So. I have a flat surface big enough for my laptop, a space 1/4 the size of the house I need to sell, an enormous pile of boxes. And of course there has been snow, and rain, and more snow, and…enough snow already.

But the blog is back in business! Whew. Watch this space.

"Gentlemen, I have found myself the reluctant owner of a slight ship, good to no one of decent purpose, and I will make it available to any who can match the sum I was owed for it when the previous buyer was found in the harbor this morning-light, very much beyond the need for his own ship or anything else.  Who will offer?"

Mina watched the man.  He was dressed well, but he wore a sword only because the fashion demanded it.  He kept minding it, and forgeting where it was when he turned here and there to grin at the crowd.  He was also very drunk.  Devryn smiled, pleased with the success of his last run and amused at the show.

The man had another with him, taller, more comfortably armed.  He looked over the room, into the dark corners, and Mina shook off a chill when he found her and paid closer attention.  He was familiar.  She frowned and sat back into the shadow to think.  The wall on the far side of the room was actually the outer wall of this level of Lantry.  It was as close as Mina could get to being within Lantry again.  The man was leaned against that wall, scanning the crowd.  For him, that wall was a defense.  And he obviously beleonged within its gates.  

Someone made an offer for the boat, and the room laughed before the seller could answer.  "Come now.  Is there no one interested?  My price will hardly cover my losses in building her."

This man belonged at the bottom of a sealed barrel.  Mina could not resist.  "Your price is high, for a desperate man.  I'll wager you lost the profits at the gaming table before you discovered he was dead, and would not pay you."  Mina grinned as the man's red face answered her, and the room enjoyed itself at his expense.

He picked her out of the crowd.  He was used to seeing women here, but not dressed in a shirt and trousers with tall boots to tuck them in like a sailhand herself.  "Lady, this is hardly a pleasure craft for splashing in the harbor."  He named off the facts about his boat as if he was describing an old lover to a friend.  "You could hardly sail her."

Mina bristled.  It was not as much his words as his manner, but the quicker of the observers could feel the duel in the air.  "I could do so if I chose.  I'll give you half what you ask, since you believe I am only half a sailhand."

"You insult me, if you believe I would sell to you."

The crowd was interested, now.  Mina played the man for laughs.  "And now he says my gold is worthless."

A smattering of shouts.  The man strutted around his table.  "Why should I think otherwise?"  He had to take his eyes off her face long enough to untangle his sword.

"Because you need the money, and I need the ship."

The man laughed at her.  He was in a good mood, for a man digging his own grave.  "You have not been long in Lantry, if you believe you will escape here without a challenge."

Mina smiled.  "The challenge to sail the ship, or the challenge to see you on the dueling court?  Either suits me well enough."
He gaped at her.  He knew she was right; the duel could stand.  He also knew she would win.  He looked for advantage.  "You're not worth killing, but you might be worth marking, to teach you a lesson.  Very well.  We duel.  Your weapon and mine, without coats to hide your pretty tears in."

Mina stood up and shed her coat.  Devryn was amused.  He knew better than to doubt her actions.  She answered him in the form of the duel.  "Three marks, then."

Terms were settled, one at a time.  The center of the room cleared.  Her opponent was either gentleman enough that he would not allow her to embarrass herself in the public street, or coward enough that the dueling court was too good for him.  Mina suspected which, but smiled in the face of his terms.  They agreed, or he demanded and she nodded, attentive student accepting a dressing down from one of her betters.  Behind her she could hear one of their shipmates pounding Devryn on the back.  She did not dare turn around, for fear she would laugh.

The tall man sat behind his employer for as long as he could.  When he stood up, he seized the older man by the shoulder.  "Enough.  You have named your terms and she has accepted them.  Therefore she can name the prize, and you are obliged to accept."
Mina could barely hear the words, but the timbre was familiar.  Devryn was still coughing.

The man came forward in his shirt sleeves, which were very white.  His sword fit his hand in the way his fencing master had told him it should.  "What prize then, if you prevail?"    

Mina drew her own weapon, weighing it easily in her hand.  "Halve the price for the ship.  Half of that on discovery that it exists, and half to be paid when she and I return from our first voyage.  Three marks, three terms."

He nodded numbly.  She had gotten the better of him already, and they had not crossed swords.  Where had she learned the terms and speech of the duel?  She did not look like a member of any class Lantry allowed to duel, with or without the Governor's Sanction.  It worried him that his second, standing behind him, was quiet.  "I am told that I must accept your words, but I may find another buyer for the ship in your absence."

Mina shrugged.  "Be my guest.  He will be disappointed."
They circled.  Mina watched, measuring his stride and counting the steps his fencing master had advised.  Their blades met.  Hers slid in while he was counting out his retreat and marked him on the chest.
Mina ticked off his failings with her parries.  He left a mark on her arm that did not break the skin.  Bored, Mina stepped in, marked him once on each cheek, and neatly disarmed him before he could hit himself in the face with his own sword.

Devryn and the tall man faced each other, and declared the duel at an end.  The shipbuilder gingerly counted the marks and nodded once.  "Take her to the ship.  Bring me her gold in the morning."

The tall man's name was on the tip of her tongue.  He let her stand for a few moments in the admiration of the crowd.  Mina sheathed her sword and gave them a flourishing bow before she led the man out of the drinking room and downhill toward the water.

**Stormweaver—unfinished manuscript**

D. M. Lawson

Galen caught his breath against the burn of poison.  The room was small, and there was just enough light to ensure that he had not been left for the fish.  He blinked, expecting cold.  Northaven was always cold.  He was looking down on his own body, bound to his spirit by a cord as thin as thought and as strong as truesilver.  He reached for fear, for hatred, for some emotion to remind him that he lived.  Here was the fear, but not for himself.  If Rhoven had caught him, he would draw Silverleaf to him, as he already had the Darkweaver mage, rendered spirit again by his defeat at Irret.  At least Silverleaf might be strong enough to resist him, for a while.

