Chapter I:
Old Friends
The half-elf Jessar lay on bare boards with other bodies pressed close around him. The stench from many days of unbathed bodies and defecation threatened to send him back into the oblivion of a drug-induced sleep. He heard the rattle of chains, and he felt cold metal against his ankles and wrists, but he saw nothing.
To Jessar’s relief, the blindness was only temporary, a reaction from the bright light pouring through a large rectangular hole above him. His vision recovered, and he saw a ladder hanging from the opening.
Elves shouted the Civilized Speech, “All right, ye sluggards, get to yer feet. Come on, let's go.”
The uniformed elves, sailors judging by their v-necked red and white horizontal striped uniforms, walked among the bodies, occasionally kicking one to consciousness. If the kicks failed someone with a yellow second-mate’s kerchief tied around his left biceps yelled, “Boys, get over here, we got us another dead one.”
Two elves came to the body, removed its shackles, and tossed it onto a filthy stretcher. They strapped the body down and called to others above, who hoisted the carcass away. While Jessar watched, the elves hauled out five more bodies from what he now understood was the hold of a ship.
All around him, the elven sailors started dragging his fellow surviving captives to their feet. One of them approached Jessar, and he somehow found the strength to stand. He reeled dizzily against the weight of the chains connected to shackles on his wrists.
An old man in a dingy white robe carried a tattered leather bag from one prisoner to the next, pausing periodically. Eventually, he came to Jessar. “Here, drink this,” he said, pressing the nozzle of a bota to Jessar's lips.
It was cheap wine, but the spirits spread vigor throughout his limbs. Only then did he notice the many bruises and cuts lacing his skin.
The old man examined an infected wound on Jessar's left wrist, where the shackle had peeled away flesh. After cleaning the wound, the medic applied some greasy looking salve from a pestle and the pain evaporated. Then he bandaged Jessar's wrist.
The old man started to treat another abrasion, but one of the sailors noticed him and yelled, “Corpsman, move it. Each moment of your foolish doddering costs the Captain moorin’ money, and you know how he hates that.”
The medic muttered an apology and gathered everything back into his bag. He whispered, “May the Creator bless your new freedom,” and went on down the chain line.
The aged healer’s words triggered what little remained of Jessar’s memory. Crew members had dragged him aboard, shackled him along with countless other slaves, and drugged them all for the long voyage. Neither he nor any of the others around him wore a collar, meaning they were only indentured. If he could trust the corpsman, it seemed their indenturement was over and they would soon be free. Now, why couldn’t he remember who owned him, or where he had been?
As he watched the old man walk away, a metallic gleam from the old man's neck tempered Jessar’s joy. It was a slave collar; the medic was a permanent slave who would almost certainly never be free. Jessar hoped that someday Fate might bring them together so he could repay the medic’s kindness.
An hour passed while the chain mates of each slave line clambered up the ladder. Finally, Jessar’s chain began the ascent, with Jessar fifth in line. Of course the shackles made climbing difficult, but he soon found himself on the fore deck of a large three masted galleon, where for the first time since boarding an unknown number of days ago, he enjoyed breathing outside air. Even the odor of decaying marine life in the harbor seemed a perfume compared to the foulness below deck.
Ten more labored topside before a wail sounded from below.
The sailor monitoring progress at the hatch cursed, “One of our cargo fell off the ladder. By Natunya’s bosom, why are slaves always so clumsy?”
Jessar wanted to shout back that it probably had something to do with fortnights of short rations and diseased water, but a wrenching jerk on the chain erased all thoughts other than their peril. From the sound of it, the slave’s fall had knocked off those climbing the ladder below him.
Another jerk followed as the collective weight of the fallen dislodged the man just above the first slave to slip. Three more yanks in quick succession announced the failed grip of the others who had struggled to hang on to the ladder.
Now only the chain mates topside remained to resist the weight of the human anchor suspended in the hold. They leaned against the chain, pulling with all their voyage-atrophied strength.
The slave at the lip of the hatch struggled briefly, veins standing out starkly on an emaciated neck, before he plunged headlong into the hold.
Jarred by the additional weight even though he was nine slaves from the hold, Jessar knew they couldn’t last. He surveyed the deck quickly. No cleat or bollard within range of his chains.
Shouts from the three slaves closest to the hatch interrupted his search. Perhaps because they were the next to fall, they fought ferociously, digging their bare heels against the decking. Feet worn raw, they lost their footing on their own blood. Jessar and the other slaves lurched forward and the three who had slipped rolled into the cargo compartment.
As several groans from the hold attested, the increased length of chain caused at least one of those hanging near the bottom to crash to the deck. Jessar wondered how many more now lay injured.
Somehow, Jessar and his ten chain mates still topside managed to catch themselves. Three shackle positions toward the hold from Jessar, a behemoth of a man, well-muscled even after the long voyage, yelled encouragement to his comrades. “There isn’t any more weight. The three hitting the deck made up for our three brethren who fell. Hold short of the slippery deck there, and don’t give up!”
