Chapter X: Goodbye
Jessar awoke with a start. A peculiar cold green light was coming from the direction of the latrine, but that was not what had awakened him.
“Lynx!” came the urgent female whisper again, almost lost in the still fiercely blowing wind. “Arise, we must defend ourselves. Quietly!”
The half-elf extracted himself from his bedroll and strapped his sword to his side. By the time he crawled from his tent, he heard muffled groans from his friends’ tents. Soon they all stood beside the dying embers of their campfire, swept by the strong winds. Wait, how could the wind – where was the sheltering rock?
“How careless! That was no boulder; it was a glow worm,” Ogador said in exasperation.
“Who would have guessed it here in Galbard? Where could it have come from?” Stefir wondered.
Sabretha shssh’d them, whispering, “Silence. We are upwind, and their skins are sensitive to vibrations and noise of any kind.”
As if to prove her point, the thirty foot long glowing worm folded itself about six feet back from its open maw, raising its head and pivoting it in the travelers’ direction. The eerie green glow was sufficient to illuminate the creature’s ugly head. Six tiny compound eyes bulged like ebony spheres in two triangular arrays above and to either side of a sphincter-like mouth. Inward-slanted, dagger-shaped teeth in three layers ringed the inside of this ichor-dripping maw, large enough to swallow two men whole. The worm was about six feet in diameter and comprised of two-feet-wide segments visible only when the creature compressed itself lengthwise to move.
The worm commenced a slow accordion-like crawl toward the travelers, keeping its erect head focused in their direction like a sunflower to the sun.
“We should run away. We can gather most of our belongings before it can get to us, and there’s no way it can keep up with us.”
“No, kill it! I require its ichor for the spell to identify Jessar’s patron star,” Stefir said excitedly.
Ogador, who had already adopted a defensive stance, stood straight, dropped his sword point to his side, and turned in disbelief back toward the wizard. “What about you, Stefir? Can’t you use a spell on it, paralyze it or something? Aren’t you going to help at all?”
“No, the glow worm is one of the few species that is immune to magical affects targeted at it.”
“Great! Anything else that you want to tell us about this creature before it’s on us?”
Sabretha shouted, “It can transform itself back to stone at any time, that’s why it’s crazy to attack. I’ve always run away when one of them found me before.”
The chronologist tapped his staff against the ground in time with his voice. “No, I must have the glow worm’s slime! Attack it.”
“That’s easy for you to say. All right then, I’ve been anxious for a fight, anyway. Come on, Jessar, let’s get it.” Ogador rushed toward the lumbering worm, sword raised high over his head in both hands.
The Lynx ran after the prince, Sabretha right behind him. “Get him!” Jessar shouted as he watched Ogador commence a chopping blow that would have gutted a bear.
The worm, however, enacted its peculiar defense, transforming itself into stone almost instantly. Like a sponge, the worm’s earthen body absorbed the last traces of the glowing green slime and became, momentarily, a statue frozen in its former posture, its sphinctered head ready to thrust at the prince.
As for Ogador’s blow, it landed on the stone head midway between where the creature’s eyes had been. Sparks showered away, leaving only the barest trace of a mark from the governor’s sword. Ogador, who had been expecting his sword to continue deep into the worm’s soft flesh, looked as overbalanced as someone who reaches the bottom of a staircase unexpectedly, and he stumbled forward. Clearly, his muscles also hadn’t expected the sudden resistance, and the prince shook his head as if to ward away the bone-jarring aftermath.
“Weren’t you listening to me, Ogador? I warned you about that.”
“Well, how do you fight it then?” the prince asked just as the annelid returned to animation, snapping its head forward and opening its maw. The teeth projected out and forward as the creature’s interior lip rolled over the muscled mouth. Ogador leaped aside just in time as the head jerked to a stop only knuckles away from the prince’s cheek.
The Lynx drew his own short sword and charged in, striking at what would be the creature’s neck. “The thing can strike like a snake even if it does crawl as slow as a turtle.” Once again, just before his blade struck, the worm turned to rock. The resulting clang against the stone jarred the very teeth in his skull.
The Valkara took position on the other side of the prince from Jessar, and the Lynx could see her eyes roll in disgust as the green glow faded with the ebbing slime. “Why are males so slow to learn? You two can continue hammering rock if you want, but I’m not wasting my effort.”
She placed the edge of the Flame Brand a knuckle away from the worm’s underbody and waited. Soon, the worm returned to the flesh. Sabretha, exhibiting impressive reflexes, sliced her sword swiftly, lopping off a sliver of worm meat that fell to the ground quivering. From somewhere within the gullet of the creature, a trumpeting, oscillating bellow sounded, and the worm rose higher, tossing its head from side to side.
Ogador nodded appreciatively. “Well done, Sabretha. All right, Jessar, swing at him again.”
Jessar complied with an upswing at the worm’s wound. Again the annelid transformed and his sword bounced off the rock-like skin. The prince positioned the point of his sword for a thrust deep into the creature.
“No—“ Sabretha began, but too late. The creature came back to life, and the prince simultaneously plunged his blade upward through the underside. Before the blade penetrated half a foot, however, the worm transmuted back to rock, clenching the blade like a vise.
“What in the Pits?” Ogador pulled at his blade in vain, trying to extract it from the stone worm.
The Valkara rolled her eyes again. “You’re as dense as the rock is. You’ll have to do it in quick slices.” She positioned her sword for a slice again. “Now, get—“
The prince let go of his sword to put his hands on his hips. “Now listen, Sabretha, it’ll take all night the way you—“
Again the worm returned to life, drawing Ogador’s blade out of reach. The solowen managed to carve off another chunk of the worm, however.
“Well, do you have a better idea?”
The prince watched his sword, waiting for a chance to grab its hilt and retrieve it. “No,” he admitted. He turned to the wizard, who sat by the fire pit, watching intently. “You don’t have to rub it in, Stefir. How does anyone fight these things?”
“It is very difficult since they sense movement through vibrations in the ground.”
The Lynx swung at the worm again, giving the Valkara another opportunity to take off another slice. “Of course. Does that mean missile weapons are effective?”
“Yes,” Stefir smiled. “I have never actually seen one up close, and I certainly have not fought one, but that is my understanding.”
“Wait, you mean your spell requires a reagent you’ve never used? How can that be? How can you know you need something you’ve never tried before? Are all wizards idiots or is it just you?”
Sabretha chopped off another piece of the worm, which now oozed a viscous brown fluid from its four wounds, including the hole from Ogador’s blade.
“Ogador, before you talk about idiots, let me remind you how undignified you look right now, jumping and trying to grab your sword hilt where it sticks within the worm. Also, I never said I had not used the glow worm’s slime before, just that I had never fought one.”
“Then how did you get the stuff?”
“From the Wesari, of course. They have herds of these creatures.”
“I just don’t think my sling bullets will have much effect on this thing, and that’s the only missile weapons we have.”
“Probably more than you’re having now,” Sabretha pointed out.
Ogador stopped trying to recover his sword and extracted his sling and a few bullets from one of his pockets. Meanwhile, the worm lunged at Jessar, but missed.
Somewhat pleased with himself for dodging the worm, Jessar turned to smile at Sabretha. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the annelid rearing back much further than before.
“Jessar, look out!” Sabretha yelled, shoving the Lynx to the side. Somewhere deep within his conscience, the fact that she had used his given name for only the second time registered, but more pressing at the moment was the glob of spittle rocketing from the worm’s mouth. The foaming mass barely missed his left arm as he fell from the force of the Valkara’s shove.
He hit the ground, rolled, and turned as he heard Ogador yell, “Sabretha, by the Creator, what’s happening?”
Looking at the Valkara’s Galbardian gardening tunic, Jessar saw that the spittle had landed squarely along her right side, where it had begun to bubble violently. The garment had tendrils of smoke rising from it.
For the first time, Sabretha actually looked frightened, surveying herself for any other signs of the foaming solvent.