               He looked around the room.  There was his body, the form he had worn in his years as a mortal.  Perhaps he would return to it, if enough was left of it for him to claim.  Like a shadow, he could see Rhoven’s presence in the room, casting some spell on his remains.  He spoke to the air, as if he knew that Galen’s spirit lingered, and could hear him without being able to answer.

               “Here are two of the three I need, then.  Enric believes I will not dare to open the Stormgate.  Enric believes that the Lightweaver will stop me.  Enric believes many things which are not true.  I will gather those who have touched the Lightweaver medallions, and I will use their strength to augment my own.  Then we will see what this world remembers about Darkness.  From that, we will see what can be remade, since I am assured by the King’s best mind that everything will be unmade, as if it had never been.”

               Galen shivered, even in spirit.  Rhoven would trap, draw, and twist anything he could reach toward his goal.  Not unlike the Darkweaver mage.  But very unlike him in the amount of power he could bring to bear on the task.  Enric had held several forms, at least one of which had held the Darkweaver medallion for a very long time. 

               Rhoven wished he had had time to discover what Silverleaf knew.  He had not made a study of Elven magic.  The power that survived in Irret was stunted, easily broken, scattered.  The scraps would be gathered up and used for whatever suited Rhoven’s purpose.  The Darkweaver had created the tyxi, several depths of shadow, and any number of other creatures that would suit his purposes also.  The Darkweaver had tried to prevent the burning of Irret.  Rhoven had not understood why, still did not.  Now that the Darkweaver was gone, there was one less barrier to the resettlement of Mergan.  Rhoven smiled.  He planned to relocate his capital there.  The city in the center of the elven forest had a reputation, and no doubt there were tools there who–which–would be useful to his schemes.  He looked at the husk that had once, would again if he was lucky, hold Galen’s spirit.  He was too stubborn to give up.  He was too devoted to the Lightweaver mage.  Rhoven had seen a little of that devotion, that he had risked his own life to see her freed from his scheme to draw her power without having to see her in Northaven.  Now, with Enric and Galen here, there was almost no chance that he could keep her at a distance.  He laughed.  Of course he would be pleased to see her.  And just as pleased to see her surrender her life to his schemes.  He knew just enough to be certain that she would fight.  And that hers would be an interesting death to watch.

               Rhoven finished his study of the corpse.  The poison would wear off soon, and iron would have to do.  Enric had been easily trapped in Truesilver.  He set himself to discover, in the next days, what might hold Silverleaf, if it became necessary.  When he left, locking the door firmly behind him with a large spell and a small key, he was whistling.

               Galen drew a little of the magic Rhoven doubted, and slithered back into the form he knew.  The poison had been enough to render him senseless for a longer time than he thought.  He had no idea what day it was, and the light did not make it easy to discover if it was dawn or twilight.  Either light was enough for Rhoven.  The weight of the world Galen knew was a comfort.  The cold air was an annoyance, but he had been dressed for travel when he was caught, and that cloak began to warm his shoulders.  The room was indeed small, large enough for himself and Rhoven and some little bits of iron that were doing an interesting work of holding him in one spot.

               For a few minutes Galen tried to free himself from the iron.  Of course, it did no good.  But, now that he had tried, he felt better.  He was here, in Northaven.  Mor and Rudan would, he had no doubt, be sent back to Vankhar in Torrinth.  What story they would be given to tell, Galen did not know.  Likely, it would be as full of pomp and threats and empty posturing as the missive Vankhar had burned in Torrinth.  Rudan would believe whatever he was told.  Mor would accept what he was told, but unless he turned fool, he would not believe it.

               Galen spared a thought for Miri and Eamond.  He wished, for a long moment, that it had not felt so good to recover that friendship, to have a link to the life he had known when he still believed it possible to flee Aara’s fortune for himself.  Now, he knew better.  Aara would demand a price of him.  He wondered, in this cold cell in Northaven, if he would be ready to pay it, when it was demanded of him.  Certainly, the rewards of his time in Torrinth had been sweet enough that he could hardly refuse.  If they had been allowed to escape to Torrinth, Galen had no doubt that his friends would find a haven there.  There were many men who might find a use for Eamond.  Perhaps Kolin Sailchaser.  Dovic was young enough that he should be in school.  Miri would find some work.  He wished them well of Aara’s fortune, and gave more thought to his own.

               With a sickening jolt, he was reminded of the magic he held.  It rolled and roiled around him for a dozen heartbeats.  A reaction that was not training let him bring some order to the confusion.  A brittle shell of protective shadow, slightly darker than the air around him, tried to shield his physical form.  Since he was in no danger, he gathered up the power and swept it around the room.  The echoes of the spirits of dying men cringed away from the assault, but there was no one else here and there was no way out that would accept his physical form.  The door shimmered once in acknowledgement of his quest to open it.

               Since he found no way out, he looked in again, at the tattered and faint image he presented, hanging there in the view of magic.  Slowly, he gathered details he remembered.  One detail, two, brought others with them, until he could have walked the street in any city in the Kingdom and no one would have thought him a spirit.  He cursed himself for a fool, for trusting Rhoven DuPer to pour anything that was not vile. 

               The memory of what Rhoven had done to Silverleaf made him angry.  With that anger came more magic, dark and warm and comforting in this cold place.  The promise he had made, to see Rhoven to justice for his actions, to see him removed as master of Northaven, to see him suffer, to see him fail in his fool’s quest to open the Stormgate, brought Galen strength.