For a moment, it worked: They held their own in a renewed effort. But they were doomed. Even if the weight hadn’t increased, they had less muscle topside to hold the line. Besides there was no one to intervene and stop the casualties; the sailors seemed content merely to watch. A few even wagered on the outcome. Again they pitched forward a step -- and then another. Each grievous moment carried them closer to the maw waiting to swallow them, and those nearest the hold started to lose their footing. Eventually, there’d be no more resisting, and those left would plummet unrestrained all the way to the unforgiving deck beneath.
Again Jessar cast about desperately for a solution. The foremast was the closest deck feature -- that would have to do. It was just ahead and to the left. Now the problem would be getting enough slack between himself and his chain mates on either side to bring a halt to their plight.
Two men by the hatch stumbled. The chain ratcheted rapidly over the lip of the hatch, and two more disappeared yelling.
The chain around him suddenly slackened as those behind struggled to stop their forward progress. Jessar dashed two steps to reach the mast. The man just behind him almost tripped from the unexpected movement. “Idiot, pull or we’ll all break our necks!”
Jessar ignored him and wrapped a half turn of chain around the mast. Both feet wedged at the bottom of the mast, he tightened his chain and leaned back, shouting to the four slaves on the chain behind him, “Wrap the chain around the mast.”
They paused, uncertain whether to obey. But another chain mate toppled down the hatch. The increased tension on the chain forced the links to bite into the mast, and Jessar gritted his teeth, determined to hang on. Apparently understanding Jessar’s intent, the slaves behind ran to their comrade’s position and ducked under the chain. Unfortunately, before they could complete a turn around the mast, the situation worsened.
By now the barrel-chested slave who had encouraged them earlier hovered at the brink himself, bracing pylon-thick legs against the hatch’s lip. Even his great mass, however, could not counterweigh those dangling below. Slowly, his body levered forward until he teetered precariously for a frozen moment. Then he gathered speed like a falling rock and keeled over the edge.
Bracing himself again, Jessar waited for the shock to reach him at the mast. He almost blacked out from the strain, and his legs buckled, slamming his knees violently into the mast. Somewhere inside him, new strength poured into his limbs from an unreasoning rage that suddenly boiled within. For a moment he lost himself to the strange emotional surge, reveling in the newfound vigor that enabled him to force his legs straight again. He barely noticed when the others on the chain ahead of him floundered and the man just behind the giant slid headfirst like a loose anchor toward the hatch combing. The crack of the downed man’s skull against the lip did not even trigger a wince of sympathy from Jessar, in his unreasoning state.
He regained emotional control moments later. His burst of strength had given his companions enough time to take two turns of chain around the foremast, transferring the force necessary to hold the weight suspended below deck to the mighty wooden pillar.
Chests heaving from exertion, they glanced at one another and shared the fraternal satisfaction of those who had faced the insurmountable and won. The only other slave still alive on deck in front of Jessar stood, nodding appreciatively. None of them asked if the man sprawled on the planks was still alive -- the unnatural right angle of his neck made the answer obvious.
The sailors took more than an hour to sort out the mess. Ten more dead bodies left the chain. With a quick wrench of the neck, a guard killed any slave with a permanently crippling injury. By the time all the survivors stood on deck, the ship was already prepared to sail again.
The sailors marched them to the starboard bow. One of the mariners walked beside Jessar, kicked his shins, and said, “Ye sluggards let the aft chain line beat ye to the deck with that stunt. That means I won’t be gettin’ me extra day of liberty back home.” Despite the additional bruise, Jessar stared defiantly back at his tormentor for the brief moment before the guard moved on.
While the others formed up, he surveyed his surroundings. The sun angled toward the horizon aft of the ship, which the crew had moored with the starboard side against a thirty foot wide boardwalk. A wide avenue abutted the boardwalk and ran out of sight southward into a sprawling city that hugged the square harbor. The sheltered wharfs could easily moor forty or more galleon size ships.
Jessar turned to watch the elves. He couldn’t help noting how different they were. Their blond hair fell straight to their shoulders; his thumb-length black hair curled tightly. Where they had no trace of whiskers, Jessar had an abrasive stubble from the journey. And though the others towered to a height of seven feet, Jessar stood only six. He shrugged; after all, he was only half-elven.
Still, they were alike in many ways. He shared their keen senses. Even now, his pointed ears heard the argument between a bread vendor and a customer on the wharf well astern, and his gray eyes resolved the letters scrawled on the side of a booth well over a hundred strides to the south. As an elf scampered deftly up the rat lines to the crow’s nest, Jessar knew his own agile frame could follow, if not for his many injuries.
A particularly tall elf strode past from the stern. Even without the gold encircling the elf’s uniform collar, Jessar recognized the captain from a confident, wide seafarer’s stance.
The skipper pointed to crewmen in the rigging and on the masts overhead. “Ye there, splice that rat line. Raiklen, that sheet needs replacin’. On deck, single up all lines.”
The captain continued forward until he stood before the two rows of slaves. Men bearing cutlasses and wearing headbands proclaiming ‘Harbor Guard’ took rigid positions at either end of the slaves.
The captain addressed them: “Well, welcome to dynamic Plasis.”