The wizard had leaped up and approached the solowen with a look of concern. “The worm’s spittle is highly corrosive to any organic material, especially skin or clothing. Sabretha, you must run to the creek immediately and remove your clothing.”
She sheathed her sword and dashed off in the direction the wizard indicated. “Wash yourself thoroughly, including your hair!”
“Jessar, pay attention,” Stefir commanded. “The worm may spit again at any moment.”
The Lynx ceased watching the retreating Valkara and turned back to the worm. Ogador had not been inactive. The prince let fly a bullet from his sling, and the lead stone flew in an arc to land with a sickening thud on one of the beast’s six eyes. The bulbous sphere ruptured, releasing a sickly white humor that flowed down the worm’s head in rivulets. Again the trumpeting call rang forth and the worm swayed in agony from side to side.
“Excellent, Ogador. You got his attention that time.”
Stefir shook his head. “Even if you blind him, the worm will still sense your sword attacks, and your sling will not kill it.”
Reloading his sling, the prince lashed back, “Stefir, in case you hadn’t noticed, we are at least trying. Now that Sabretha’s gone, we can’t hack the thing to pieces any more until I can get my own blade back. How in the Furnace do the Wesari control these things anyway?”
“Why with their heart ropes, of course.”
“Huh?” Jessar asked, striking the beast with his sword just to stop the thing from wailing.
“The nomads run a rope through a hole in the worm’s back when it first hatches from the egg and attach it to the creature’s heart. By tugging the rope, they can steer or halt the creature. Through the pain of it, they can, to a degree, train the worm.”
The prince let fly another stone, but the creature lurched at the last moment, and the bullet flew harmlessly past.
“I saw a bit of rope on top of the rock last evening,” Jessar reported.
“Yes, I believe this worm may have been domesticated at one time.”
The Lynx had an idea. “Okay. So if you can tug on this rope, you can make it stop?”
“If you could pull the rope hard enough, you would kill it out right. But that is only of academic interest, Jessar, for you cannot touch the worm or it will secrete the same kind of phlegm that just sent the Valkara racing to the stream.”
“If I’m lucky, I won’t have to,” Jessar shouted. He handed his short sword to Ogador and strode to a nearby walnut trunk. “Keep the worm busy, Ogador.”
The prince smiled. “I think I know what you have in mind.” While Jessar climbed the tree, the governor alternately peppered the worm with sword blows and sling bullets, twice dodging spitting attacks.
Selecting a branch that angled down to the proper height, the Lynx carefully walked along the branch, thanking Arien the whole while for his elven sense of balance. As he took position as far out along the branch as he dared given the thickness of the limb, he waited patiently. Ogador almost had the worm in position directly below Jessar. The Lynx could see the frayed end of a rope emerging from the worm’s back just a few feet behind its head.
He lay flat on the branch, straddling it in readiness. “Just a little higher and then hit him with the sword.”
Ogador got the beast to rear up to avoid a sling bullet and then swatted it with Jessar’s sword. As expected, the worm turned to stone, and the Lynx lunged for the rope. He grasped it, finding it coated in a sticky compound, just as the annelid transformed back to living tissue. The worm lunged at Ogador again, jerking Jessar’s arm to its full length. Still the creature pulled, and Jessar had only the briefest moment to decide whether to let go the rope and miss the chance or release the limb. He did the latter, wondering how he’d pull the rope now.
“Jessar, the phlegm!” Stefir reminded the Lynx in mid-air.
He fell onto the back of the worm, which felt like a stuffed mattress. Almost immediately, he heard the same sizzling noise Sabretha’s tunic had made earlier as it dissolved under the worm’s spittle. With only half a foot worth of rope to grasp, he found it difficult to get both hands on the frayed hemp and pull hard enough. The worm had already felt the tug as it jerked Jessar out of the tree, and it seemed determined not to let him get a good tug again.
Seeing the familiar tendrils of smoke and smelling the corrosive odor, Jessar finally got to his knees, with one on either side of the rope hole. With the pressure on his knees, his breeches dissolved particularly fast. He began to feel a tingling on his knees, and he knew time was running out. The sticky substance actually helped his grip, and he finally got the leverage he needed to give the line a jerk.
An even louder trumpeting call ensued, and the worm thrashed about even more severely, sensing its very life being tugged away. The tingling transformed into burning, and the Lynx winced at the pain. Finally, just as he thought he’d have to let go from his own pain, the worm’s cry turned to a gurgle, and it collapsed to the ground motionless. The ten foot drop of the worm’s back jarred Jessar off, and he fell in his own heap, moaning from the pain.
“Jessar, your tunic, quick,” Stefir encouraged, fetching a pot of water sitting beside the fire pit.
The Lynx needed little encouragement and soon stood wearing only his underwear.
“It looks as if the humor affected only your knees. There was nowhere else it dissolved through, correct?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Good. Are your hands sticky?”
“Yes. Look, Stefir, my knees are on fire. Can we get on with this?” The Lynx bobbed impatiently.
“That stickiness is from a compound the Wesari use to prevent the worm’s acid from consuming the heart rope. Rub your hands on your knees; it should stop the pain.”
Jessar bent to comply, and, sure enough, the pain began to fade. Still, his knees looked as if they’d been burned. Stefir sloshed some water from the pot onto the Lynx’s knees, producing a soothing cold sensation. Extracting some cloths from one of his pockets, Stefir said, “Let your knees dry, Jessar, and then bind them in these. Fortunately, the thick gardening breeches delayed the corrosive from attacking you any sooner. A few days and your knees should be just fine. Now, I will see how Sabretha is doing.”
From experience, Jessar knew she had no underclothes. And worse, once she finished washing, she would walk back to the camp unabashedly nude. “No, Stefir, I can do that” he said, a little too enthusiastically.
The wizard grinned knowingly.
“I mean, I need to wash this stuff off my hands, and she’ll need something to wear.”
“Her Valkara’s clothing is obviously not an option while we are in Galbard, so go get one of the cloaks Ogador and I had from my pack. Meanwhile, I shall collect the glowing slime for my spell.”
Fetching the cloak, the Lynx headed for the creek. Although the wind should help mask his approach, he walked quietly. Part of him was ashamed at wanting to catch her unawares, but perhaps because things looked so hopeless between he and Sabretha in the wake of his cruel comment departing Silarom, he desired more than anything to catch her bathing in the bright light of the half moon. By the time he got to the creek, Sabretha was already on the bank, wringing the water from her hair. Knowing she couldn’t see him with her head bent to the side, he paused a moment to stare at her loveliness.
“Hello, Lynx.”
Jessar started. He cursed himself for forgetting her keen solowen hearing. “Sorry to disturb you.”
“Is that why you were creeping up on me?”
“No,” he stammered.
She straightened, and her breasts protruded with the pertness of a human maiden. The moonlight overhead cast a glint on the moisture clinging there, and their rigid tips belied the coolness of the night. “Very well, then, Lynx.”
Jessar gulped and forced himself to look only at her eyes. He could think of nothing to say and struggled even to remember why he’d come in the first place.
Sabretha glanced at the cloak draped on his arm. “Did you come to bring me that?”
He nodded.
“I’m sure the wizard wouldn’t want me to wear my Valkara’s clothing yet, come to think of it,” she said almost to herself, fingernail in her teeth. “Lynx, can you check my skin and make sure I haven’t missed scrubbing away any of the spittle?”
He nodded again, and part of him was thankful for the excuse to stare at her statuesque form yet again.
“Closer. I don’t want any scars from something I missed. I’ll turn around; I’m fairly sure I didn’t miss anything on my front.” She spun around, grasped her hair and pulled it over the front of her shoulder.
He had never seen this aspect of her and found her figure just as pleasing viewed from behind.
“Okay, Sabretha. You look fine, very fine,” he muttered in embarrassment.