               Even the naming of the Stormgate made it seem bleak in this space.  Galen wondered what, of anything at all, was on the other side of the gate.  Was there, truly, all the darkness in the world, waiting to reclaim the light things that had been made?  Were there drakes?  Real ones?  He had seen Drakhaven, once, from a distance.  Certainly it looked like some giant creature made its home there.  The water was violent, and sailing too close would have been insane.  But he had seen the point of land above the rocks that looked like bones.  From that place, once, a long time ago, he had seen the world.

               That world, the one he had seen, did not exist, or not yet.  It had been the stuff of tales much darker than Silverleaf told.  Drakhaven was a place of dragons and darkness, a place that was so large it swallowed forever and made it seem like yesterday.  A place where things could be broken, truly and finally, a place where all the world, and everything in it, could be unmade.  And yet, the place, and his memory of it, was real enough.  There had been a great deal of power there, washing the place with torrents of magic.  He let the memory draw him in, and it was sweet, for a moment.

               “Do you know what I want from you already?  Or did you really come to Northaven to seek it for yourself, and all your anger with me was just a bone to throw your paper King?”

               Galen startled badly when he realized Rhoven was there in the cell with him, speaking to the place in the air where he was.  The door was closed, and the light of the single torch in this small space was like brilliant sunshine.  He watched the fire consume the end of the torch.  So slowly.  He had been gone a long time, maybe, in his dreams of Drakhaven.  “I will not give you what you want.”

               Rhoven was pleased.  He laughed, and the noise made the walls ring.  “No, you will take it for yourself.  And why not, when you have been the toy of a small King for so long, in spite of the magic that runs in your blood?  You will find the Stormgate.  You will try to seize it.  And when you do, I will take it from you.  And then, I will kill you with it, you and many others.  It will be beautiful.  And such a triumph, to draw even the magic of the Elves into the Stormgate.  What will we have then?”  Rhoven vanished.

Galen was still secured to the floor, in body.  In spirit, he was draped over his form, wishing he had been more aware of himself.  Wishing he did not feel that he had forgotten something it would be very necessary to know.  Wishing he did not feel the fool.  It was very real to him, now, that he was trapped here.  That made him angry, but not as angry as the thought that Rhoven enjoyed the knowledge that he was trapped here, and would now be questing for Silverleaf, using him as bait.  Needing to believe that Rhoven was distracted with his triumph, Galen willed himself back in to the body he knew, the one Silverleaf would know and trust.

*Central Kingdoms*

Unpublished manuscript

D. M. Lawson

Everyone in Lantry, member of a House or common sailhand in the street, has a name.  The sailhand will have only one, a common form of address (Wil, Alex, Lina) and the name signed to all records.  No title or address is used with a commoner’s name.

If that commoner excels in a trade, s/he will eventually be allowed to seek a guild membership.  If that membership is granted, s/he is granted the right to use their profession as a surname.  This right is granted only as long as the holder remains a member in good standing of the guild.  If advancement is made in that guild, the right to an address is granted.  Thus, Prentice Wil Tanner, who may eventually become Master Wil Tanner.  However, if Journey Alex Chandler marries Prentice Lina Brewer, their children will take their own surnames if they choose different professions.  Lina might sign her bank notes ‘Lina, Prentice Brewer’ or ‘Prentice Lina Brewer.’  If a document is signed concerning property owned by both Lina and Alex, both signatures must be present for the property to be common.  In the event of the death of a spouse, all property held by both is granted to the survivor.  Property owned by the deceased is given equally to offspring if there is no debt in the deceased’s name.  If there is debt, that property is liquidated, profits divided among his creditors, and the debt is considered discharged, at least monetarily….

All guilds keep careful records of their members.  Impersonating a professional by laying claim to a false name is punishable by flogging.  Earning a name is a cause of celebration.  Losing one is a cause for desperate action….

For a member of a House of Lantry, a name is an ornament.  Often given names are passed down.  It is common practice to name a child by given name, the names of then-living grandparents of the same sex, and the House name.  (Richard Aldan CyrKrysto.)  Even among the very rich, professions are common; it is a mark of honor to carry the House trade forward.  If a member of a House follows that House’s trade, s/he may add the profession after the House name.  If the trade is carried forward in the service of someone of higher rank, that is also indicated.  Any member of a House of Lantry who achieves Master rank may use “King’s….” as these are the members of a profession sent to the service of the King if called upon.  (Branluc Tolevar-Henri VinRath, King’s Physician)  Members of Houses who marry may use either House name, or both, but only their own profession.  Which they are addressed by varies with the situation and the speaker.  (Mistress Adra Jenvar-Mari VinRath Narathan, Weaver; Adra VinRath)  Children of House marriages carry the name of the highest-ranked parent.  (Gareth Bandevar’s daughter Greeta inherits her mother Lecia Mauri’s name, as Mauri is the higher ranked House.)  Some couples who marry agree in advance which House the children will carry forward.  This is especially useful for near-commoners and professionals who marry into a minor position in a House.  Commoners do not marry into Houses of Lantry.  See below.

Lord and Lady are forms of address reserved for the most senior members of a House.  Lady+Title+ Given Name is correct liege address. ( M’lady Duchess Anne)  House names (Agrino) in this address situation are optional, but often helpful in tracing the current political webs.

Among gentlemen one may be addressed by his profession or a diminutive derived from it, implying the entire web of connections he has under his control at that moment.  Few will cross Cambist CyrKrysto, or “Treasure” Manreith.

Profession names implying proficiency with a weapon are considered poor form.  Every member of a House of Lantry is expected to be familiar with basic weaponry.  Fewer have a talent for it and continue their studies.  Very few actually earn, or deserve, titles like Brightblade except in jest.  Commoners who attain proficiency with a weapon (which implies they could afford one in the first place) sometimes carry names like Archer or Swordman into the forming Lantry military forces.  If they live long enough for them to become common use, they get to keep them.    