The crew chuckled.
“I will soon free ye’s, but first, since I am such a kind skipper,” he continued, to more laughter, “I have yer wages for yer years of labor.”
The captain signaled to a crewman, who lumbered forward under the weight of a hemp sack slung over his shoulder. He swung it to the deck with a metallic clinking.
“Each of ye can take one pouch from that sack as ye leave me ship. Now, open the shackles,” he shouted, gesturing to the guards. From fore to aft down the lines, slave shackles fell to the deck at the turn of rusty skeleton keys.
One by one, they filed to the brow. A scurvy-looking crewman stood there, grinning and whispering, “ten coins for yer fare,” to each passing man. The Captain stood close enough to hear, but he seemed overly preoccupied with his crew’s preparations.
One of the guards who had boarded from the city, however, noticed. As Jessar stepped up to the brow, the man sauntered over to the misshapen elf. “Hey, you can’t collect a fare from slaves!”
“They are just makin’ donations to the Old Slaves’ Home.” The elf palmed several coins to the guard’s discreetly open hand.
“Oh. Well, in that case, carry on.” The man returned to his station at the bow.
The deck hand looked back at Jessar with squinting eyes and furrowed brow. Jessar returned his own questioning look, noticing that, unlike his shipmates’ combed back hair, this elf’s hair hung down to his brow.
The look passed quickly, leaving Jessar to wonder if he had imagined it. The sailor grinned again and winked. “Yer donation?”
Jessar looked at the captain, who only turned away and clasped his hands behind his back. So, the captain didn’t care. Jessar opened his pouch and counted out ten of the gold coins, Plasis drakmids, into the mariner’s open hand. The strange elf smiled. He slapped his other hand on Jessar’s palm, and folded the newly freed elf’s fingers into a fist. Standing aside, the crewman motioned Jessar onward.
The half-elf walked half way down the brow before he realized something was in his hand. It felt like a scrap of parchment. What could it be and why had the sailor placed it there? It had to be some kind of note, but it would have to wait. Something--perhaps the strange look--told him that the mariner wanted the note to remain a secret.
Yes, he had some fundamental needs to resolve first. His slave’s loincloth was conspicuous among the togas of the citizens of Plasis. So, along with the others, he headed toward the clothing booth he had seen from the ship. A short while later, he wore the same linen, loose-fitting, unadorned toga as everyone else.
Now for the note. While he searched for a secluded spot, the slave vessel slipped its moorings and drifted from the wharf. As her jib and maneuvering sail unfurled, he unfolded the scrap. He read, “Look for me again in three years at the Council if you want to see your mother before she dies.”
His mother. How could the sailor have known? He whirled around, ready to leap back to the slave ship’s deck, but the sails had already made efficient use of the breeze. Even as Jessar ran to the wharf, the galleon swung hard to port--toward the harbor mouth.
He stared at the sterncastle, dropping his arms limply at his waist. Then he noticed the single scurvy sailor standing there smiling back at him. The mariner leaned back his head and laughed throatily. Jessar remained, watching impotently as his only hope of finding his mother slipped through the narrows and faded over the twilit horizon.
Finally, after cursing the sailor, the ship, the captain, and especially Fate, he resigned himself to leave and search out his fortune. Just before he turned, however, at the edge of his peripheral vision, he saw a black-gloved hand reaching for his shoulder. He dodged, but not before a steely grip clamped his shoulder and a deep voice boomed, “Jessar?”
The memory jolted him back to the present, a simple gardener tending the hedge surrounding his family treehome estate. He’d lived here three years now since those memories, which resonated so vividly in his mind that he imagined he could still feel the vise-like grip on his shoulder.
“Jessar, can you be so certain you have no enemies?”
Almost dropping the parchment note he’d been fingering, he managed to shove the worn fragment into a deep pocket in his gardening breeches. As he’d done three years ago, he whirled about under the grasp of a black-gloved hand. The wingtip of a large barn owl brushed his hair and the backwash from its wings buffeted his honeysuckle vines against a concealed trellis. The owl swooped to a dramatic but gentle landing on the shoulder of an unnaturally aged-looking elven figure who stood beside the man holding Jessar. The black glove loosened its grip on the half-elf’s shoulder.
Jessar smiled, gripping the man in a quick hug that his friend returned tenfold. “My mind must have drifted. You’re right, maybe I shouldn’t feel so safe here -- how careless of me. How was your voyage? How long can you stay? Will we make it back to Plasis in time for the Tournament? How is the war?” He let go of Ogador, the black-headed grizzly of a man, and turned toward Stefir, who, were he of human rather than elven descent, would qualify as middle-aged, white hair and all. Jessar didn’t hug the wizard, whose detached demeanor made it clear that people just didn’t go about hugging the premier chronologist of all Talan.
The ancient mystic, the Crown Wizard of West-realm smiled nevertheless. “Patience, Jessar. You have always been a man – excuse me, half-elf – of many questions. We should at least have time to answer some of them during our stay. Are you going to give us the proper welcome of star friends, or are you going to treat us as poorly as your countrymen have so far?”