“Lynx, you’d spend more time inspecting one of your flowers than that. Now I don’t want any scars, so please check carefully.”
He scanned her beautiful form slowly, almost burning with the pleasure of it. Once his eyes had reached her sculpted calves, he reversed his survey, tilting his head to the side to take better advantage of the moonlight. When he did so, he noticed something just below the right cheek of her perfect derriere. Kneeling, he looked closer and found that it was a scar, but it looked like a tiny rendering of something, a horse perhaps. Without thinking, he reached out and touched it with his forefinger.
Every muscle in her body went instantly rigid, and then she shivered reflexively. It lasted for only the briefest moment, however, as Jessar sprang away, falling on his rear to the ground.
“Don’t touch me!”
“Sorry, Sabretha, it’s just that I noticed a mark, a horse or something.”
As Jessar looked up, she turned to face him, and Jessar was in the uncomfortable position of sitting only two feet in front of the nude solowen, herself standing with her feet perhaps a foot apart.
Regaining her composure somewhat, she said, “Yes, I should have warned you about that, I suppose, but at least I know you looked carefully. Did you find anything?”
“Yes,” he blurted. “I mean, no – just the horse. What is it?”
“It is a brand, a unicorn. I can say no more at the moment. Perhaps later.”
“Okay, any time,” he said, unable to avoid allowing his eyes to take in her charms.
“Okay, you can quit inspecting me now. I’m satisfied.”
“Yes,” he mumbled, drawing himself clumsily to his feet while trying to keep the cloak out of the mud on the bank.
Her attention drawn to the garment again, she said, “Thanks. I suppose I’m ready for the cloak then.” She held out a hand.
He thrust the garment at her. It was only then, as the cloak left the front of his body, that he realized how prominently his body was betraying his thoughts.
The Valkara glanced down at his underwear and commented clinically, “It seems you may be more in need of this than am I.” She took it nevertheless, and in one quick motion slipped it over her extended arms and body.
He shook his head and adjusted his bloomers so his problem was a little less pronounced. “Thanks for your help back there,” he glanced toward the campsite. “I had no idea that they could spit like that. I might have been maimed.”
“You’d be dead if the creature hit where it usually aims, square in the face.”
“Yes, thanks indeed. As it is, only my knees have been damaged.”
Sabretha, apparently for the first time, glanced down at his knees. “Oh, look at your knees. And here I’ve been concerned with a blemish on my own skin.” She seemed also to notice the bandages he carried in his right hand. “Here, let me dress those burns.”
She took the bandages and knelt before him. She wrapped them around his knees so carefully he wondered how hands that were strong enough to wield a sword could be so gentle.
When she finished, she smiled and looked up at him from her kneeling position. It was not a position for a Valkara, and he reached down to offer her his hand. She grasped it and he raised her to stand before him. He held her hand for a moment, and they stood there smiling at each other.
Then the sword maiden’s brow furrowed for the briefest moment and she tugged her hand from his grasp.
“That is the second time you’ve saved me. I hope to return the favor someday.”
“Actually, I saved you at least twice at the tavern, but who’s counting. And I hope you don’t mind if I say I hope you never get the opportunity to save me. I’d much rather we don’t get in any trouble.”
“It seems like ever since you and my other friends arrived, all I’ve had is trouble.”
Sabretha smoothed the cloak over her belly and strapped on her sword. “True enough. We’d better head back to the camp. I don’t want the chill to bring you a fever; it has already made you stiff,” she giggled.
When they returned to the campsite, Ogador looked up from starting a fire again, “It took you long enough.”
Stefir came over from the body of the worm, carrying a metal flask. “Good, I now have everything I need for my spell except the pneumium star I will commission in Plasis and Bordana pollen.”
“Stefir, I told you I don’t have any pollen—“
The prince suddenly stood and whirled on the wizard. “Woah, wait a minute here. I just figured it out: You knew all along, Stefir.”
The wizard’s lips compressed into a tight line, and he glanced from side-to-side. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
The governor strode to stand directly in front of the wizard. “You give yourself away with your shifty look, Wizard. You know what I’m talking about. You knew it was a glow worm.”
The chronologist stamped his staff onto the grass. “Perhaps, but what does it matter? It took no special mental prowess to derive that a boulder as large as the one by our campfire last night was a resting giant glow worm. After all, there have been no such stone formations so far. If the rock’s shape didn’t give it away, the rope fragment should have. Of course I knew, as should you, Ogador.”
The prince fell silent, looking into the fire.
Sabretha, however, wasn’t satisfied. “What? You knew it was a glow worm?”
“Yes, yes, I said it did I not?”
“We’re lucky the worm headed for the latrine first instead of our beds. You put our lives at risk for that?” she asked, gesturing at the wizard’s vial.
“Well, I do not believe our lives were ever at risk.”
“Yours certainly never was. Ogador there,” she nodded in the prince’s direction, “almost got swallowed. And look at the Lynx’s knees! And I wouldn’t be surprised if…. Lynx turn around.”
Jessar complied, and Sabretha groaned.
“Yes, see! He opened his wound again; it’s bleeding. That’s what your worm has earned us.”
“You tell him, Sabretha!” Ogador encouraged, unaccustomed to her support.
“Prince, it was your idiotic sword thrust that prompted the worm to spit at the Lynx. I might have been scarred trying to save him!”
“Woah! Now there’s the wheat among the chaff. I can get killed, Jessar burned, but we can’t have you getting scarred, can we?”
Stefir, recovering from his surprise at the Valkara’s uncharacteristic attack, agreed. “Besides, Sabretha, you are a solowen. I do not believe the worm’s corrosive would leave a permanent scar on you.”
The sword maiden crossed her arms and pouted. Ignoring the prince and wizard, she turned to Jessar. “Lynx, your wound must be bound again, so when you are finished with these – these males, you can come to my bedroll for another treatment.” She stormed off, grasped her bedroll, and dragged it further from the campfire before flinging herself to the ground.
“Woah. What did you do to get her so sparked up, Jessar?”
“Nothing that I know of,” he said, feeling a little astonished at the whole episode.
Stefir put the flask into one of his pockets and tossed another cloak to Jessar. “Better put this on, Jessar, or you may catch cold or worse.”
“Funny, she said something similar back at the creek.”
“Well, then why is she the one with the cloak? She wouldn’t have hurt my sensibilities if she’d have let you wear it and she came back naked.”
Stefir shook his head in disgust. “No, I do not suppose she would. In fact, I am convinced you have no sensibilities to hurt.”
Sensing another impending verbal volley, Jessar interjected, “I think the only reason she took the cloak is because she was self conscious about a brand I found on her derriere.”
The prince clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “All right, Jessar! I won’t ask how you came to find it.”
The Lynx shrugged off the prince’s hand. “Look, it wasn’t like that, Ogador. I found it when she asked me to check her body for any lingering remains of the worm’s saliva.”
“Jessar, you heard me say that the worm’s spittle was unlikely to leave a scar. Elves, and certainly solowen are extremely resistant to permanent scarring. Only the most grievous and untreated wounds leave scars. Besides, even if she had not scrubbed off any remnants while bathing, the dilution from the stream would have prevented any further damage.”
Jessar scratched his head. “Why would she have me look then? She even turned around and insisted that I look harder when I didn’t find the brand the first time.”
“Who knows why females do anything? My guess is she wanted your attention,” Ogador said.
“But she hates me.”
“Jessar, she should hate you after that remark back in your gardens. Nevertheless, she does not. Also, she is certainly self-conscious of her appearance. If you will recall, she wanted a mirror to see how she looked in the Galbardian outfit, she complains about wearing a cloak, and now she is worried about scars. She may be the most masterful swordstress of all times, but she has the vanity of a female.”
“But not the modesty,” the Lynx observed.
Stefir sat on a log by the campfire. “Come warm yourself, Jessar, while you think about this: How lonely do you think she must feel? She has had no family for this entire age. She is a virgin. She almost killed a man for kissing her hand. How many times do you think she has had someone tell her how lovely she looks?”