*Central Kingdoms*

Unpublished manuscript

D. M. Lawson

Magic is an industry and a profession in Lantry.  For those discovered to have the talent for magic, there is a track of education that focuses the student through the basic theory of magic, spells, and alchemical processes.  As the student progresses, a grounding class in each school of magic is presented, and a plan of study devised for each student based on demonstrated aptitudes. 

There are strict rules governing the use of magic.  “Hotdogging” is frowned upon in all circumstances and punishable in most.  It is considered extremely poor form to use magic against an untalented opponent unless lives are actually threatened by inaction.  Magical dueling is illegal.  Using magic in a sword duel must be agreed upon in advance and only if both parties to the duel have talent.

Non-magical dueling is a popular sport.  There are ornate rules, and anyone who breaks them too often finds him- or herself with a reputation as a bad sport.  Once entered, a duel must be completed, and once lost fairly it is poor form to seek vengeance.  The terms of a duel must be set out in advance, must be specific, and must be within the capabilities of both parties. 

Anyone who uses magic in a circumstance that could be considered questionable can be called to account, in front of a gathering of fellow mages.  Exceptions are made for open combat with an enemy of Lantry, provable self-defense, and honest failure of a spell meant for another purpose.  (If a spell meant for cooking food causes a fire, the caster may still be liable for the damage done, but is not likely to encounter serious censure.  If a spell meant to raise the dead, questionable in the first place, spreads the plague the corpse died from, the caster will encounter penalty, from having the talent deadened to being put to death.)

Dueling with swords is an art form.  There are weights of weapons, specific stances which are accepted and those which are not.  The rules of the duel vary by season, House, severity of insult, and the personal preferences of the parties involved.  Anyone who interferes in a duel once it is set may find himself in a duel of his own.

House Treganval has a reputation for dueling.  They are the architects of much in Lantry, including the code of sword fighting.    In order to earn allies, they have endowed a school to teach the art of sword fighting.  The school is entirely above board.  Some of what has been said about “after class” activities against rival Houses is not.  No accusation has ever been proven.  Alexa Bandevar was briefly involved with and taught by Robyn Treganval, but will not discuss his activities, if she knows of them.

*This is a section from Stormweaver, an unfinished manuscript.* It is reposted from a previous blog, as I drag items out of obscurity and put them all in one place.

“Mergan”

D. M. Lawson

Gereint traveled alone.  He did not consider himself a target for the Darkweaver’s mischief, and his rank as a Sword of the Kingdom sat lightly on his shoulders.  After Mergan, no man needed to be told to take caution.  That he was also Master of Mergan, if only in title, was harder.  In that place, he had seen shadows and darkness, and the false, glittering light of magic drawn for reasons he could not guess, because he already knew.  But that place had been granted to him by his King, and he would make a loyal Mastery of it, if he could, when he could.  Today, he traveled through the Torrinthi Elven forest.  He knew their loyalty was beyond question, but the simple beginning would make the rest of the journey, and perhaps the bargaining with the elves of Irret, easier, if only in his thoughts.

Swiftbrook SummerSun received him, heard news of Northaven, and was silent for a long time.  “Northaven I do not know.  I have heard it described as a city on the sea.  The Kingdom was centered there, while Perinar ruled it.  Now, its former Master reaches as far as Torrinth to cause mischief.  I have no allies in Northaven.  I cannot send elves to join combat in such a place.  I could not serve as a worthy ally there.”  He watched for Gereint’s reaction.  It pleased him that there was no fear there, yet.  “Torinth I know better.  The Darkweaver’s shadow has stayed, even if his hold on Mergan was broken and the title given to one of Vankhar’s closest allies.”  Swiftbrook nodded, acknowledging Gereint’s newest title.  “And yet even Aara is displeased, to bring fever to the Kingdom of Torrinth before the coronation bell was rung.  Here, perhaps, I can aid Torrinth.  We have stores, and when Vankhar remembers to ask they will be opened to him.”  Swiftbrook SummerSun regarded Gereint Brightshield, youngest of his House, keenly.  He could read a dozen things in this man that Silverleaf did not see, did not want to see.  He smiled, a little, at his triumph, and just a moment too long.  “For you, Gereint Brightshield, this is my gift.”

Gereint took the two flasks.  They were made of dark cloth.  He could feel, with the grain of the fabric, magic.  They were full of liquid.  “They are a rich gift in themselves, and I thank you.  What do they contain?”

“If elven magic existed as human stories claim that it does, so that a patch of ground could be sown with dust and grow abundant food, or a man given a sword and turned by its weight alone into a King fit to rule the land he is given, what these contain would be called magic.”

Gereint accepted Swiftbrook’s words.  “Silverleaf could tell me of its uses, but I travel in some haste to Irret.  Will you instruct me?”  Gereint felt Swiftbrook’s suddenly cold scrutiny like the tines of a rake. 

“I thought you were quicker than that.  Magic takes many forms.  Magic answers many uses.  Light and Dark are names, used by those who must speak of those uses.  You have seen more magic than most mortals.  You know this already.  You will take many actions, rash and considered, wise and foolish, before you, or Torrinth itself, are granted peace.  Consider carefully how you use what you have been given.”

Gereint weighed the two flasks in his hands.  They were not large.  This was not a gift for the preservation of Torrinth, or for the resolution of the troubles of a kingdom.  They were for him.  They were a help, or a hindrance, a test, perhaps a joke.  Any use of this would be marked, not only by Swiftbrook himself, but long after.  Gereint thought of the shadows over Mergan.  Carefully, to see if it could be done, he balanced those with the brilliance of Torrinth, with the Gryphon, with the net of loyalty and magic that held the center of Torrinth’s fragile Kingdom together.

“Silverleaf has taught you a little, then.”  Swiftbrook enjoyed Gereint’s discomfort. 

“Not by intent.”

“But you are dear to her, she trusts you.  You learn, whether she will teach or not.  We will see, perhaps you have learned enough.  Too many in Torrinth believe that magic works in the way their stories tell them it does.  The Stormgate will teach them many lessons.” 

