you can trust me or not.”

“Excellent. Now let's talk about what you know.”

“I'm not finished yet. You also set up this little scene in your head so as to make me feel dwarfed by your intellect, make me default to your lead, and perhaps get me to spill any secrets I do have to you. You are trying to make me feel stupid so that you will seem wise.”

Alembic stopped reading and looked up to her.

“That is where we are.” replied Polena smiling herself. Alembic nodded, though whether that came from appreciation of her intelligence or acknowledgment that his trick was not working Polena did not know.

“Perhaps we have started this wrong,” he said

“Yes you have.”

“Perhaps you would like me to give you deference in your Comae's quarters.”

“Yes I would.”

“So I will. Coralm was an ally of mine, though one of convenience. We had a game where publicly we seemed to hate each other but privately we would meet for Thrones and a sack of wine. Both of these were well known facts. The real truth Polena is that I didn't like Coralm. But instability in the Fortress is something that Dun will not permit. This place is supposed to be a viper's nest but it is supposed to be a productive one. Great works are done when there is constant balance. Wealth is produced by an ordered tumult while great waste comes from chaos. Coralm knew these things, and so he worked towards harmony. ”

“Please do not talk about him like he is dead.”

“Perhaps you should start planning as if he was. He isn't getting any better Polena.” Alembic stood as if about to say something more but Polena stopped him.”

“That is enough Mage. If you want to help me by all means do so. The healers would appreciate your council and you art. Don't tell me what to do and don't think I am going to tell you anything.”

Another smile and nod from Alembic, another expression she could not read.

“Very well. You have my apologies and you will have me gone.”

“I should like that.”

“But please, if I can ask as a beggar rather than as a charlatan, do you know who attacked Coralm?”

“They were not,” replied Polena, “They were trying to kill me. They missed.” Alembic met her eyes, but did not respond. Then, offering her his hand in the sign of leave taking, a hand she did not take, he turned for the door. Suddenly he turned back as if he could not hold his tongue.

“Consider just two things. Firstly what you would do if you were to be the representative of the People's Alliance here Polena. Should Coralm die I think they would be apt to send someone militaristic to replace him. War is coming and I would rather see a scholar talking than a soldier.”

“I will consider it Mage.”

“And second, what would you have done if I was not waiting here to bait you into conversation.”

“What?”

“The Knight Luminary's sword is sitting in it's scabbard by his bed side. He certainly didn't wear it in court but he always kept it near. Is there a reason you don't? Considering all the people that could have been in this room in my place?”

The thought sent a sudden chill through Polena, one she tried to hide from him.

“Thank you. That will be all for tonight. When next we speak it will be I coming to you.”

Alembic made to ascent, but choosing to make some play of her words covered his mouth, bowed, and left all with that damnable smile. Polena stood a long while after he had left staring first and the door and then at Coralm's gladius, a fine and serviceable blade that managed to be elegant without looking gaudy. The gleaming of the fire on it's hilt brought out the shape, much like that of the crux on the door way. She slept in Coralm's room that night and the next morning she went out seeking the lady Tavya for answers. But the blade she left on the table.
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19 January 2013

Keeping the Fire: The Empty Alcove


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╩      19     ╩

When they called Polena before the king it was alone and under heavy guard. She gave her explanation, carefully, and with poise, to the king and five men and women that sat with him, none of whom bore any clear sign of rank. One she knew to be Iven even through the hooded tunic he wore. Across from the speaking dais, in the seats to West of the King's seat, was an stand where she had expected to see the Djaught Mehethe. The whole of the council had been called off and no participants or on lookers were aloud besides the king, about fifty guards, and the five sages that were there to examine her. And they asked difficult and wise questions, the Librarian Iven most of all, but she had prepared for these things. All that she had feared had been the presence of a crowd, the provocative questions of the ignorant, and perhaps most of all, the stalwart and contempt filled gaze of that Djaught. Indeed, this sort of rhetorical practice was as familiar to her as sleep. She was given no word by the king after the five had been satisfied, only a simple wave to make her leave.

She should have been confident, calm, and pleased at how well things had gone. She could not be. As she entered the Way of the Honored Ancestors she stopped by the empty alcove. The heavy guard by her stopped as well, their armor clanking at first, then rattling with the uncertainty as they shifted their weight. Two days ago Coralm had been shot not ten paces from this alcove. Yesterday he had said the first words since the attack “Water,” then, “take it along the Flowered Step.” the babble that she knew often came from those near to death. Today Coralm had been silent, his breath slow and ragged. The fever had not left him. Thinking of this man, one she knew so little but fear so much to lose a poem of Grandmother Behigha came to her mind. A line from the fourth stanza of the cryptically titled Poem of the Lighthouse.

Gone like the fat berry, snapped up and eaten. 
Gone like the lovers dance, the song at its end. 
Gone like the endless night, forever till spent. 

Sewn like scattered seed. 

She stared long at the empty alcove until one of the Knights bade her to leave. They were worried to have her stand here, though so many now stood around her that an army would be unable to harm Polena. Yet, it was out of shame that the guard was now so heavy. The damage was already done. She left the alcove, the last of them, set to remain forever empty and felt as if it mirrored her own heart that day.

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18 January 2013

Keeping the Fire: Breathe


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╩     18     ╩


A thick and angry shaft buzzed within a hand's breadth of Polena's ear and struck Coralm in the shoulder, struck him down to the floor with the force of it's impact. Polena twisted back to look to the alcoves above her. She could just see the sight of a cowled figure between the edge of a statue and the wall, firing through the narrow gap. Then she was thrown to the ground by one of the Knights. A bedlam of screams, panic, shouted orders, crashing armor and running feet echoed off the high vaulted ceiling. It was dark almost at once as the knights, moving faster than their pained march suggested they could, closed around her and Coralm. Shields were thrust above them, a protective shell proof against any arrow. Polena thought she heard the crash of second bolt, perhaps two more against the shield wall but the Knights of the Rose knew their arms as well as their duty. Nothing could touch her here, not even several attackers or one armed with a repeater. As more warriors flooded the Way and cries to give chase could be heard, Polena crawled to Coralm's side. He lay on the gray stone floor, his breathing ragged. The bolt, a shaft of yew, strong and perfectly fletched, was lodged where his right shoulder met his chest. She prayed that it was not a deadly spot.

“Comae, I am here. I am here. They have driven them off. They will call the finest healer the Fortress has.”

Coralm said nothing. He showed such discipline as she had never seen not to cry out in pain. It was as if the act of doing so meant something to him, as if it were an act of defiance or control not to scream. He was trying to stay conscious. She remembered a fear like this one, she had it once as a child when she had fallen from a window and lay broken on the cobble stone streets. Then, though her life was not in danger, she felt certain that if she passed out she would die. Coralm was of the same mind and breathing was his way to stay awake, his Will's way to exert itself. She moved to meet it. Clasping his hand tightly, moving her head to catch his eye, the brought the Knight Luminary's own words back to him.

“Be here. Be now. Breathe.” She repeated it, then again, forming a mantra of them until Coralm's breathing met her rhythm. Quickly she was lost in that rhythm, the connection between them. It is the highest ideal of a Luminary to become that connection, to be the manifestation of Will, or Creace, as they say it, a word inseparable from the land itself. Together they breathed, together they waited, together they were taken to safe haven by the healers of the Fortress. They moved with more coordination without words than ever they had encumbered by the rules, posturing, and bluster of speech.

Before the evening had fully set in word came to Polena that the Djaught's meeting had been canceled, that the King had ordered all Ministers to their quarters after the assassins had escaped, that she would have to give account to the King herself when she was ready. None of that seemed to matter. For Polena had also been told that the bolt had been poisoned, that the healers were doing all they could against it's fever, and that she would best be served praying for Coralm. She gave no word to the King, only to her Comae. It was only in the latest and darkest hour of that night, when Coralm was fully unconscious from the fever burning within him, that she had time to ruminate. And she could not help but think: “There, but for the difference of a hand's breadth, lay I”
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17 January 2013

Keeping the Fire: Ancient Forefathers, Old and New


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╩      17     ╩


A crowd of ministers, petty nobles, and people of import waited outside the entrance to the Way of Honored Forefathers. Their clothing was awash with brilliant color, fiery oranges and reds, verdant purples and green, and here or there the starkest of whites or deepest of blacks. Only two figures wore gray, the subdued color of a Luminary's formal robes accented with sashes of navy. They matched the color of the walls around them, yet for their austere appearance, Polena felt that she and Coralm stood out more than any in the crowd. As they waited to be ushered into council, Polena muttered in a whisper, trying to keep in mind every detail, every carefully worded phrase, every witty barb she had written for herself. Coralm just stood quietly, staring at the door, his composure fixed but mild, as if knew the lay of the next few minutes as well as his lines in a play. As the Knights of the Rose, those private guard of the royal family, called the assembled to come to order Coralm leaned towards her.

“Keep your eyes open and watch your breathing. You will gain more from quiet and poise than any scrap of knowledge.”

“I am calm,” replied Polena, “this is how I prepare.”

“You are not calm, and it is clear, and furthermore I would be worried if you were calm. Just remember, Comae, that any prepared phrase is useless if you are so flustered you cannot remember it. Be here. Be now. Breathe.”

Polena did, a long frustrated sigh. It was good advice he gave, she knew that. It did not make it any easier to hear. She focused her will on the task at hand, focused her mind to her breathing, swept her hands around in one of the great calming circles of Poentry's method. It did help. Yet, as the doors opened her breathing was again disrupted, for she could not have predicted the glory she was about to behold.

Unseeing eyes of statues glowered down onto the Way of Honored Forefathers. Nearly fifty feet tall was it's arched ceiling, and alcoves were set from floor to ceiling as close as they could fit. Each held a statue of almost lifelike quality all of the same green marble. These were monuments to the ancestors of the Fortress, its family, ministers, and allies and with each of the nearly five hundred statues came a story. For centuries it had been added to, its members arranged from oldest to newest. Near where they entered, was Edgar of Mire who had given his name to the fortress. At its far end was an empty alcove cut deep enough into the wall that it acted as a window into the council chamber beyond. From where they entered one could see the king's seat, as if the live monarch sat amid the statues. Polena mused that the effect must have taken a master of engineering to conceive of, but of course, if anywhere, they would have one here. They walked together with the crowd of about thirty down the hall. Coralm stayed very close to Polena's side.

“It was to be a living monument, never to be finished, ever added to.”

“I had heard of this place, but the stories cannot do it justice,” Polena said, gawking all around.

“So indeed,” said Coralm adjusting his stride so as not to collide with one of the ten plate-mailed guards that escorted them. They were dressed for effect more than elegance in armor too heavy even for the field and could hardly walk straight. It sent a clear message. “they had made this hall,” continued Coralm, “never to be finished, with alcoves left open all the way until the end of time. But lords and ministers being what they are, it was filled up almost two centuries ago. See, look there, some are newer than others. Less prominent figures have been replaced over the centuries by those deemed more glorious or at least, closer to memory. Now there is only a single empty alcove near the front. Remember this Polena, these People do love their past, do cherish it. But now, as always, at their hearts they have only ever been People. Just humans like us and quite as frail.”

She did not need to be told this, but Coralm spoke to her so rarely that the memory stuck with her. It puzzled her that he should speak so now.

“Don't look too openly, but your Flinish companion is watching the procession. Above, by King Shehi's ear.”

Polena looked sidelong as they walked. There were halls about ten feet above them to their left or right concealed by the wall. You could only see into the Way of Honored Forefathers from behind the statues through small gaps left deliberately for those who wished to watch a procession more modestly. Tavya was close by an ancient Fiedjan Poet King, peering down on Polena with a smile. She was clearly excited for this council, but the nature of her excitement unnerved Polena. It was the look of a duelist, a skilled and clever face that relished the promise of violence. The Kight Luminary took Polena's shoulder to keep her from looking fully up.

“Do not look too long. Listen closely to me, there is one other thing. You may not be able to win this point with the Djaught.”

“I know that, Comae, but at least I should try.”

“No, that is not what I mean. I mean that there may not be time before war becomes inevitable.”

“That will be a sad day for Free Westa.”

“No again,” replied Coralm, and leaning to her ear he whispered, “I mean a war between Fiedjan and the People's Alliance of Creace. War between West and East.” Polena stumbled and then stopped. The thought of a war like that was ludicrous, she had explained to Coralm all the reasons why herself. The distance was too far, there were too many countries in between them, the nations simply could not be at war. Unless the Fortress were to fall and Flin were to set itself with the Proper. But for that to happen would require so great of faith or so great of treachery as to fit a legend. Yet, it was Coralm's certainty that convinced her. It was as certain of words as if he had said “there will be a dawn tomorrow.” But that certainty gave way suddenly to fear. Coralm's face was filled with it as his eyes darted up above her.

“Down!” he tried to shout, but the clank of crossbow being fired beat his words.

[to be continued...]
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16 January 2013

Keeping the Fire: Day Above, Night Below


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╩      16     ╩

It was a full hour before dawn when Coralm knocked on her door. Polena was up already, writing a letter to her daughter by the light of a lantern, but the suddenness of his knock still startled her. As she let him in, Coralm paced the periphery of the room, came up slowly to the side of the balcony door, and threw it open as if expecting someone to be waiting on the small perch. All that awaited was the pink and lavender clouds heralding a dawn that had broken behind the peaks but was yet hidden from the Fortress and the sleeping Dehali valley below.

“Are you finished Comae? Would you like to tell me what worries you?” said Polena, trying to sound annoyed but having more fright in her voice than she wished. Coralm, turned to her, his face stoic but his eyes possessed of a hidden rage. So vexed had he been, that it was as if he thought Polena had come into his room unannounced and he had only just noticed her. He took in breath, stopped, and calmed himself, letting his shoulders drop.

“We cannot go to the king's council after the festival today.”

“No, we have to go.”

“We cannot and we will not. I have made a decision Luminary.”

“Sir Coralm,” Polena returned, respecting his rank but unwilling to let the point go, “I have spent days preparing for this, the People have spent centuries growing the faith, and the Free Westins have waited almost a millennium to be out from under Westa Proper's heel. I will not let you disappoint all of us,” her poise seemed to catch him off guard and he unintentionally made full eye contact. There was fear in his eyes, Polena saw it. That was what the guise of rage and action hid.

“We cannot. We must not,” replied Coralm, carefully re-dawning his cold affect like it were a winter coat, and then, before she could protest. “You can write a defense of the facts. But I have reason to believe that it is not safe for us to go.”

“If I write a defense it will simply be ignored. These People care only for the spoken word Comae, they care for someone's presence. We will present facts in absentia and they will say: 'why should it not be true that Djasho lived two hundred years and foretold the future?' That is the kind of questions these People ask.” As she heard Tavya's words come out of her mouth Polena inwardly cringed. Coralm's eyes stayed with Polena's a moment, then drifted about the room as if in thought. They stopped on her writing lectern and Polena reflexively stepped in front of it.

“Who are you writing at this hour?” he asked, his voice direct, without any hint of it's intent.

“My daughter.”

“Truly?” Coralm asked. This time Polena's gaze was tested but she did not look away.

“Sir Luminary, who or what has frightened you so that you would turn even on me, your ally? We have to go to this council. If it is too dangerous for you to go, then send me. If I must stay then let me write the arguments for you. Why give everything up now? We can't let the Fortress be forced into a foolish war like this, we can't let the Domineerists of Fiedjan take control –“

“We cannot let the Djaught best you,” Coralm interrupted.

“Yes,” replied Polena, perhaps with more vigor than she intended. Coralm paused, looking away from her. His countenance was that of a hawk, not hunting, but perched. It was peering, far seeing, but without focus.

“You are under Flin's arm,” he said, and Polena began to speak but Coralm cut her off. “I have proof you have met with them. Polena, I have been at this post for twenty years. It is almost half of my life. I began it as an aid. My three previous Comaes were all killed. One by bad medicines, one by an angry prostitute, one by a hunting accident, but all three were truly killed by assassin. I have tried, for the past eleven years, to gain favor with Free Westa, for I saw their many nations unity in the Free Westin parliament as the only way to stop the endless cycles of waring in this part of the world. Yet, for eleven years I cannot help here. Perhaps I should have looked to Flin.”

“Comae,” Polena began, then, stopping herself, she came to him and put a hand on his arm. “You wanted me to be separate from you, wanted to be certain that others of the Fortress perceived us as opponents, not allies. Well I have given up nothing to Flin. Yes, I have been speaking with them, but isn't that what you wanted? We have two fronts now, you the Free Westin and I the Flinish. We must attend this council. You have already planned for this.”

“You lied to me.”

“And you didn't?” replied Polena, unable to keep from raising her voice, “Oh yes, Knight Luminary, you never told me a lie, but you didn't tell me much of anything. You have lied by omission as I have lied by necessity. We have both gained from our lies and I thought as a diplomat you would understand a transaction like that. We are both working for the People here! You gave me nothing with which to work so I took matters into my own hands and the result is that we have all the tools we need to win this day! We can stop this war. Wither your chess player's wits now? ”

“One does not stop a war Polena, only delay it.” Coralm said. He took her hand from his shoulder and stepped towards the door. Listening at it, he turned back to her. “There will always be another war. There will always be casualties no matter how clean the victory or noble the fight. Remember that. We will go today, both of us, but I cannot be responsible for what Stone-Hearted Fate intends.”

“I understand,” Polena replied, feeling sobered almost to the point of melancholy.

“And also understand that if you are not here to do so, I will not write a letter to that little girl in Meeda.” Polena opened her mouth but found nothing to say.

“Our choice is made Comae,” the Knight Luminary said, “Let us hope your argument is as vivid in the council as it is in this room.” Then he left her.

From outside, the first winds of dawn buffeted the shuttered door and Polena found herself forced to look back at it as if certain someone watched from beyond. She tried to go back to writing, but every time the wind rose up it shook her as surely as that balcony door. At long last, she threw it open in frustration. Outside the sun had dawned, but the peaks of the mountains cast a great shadow. By the distant glowing of lanterns in village windows she could see that for all the light of dawn in the Fortress, in the valley below it was still night.
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