“Thousands, I’m sure,” Ogador insisted.
“Yes, but not from anyone saying it in a caring rather than lustful way.”
“You may have something there, Stefir,” Ogador acknowledged. “Still, most females want a strong male who takes what he loves.”
“It is no wonder you have no companion,” the wizard sighed.
“You’ll notice I said ‘love,’ Wizard. I’m not talking about lust.”
“Do you know the difference?”
“I do,” Jessar said to cut them off. “Look, what was the brand?”
“Was it a unicorn, and was it on the top rear of her right thigh?”
“Yes, how did you know?” Jessar asked suspiciously.
Ogador shot Jessar a don’t-push-it-I’ll-tell-you-later look, and Stefir simply stared into the fire. After a long while, the wizard said, “That is the sign of the Valkar, Jessar. As a mark of sisterhood, they adopted that symbol early in the age. It is high enough that the hem of their short skirts conceals it, yet they may use it as a symbol of recognition among themselves when necessary. They keep it secret from the rest of Talan, so keep it to yourself.”
The Lynx wanted to ask Stefir how the wizard knew about it, but Ogador shook his head. “Thanks, Stefir. Look, I think I’ll go get my wound bandaged.”
“A wise move, although it is barely bleeding and not as bad as Sabretha makes it out to be. We had all better get some more sleep. Although we can start late tomorrow morning, we do not know what may await us before leaving this country.”
The Lynx went to the Valkara’s bedroll. “Sabretha, I’m ready for the treatment again.”
“I think it best if I bandage your wound and hold off on the spearmint until the bleeding has stopped.” She applied the familiar bandage around his waist. For the last four days, he hadn’t needed it.
“Thanks. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
“You’d do fine, I think. Sometimes I wonder if the ranger knows what he’s talking about. I’m not sure that you wouldn’t have healed just fine without the treatments.”
“I don’t think so,” Jessar lied. In the past nine days, his wound had closed, until tonight anyway, but that was hardly remarkable for a half-elf.
“You’d better get some sleep, Lynx.”
Jessar looked at the Valkara, kneeling there on her blankets. She did look lonely and so – lovely. He remembered Stefir’s words. “Sabretha?”
“Yes?”
“You are beautiful.”
She sprang to her feet. “Lynx, that’s not funny. You’re as bad as your friends. I can’t help it that I have to wear this ugly cloak. Now, leave. Go to your tent!”
Confused, Jessar hiked back to his tent, stripped off his own cloak, and flung himself onto his own blankets, groaning in pain from the pressure on his wound. Despite how hard he tried to understand her behavior, he just couldn’t figure it out. He finally fell asleep, remembering how lonely she looked.
Much later, he finally awoke, but only from some sharp noise. Looking out the flap of the tent, he saw the sun hanging about two hours above the horizon. The wind had died down to a gentle breeze. On a stump by the fire sat hot breakfast and more tea. Sabretha was nowhere in sight, although her bedroll was tied in a neat bundle atop her horse.
His back to Jessar, Ogador stood outside the tent by the fire’s remains. Steam rose in heavy billows from the coals.
POP! Again, Jessar heard the noise that had awakened him. Ogador stood before the fire, sloshing more water from a skin onto the stubborn fire. As the sheet of water struck the coals, the fire bellowed its rage in a sizzling report, which quickly faded to a challenging hiss.
Jessar shrugged off his blankets and crawled out of the tent. Stefir yawned hugely inside his open tent as the Lynx joined the prince at the fire pit.
Ogador tossed another dose of water on the fire, with the same resounding result. “You’re wasting water, Ogador, and making a mess.” Jessar’s eyes followed the cloud of erupting ashes. The soot and steam floated on the wind toward Stefir’s tent, where the damp residue settled on the sleeping wizard’s head and blanket.
The chronologist wiggled his nose, coughed, sat up suddenly, and directed a withering stare at Ogador.
The prince, obviously ignoring the wizard, sent another fount onto the coals. “Actually, I’m not wasting water. If you’ll remember, there’s the small creek you used last night. In fact, Sabretha is in the bathing hole again.”
Jessar suddenly noticed that Ogador’s hair was wet. Knowing the Valkara’s lack of modesty, he glanced uneasily in the direction the governor had indicated and then back at his friend. He heard the beautiful solowen’s voice dancing in a barely audible but indistinguishable tune that seemed to harmonize with the stream’s own chattering song of flow.
Ogador laughed. “Don’t worry, Jessar. She didn’t go down there until I finished bathing. As you can see,” he pointed to the pans beside the fire, “I’ve done quite a few things in the time since sunrise. As for my extinguishing the fire, well, I needed some way to wake my lazy partners.” Ogador nodded in the direction of the wizard, who struggled out of the tent.
“A simple ‘Good morning’ would have sufficed,” the chronologist said in irritation.
“Perhaps,” Ogador admitted.
“You have had your own sleepy mornings, Ogador. In fact, I remember the balance beam tilting in your direction only a few days ago at Maili’s. It seems that Silentwing had to awaken you then.”
As if on queue, the owl fluttered to Stefir, who smoothed the bird’s wing feathers.
The governor cast an evil glance at the wizard. “Yes, and my ear is still sore where he nipped me. If I didn’t know the bird was acting at your command, he probably wouldn’t be sitting on your shoulder now. Tomorrow, by the way, why don’t you ask him to bring us something for the pan?”
“Hopefully, we will be dining by the river tomorrow. Besides, Silentwing is his own bird. I would not stoop to asking the proud avian to fetch game for your larder.”
Ogador dumped the rest of the skin-full of water on the fire, targeting the wizard with a shower of ashes. “Oh, I see. It’s beneath your bird, but it is appropriate for the heir prince of West-realm to scurry through the brush to drop your next meal?”
The wizard pinched a bit of the dust from his cloak and placed it in the palm of his hand. He said, “Vu ledrir kluro vami kiposien, bekron ishlom analon edrosien ,” which Jessar mentally translated, ‘I command all like matter, now before me to gather.’
Then he clapped his hands smartly, saying “Lavek idron,” and the gray powdery ashes sprang from his cloak and coalesced into a tight sphere in the narrow gap between his hands.
Using the same push spell he’d used the day they’d regressed to the Observatory, the wizard intoned, “Kaluth kubro pavor batir ishma gamoraron ralir,” which Jessar again translated as, ‘On object shown my force bestow.’
With his right hand, he traced an aerial arc, saying, “Lavek idron” again. The damp ball followed the motion of the wizard’s hand, ending up in a disgusting crunch, right in the middle of Ogador’s chest. “I never said that, but…." the chronologist shirked suggestively.
Try as he might, Ogador could not get the ashes off his tunic. Instead, his efforts merely grinded them further into the black fabric. Whirling away with an I’ll-get-you-for-this look, the prince tramped off into the pines. Over his shoulder, he said, “You two would benefit from a bath, too. I grow tired of vying for an upwind position on our little journey.”
Jessar raised his arm and sniffed, looking at Stefir interrogatively. “Are we really that bad?”
The Valkara picked that moment to return, her hair mysteriously dry and, as ever, combed in its straight perfection. “Yes. I’m glad I don’t have to spend the entire day with you.”
“Thanks,” Jessar muttered.
“Sabretha, you might wish to reconsider riding with us today. The gypsies will be amassed in their tent city, penned against the border. It is possible we may encounter some resistance as we depart Galbard.”
The Valkara nodded. “I see.”
“It may not be safe,” Jessar said.
“I suppose you may need my help again then. Fine, I’ll join you, but for today only.”
“We shall see,” Stefir remarked cryptically.
“Well, I’ll take your word for it that I need a bath, but the only thing I smell right now is the food.” Jessar surveyed the prince’s breakfast. One pan held a quartered, blackened rabbit. The Lynx licked his lips. “You know, this was nice of him.”