Gereint sat for longer than he had intended, considering and balancing Swiftbrook’s words.

“You have a long road to travel, and I wish you swift journey, free of distraction and danger.”

Gereint went on his way with Swiftbrook’s gifts carefully hidden. 

He took a route that would keep him from the main road and the chief hindrances.  Through the Torrinthi forest, through a corner of Chandarel that was distant from the city and its small-hearted Master.  The part of Ferian he traveled through he knew slightly, from Kivan’s maps.  Here, he had no choice but to take the road that led him to the bridge across the Tiben.  The sight of that river made him cautious.  The Ferian side was guarded, and they watched him approach.

“How fare you, Gereint Brightshield?”

“Well enough.  News of Kivan Watercaller’s death has reached Torrinth.  What Vankhar of Torrinth may decide is to be done has not been told to me.”

“Then we will wait.  We keep the bridge, and I know as truth that no one, human or elven, has crossed, in either direction, since Kivan’s funeral fire.  We have seen elves mark the road on the other side, but they do not trouble us.”

“Then do not trouble them.”  Gereint looked into the water.  The day was overcast, and some of the shadows in the water were the color of Formless.  It took him a long breath to come to the realization that such a thing as a Formless could have color, and form when it chose.  “Has there been disturbance in Ferian?”

“The crops are thin, but we will not starve.  The Keeper of the Granary has begun inspections of every sack of grain that comes through Ferian.  We grumble, but we live.”

Gereint smiled, and memorized the man’s words so he could report them to Vankhar.  “As soon as Vankhar is able to send, he will want the full reports and accounts of the progress of Ferian.  Kivan deserves to be well remembered.”

The night he spent on the Ferian side of the bridge was quiet, and he wondered if anywhere else in Torrinth was prospering.  The stew he ate was made of river fish, and the bread he was given in smaller portion than his last meal here, but the caution would keep Ferian in grain for the year.  He wondered about the rest of Torrinth, preparing for the conflict that must be resolved at Northaven.  Gereint could not imagine that it would be fought in the same way as Mergan had been.  Galen would bring useful news, before such decisions were made.  He watched the light fade into evening and thought of Silverleaf.  At this distance, several days travel and safe enough indoors, it surprised him that Swiftbrook had almost accused Silverleaf of…what?  Teaching him, when it was plain fact that he had no magical talent to direct?  Teaching him the habits of thought that let him weigh the gift he had been given?  Of carelessness?  But perhaps even that had been another of Swiftbrook’s half-lessons, and Gereint had been invited to learn what he could from it.

When he crossed the bridge into Irret the next morning, he wished for the simplicity of Swiftbrook’s words.  The elves of Irret had marked the road, but the markings made no sense to him, even when he stopped to study them.  Liam Brightshield had spoiled many bright sunny days, more perfect for chasing rabbits than lessons, ensuring that Gereint knew enough of the customs of their neighbors.  Silverleaf had taught him elven words, and the shadings of meaning that could be conveyed in a spoken phrase or a misplaced pen stroke.  He looked harder.  Some of the stones had been placed to keep the road dry.  Others had been set.  The form marked a name, with another symbol.  He walked while he thought.  The uncertain sunlight picked crystalline sparks out of the rocks.  Different names, with the same symbol, not sized to indicate a House marker.  It came to him as he reached the first stand of trees that truly marked the Irret forest that they might be remembrance markers, set to remind those who came here of the price of peace.

The gate, once piled high with bones, was still being rebuilt.  There were greater dangers within Irret, what might come through the river road gate was not yet enough to merit hurry.  And perhaps the stones guarded the road, he could not tell what the purpose had been.  Gereint stood in the gateway for several breaths.  The trees were thick, and the light was indistinct.  The wall around this entrance to the Irret forest had stood for so long that even Swiftbrook had some respect for it.  It had been called the Wall of Kings.  He walked a little farther, until he was surrounded by the smell of damp leaves and rich greenery.  Here, still within sight of the gate, he had met the elves of Irret before.  They might come to consider themselves Vankhar’s allies, but Gereint trusted them less.  He had spent too much time waiting to see what they would do to him.  He imagined Silverleaf felt the same toward the elves of Kamortha, or the Darkweaver mage. 

 He looked left, and right, and forward, toward Mergan.  He tried to consider what was there now, or what might be, rather than what had been there.  He knew one path through the forest of Irret.  He did not know its borders.  It might, beyond Mergan, reach the sea, for all he knew.  Even of Mergan, and the elven city that grew around it, he knew very little.  He had seen a few of the buildings, and he had seen the creatures of its magic.  He had seen the wall, and the hordes of things that had come over that wall.  He had attended the Remembrance for those who had not returned, but he felt he might meet some of them here.  The traveler’s spring he remembered for the day of the battle with Wolfsmane and his allies.  That day they had secured a foothold in Irret, as well as Mergan.  They had made allies of the elves who remained.  And then the whole of the King’s force, body and spirit, had left Irret and Mergan.  It would be fair enough if they did not honor his claim, when he dared to speak it.