Jessar sensed a tale regarding his friends’ arrival in the half-elf’s hometown of Silarom, but it would have to wait. The youngest of the three, he stretched his right hand palm-upward to Stefir, the elder of his guests. The wizard reciprocated, putting his right hand on Jessar’s palm, bringing the ring each wore on their middle fingers into contact.
The half-elf mentally voiced the secret name of Stefir’s patron star, Storr, the last star in the handle of the Great Cup. Immediately, the milky translucence of the cloudstone ring setting faded, revealing a star chart that mapped Stefir’s patron star in the heavens.
The two friends twisted their wrists so Jessar’s hand was on top. He fervently hoped to see Stefir’s lips silently mouth the half-elf’s star name, but the wizard only looked back at Jessar sadly.
“No, Jessar I still do not know your star name, though I believe I may have found a way to learn it soon. Nor can I quell your fears that the ring your mother left for me to give you in Plasis three years ago is more than an elaborate facsimile.”
What would any civilized person think of an elf whose parents had abandoned him before escorting him to the Observatory to learn his star name? What if others knew the Star Lord had never given him a star ring? These questions and others plagued him as Jessar turned to the heir prince of West-Realm to repeat the ritual. Ogador’s patron star was a bright giant named Timglon on the horizon of the north celestial hemisphere.
The prince grinned at Jessar. “Of course he didn’t learn your star name, Jessar; that’s what you get for relying on a wizard. If I were you, I’d take advantage of the fact that your lifelong companion will be able to see below your ring’s cloudstone setting without knowing your star name. If nothing else, it’d give you an excuse for wenching, and that’s always more fun than wizardry.”
The wizard shot a disgusted look at Ogador. “You hardly need an excuse for wenching, Ogador. As with most of your reasoning, however, what you said is flawed. First, just because a hypothetical companion could see the star chart does not mean she would be able to determine his star name any more than you know the name of that plant,” Stefir said pointing to one of Jessar’s flowers just inside the white gate, “and second, if you had paid attention, you would know there is significant doubt about the authenticity of his ring.”
“First, that is a rhododendron, and second, I don’t blame him for thinking it’s fake – after all, the Star Lord didn’t present it to him as he normally would do at his tenth year,” the prince shot back.
Jessar laughed. “How I’ve missed you two, but Stefir, I’m afraid you missed the main flaw in Ogador’s plan.”
The chronologist put the fingertips of his right hand to his forehead. “How—“
Smiling, Jessar interrupted, “I can’t do any wenching even if I wanted to. None of the females in my homeland will have me, with my human blood. Don’t get me wrong, I daydream frequently about the Dance of the Thousands, but Vyxana herself would have to intervene divinely if I am to find my mate that night before the Tournament – which reminds me: Do you think we’ll make it to Plasis and finish the Great Council of Countries in time to attend Festival and Tournament?”
Moving his right hand from his head to rub the owl’s neck, Stefir said, “I thought you were serious there for a moment about me missing a flaw. As for the Tournament, the dockmaster informed me that the next vessel bound for Plasis is a cog due here in Silarom in about a fortnight, so we should make it to Plasis in about twenty days. And that is more than a fortnight before the Council. As to whether the Council will complete before Tournament....”
The prince smiled. “Jessar, I wouldn’t worry about that. If Stefir were half the chronologist he claims to be, I’m sure he’d tell you the Council has always finished in time for the delegates to attend at least the Contest of Swords. As for your other concern ... I’ll just have to see what I can do to help you win your woman.”
“If you want to pair with a tavern wench, Ogador can probably help you. If you want a more refined woman or, better yet, an elwen, I can give you a few pointers.”
Ogador wrapped a friendly arm around Jessar, “Stick with me, Jessar. Really, I’ll find you a woman worth having.” The prince peered closer at the half-elf’s face. “Stefir, will you look at that?” Ogador pointed to Jessar’s whiskered chin. “Have you ever heard of an elf growing a beard? Looks like some of his father’s human blood is finally showing, and really about time, eh Stefir?” He directed an antagonistic grin and an elbow jab at the wizard.
“Well, I knew his mother’s blood would not run pure in him. At least he is showing signs of elven longevity, though I fear his human half has spoiled his chances for immortality.”
“Who wants immortality? One and a half centuries is long enough for me if I can’t die an honest man’s death in combat. At least I don’t have time to make a nuisance of myself like most of the elven wizards I know. Really, Stefir, I think you’re just jealous you can’t grow a beard and be dignified like us.”
Although normally wearing a short, thick beard, Ogador was whiskerless at the moment. Jessar had always been neutral in the friendly quarrels of his friends, so he was not about to let the prince drag him into this one. Seeing the inevitable response forming on Stefir’s lips, Jessar spoke first. “It must have been a long voyage with you two aboard. I saw the masts of your ship from my treehome this morning. It took you long enough to get here.”
Stefir smiled knowingly. “Ah, it is as I suspected. You have been lounging out here awaiting our arrival. As for our delay in arriving, that is a story best shared over some of your stout. I trust you have some.”