Stefir surprised Jessar with a quiet “yes” as the former forked a quarter of rabbit onto a piece of hard bread. The wizard seemed to realize what he’d said and looked over his shoulder through the bird’s legs at Jessar. “If you tell him I said that—“
“I know, you’ll hinge my elbow backwards.”
Stefir paused a moment. “I never thought of that one before. I wonder….” and shredded a piece of rabbit for Silentwing.
Ogador soon returned and shared a leisurely breakfast. They debated about the best way to slip through the city without being recognized. In the end, they decided to resort to the long cloaks Ogador and Stefir had used in Silarom, especially since Sabretha no longer possessed a Galbardian costume. The hoods would, of course, be conspicuous, but Jessar argued their use preferable to being recognized as the Lynx and company.
The matter settled, he headed toward the stream. Depositing the cloak on the bank, he eased into the water, which still suffered the chill of a winter not long past. He stripped down, wrung out his clothes, and flung them onto a nearby bush to dry.
Immersed to his neck in the clear chilling water, he felt a small tug at his nipple. Looking down, he saw a perch darting about, and swatted at the playful fish.
His mind drifted. Not too long ago the fish had shared these waters with Sabretha, and last night, he’d stood just over there with her.
A voice from the bank interrupted his thoughts. “The prince and Sabretha are striking camp.”
Jessar nodded and glanced up at Stefir. The wizard waded in, shivering despite his elven tolerance of temperature extremes.
The Lynx massaged his muscles with a rag. “What’s wrong, Stefir? I didn’t think an elf, especially a half-solon, would notice the chill. Getting a little sensitive to the cold in your old age?”
Stefir blessed Jessar with one of the looks Ogador earned so frequently. “A wizard must be attuned to his environment.” The wizard grinned devilishly. “Using my heightened sensitivity to everything around me, I noticed a certain dreamy cast on your face as I arrived.”
Jessar felt the blood rush to his cheeks and regretted his human tendency for blushing. Why couldn’t he have inherited more of the solon traits?
“About what I thought.” Stefir assumed his irritating tone of self-assurance. “You know, Jessar, these waters drain into the West Veinous, and you may have another female to worry about besides Sabretha.” The wizard had a dastardly smile.
Now what did the wizard mean by that? He decided to ignore Stefir and returned to thinking about the Valkara. The small volume the chronologist had given him discussed the Valkar, of course, but not in the detail Jessar hoped.
He reflected on what he’d read about the mysterious wandering half-solowen. The Valkar were once more numerous, though never plentiful. In the youth of the Age of Dooms it was not uncommon to encounter one of the alluringly beautiful females as they roamed the lands. Each of them was an expert in a single weapon or magical discipline. In fact, each Valkara’s specialization was unique, something no other Valkara practiced. And a Valkara’s skill in her chosen arena, legend held, was matched only by her stunning looks.
This very loveliness often brought a Valkara the attention of many males, for it was well known that one could win the love of these alluring females only by defeating them in their chosen field of expertise. So, when one of the more brave or foolish of these suitors pushed themselves upon the Valkara too forcefully, he eventually found himself in a contest of arms or magic, duels that the females won almost without exception. Most males, falling prey to the Valkara’s fatal charm or embarrassed at being bested by a female, over-extended themselves in these frays, usually causing the male’s death or maiming.
The extent of his knowledge wasn’t enough. “Stefir, what can you tell me about the Valkar?”
“Much, but if we are to reach Galvek today, you will have to be more specific.”
“Oh, sorry. I already know the basics, their beauty and prowess and all.” He thought a moment. “Where did they come from, and what happened to them all?”
“Most of your answer is in the book I gave you.”
“Okay, but I’m still struggling with the weight of it all. Humor me?”
“Very well, but you must start learning that book.” Even neck-deep in water, Stefir raised his tutorial finger, though only a fingernail protruded from the water. “You will remember a few days back, we discussed some of the events at the end of the Sacred Age?”
“You mean the Sacred Wars?”
“Partially. Those wars came after the birth of those who were to become the Valkar.”
“Then how—“
“If you will allow me to continue…. Long before these solowen were born, a group of Solon known as the Betrayers lived anonymous lives disguised as elves in the communities of the Learned Elves.”
“And who were they?”
“Jessar, I do not have the time for a complete history of the Sacred Age. Learned Elves, to answer your question, were those elves who lived among the cities of men, sharing their knowledge of craft and magic. Anyway, the Betrayers are the solon and solowen who forsook their promise to honor their star rings, turning in desperation to the narcosists of the Great Desert of Mainon for aid with their eternal problem of infertility.”
“But wasn’t fertility forbidden to the solon?”
“Yes, and they paid the price for seeking to violate the Creator’s edict, as you will see if you will just let me speak. Anyway, even the narcosists were not successful until a third party, the Cult of Vyxana, got involved. In wicked Fertility Rites, priests of the goddess administered the Fertility Crystals the narcosists had smelted from the sands of the inner desert, and solowen mated with elves. The half-solon offspring of these unholy unions favored most the solon.”
“Later, in the general social decay of the times, other solowen learned to use the fertility drug without the aid of the rites, which inevitably maimed and often killed the solowen involved. Nagobrin herself, the solowen who slew Molob the high priest, was such a one, though she later repented and joined the Arien Alliance.”
“As for the offspring themselves: Many fell to the same evils as their mothers. Some of the young solowen, however, joined with other of the solon in a group called the Faithful. Together with the Noble Elves, they formed the Arien Alliance and captured Shalanka, the revered capital of ancient Mirdar, where some of the virginal solowen swore to combat the cult. Becoming experts in weapons or witchcraft, these solowen were the subject of one of the Dooms, the Fate of the Valkar.”
“What about the other half-solon?”
“They fell under whichever of the eight Dooms of the Solon applied to them.”
“Oh. What of the Prophecy and Fulfillment of the Valkar?”
A look of concern crossed the wizard’s brow as he swept his arms animatedly below the surface. “Jessar, you cannot imagine the effort I have put into finding the answer to that question. Though their Fate, to roam the lands until some male defeats their skill at arms or magic, is clear, I know nothing of the Prophecy and Fulfillment. I do not even know what becomes of a Valkara after her champion bests her. If I could learn that, I believe the answer to the other questions would follow.”
The chronologist sank into silence, though the pool still swirled from his exertions. Jessar wondered at his friend’s uncharacteristic passion on the subject of the Valkar, but decided not to press the issue further for the moment.
The wizard seemed to shake off his despondent mood and ducked his head below the surface for so long that Jessar started to get concerned. When Stefir emerged, he had a rascally smile. “What made you ask? Are you thinking of Sabretha?”
Jessar cupped a hand and sent a wave of water at Stefir. “Ogador’s right, you can be a real irritant. Besides, why shouldn’t I think about her? Maybe she’s the one.”
“Meaning what? The prophet indicated you would know many females and that your chosen one would not be your companion. So, do you believe she is one of the many, your companion, or your life’s love?”
Prophecy again. Of the myriad females the prophet had hinted for his future, two would stand out. Would Sabretha be one of these, and if so, which one?
Stefir continued, “I hate to be blunt, Jessar, but you did hear me say that a Valkara must be defeated in her own area of expertise if you wish to win her?”
“Are you saying I couldn’t? Ogador is going to teach me the ways of the sword as soon as I heal sufficiently.”
Stefir arched his eyebrows momentarily. Then he bowed his head, staring intently into the water. “Jessar, I am sorry I have been unable to use my chronologist skills to aid you. With the loss of Bordana, I cannot cast the spell to locate your patron star, so I do not know when I will be able to do much. I have to hope I can locate some of the pollen somewhere. At least I have all of the reagents I need that are hard to obtain. The pneumium star I’ll have crafted in Plasis.”
The wizard waved his hand dismissively. “I distract myself. Believe me when I say this: I understand, better than you can possibly imagine, how much you may think you care for her, and I will not attempt to dissuade you from winning her hand. Remember, however, that this Valkara has lived for this entire age without meeting her match at the long sword.”
The Lynx nodded, wondering when his friend would finally share whatever secret the wizard was concealing. “Thanks, Stefir, but I don’t think you understand. I’m afraid it’s gone beyond me just caring for her. I think I love her, and somehow, I must beat her, the Valkara who has survived an entire age undefeated, though I have yet to even grasp a long sword.”
It was Stefir’s turn to nod. “I feared as much, Jessar. You realize that the final vision on the tapestry – it could well be Sabretha that slays you?”
It was Jessar’s turn to bow his head to peer into the crystalline water. “Yes, Stefir, I know, but I must try.”
“Yes, you must, Jessar,” the wizard said, clapping a hand on the Lynx’s shoulder and smiling. “I once learned an entire school of magic to impress a female. Perhaps some day I will have the opportunity to tell you about it.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
The chronologist turned, striding from the water, and laughed. “Jessar, Sabretha is not the only female you have to worry about. In fact, soon enough, you will find another who is a far more immediate concern for you.”
“What? Who?” the Lynx called after Stefir, but the wizard simply laughed again, donned the nondescript cloak, and headed back to the camp.
Now what was that supposed to mean? As with so many of Stefir’s explanations, this one left Jessar with as many new questions as answers.
When Jessar returned to their camp, Ogador had restored the site to its condition before the travelers’ arrival, just as he’d done every morning. Jessar finally had to ask, “Do you think we’re being followed? Is that why you erase every sign of our visits?”
Stefir sent Silentwing ranging out ahead. “It is something he picked up in the scouts, one of his few good habits.”
“If that’s not like the vulture calling the jackal foul.” Ogador brushed past the wizard, standing on the highway and looking at Stefir expectantly. Finally, he prompted, “Your staff, oh worthless one?”
With a scowl and a brief word, Stefir banished his staff to some private dimension. The magic’s sharp report echoed from the surrounding tree trunks. Next, he rubbed the oil of concealment on the swords of his three friends and passed his palm over the scabbards, sending the weapons into scintillating invisibility.
Sabretha, in one of her silent moods, sat atop her horse and rode several paces ahead of the others. Stefir had returned to the melancholy mood he’d exhibited at the bathing hole when he and the Lynx had discussed the Valkar.
Of course, there was Ogador. Jessar nodded privately to the prince, coaxing him away from Stefir. The Lynx whispered, “Just what is it that you wanted to wait to tell me until later?”
The prince glanced over at the wizard. “Not here, Jessar. It’s deeply personal to the wizard.”
So it would be a quiet hike to Bilaron, apparently.
Less than an hour later, they came to the outlying garden tree homes of the city. Stefir cautioned, “Remember, we need not advertise our presence here any more than we must. Ogador, our accents would draw unwanted attention, so keep your silence, unless someone forces us to speak. Jessar, you will field any questions that may arise. Sabretha, I know this is difficult for you, but please try not to become the center of attention.”
Jessar could almost swear she batted her eyes under her hood. “I can’t help it. I never try to be the center of attention.”
“The trouble is, she’s telling the truth,” Ogador observed.
“Yes, I fear she is,” Stefir agreed.
Jessar nodded and studied his surroundings. If the cobbled streets were not as well swept as those of Silarom and the street lamps more sparse, the tree homes and handsome gardens still gave the city its characteristic Galbardian flavor, even without scentwood trees. Meticulously lettered signs labeled each intersection, proclaiming the street they trod as Promontory Avenue. The hedges around each garden marched toward the horizon in tidy rows.
Still, there was a more notable difference. Despite the traffic moving along the avenues, Jessar heard only the chattering of birds. The people spoke in low voices, and the horses cantered along on leather muffled hooves.
As the travelers walked on, Jessar recognized the other significant difference between this city and Silarom. Bilaron was not just a little larger than his hometown, as Jessar had believed: It was huge. Not of course as big as Plasis, but still many times the size of the Galbardian capital.
Perhaps the city’s size explained the citizens’ behavior here: Nobody showed any abnormal concern over the cloaked strangers, at least not unless they passed close enough to see Ogador’s features beneath his hood. The first time that happened was when a tall male pushing a cart of hard rolls passed by. The elf gasped, arched his brows, and turned away down a side street in scarcely concealed fear. Obviously, Bilaron had heard of the Lynx and his companions.
The frightened elf’s side street marked the end of the family dwellings. The friends entered an area conspicuously absent in Silarom, where the elves operated trades and even a few businesses out of their treehomes. Here in Bilaron, however, due to the influence of the gypsy tent city, there was a thriving commercial district. Brightly colored signs proclaimed a tailor here, a carpenter across the avenue, and a goldsmith down the way. Built of shaved logs, the shops all poised atop log stilts. Upright logs, packed into a tight array of graduated heights, formed the stairs leading to the head-high floors of these buildings.
If the craftsmen had abandoned the typical elven treehome in favor of a construction that afforded their customers easier access, they had not broken from tradition entirely. Tiny plots of vegetables and flowers crowded the small yards between the customary white-posted fences and the buildings. Below some of the structures, proprietors grew mushrooms in soil-filled trays.
After eleven blocks of these tradesmen, the travelers reached the next district, and here Jessar learned another distinction from the capital. A great hall of lustrous, ebony shell wood stretched to the north for five blocks atop a veritable forest of stilts. The very fact that the shell wood had been imported at what must have been a momentous expense from the Trade Lands lent an air of importance to the structure. The triangular emblem of a halberd and sword crossed over a background of palisades marked it as the headquarters of the Border Guard.
That, at least, explained the expense. The place was a monument of Galbardian resolve, a testimony to the militia that had held the northern forces of chaos at bay for as long as the exiled elves had lived in Galbard.
Troops, both mounted and on foot, moved smartly up and down the ramps that accessed the cavernous interior of the place. Twice, the friends waited while columns of elves marched across intersections between the adjacent barracks that had sprung up like shoots around the massive parent hall. Even these disciplined elves, Jessar noted, angled their eyes irresistibly toward the strangers, and only partially succeeded in masking their shocked expressions after these stolen glances.
At the border of the military district, the last building was a block-long construct of scentwood trunks. An awning-covered incline lead to a gate at the center of this building. The front of the awning displayed a white-on-black embroidered rendering of the gelas herb, the traditional mark of the Healers. These females, dedicated to the curing and preservation of life, were the only foreigners the elves tolerated in Galbard. An unusual latticework fence accentuated the outlandish character of the compound.
Marveling at how pervasive the Dooms had suddenly become in his life, Jessar realized that the women behind those walls were the descendants of the unwilling concubines of the Learned Elves. These women had been the subjects of the Fate of the Healers. The little book he carried told more about them, but he couldn’t remember anything else except the accompanying Prophecy: That the Healers would master the art of resurrection.
In need of this art themselves, a haggard band of elves, irregulars, by the mark of the stained and tattered gray sashes they wore over their standard gardening coveralls, plodded toward the Lynx and company. The troop reminded Jessar of the incessant Border Wars. They cast unfocused glances about their surroundings, and their faces had the drawn look of those who have seen indescribable horrors.
In stark contrast to the well-organized troops Jessar had watched earlier, these elves shambled in a formation governed only by the litter they carried. Their standard bearer gripped his pole with a single hand, his left arm dangling limply in a blood-encrusted bandage at his side. Behind came the litter itself with its three forms. Shrouds covered two of the bodies on the litter. The third elf stared blankly at something only he could see. Jessar’s first direct look at the results of war did not fit the images of glory and heroism of the skalds’ songs and tales.
The travelers left the military district abruptly, entering the noisy gypsy tent city, Gelvenon. The only permanent settlement of the gypsies, the tent city was composed of tents and clapboard shacks sprawled on either side of Promontory Avenue. A grid of dirt trails networked the area, running amidst rows of tents that stretched as far as Jessar could see beneath the towering pines.
Along some of these trails, the shacks boasted low tables. Upon these rickety counters sat goods of every domestic variety. Silarom may have been the political capital of Galbard, but Bilaron was obviously the commercial capital.
Leather clothing littered the first counter they passed. Another table held pewter wares and still another gardening implements. Hawkers of goods called out to the passing travelers, gesturing fervently for attention or a demonstration. Some openly announced that their goods could be purchased with the gem currency of the Eastern Civilizations or even coin, a breach of Galbardian bartering laws.
They passed a table bearing maps, some of vellum, others of papyrus, skins, and even paper. Most were crude, almost scrawled in charcoal, but others were masterworks, bearing the grid of latitude and longitude that marked the most accurate charts. The Lynx wanted so badly to stop and admire the works, but he knew he couldn’t afford the attention. Also, there was the fact that he had nothing to barter.
The maps did, however, bring to mind his own meager collection. He was nearing the edge of his Galbardian map. He knew that beyond the last row of tents somewhere ahead ran the West Veinous River. And on the far bank was Galvek, one of many Turtle People villages scattered along the river here in the east. Jessar considered the tales he had heard of these savage people. Ever warring among themselves, the clans had throughout history maintained an amiable and profitable relationship with the Eastern Civilizations. Some claimed the turtles were the blood of the Eastern Civilizations, plying the network of the great Veinous River and carrying most of the goods that nourished the kingdoms of the east. Many countries even relied upon them for internal commerce.
The sudden call of a gypsy lad interrupted Jessar’s thoughts. The lanky boy stepped in front of Ogador. “You there, Man. Even through your hooded cloak I can tell you are a discerning buyer. We don’t often sell our wares to mortals, so I am sure you can forgive my countrymen for their incessant badgering. But, I would advise you to ignore the everyday wares of these traders.” The elf swept his arm expansively toward the counters along the road as he spoke.
What to do? Jessar was supposed to handle any conversation that arose. Putting his hand on the gypsy’s arm, he said, “Please pardon us, but we’re in a hurry.”
“Yes, I imagine the Lynx would be, especially after last night.”
The Lynx froze in his tracks. “What do you know about last night?”
The boy smiled confidently. “That depends on what it’s worth to you. I can get anything you might want.”
Ogador strode quickly forward and grabbed Jessar’s arm, talking quietly next to the Lynx’s ear. “Jessar, this gypsy knows. He has but to yell to bring the guards running.”
“Better listen to him, Lynx. Nice sword by the way, Prince. It would fetch a nice price.”
Stefir’s head joined the others. “How did you—“
“Stefir, get back. We are hardly inconspicuous here, cloistered like priests.”
“I told you Jessar would speak.”
“Stefir, please just let me handle this?” The prince’s manner shocked Jessar, and he drew back. It apparently had the same effect on the wizard, who stepped back as if he’d been snake bitten.
The prince addressed the lithe adolescent. “Fine elf, I’m certain your goods are the finest, but your King has levied so many taxes against me that I have only enough coin to purchase passage from your lands. Surely, you understand….”
Leaning down, he spoke in the prince’s ear at a volume barely audible. “Do you yearn for items from Outside? I know where you can purchase anything, even from your own West-realm.”
The elf scanned his eyes craftily along the avenue and lowered his voice further. “In fact, if you will follow me I know where you might find some of the finest wines in all Talan, imported at great personal risk from your own Twin Cities.”
In the shadows of the prince’s hood, Jessar saw Ogador’s brow rise. As for himself, the Lynx doubted the claim. The gypsies were famous for their mimicry. They might well be able to ferment a vintage so close to the Twin Vine as to be indistinguishable from the genuine article, perhaps even to the heir prince. In fact, they would be more likely to practice such liquid forgery than to break the trade laws, which promised life imprisonment for dealing in foreign goods other than instruments of war.
“Really, lad, I don’t lie. My purse is too light for such a luxury.”
The elf looked disappointed, but he again scanned the avenue, nervously this time, before opening one of the many flaps of his multi-hued jerkin. The flap concealed a vial strapped over the elf’s chest. Recognizing the contents, Jessar raised his own eyebrows.
“I can see you’re demanding as well as discerning. Perhaps something really exotic might interest you? Something like raw Bordana pollen? It will bring many times its weight in pneumium if you take it back west. All I ask is one hundred in gold tiaras of the West-realm.”
The elf secured the flap again. Stefir gestured excitedly, but said, “How I wish we had more coin.”
Ogador motioned for the wizard to be quiet and stared seriously at the elf. “All right, you have my interest. But I don’t like dealing here in the avenue openly. You know I could be killed trying to get it beyond your borders.”
Ogador moved into step beside the elven lad, to the side away from the others. Elf and man conversed in rapid whispers inaudible to Jessar. He didn’t understand why Ogador was even feigning an interest. The Prince’s sagging pouch couldn’t hold more than ten or so coins, and they would have need of most of that tomorrow.
They passed the last tents. Cruelly spiked palisades converged upon the avenue from either side. Even as the friends approached the cantilevered barricade bridging the gap between the defenses, Ogador and the enterprising elf still spoke in whispers. Two armored elves with halberds stood at rigid attention on either side of the way.
A strangely familiar official in a blue uniform with a squat, wide-brimmed red hat left a sheltered table by the roadside. The gypsy lad departed hastily, drawing the uniformed elf’s stare. As the latter approached the cloaked company, he assumed a business-like smile, which vanished abruptly when he peered beneath the hoods of the travelers. The sour scowl on his face twisted the pale red scar on his left jaw into an angry wedge.
Quickly recovering, he asked Stefir, “Why do you journey with these foreigners, and what business did you have with that black marketeer?” pointing toward the fleeing young elf.
Stefir pulled back his hood, and the official gasped. Silentwing, who had been flying far overhead all morning to avoid alarming the citizens of Bilaron, dived from the sky and pulled short in an impressive swirl of feathered fury to land gently on the wizard’s shoulder. The official’s shaken veneer collapsed completely.
From the nearest tents, gypsies cautiously gathered, drawn to the disturbance at the checkpoint.
“As you see, I, too, am a foreigner. In fact,” the wizard paused as his staff noisily materialized in his left hand, “I am the Chronologist.”
Over all the millennia, Stefir had acquired quite a reputation. Everyone, it seemed, had heard stories about him.
The elf before the chronologist was no exception. Though he looked like he would rather be anywhere but where he was, the official handled the revelation better than Jessar expected.
Sabretha picked that moment to announce her own presence. She leapt gracefully from her horse’s back and pulled back her own hood. “And I am a Valkara, apparently the last Valkara, a sword maiden and mistress of the long sword. There is no equal in its wielding on Talan.” She drew her sword from its nearly invisible scabbard.
Shaking visibly, the elf returned to the shed, sat at his desk, and retrieved a well-worn book. He opened it reverently, and some of his earlier confidence returned. He gestured for the travelers to advance.
The growing crowd converged behind the friends as they moved closer to the shelter. By some unspoken agreement, however, the gypsies preserved a buffer around the strangers. To Jessar, the space suggested nothing as much as a fire gap, and he wondered what fireworks were about to erupt.
The official had already located the proper passage in the volume. Swelling with self-importance, he cleared his throat. “It says here, in Border Regulations: A Condensed Summary of Laws Governing the Treatment of Foreigners , Immigrants, and Other Undesirables that all unescorted foreigners are to be charged a toll and ad valorem tax upon departing Galbard, this in order to defray the expense of their protection. If you will kindly open your packs, I will assess the tax.”
Sabretha began unpacking her horse, passing Jessar his own pack.
“I don’t like this.” Ogador, the closest of the four, emptied his backpack on the desk. The self-appointed assessor pointed to the prince’s pouch, and Ogador reluctantly untied it from his belt and tossed it beside his belongings. The seated elf made a great pretense of stacking and counting the contents, twelve gold coins.
The elf’s condescending manner toward the heir prince chafed Jessar’s sensibilities. “Sir, I must advise you that this man is a prince of the West-realm.”
The surrounding gypsies murmured among themselves, and the revelation wasn’t lost on the assessor either, though he finished counting before saying, “I see. In that case, the expense of his protection must be higher.” The elf scrawled notes on a strip of parchment with a quill pen.
Was that the only acknowledgement the irritating elf would make of the royalty standing before him? Would Jessar’s countryman not even stand in the prince’s presence?
“Hmm, a wineskin, probably containing illegal imported wine. One amber plus a nine amber fine.” He continued in this manner for some time, inventorying the contents of Ogador’s pack and ticking off figures.
The Lynx’s irritation grew to anger. Ogador should not be subject to such treatment from a petty official. But, more than that, Jessar was ashamed to be a citizen of a country that not only permitted but actually encouraged this mockery.
Just when he seemed finished, the elf said, “Your sword, sir,” and held out his hand.
The prince looked back innocently. “Sword?”
“Do not treat me like a fool, Prince, if that is what you are. I know you bear one. Messengers from Silarom have told me all about you.”
Ogador rested his hand on his hilt and clenched his teeth. “This has gone far enough. If you want my blade you will have to come get it yourself.”
The official shrank back. He gestured to the guards, who moved to the governor’s side with halberds at the ready. Ogador did not take his hand away, however. For a few moments, the guards and prince engaged in a contest of will. The elves could not know their jeopardy, that no swordsman had bested the governor in the last decade. All the while, the tax collector stared at the prince, until the former finally said, “So be it. One thousand ambers then,” and bent over the column of figures.
Jessar exhaled, not realizing he’d been holding his breath. From the sound of the Valkara’s own exhalation next to him, he knew he hadn’t been the only one nervous about the outcome of the standoff.
Though the Border Guards and Ogador did not relax their stance, the tightness in their jaws eased, and the crowd sighed their pent breath. For Jessar, however, the small victory, if that’s what it was, seemed hollow. In fact, he felt his building anger turn to rage – just as it had done in his tree home on the night of his friends’ arrival.
“That is a total of fifteen hundred ambers. At the required rate, your tax would be ten ambers, I believe.”
It was less than Jessar expected, but before his rage could lose its edge, the elf continued, “Oh my, but I see that you don’t have any of the gemstones we use here in the Eastern Civilizations for money.” The official paused to consider, placing the tip of his pen in his mouth.
“Well, I’ll have to charge a conversion rate … so the total will be twelve gold tiaras of the West-realm.”
It was too much. The new amount was, of course, exactly the number of coins Ogador held. After the exorbitant tax Ogador had paid at the port in Silarom, Jessar would not tolerate his countrymen robbing the prince of everything else. It was as if all of the Lynx’s frustrations at his people’s behavior over the last three years were embodied in the individual across the desk, and these frustrations popped to the surface of Jessar’s composure like a cork.
He flung back his hood and stepped in front of his friends. “As you see if you look closely, I am not a foreigner, not entirely at least. I am the Lynx. I will not stand by and watch you plunder my friends. I am Galbardian, so, under your petty book, my friends are not unescorted. You may not tax these folk.”
At Jessar’s revelation Stefir groaned and the gypsies took protective talismans from some place of concealment in their flowing, many-hued garb. Some even signed protective hexes. Despite their fear, however, they stood in a tight ring, enthralled by the new path events had taken.
The official, who had obviously heard of the Lynx, sat staring dumbly at Jessar, shaking again. Perhaps because the Lynx did not initiate any violence, the elf eventually mastered his trembling.
That did nothing to moderate Jessar’s anger. He still stood, fists clenched, staring at the uniformed idiot with dangerously narrowed eyes.
Then the official actually smiled. “Good, I had been hoping you would show up at my border station.” He retrieved an envelope from a drawer. “For you see … how to tell you this? You really aren’t Galbardian any longer. The King has exiled you. This envelope, like its duplicates at every likely checkpoint, contains Avril’s final orders for his foreign minister. You are to open and read them at the Council, after which you are no longer welcome within our borders.”
Jessar, amazed at this turn of events, walked forward to accept the envelope.
The official opened his book again. “…Further, persona non grata, including exiled citizens, shall not be exempt from this fee.”
The rage rose within Jessar again. On the verge of losing control, he felt the blood rushing to his face.
“Therefore, I must ask you too, Lynx, to place your pack on my table.”
The idiotic smile widened further. It was too much. His thin film of control burst like a soap bubble. He felt a strangely familiar tingling hastening from every part of his body and converging on his extended right hand. Jessar lurched with the ensuing surge of power. In a deep voice, he ground out words he shouldn’t know and could not later recall. A barely controlled force leapt from his splayed fingers in several invisible bolts.
The text blossomed in a cloud of ashes. The official lurched back reflexively. Half a dozen flames sprang up on the desk.
As suddenly as the bolt of power exploded, Jessar’s anger also fled. He turned to his dumbfounded friends. “What have I done?”
The words spurred Stefir to action. He ran toward the barricade. “You just cast a fire strike spell. Come, we must hurry before the guards recover their wits.”
Ogador fetched his miraculously unharmed pack from the inferno blazing on the table. He, Sabretha, and Jessar joined Stefir in the dash toward the barricade. Two more soldiers had appeared from somewhere and held the checkpoint against the travelers. The guards who had earlier rushed to defend the official recovered their wits and closed in behind. To Jessar, it seemed that his journey was over before he had even left his country.
The prince, however, had another idea in mind. Sprinting ahead, he leaped, clearing the barrier by more than a stride.
Jessar considered following. Any other time, it would have been an easy hurdle, but with the cloaks…. With a look of agreement at Stefir, Jessar plunged onward and jumped. The wizard followed close behind, and the Valkara sprang over effortlessly as well, in her typically graceful fashion.
Once on the far side, the friends didn’t stop. The guards hesitated, perhaps uncertain whether they should abandon their post to give chase. Apparently, they decided to remain, but the sound of a shrill alert whistle promised pursuit would not be far behind.
For the moment, however, the way ahead was empty. Promontory Avenue, true to its name, ran straight to the end of a point thrusting into the river by some three hundred strides.
What a river it was, too. Through the pine trunks, Jessar saw that the course far surpassed the Galbard River of his home. Even the famed composite long bows of Dreton would be challenged to reach the opposite side.
If the far bank was out of bowshot, how were they to cross? The border guard reinforcements couldn’t be far away. A telltale ferry line anchored firmly to a pillar answered Jessar’s question. Fortunately, the ferry waited on this side. A simple barge of lashed logs, it had two vertical poles on the right. Through large iron rings attached to the poles the thick rope of the ferry line passed on its way across the river.
Jessar and his friends halted abruptly when they saw a troop of elven soldiers, grimy and tired, forming into ranks in preparation to leave the platform. Motioning to his friends, the Lynx pulled his hood back over his head. Surely these elves did not know why the travelers were fleeing. Surely they were too tired to question why the three had run to the river. Maybe they would think he and his cloaked companions had simply hurried to catch the barge.
Whatever the case, the troops marched tiredly past. The ferry master, stooped from his years on the river, looked at his new customers in mild surprise. “That will be three onyx.”
Ogador took a gold coin from his pouch and flipped it to the elf. “We are in a terrible hurry. You can keep the change if you will get us moving now.”
The elf, whose only manifestation of age was his bent back, smiled, slipped on his leather gloves, and motioned his passengers aboard. “Well, get on with you then.”
The three boarded from the low pier and took up positions on the ferry line beside the owner. Heaving on the rope, they pulled the ferry into the fierce current, magnified by the narrows created by the rocky promontory.
Slipping steadily away from his native Galbardian bank, Jessar looked back to his homeland, and whispered, “Good Bye.”