He was one man and a horse, and traveled much faster than the force of Vankhar’s army had done.  Mergan was not so distant.  Its bulk, dark against the trees even without the shadow magic that had inhabited it, made him wary.  The field between the wall and his vantage point was empty now, but his memory showed him a different scene.  He could see the outlines of Perinar’s camp, and Evan Foxmane’s, and Vankhar’s.  Right here, standing in the short grass, he could feel enough magic to remind him of the day Silverleaf had been healed of her injuries.  He remembered seeing the strands of magic like the web of a spider, that day, binding them together.  He took two steps and the feeling was gone.  He wondered if it was only his memory, or some trick played by Swiftbrook’s gift to him. Now that he was here, far removed from the familiar green leaves of the Torrinthi forest, the thought of Swiftbrook’s gift horrified him.  Magic, rendered into physical form, given to a man who had, by his own admission and the knowledge of those around him, no magical talent, was surely a trick.  Gereint knew a little about magic.  He knew that it answered with a force of its own the questions put to it, if it answered at all.  He knew that no working in magic, of any scale, was done without a price, and that that price was sometimes collected long after the effects of the working were memory.  That, at least, he knew first hand.  Before she had been swept up in the workings of the Lightweaver medallion, Silverleaf had healed him.  The effects of that little working were still his to marvel at, even now that she had forgotten, and he had been granted something as unlikely as Mergan.  He looked, from this vantage, at the city.  The Darkweaver’s tower dominated the plan, because it was tall and because it had been the focus of so much chaos.  The sweeps of tyxi were gone.  The shadows, so many and so dangerous before, were now only the shadows of the trees, and the quiet shade of a place long neglected by human eyes.  He could see, in the trees surrounding the walls, signs of elves.  He was not completely alone, here.  Memory thick as mud dragged at his boots.  He walked around the edge of the field, through areas that had held men of all the banners of Perinar, and found the road that led to, and through, the gate of Mergan.  He had been this way once, but he was not sure today if that was fact or dream.  The road was worn, slick in places with moss.  The gate which could seal Mergan from the rest of the thinking world was standing open.  He left his horse on the road and walked through the gate.  Once he passed the huge wooden panels, he found himself stopped, by two elves with spears leaving marks on his arms just at the shoulder bones. 

“Vankhar, King of Torrinth, appointed me Master of Mergan when the Darkweaver mage was defeated.  I have come to survey the city that was granted me, and to make firm understanding with Tya, leader of the Irret elves, who agreed to ally with Vankhar.  I am not armed to fight the population of Irret, and I bring no others with me.”

The two elves stared at him for ten breaths.  One of them took his spear away and hurried off.  The other stayed where he was.  Gereint looked around him.  Inside the gate, work had begun.  The stones were clean, now.  Some of the area sheltered by the walls had been planted, ordered rows of greenery.  Three areas had been set aside, each marked with a roof and no walls, and goods were piled there.  Tya, much busier and less threatening than the last time Gereint had seen her, came from behind one of these piles.  She had no weapon in her hands, but Gereint would not have moved without her invitation.

“Mergan is not yet ready to welcome its Master, but its Master is here.  Greetings, Gereint Brightshield, and peace of this place, if you can find it.”

“Many thanks for the welcome, Tya, and for your efforts.  You and the elves of Irret will be rewarded for your work.  Let me see what you have begun.”

The spear point disappeared during the exchange, and he stepped forward to let Tya lead him.  “We began at the gate, as you see.  Once we know what is here, we can begin to consider how it should be used.”

“Where shall we begin, Tya?  This place has been a mass of shadows for so long that men will not care to come here, and it may hold nothing for them if they did.”

“It holds many things.  Men have come here before, and trade with the human lands beyond Irret is not as strange as Mergan’s history might mark it.  Before it stored the twisted magic of the Darkweaver medallion, Mergan was a place of trade.  Now, perhaps, a place of history, measured in the lives of men.”  Tya pointed out one of the piles of goods.  Fabric, jewelry, the bottom section of a piece of carving, worked in scales like a fish.  A basket, open to the air, contained a small fortune in silver coinage.  The other two shelters contained similar piles.  Tya let him stare.  “The Darkweaver mage hoarded goods as an easy bait for the spirits of the men he twisted.  If Vankhar of Torrinth is King enough to keep the Darkweaver from his borders, perhaps those goods can be put to other uses.  We spoke once of the Kingdoms, and I have used that to portion out what we find.  King’s Share, Master’s Share, and a share claimed for the use of the elves of Irret.” 

Gereint pretended interest in a carved chest so Tya would not see in his face what he remembered of their discussions.  “The elves of Irret will make themselves wealthy, if all of their dealings are as carefully minded.”

Tya walked ahead of him.  “They are as carefully minded as many years of oppression can teach.  But we have thought also that eventually, Vankhar would send his Master to claim this place.  Here, we have begun to make a place where a human might live.”  A dozen stairs separated the floor of this place from the ground outside.  Columns supported a deep porch.  The doorway did not boast of a door.  The stonework, like the rest he had seen in Mergan, was very fine.  The room beyond the door had been cleaned, and furnished with some of the pieces the Irret elves had found.  A map, half unrolled on the large table, gave Gereint a focus for his wandering attention.

“A map of Irret?  I asked to see one, once, and you told me they did not exist.”

“You were not in a position to demand anything, when we met before Mergan was settled.  Now, you can command whatever you like.  I may ignore you, but you may make whatever demand strikes you.”

Gereint tried a tight smile.  He was not sure if Tya was teasing him.  “I do not think I could demand something of this place that you have not already thought to provide.  Vankhar will be pleased, when I tell him what you have begun.”

“Then I have made a beginning.”  Tya walked over to the map and unrolled it so that it covered most of the table.  “The Master of Mergan should know at least the borders of his domain.”

Gereint stood beside Tya and studied the map.  The script was elven, but he could only read some of the characters.   This was older than his training.  The Wall of Kings was carefully drawn, irregular at the top of the map, where it encountered water.  There were several lines of script beside a structure that might have been a bridge.   Roads passed through Irret.  Other gates had been allowed in the Wall of Kings.  Each gate was carefully labeled.  A river, two tributary streams.  Three circular areas, distant from Mergan, ranged across the map, set off with careful lines.  There were several places that bore a mark for water.  Two of those were in the area, slightly larger than the palm of his hand, that denoted the dark wall of Mergan.  He considered the scale of the map.  Irret was large.  Mergan, the little portion of it to which he had been assigned Mastery, was not.  When Vankhar had given him the duty, it seemed a reasonable thing.  Gereint looked at the opposite wall, which contained two doorways with curtains across them.  He looked at the chairs along the wall.  He looked at the candles, which were new.  He thought of the stores of trade goods outside, neatly divided in three portions, any one of them enough to ransom Vankhar himself.  Gereint reminded himself to breathe.  “Has the King seen this map?”