“Of course. And I was not ‘lounging’ out here; I was tending my hedge.” To prove it, Jessar retrieved a glass pipette from the lawn and sucked a few drops into the narrow tube from a flask full of transparent crimson fluid. He searched for the flower that he’d noticed earlier. There it was, the single virgin-white bloom protruding slightly beyond its neighbors. He whispered, “Nomiel,” his word of control and loosened his finger on the end of the tube just enough to let fall a single drop. It struck and clung to a petal for an instant before seeping down the stamen. A shudder dissipated along the vines. Then, slowly, the vine drew back as he willed the errant bloom into perfect alignment.
“The royal gardeners would love to learn that trick,” Ogador said.
“Well I suppose you could call it a trick. I make the growth potion from the pollen of my Bordana flowers, along with other ingredients according to my mother’s formula.”
“Some day you will demonstrate it in the royal gardens perhaps. But enough of this! I’ve been looking forward to trying your stout, Jessar. Stefir has been taunting me about it during our voyage. The Langbardian elves may be the master blue water mariners of all of Talan, but masters of the brewer’s art they’re not.”
“Odd, you drank enough from their casks that one might have believed that the Langbardians had rediscovered the fabled Shalatra Gold, brew of the lost Sunken City.”
“I was only trying not to hurt their feelings.”
Jessar chuckled, gathered his tools and motioned his friends toward the gate.
As they approached, Jessar heard the windage of a projectile scream past his ear. With a staccato thud, a dagger materialized in the whitewashed post next to the gate.
The three whirled to find the threat. A short elf in ill-fitting but otherwise traditional gardening clothes ran west across the street.
Ogador shouted, “I don’t like this at all,” and sprang into pursuit.
Stefir fished a tiny vial of some thick liquid from a hip pocket. Clenching his left fist, the wizard started chanting, “Or yeltok artumon alto, slipra—“ but broke off as Ogador sprinted across the street, gaining slightly on the running elf.
Somehow, as he heard the wizard’s words, Jessar found himself thinking “with sublime magical aid, halt” would be the logical conclusion of the spell.
Stamping his foot in frustration, the chronologist flung his fist downward, spread his fingers and finished with “lavek idron.” A divot about a hand-width across leaped from the lawn, turned upside-down, and landed a few feet away, smoking slightly. “Ogador! You ruined my prevent movement spell. How many times have I told you to stay out of my line of sight?”
Ignoring the wizard, the prince ran on. Jessar, still holding his tools, watched helplessly, wondering how the words that had sprang unbidden into his mind had come so close to the spell’s intended affect. Meanwhile, Ogador’s quarry rounded the northwest corner of the estate across the street. Almost immediately thereafter, Jessar suppressed an involuntary shudder as a tortured, muffled wail erupted from around the corner the elf had just rounded. Apparently unaffected by the disconcerting cry, the prince, with impressive speed suited to his height, raced onward, nimbly negotiating the turn.
As the mumbling wizard stuffed the vial back into his pocket, a bewildered-looking Ogador walked back around the corner, shaking his head.
“Well, what happened?” the wizard demanded.
Ogador gave them a hang-on-a-moment look and jogged back to the gate. “It was the strangest thing. We heard the cry, but by the time I rounded the corner, the short elf was just not there.”
“Fantastic. After spoiling my spell, which would have stopped the villain in his tracks, you also let him get away.”
“No, er, well, maybe. I just don’t know. The only person I saw was some kind of Galbardian official in a blue uniform walking away from me. I just don’t understand it.”
“This episode reeks of magic. You two wait here a moment.” Stefir headed for the site of the mysterious disappearance. Soon, he too returned with a puzzled expression and his right fingertips pressed to his forehead.
The wizard confused? That couldn’t be a good sign. “Stefir, what’s wrong? Was it magic as you suspected?”
“Probably – perhaps. Examining the scene of a magical event, a wizard can usually tune his senses to pick up a faint aura, a magical residue, so to speak. Those highly attuned to the arcane art can even tell the variety of magic employed.” The wizard pulled his fingers from his downcast forehead.
Sighing, Ogador prompted, “Okay, so did you find the trace or not?”
Jessar could almost swear he saw a slight shake of the wizard’s shoulders as Stefir replied, “There was definitely a trace of magic, but of a kind I have not encountered in many millennia, perhaps never. Still, it was vaguely familiar; I just can’t place it.”
The wizard had used a contraction, an informality Jessar had never heard from him before. It was chilling to see him so unnerved.
Trying not to show his own concern, Jessar stowed his implements in a box inside his gate.
Ogador approached the post and plucked out the dagger. He turned the blade in his palm, carefully appraising the weapon.
“What’s this?” Jessar stooped to pick up a pierced, tightly folded missive that Ogador had freed. Unfolding it, Jessar saw that it was a short note addressed ‘Wizard.’ “It seems to be for you, Stefir.”
“I don’t like this,” Ogador said, interrupting his look at the weapon to listen as the wizard read: “Someone you have been expecting awaits you at The Mariner’s Asylum.”
Jessar looked puzzled. “I didn’t know we were traveling with anyone else.”
“Nor did I. However, I was hoping somewhere during our journey to meet Bidmaron, a ranger who, like our esteemed prince failed out of the Swordland Academy for debauchery or—“
In a mood change as shocking as Stefir’s discomfort, Ogador clenched his teeth and the half-elf sensed that every muscle in the man’s body was suddenly as taught as spring steel. The warrior clutched the dagger threateningly at his side. “Stefir, you go too far. I was not engaged in debauchery. Never have I known a finer woman.”
Almost as surprising as Ogador’s anger was Stefir’s subdued response and uncharacteristically sympathetic look. “Ogador, you misunderstand. I was about to say you were expelled for violating the Academy’s prohibition against relations with females while a cadet.”
It was the closest Jessar had ever seen the aristocratic wizard come to an apology.
Ogador instantly relaxed and the tense moment passed. “The Mariner’s Asylum, that’s the tavern we saw by the pier, I believe.”
Jessar nodded. “Yes, it’s the only establishment that will tolerate foreigners here in Silarom. In fact, they’re almost welcome there. King Avril charters the establishment to bring in hard currency with which to acquire weapons for our incessant Border War.”
The wizard turned to the owl for a moment, and the great bird, with but two powerful beats of his wings, cleared the hedge and disappeared somewhere in Jessar’s estate. “We should not attract too much attention,” the wizard said in way of explanation.
“Now you notice. You made me shave my beard, but ignored me when I told you before that Silentwing ruined our disguises.”
Jessar gestured to the west. “Well, let’s go then. The stout will keep until our return.” The friends headed out along the cobbled Infamy Avenue.
Ogador held up the dagger as he walked. “This is an unusual blade, Jessar. See here where the lower guard is loose?” he said, as he tilted the oval flange separating the blade from the handle.
Jessar saw a worn embossed symbol on the tang that looked like a rune in some ancient language. “It looks as if it might be a ‘V’.”
“Let me see that.” Stefir grabbed the dagger and peered at the marking. “Jessar, how did you know that rune was a ‘V’?”
“I don’t know. Why do you ask?”
“Half my blood I owe to those who once used that mode of writing, and the more knowledgeable wizards still use it or its cursive counterpart for their arcane art. That’s salskrit, the ancient runes of the Solon race from whom the elves descended in the dim past of the Innocent Age.”
The prince jerked the dagger back. “Really, I wouldn’t know about that, but that particular rune was the craft mark of a famous pattern welder of antiquity. That blade, Stefir, is even older than your nine thousand years or I’m a goblin.”
“You are ugly as one, anyway.”
Jessar gave Ogador a may-I look and accepted the weapon. “Ogador, I don’t want to sound dubious, but this looks like a common dagger that the gypsies carry strapped to their forearm. This,” Jessar pointed to the scaly leather grip, “covering looks an awful lot like the hide of one of their reptilian load beasts.”
“Perhaps, but some butcher has reforged the blade itself, ruining the pattern welding. Also, that hide has been pressed around the original grip.”
Sure enough, Jessar was able to peel the leathery covering back where the lower guard had chafed it away. Beneath the hide was an ebony, glass-looking material. Odd, but it looked like there was some kind of a white tracing just below the surface. He pulled back more of the leather, revealing an inset likeness of a building or some kind of temple. “Look at this.”
Again Stefir, who had been watching Jessar with interest, roughly grasped the dagger. “By the Creator!”
“I haven’t seen him that excited since a palace urchin once carved his initial on his staff.”
The wizard’s eyes flashed at Ogador. “And you were that urchin! It took me two fortnights to un-age my staff and restore its utility as the Symbol of Power for Talan’s most mighty chronologist.”
“Stefir, your might at magic is exceeded only by your modesty.”
“You distract me, Prince. Jessar, that inset is the Temple of Fertility, a nest of iniquity. The place was the catalyst for the Dooms that brought about the end of the Sacred Age. Who could have planted that dagger? This is an interesting puzzle.” Stefir placed his fingers on his temple again
Ogador shot Jessar a he’ll-be-like-that-for-hours look and said, “We seem to have stumbled into several mysteries so far, not the least of which is how the magician and I were able to sneak up on Jessar, especially considering he was out here waiting for us.”
Jessar couldn’t let the accusation rest. “Now wait a moment, there. I was expecting you to show up in cloaks like last time. In fact, I should have walloped you to teach you a lesson for sneaking up like that. I might’ve beaten you since you’re not wearing your sword. Where is it?” His assertion was at best questionable: Ogador was two knuckles taller than Jessar and easily weighed half again as much as the half-elf.
The prince smiled. “Look closer, Jessar. You know me better than to think I’d be without my trusty Angdrel, Demon Slayer.”
Jessar peered closer at Ogador’s left hip and, sure enough, if he concentrated, he could see the long sword. But it shimmered and seemed only partially substantial, like looking at a scene through the heat waves over a cobblestone road on a hot summer day. Expecting to see a similar phenomenon in Stefir’s left hand, the half-elf searched for the wizard’s staff.
The wizard smiled. “No, Jessar, I do not have it with me. I have consigned it to my own private little space Between and can summon it whenever I need to do so. You may have noticed our disguises.” The wizard gestured to the two visitors’ coarsely-woven, multi-pocketed brown breeches, green tunics, and leather sandals, common Galbardian gardening clothes. “After accompanying you here from Plasis and watching your neighbors trample your gardens, I was determined not to repeat it. I am glad to see that fashion in Silarom has not changed: Ogador’s sun hat keeps casual observers from noticing his unpointed ears. Although you might have thought I had asked him to amputate a body part, I even managed to convince our not-so-good prince to shave his beard; maybe he will not get deported this time.”
Ogador rubbed his bare chin. “Yes, Jessar, I sacrificed much for you, and I hope your stout lives up to the wizard’s bragging.”
“If I remember correctly, and I am certain that I always do, the last time we were here, you hardly needed Jessar’s stout to put yourself in a stupor. Before his countrymen ruined the gardens, you had already lost your head to the Bordana tranquility.”
“I was not expecting that effect, oh master of the irrelevant, and neither were you. Where I come from, the pollen of our good half-elf’s Bordana flowers is not a sedative but the key ingredient of love potions and the famous Deleriance perfume. Once, though the cologne must have cost her a year’s wages, a delicious, savage-blooded tavern wench attempted to seduce me.”
“She wasted her money. They rarely have the opportunity to seduce you since you seem to consider it your princely duty to woo them yourself.”
“I’m sure you would agree it is the responsibility of an effective and caring regent to know his subjects.”
“Tell me then, Ogador, when do you plan to know the male half of your father’s subjects?”
“Jessar, you see how crafty the wizard is? Why my ancestors continued to hire on a crown wizard who couldn’t charm the clothes off a whore is beyond me. He won’t admit that he wasn’t expecting the tranquilizing effect of your Bordana.”
“One of the few things I’ve learned during my three years here is why the pollen works like that. The Bordana itself is odorless and acts only as a medium or catalyst for the other agents with which it mixes. That is a closely held secret here in Galbard. My people already have enough of a challenge discouraging its export when the rest of Talan simply believes the pollen to be useful only in love potions and perfumes.”
He continued, “After finally restoring my gardens after your last visit, I planted some rose bushes and lilacs. Every time I tended my plants the next season, I felt terribly restive – hardly necessary for me, since I have been anxiously awaiting this visit and the chance to travel again. So, the next year I experimented with other blooms, but I finally went back to the less aromatic varieties my mother had used. It turned out to be the honeysuckle that combines with Bordana to produce the calmative effect.”
“Well, you apparently have your mother’s touch with plants, Jessar. The estate on our right is the only one besides yours that I have seen so far growing Bordana.”
Over the low holly hedge where Stefir pointed, Jessar saw the carefully tended bed of the knee-high plants, each bearing the white, teardrop shaped four-pedaled flower with its dusting of blue pollen inside. Below the hand-sized blossom was a straight, rosewood colored stalk. Four ribbon-like extrusions spiraled down this stalk into the soil. Eight broad, heavily veined leaves radiated a foot from the stalk just off the ground with a smaller such set of leaves a few knuckles below the flower. The plants bearing the pollen were delicately beautiful. But this was a fact few outside Galbard would ever appreciate, for exporting Bordana or any of its parts was a serious crime, and the black market only managed to smuggle the concentrated pollen itself.
“It’s all in the growth potion. My mother’s formula is very effective.”
“All this talk of Bordana pollen reminds me, Jessar: I shall require a small quantity for a new spell I have developed.”
“I can gather some before we leave. What will the magic do?”
“Well, if you remember earlier, I said I might have found a way to discover your star name. My new dweomer should solve that part of the puzzle of your past.”
“Outstanding! I knew you’d come through, Stefir,” the half-elf exclaimed, shaking his fists and thrusting them in his pockets. He felt the parchment scrap from the sailor. He’d memorized the words: “Look for me again in three years at the Council if you want to see your mother before she dies.” Soon, he’d be on his way to the most populous city of all Talan, the seat of the Great Council of Civilized Countries, where he’d learn his star name and find out what happened to his mother Gilana. Yes, it seemed things were shaping up just fine, despite the troubling dagger incident.
But first things first. He’d been anticipating his friends’ arrival ever since meeting them the first time in Plasis, and it sounded like they’d have plenty of time to visit before setting sail. Maybe he’d have another visitor from the tavern. He could see the quay just one block ahead. The port district, bounded by the wharf and the first avenue paralleling the harbor, was the only part of Silarom where the buildings were nested on the ground rather than in the trees. The tavern was only three buildings down on the right once they reached the unsheltered seaside. “Say, Stefir, why did this ranger travel all the way here to see you?”
“Well, first of all, he will be the Swordland’s delegate to the Council, and therefore had to come east eventually anyway. However, I suspect that the reason he came here specifically to meet me is his participation in the Valkara Quest.”
“Stand by, Jessar. Here he goes,” Ogador said as the wizard raised his finger didactically. “See, what did I tell you? Stefir, can you keep this short, we have only a few moments before we’re at the bar.”
Lowering his finger, Stefir scowled at Ogador. “About two years ago now, a Roving Prophet visited Queen Asara of the West-realm, shortly after her husband, the king disappeared.”
Jessar noticed Ogador’s downcast eyes at the reminder. “Yes, we heard the news of the missing king even here in Galbard. Sorry, Ogador.”
The prince replied almost mechanically, “A definite setback in the war. But the people of West-realm have renewed their resolve under the Queen’s steadfast rule.”
“Ogador actually played no small part in the Queen’s success at combating her people’s low morale,” the wizard said. As if regretting the kind remark, he continued, “Of course, the prophet helped the effort even more markedly. He promised the queen that her husband would be found alive. Additionally, he also prophesied that a member of a great warrior tribe of legend and antiquity held the key that would unlock the door to victory. After careful deliberation, I and the other advisors to the throne concluded that the Prophet had been referring to one of the Valkar. Now, the problem was—“
Ogador had apparently noticed Jessar’s confusion. “Stefir, there is really no middle ground for you. Either you ramble on endlessly or totally skip vital details. Jessar, the Valkar are—“
Glaring at Ogador, the wizard interrupted, “They are warriors of arms or magic, fighting where they will to suppress evil. Accepting no more than room and board, they once roamed the lands. A people split off from the Solon by the Dooms of the Creator at the end of the Sacred Age, they were never numerous, perhaps ten thousand strong at the beginning of this our own Age of Dooms. Over the nine thousand years since the Dooms, they slowly vanished. Doubtless some of them died, but no histories can account for the disappearance of their entire people.”
“Okay, Stefir, so the Queen dispatched the rangers to search for one of them.”
“Very good, Jessar, but she did more than that. She offered a reward: ten thousand gold West-realm tiaras to anyone bringing in a member of the mysterious people and a tenth that amount to anyone with information of their whereabouts.”
Ogador smiled at Jessar’s astonishment. “Yes, it’s a sizable fortune, almost enough to operate Stefir’s laboratory of trial and error and pay his sizable staff of arcane bunglers for one year. As you might expect, many besides the rangers, who I must point out all declined any fees beyond their modest salary, scoured the lands.”
“Trial-and-error indeed! The small stipend I receive on behalf of the crown to operate not one, but two mystical research facilities, is a bargain. But again, Ogador, you distract me. Now, if I can do without any more interruptions, I can complete my explanation.”
They had reached their destination. Beside a heavy hewn ash door was a crude mural depicting a Langbardian schooner with cartoonish elves scrambling on the rat lines in unrealistic numbers. A block-lettered shale sign on the door read “The Mariner’s Asylum,” and directly beneath it in bold letters “Bartering Prohibited.” The stout door was out of character for the flimsy clapboard excuse for a building that seemed to lean on the door casing.
Reaching for the handle, Jessar said in exasperation, “So what happened?”
“Well, after a year everyone but Bidmaron gave up. Oh, there were many false leads, but it appeared all the Valkar had simply vanished. The last time I had communed with Bidmaron, he was headed for the Ice Kingdom of Mal-Tar to follow what I believed was a dubious rumor. Hopefully, he will prove my doubt unwarranted.”
As Jessar tugged the massive door open, a din of tumbling furniture and cursing arose within. His elven eyes adjusted quickly to the smoke-filled dim interior. At a table just inside the door sat a black man in a weather-worn cape, suede tunic, and wool breeches, all mottled with natural colors. The lithe man slouched in a fragile chair with his legs thrust under a rickety table before him. Jessar didn’t need to hear the man bellow, “Well, just when I was wondering how to find you, look who Fate has dragged before me,” to know they’d located the ranger.
Jessar smiled and awaited Ogador’s customary familiar hug of greeting for his old comrade. When it didn’t come, the half-elf turned to his friend, who stood staring into the gloom at the rear of the bar with a slack-jawed look of admiration. Even Stefir looked on with raised brows. “Ogador,” he started to say, but as he peered to find out what his friends found so amazing, his own jaw felt compelled to hang motionless.
In a small clearing before a stage, amidst two overturned tables, crouched the most beautiful elwen Jessar had ever imagined. Her pristine beauty seemed goddess-like, even in her less than enhancing environment. Jessar felt awestruck by her innocent allure.
For her part, the elwen was easily parrying the sword blows of a man over thrice her weight. He already bled from several scattered cuts. He looked like someone who has suddenly realized he has swam farther from the shore than he could return. His lovely opponent, on the other hand, hadn’t even started breathing hard.
Admiring the fluidity of her sword movements, Jessar watched her counter a powerful sweeping blow. Even untrained as he was in swordplay, he recognized her blade mastery. Her blocking motion slammed the pommel of her sword into a man’s chin just as his momentum carried his arms harmlessly by. Suddenly stunned, her opponent swayed precariously before toppling over in a swirling-eyed stupor, breaking a chair with his head on the way down.
Stefir laughed. “Oh, I may have neglected to mention that the Valkar were – are – in addition to experts of the martial or mystic art, all legendarily beautiful females.”