“No.”

“Have you sent him any account of what you have begun here?”

“I would not presume to your office.  I have had records kept, you can tell Vankhar what you like.”

Gereint pointed to one of the unmarked circles on the map.  “What are those?”

“Elven Circles, places of the Lady’s power, once.”

“Has Silverleaf Lightweaver seen this map, or your progress?”

“It is not my place to guess what the Lightweaver sees.”

Gereint chased a quick smile off his face when he realized Tya was serious. 

“Never forget, Gereint Brightshield, Master of Mergan, that the elves of Irret serve the Lightweaver first.”  Tya walked across the stone floor to a chest, opened it, and selected a small rolled scroll.  “She taught you what elven you know.  Perhaps with this, you can learn to read Irret script, as well.”  She left the roll on the corner of the table. 

“I will study.  You may find I am quick.  Before I had thought to claim Mergan, I was sent on the King’s order to secure the assistance of the elves in the Kingdom of Torrinth toward the defeat of Rhoven of Northaven, who has threatened to open the Stormgate.  I have seen that Mergan is not empty.  Some of what is here will be put to service.”

Tya spoke a phrase in an archaic elven Gereint did not know.  She stopped and spoke the common words.  “The Worldgate must not be opened.  That cannot happen.” 

Gereint considered.  “It will be tried.  If we are ready, and strong enough, it cannot happen.”  He made an effort to match the gravity of her words.  “My King commands that I take your assurance, or your refusal, to him.”

Tya swallowed.  “We will follow the Lightweaver.  Vankhar of Torrinth has earned her help, and we offer ours to her.  There are stores, here, there is metal and money.  There is also some peace.  Such has not been in human lifetimes.  Perhaps that, which seems so little, will be the greatest of the gifts Irret can give.  Take my words to the Lightweaver, and to your King.  Whatever they, or you, request in this, we will do.”

They were interrupted by the arrival of a meal.  Tya rolled the map up again.  Gereint sat and ate what they brought him without tasting it.  Mergan was a very small portion of Irret, and he had the resources of both to bring to Vankhar’s cause.  Tya ate with him.  She was considering him, looking for proof that he would not master this place. 

“How many men could Mergan shelter?”  The creatures and shadows he had seen were gone, but they had been many.

Tya thought about his question.  “I can show you the buildings.  I will begin to prepare some of them tomorrow, if you will find it useful.  The walls of Mergan could shelter many men.  You do not read my words.  I do not know your numbers for men.”

“Then we both have something to learn.”  Gereint fell silent, and the weight of the place began to settle on him.  The stonework was old, and almost seemed to draw the light out of the air.  When they had finished their meal, the dishes were removed, and Gereint returned to the study of the map.

               “You will learn more looking at Mergan in the sunlight.  I do not think your King knows what he has given you.”

               Gereint allowed himself to be led.  “I am sure he does not.  He hoped only to place Mergan in safer hands, after the Darkweaver was defeated and driven off.” 

               Tya pointed along the wall, near one of the places that had been planted.  “For animals.”  At right angles to this, three long buildings, almost the width of the walled area.  “For men.”  They went inside through the door at the end of the building.  Long platforms, where men might sleep.  Provision, at one end, for a fire.  It looked like Fenreach, but larger.  They walked around these buildings.  A forge.  A kitchen.  Storehouses.  Tya took him into one of these.  There was no dust.  Barrels and boxes stood upright.  They were closed, labeled in script Gereint could not read quickly.  The door, and all the boxes, carried the same symbol.

               “What is that mark?”

               “Study harder.  It preserves, keeps edible.  It is a piece of practical magic, among all the twists of Mergan.”  Tya closed this door carefully.  Gereint traced the mark, which had been burned into the wood.  They walked further, streets with houses in neat rows.  Some of them were small and plain, some were larger and richer.  There were places where many men could be seated together.  There was a hall, similar to every other Mastery in the Kingdom.  There were elves here, working in one of the storerooms.  Tya glanced at them, but did not speak.  The central room of Mergan’s hall contained a stone table, a dais at one end, and enough history in the air alone to make Gereint cough from the dust of it.  Tya took sharp notice.  “You do not like it.”

               “It is not yet mine to like.”

               “Good.  If you were comforted in this place, I would begin to worry for you.”  She led him through the room, to the square beyond it.  There was a fountain here, but it did not flow.  The stones here were worn, the passage of many creatures with heavy, insistent tread.  Across the square, beyond the fountain, was the Darkweaver’s tower.  He blinked at it.  There were buildings beyond it, past the gate.  The top of the gate supported one of the elven bridges through Mergan.  Gereint tried to retrace the path he had taken that led here, once.  The place he remembered, the windowed room with glass and ashes on the fine rugs.  The windows on this side, fine paned glass, were whole.  At this distance, he could see the door, but no sign of marks there.  “What do you see?”

               Gereint shivered.  He remembered this place differently.  Tya showed him Mergan as a town, a garrison of men little different, really, from Fenreach.  He remembered darkness and magic, not storehouses full of apples.  “I see Mergan, as it is now.  It is not as I remember it.”

               “Good.”  Tya did not explain herself.

               “How many are here?”  Gereint studied the still fountain while he waited for Tya’s answer.

               “There are twice ten elves, and myself, today, you, and your horse.  We stay near the gate, when we stay at night.  There was no life in Mergan, when the Darkweaver and his shadows departed it.  It is perhaps time to consider Mergan as a place of men again.”

               “That should mark one of the springs on the map you showed me.  The water should run.”

               “It did, at one time.  Mergan was constructed so that water could flow through it.”  Tya showed him a narrow channel, cut in the stonework at their feet.    It led toward the fountain, and away, down into the empty city.  “There are passages like this everywhere we have looked.  There are places where water could run into a building.”

               “But the spring does not run.”

               “I will show you why, because it fascinates you.”  She led them to the rim of the fountain.  The water moved a little, it was almost over the rim of its enclosure.  The water was murky and the light was poor, but they could just see a gate, with a solid guard on it.  It could be opened.  “You could.  But look at the water.”  Gereint trailed one hand through the water, and shook off the feeling of it.  Ash and slime made the water feel slick, thicker than it should and not drinkable.

               “How is there water here, if the spring is foul?”

               “We bring what we need from another spring, or from the river.  Not one of us will clear a spring so close in the shadow of the Darkweaver’s tower until there is greater need.  There is spellwork that would do it, but it has not been worth the day of effort it would take.  Perhaps this is your challenge, Master of Mergan.”  

               Gereint wasted half a scowl on Tya, who was amused at his expense.  A thought chased itself around his skull, run ragged by all the cautions he had heard, and some he had discovered for himself.  “It is true that there are not enough men here to merit leaving the guard up.”  He produced one of the flasks Swiftbrook had given him.  “I think there is a way to clear the water.  And with this, I lay my claim to the Mastery of Mergan, and to the cooperation of the elves of Irret.”

               Tya frowned at him.  “You hold no magic.”

               Gereint carefully opened the flask.  He closed his eyes to blot out the view of the Darkweaver’s tower.  He tried to form some image of Mergan as a place a man might live, enjoying the benefits of clean water and peace.  He wondered what would be accomplished if the elves of Vankhar’s kingdom came to a single purpose.  Perhaps this would be a beginning.  He had the flask half-tipped when his attention snapped from the machinations of the elves to the borders of this single pool, which he wished were full of clean water.  A narrow stream of liquid came out of the flask.  It was almost sunset,  he told himself that was the reason for the striking colors in the water.  He had been walking all day, uphill, and making point after point with Tya.  That must be why he was so tired, so ready to sit at the lip of the fountain and sleep.  He settled the flask, carefully closed, back in his pocket.  He stood up, unsteadily, and looked around for Tya.  The view of Mergan, ringed with huge trees stained in shades of sunset, held all of his attention.  When they had faded to purple, he looked back to the fountain.  In the last of the light, the metal working Tya had showed him was clearly visible.  The base of this pool was white stonework.  He saw, for a moment, a dark blur that would have been Tya’s reflection, in better light.  She would laugh at him for catching her at that.  She was still.  “It is close enough to dark that you will have to lead me back to my bed, if you will have me stay.”

Tya offered his some of the water from the cleared spring, in a wooden cup.  It was only water, but it was fresh and felt good on his tongue.  He dipped and drank a second cup, toasting Tya with it before he drained it.  For a moment, the square and its fountain seemed to sparkle, even in twilight.  The stone of the Master’s Tower glinted once, and then it was simple stone again.  Gereint shaded his eyes against the sudden gleam.  The brilliant orange of fire assaulted him when he closed his eyes, and a colorless grey rain that reminded him of his last sight of Chandarel soaked into his soul.  Suddenly, a greenish sore opened in the patch of darkness he had been staring into.  Alea Sablefox appeared there, wreathed in the bright orange light of fire.  While he watched, she caught fire and vanished.  He reached for her, would have held her as she burned.  Then, the light changed again and he could see Chandarel through Alea’s eyes.  Everything was greenish yellow, smeared with wet sheen, and it stank, in a way that Chandarel at its most foul had never done before.

               Gereint stood for a long breath in the square before the Darkweaver’s tower.  He looked for the trick, for the twist of the light that would cause him to have seen…what he had seen.  Suddenly, he was running through Mergan, down and away.  He heard Tya say his name, but nothing else.  His gear was quickly gathered.  His horse tossed and stepped, but accepted him after a brief reluctance.  He rode, without seeing where he was going, drawn out of Mergan, past the fields of battle and the bowl of the spring, past the gates of Irret and across the bridge, by knowledge that left a hollow in his being.  He left startled men swift orders, backed by his rank as a sword of the kingdom, and once with the back of his hand.  Ferian was misty.  The weather was wet, on this side of the river, and in the river water he saw too many shadows.  If a Formless caught him here, no one would hear of him again.  He fled Ferian.

               To his eyes, the King’s road was rimmed with fire.  He let his horse run in the red-orange light as long as the beast could run.  Two days of travel, with very little rest and no relief from the brilliant light and color that assaulted his eyes and jangled his senses, brought him to the gate of the hall Kert had made the center of Chandarel.  There was a man standing at that gate, but he would not have called it guarded.  The walls of the building itself, stone and wood, glowed a bilious yellow green.  Gereint dropped from his saddle and leaned for a precarious moment against his staggering horse.  He was looking past the man when he spoke.  “Where is Alea Sablefox?”

               The man blinked at him and took half a step back, putting a weak torch between the two of them.  “In there.  If she is alive, she will be the only living thing within the walls.”

               Gereint took the torch as though the man had offered it and crossed the gate of Chandarel.

So. Two days in a row. Discovering I have avoidance behaviors I need to get around. Writing used to be fun, I wonder when it became a form of work to avoid?

Tomorrow, perhaps I should write earlier in the day, before the interruptions and necessary stuff have taken over.

Salutations, internet.

Place to stash my thoughts about reading, writing, organizing my hoard, and sometimes being a bit of a geek.

So far, the interface is maddening, so it is likely no posting beyond this intro will happen today.

Happy New Blog Day!

Thanks for joining me!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton