By Christopher Leeson
Epilogue
FROM DYAN'S JOURNAL
Triumphs pass, songs fade, good friends go their separate ways.
It was with heavy heart that I parted from my family on the wharf of Nawcant in the kingdom of Sulidir. Ceann, Gannon, and I had already agreed to journey inland, to a villa within a ride of three hours from the city of Tyary Graig and rejoined Lady Elekta. Ceann had previously let me know of her desire to leave the Fyana; I supposed that this was her first half-step in that direction.
Of the months since then there is little to tell.
Late spring yields to summer, and summer ultimately assumes the golden crown of autumn. Cefen M'Glywess, the Lady's husband, had established his family at a comfortable country house. Here his wife Elekta has been busy for months creating a household out of an empty hall. Understandably, she has not afforded me a great deal of time for the teaching of magic. I have books, but their turgid discourses have left me stultified and uninformed. I have more time in idleness than in study. And idleness, alas, allows one to contemplate the depth and breadth of his regrets.
When I think about Harouck, I seethe. Is he the disease, or is he only the outward sign of a much deeper affliction? Cawdour had been frank in his observation that the landed lords have been dwindling in both wealth and influence since well before the rise of the usurper. Likewise, the patriotic yeoman have lost their own status and become debt-ridden, dispossessed, and -- in many cases -- shiftless.
It is to the energetic merchants and the burgers that a ruler looks to for support in these decadent days. At the heart of the old warrior class is tradition, but among these new men tradition is oftentimes a very bad fit. The old social order relegated them to the rear of the room, and they, perhaps, do not remember their former status kindly.
Those whom Cawdour called “new men” are not all bad, of course. The M'Glywesses and the Oc'Raighnes, in fact, number among them. Had I been brought up in the old days I never could have won my knightly spurs. But where the old aristocracy was dedicated to the commonweal with an intensity that was akin to religion, these new-made men too often look at government as means to a personal end. They flatter and bribe to win support for their, oftentimes, selfish aims, and those in power do their best to please them.
The world is in a flux of change, some say, but change has assailed the warrior class like a brutal giant. There was a time when the soldier quested far and made new discoveries; today it is the merchant, the trader, the sea captain. The old aristocracy, though they bear the same titles, are not like their ancestors. What has the scions of old nobility done lately to give credit to their progenitors? I think of our king, Cathmor, and recognize how far the demoralization has spread.
I, too, have passed my first summer of my new life in slothful melancholy. If Chancellor Harouck typifies our future, I will live and I will die in opposition to such man and such a future. Is there hope? Sometimes a bush that is sheared off by the axe can return from its deep roots. Can it be that way, too, with the stout oak which is men's traditions? If men of worthy motives return to the fight, the battle, ultimately, may still be lost, but is not the worth of a man found in what he attempts, not in what Fate allows him to accomplish? Failure is the most usual result of all endeavors. It is easy to do evil; to attain a worthy cause and win immortal fame is difficult.
These thoughts are not light to bear and they wear me down. I will speak of other matters.
By Christopher Leeson
FROM DYAN'S JOURNAL
There was so much to think about, so much to regret. I lay awake though the long night, suffering the remorse of the damned, until the break of dawn took away even the hope of sleep.
Gannon, who had risen before the sun, joined me at first light, carrying a borrowed harp under his arm.
"Dyan," my friend said jauntily, "I've been thinking."
"About what?"
"That if this rebellion is ever going to catch fire, it has to have a hero."
"Cemion is the hero," I said indifferently.
Gannon shook his head. "No. Cemion isn't ready to inspire people yet."
“So what kind of hero do they expect?” I asked.
"A hero who can never be captured, never defeated, and never outwitted. A hero who only laughs at the worst threats of the enemy."
I frowned. "There is no such hero!"
"I'm talking about a dead hero."
"A dead hero?"
“Real heroes never die; they live in legend,” he clarified.
Thinking it over, I realized what Gannon was saying. Only the champions of saga never failed, and they died the sort of death that only served to put the seal of greatness on their triumphs. It was always the dead, never the living, who the generations looked up to.
"We have a hero," Gannon went on blandly, "if only we only give him what thing that every hero needs."
"What's that?"
"A good song."
I scowled.
"Yes," my friend persisted, "a song, like the one that I've just composed. Do you want to hear it?"
"Do I have a choice?"
With a grin, Gannon put the harp to his shoulder. “I call it 'Rodin's Men.'
"Sing a song of Rodin brave,
Too elusive for the grave.
His arm so strong, his heart so good,
He made his foemen dread the wood.
"When assessors seized their tax
Rod gave their shoulders forty whacks.
When e'er a sellsword deighed to slay,
He made the rascal rue the day!
"Rod gave his life to save a mate,
Was struck by wounds that sealed his fate.
His soul flew to the Isles Blessed,
But the hero true refused to rest.
"The mage Harouck found out too late
Rod was back from Heaven's gate!
Again he ruled the hills and dell,
From the eye of God to the jaws of Hell!
"Saluted by those left behind
Rod helped them keep the mage in line.
They made their realm the woods and fen;
The gods protected Rodin's men!"
"Rod took a task with much to do,
With trouble great and helpers few.
But never daunted by a fight,
He lent our men his spirit bright!”
Gannon put down his instrument and grinned. “It's not quite finished yet.”
I frowned. “Write any more of that silly sing-song and I'll kick Rodin back to the Western Islands myself.”
But the words were hardly out before I heard cheers and clapping coming from behind us.
* * * *
Chapter Sixteen
From the Eye of God to the Jaws of Hell
By Christopher Leeson
FROM DYAN'S JOURNAL
All my life I had been hearing stories about the Formoru, told in a way meant to frighten children. These bogies of nightmare were sometimes called the Dark Gods. But except for the certainty that they were dangerous and exceptionally evil, no one had described in very much detail. Going faithfully to ritual did not illuminate a child on the subject; the parish druids said not a word about these ancient ones. Yet, it was said that our gods, the Daanan, had defeated them, thereby giving their tribe its greatest victory.
Since those days that are lost to me, and which I cannot now claim as my own, I have learned much that only the high wizards and druids are permitted to know. It is the kind of knowledge that I would cheerfully forget -- if only it were safe to do so.
“What are these Dark Gods? Are they truly dead and gone?” Those were the inquiries that I once put to Cawdour when I was about seventeen.
He looked at me in an odd way. I wondered if he was taking stock of me, trying to decide whether I was ready to receive an answer to the questions that I had asked.
“The Dark Gods are ancient creatures of immense power,” he said.
“So the stories tell us. But are they true gods, or are they monsters?” I asked.
“Both. Or neither. It is a matter of definitions.”
“How would you define those terms, Sire?”
The old wizard shrugged, as if I were being irrelevant.
“Most are colossal in size,” he stated. “Their memory lingers, though they were gone from the world before Mankind walked it.”
“How can that be?”
“Because they refuse to be forgotten. They mind-touch certain mad and half-mad persons in dreamtime. From the visions reported by these mad savants, they Dark Ones continue to be worshiped by the most depraved of human cults. And not only human cults.”
“Sire?”
Some believe that those which lurk at the edges worship them also.”
“Edges?” I echoed.
“The edges of human habitation, the edges of the seasons, the edges of Time and Forever, the edges of dark and light, the edges of dreaming and wakefulness. The edges of life and death. A few of these are found in our folklore -- the undead, the lycanthropes, the beings of the sea. Others have been forgotten, or, in their remoteness, have never become known.”
I blinked. I knew of such creatures from hero stories, but was the wizard implying that they were real? How could one so wise hold such an idea? For myself, belief in monsters had slipped away from me along with with childhood.
“The Dark Gods are held in abeyance by forces even greater than they are,” my foster father continued. “But this power is not immense enough to snuff them out of existence, so they abide like prisoners awaiting their release. The stars say that their day shall come again, but this is not their day. No one can prognosticate the hour when they will rise again; let us hope that it shall not be ere Mankind has withered and turned to dust.
“Is it the Daanan who hold these demons in check?”
Cawdour shrugged. “Most believe that the Formaru were routed by the gods. Others hold that their banishment came about gradually, part of the natural progression of the Cycles.”
I could not help but frown. What were the cycles that he referred to?
“According to the first theory,” Cawdour pressed, “the Dark Gods held sway in realms where our gods hold sway now. There was a great war between the gods of the natual world, led by Nudens, and the Dark Ones. It is said that nearly all of the Formoru and gods were slain.
"But the Daanan, legend tells us, held a secret. They knew the way back from the Pit of Death, and so sacrificed themselves in wild attacks, so that the enemy could be driven into the deep darkness along with them. The Daanan returned by virtue of their secret wisdom, but Death's Hall still holds the Dark Gods captive in its bowels.” He shrugged. “This tale is only a metaphor, the truth, we must assume, was something that our ancestors could not conceivably understand.
“Be that as it may, the Dark Gods are not truly dead; instead, they await the time of their release, eager for revenge against those who discomforted them.”
This was, in the main, the same story that parents had been telling their children for centuries.
Now Cawdour frowned pensively. “The second supposition holds that the Old Gods are dormant only due to the effects of cycles, the universal order to which even the mightiest of gods must yield. To understand this, look at the seasons of the earth. Just as some animals hibernate through inclement winter, so too must the Old Gods slumber so long as the prevailing cosmic cycle endures.
"These cycles are like the magical clock in the famous story, the one which made a sound to awaken its master whenever the time came for him to rise. While the Dark Gods sleep, life as we know it go on. But when they wake.....”
“When they wake, what happens?” I asked.
Cawdour drew a deep breath through grim lips. “By the time they rise, their thirst for destruction shall surely have grown as bottomless as the pit that had imprisoned them.”
I suddenly wondered if the savant was only trying to test me, to assess my canniness when told a false tale, even if by one whom I had always placed at the highest level of trust. “Wherever they presently lay,” I began carefully, trying not to sound naive, “will the world of man be left in peace for the next thousand thousand years, or should we fear?”
Again he regarded me, his glance challenging. Was it intended to admonish me -- not for my gullibility, but for my skeptical tone?
“We should fear,” he finally declared.
* * * * *
Chapter Fifteen
The Dark Ones
By Christopher Leeson
FROM DYAN'S JOURNAL
After Ceann fled from the scene of torture, I had followed her, believing that she needed to talk.
"I hate this,” my former mistress said. “Why won't he just answer the questions?"
I shook my head. "He expects to be murdered, no matter what he says or does."
She looked into my eyes. "And is he right?"
I shrugged.
Ceann looked at the moon, now sagging into the western skyline. "You're strong, like Rodin,” she said.
I sighed. “If I'm as strong as Rodin, that's because that's who I am.”
“I know. But things are different now. There's something that seems so wrong about a woman torturer.”
I frowned. “If you mean me, I haven't touched the fellow.”
“But you would, if you had to. I can kill, and you know that I have killed, but... I mean, causing as much pain as possible before...killing...makes me feel dirty.”
"You don't have to....”
She turned swiftly and stared into my face. "Yes I do!" she insisted. "If I ever stop feeling dirty about things like this, it will be the day that I die.”
I felt sorry for the girl. I hadn't been able to protect her the expedience of staining her hands with enemy blood. I had worried that performing homicide would change her, and I suppose that she had changed in some ways, but I hadn't stopped loving her. “No,” I gently disagreed. “You wouldn't die.”
“I don't mean that I'd die physically. But I think something inside would die. Weren't you different yourself, before you had to...?”
“I don't doubt that I was,” I answered with a shrug. “Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe you wouldn't have cared for the callow boy that I used to be.”
She shifted again and leaned back against the porch support. “I wish that we had met back then, when we were two different people. You a callow boy, and me, whatever I was.... I don't deserve to have any good things happen to me. Maybe I've already lost myself, maybe there's no way to ever be made clean again. Sometimes I think that my parents are looking down on me with shame.” Ceann turned her face away, as if it were a mirror to her soul that I should not gaze into.
I sank back against the rail. Sometimes I, too, missed the person -- the better person -- whom I once had been. When had he slipped away? I don't think it was during my guards training, nor when I had been learning at the feet of Cawdour. It must have happened after I took the responsibility decide whom should live and whom should die.
Suddenly, Ceann was speaking again. "Will you kill...this one...even if he tells you what you want?" As things stood, should our captive die, his blood would stain her hands as scarlet as the men's.
"I'm not sure," I said. "Maybe he deserves it. We don't know anything about him.” I didn't like to kill honest soldiers, even if they served the enemy.
Ceann stepped away, becoming more remote, gazed out over the street. "I know what you mean. We all deserve to die, for something or other. It is so easy to make ourselves undeserving to live."
"Not you."
She looked back at me. "Myself as much as anyone else. Rodin, aren't we always trying to do the right thing? How can so many right actions become so wrong? How did our road grow to be so cruel and dark?"
“Maybe it's not our fault,” I ventured. “Maybe if we had the luxury of fighting decent people, we could stay decent, too.”
That was the root of it all. I so much wanted it to be someone else's fault -- someone else's fault that I had become the person that my parents couldn't have recognized.
But if I could blame Harouck for my fall, who could Ceann blame?
Could she -- should she -- blame me?
* * * *
THE ROOT OF IT ALL
FROM DYAN'S JOURNAL
I had long been fascinated by Cawdour's stories about the ancient race of gods that had dwelled upon the earth before it was totally given over to the province of Man.
"What happened to the old gods, Sire?" I once inquired. “If they are immortal, how could they vanish? If they were supreme, who could have compelled them to go from this land to the Western Isles?”
"They still live, my boy,” he told me. “They are not wholly supreme, but that is a complex matter. They are with us more than we know, yet cannot be seen unless they wish it to be so. Our ancient heroes were the sons of gods, but they no longer condescend to merge their divinity with our mortal clay. But never think that they have lost interest in us, their earthly kin."
"How do they demonstrate this interest?”
Cawdour shook his sage head. "Each of us has a guardian spirit, Rodin. I have one myself. My guide through life comes to me in dreams sometimes, or as a voice in my meditations, imparting wisdom. Sometimes he approaches me in the trappings of a beast, or as a man or woman -- and when he does so, the god seems just as substantial as you or I."
"What is he then, a male or a female?"
"He is pure spirit, lad, and spirit has no sex. A god may change his shape as easily as you or I change our clothing."
"Well, I'm quite sure that I've never met a god," I remarked.
"Without the Blood, one is rarely favored with a personal visitation, but they are near nonetheless. That famous luck of yours must be a gift of their bestowing."
"My luck? I'm the most unlucky of men," I said.
"Everyone at your age believes that, my boy. But keeping a young hellion out of trouble is a tall order, even for a god. Our divine clansmen do much to protect us, as far as their rules allow, but there is a limit. It is for Fate alone to degree when our final hour has come."
"Are you saying that the power that stands above even the gods is Fate?"
The spellcaster stroked his beard. "So it is said."
* * * * *
UPON ON THE ROOFTOP
FROM DYAN'S JOURNAL
I had met Ceann back before I assumed captaincy of the Fyana. For years, that day I laid eyes on her had seemed like one of the the pivotal moments of my life. Now, looking back, I was no longer sure what, exactly, that day had meant.
Ceann's despondency had cast my every assumption about the two of us into doubt. It actually made me ask myself if she had ever loved me, or even whether I really loved her. Why should that be? Our years together seemed to have lacked nothing, but had something actually been missing? Why had she turned away from me in her sorrow, instead of toward me, as I would have wished her to do? I did not know.
That troubling conversation made me think. What did I still feel about Ceann, really? I loved being with her. But was this, the thing I felt, the love of lovers?
I knew -- or rather sensed in my gut -- that what we still had wasn't the all-consuming passion that poetry likes to build its air castles around. Somewhere along the road, we two had started to treat one another as dear friends, not soul mates. The realization of this had only slowly crept in. It had come upon us subtly, like a mouse moving inside a wall. I hadn't thought a great deal about the matter, considering it merely a passing mood that would soon right itself. When I had been wounded, I had been so overwhelmed by Ceann's display of devotion that it had caused me to see her once more as the object of my celestial love.
But true love, as I envisioned it, true love was immortal; it could not fade away in the face of a person's day to day adversities. What made me wonder whether my own love ran deep was my lack of intense grief at the possibility of losing her. I almost would have preferred to be devastated. Instead, I was thinking that, should she leave me, I could go on, albeit with a heavy heart.
Had I grown cold? Had she? If what I had had with Ceann never amounted to true love, then what was true love? I was at a loss to know. We loved each other; of that I had no doubt. But could it be that not every kind of love, no matter how wonderful seeming, could make true lovers of friends.
I tried to force myself to see what she must have been seeing. Ceann had to have suffered a terrible shock when confronted by my change. Whatever she had once believed lay ahead for the two of us, it would have crashed at that moment. Her desired future, no matter how vaguely or how hopefully conceived, could no longer exist for her, not even as a remote possibility.
Wasn't it natural that a young woman, looking at her life in the long term, would to start to think about where she had come from, where she now was, and where she might wish to go? I had to face the prospect that Ceann soon no longer be a part of my life. She loved freedom, she hated Harouck, but that wasn't enough to keep her at my side. The simple fact was that the vital thing that had enabled her to endure the strange, harsh life of the woodlands was her bond with Rodin. Did she see, even more clearly than I could see, that Rodin was, in fact, gone, even though I was still resisting that idea strongly?
I couldn't fully get my mind around the current situation, so I thought back to the first day that I had met Ceann. She might have lived as the commonplace daughter of a minor nobleman, except that her beauty had attracted Sir Fultur, an odious creature beholding to Harouck. Her parents supported her rejection of the brute, but the man obviously had gone running for help from the chancellor. The latter's idea of rule was to dictate every detail of every other person's life. Success had made Harouck expect that his every whim ought to be flattered with instant obedience. He presumably thought that all the Trybalids needed was a minim of arm-twisting to make them see reason. But the man's touch could never be subtle. His clerks obliged him by finding -- or inventing -- anomalies in the grant of title by which the Trybalid family had held its ancestral property rights.
The lord took the challnge to court, but the regime obstructed the family's legal defense. Forgeries and destruction of archival documents had been suspected by Lord Trybalid's attorneys, but the papers sought from the government were withheld. When the lord's family still did not yield to his conjoling on behalf of Sir Fultur, his response was again in character. A hundred armed militia men appeared at the family's townhouse in Moyarien and escorted Ceann, her parents, and her siblings into the public street. Royal agents took possession of their country estate at the same time.
Sir Fultur visited the clan at a city inn and strongly intimated that he had such influence with the chancellor that he could intercede. All Ceann had to do was set a date for their nuptials. The maid gave him no certain answer, but asked for more time while she consulted with her father.
She didn't have to. The girl's parents were now certain that their family had become a playing piece in a game of rogues. They saw no future for their clan in a kingdom so debased. For that reason, they urged Ceann to go with a servant who would hide her with a friend's family. The Trybalids hoped that if Ceann were not with them, the chancellor's spies would cease their watch. They intended to take the rest of the family out of the country, to a place where the lord held investments enough to save them from a mean and disgraceful existence. Once secure, they would send loyal retainers back to Arannan to guide their daughter back to them.
At the friend's house, Ceann soon heard that the entire Trybalid family had been murdered early in their flight, by “bandits.” As horrifying as that was, it was further made known that “any surviving family members” would be taken under the wing of chancellor and become his ward. To make matters worse, the family friends whom the girl was staying with grew fearful in the face of what was obviously a political assassination. A servant of the house came to warn her that she would soon be turned over to the chancellor's care. That moment changed Ceann. It hardened her, made her willing to take unladylike risks. Thus is was that a gently-reared maiden, one not yet twenty, fled alone into the night.
Ceann surprised everyone, and most of all herself, by managing to live, mostly by theft. She displayed a knack for burglary and found a rogue to teach her the cutpurse's art. Among the people she met, some thought that the Fyana might agree to champion her. So, with the help of someone who knew someone who knew someone who knew someone, word came to our band regarding the fugitive lady in the woodlands.
I had not been Fyana leader that far back, and the cautious man who then held that honor thought that there was nothing to be done and that it would be best to steer clear of the wayward girl. But the rumors, as I received them, had described a minx of allure. That I could believe, insofar as it had been the curse of beauty that had first aroused Sir Fultur's unwanted attentions. As for myself, I had been finding the forest camps socially stifling, and was curious to meet this intriguing the Cutpurse Coleen. She sounded like a heroine from the rousing old stories.
I sought out Ceann and met her at cottager's home; that moment was like magic for me. The fascination I had already been feeling not only continued, it achieved an even firmer grip upon my heart. One customarily won a fair lady by lending her assistance, and so, when the lady suggested killing Harouck and Sir Fultur, how could I say nay?
Despite my zeal to win the maiden's favor, assassinating the chancellor was obviously too tall an order; everyone in the Fyana had wanted him dead without result. But the loutish Sir Fultur was another story. We learned his pattern of movements, his moments of vulnerability. At last, we took him between taverns. Even without his assumed complicity in the murders, Fultur's other notorious deeds as a henchman for Harouck merited execution. Neither of us felt any need to question the man. What could be gained? What if he had been able to, say, implicate the chancellor in murder? What if he had been an actual eyewitness to Harouck's riding along with the false bandits and striking down the maiden's parents with his own blood-stained hands? In a kingdom like ours, accusations against a man who stood mighty in power were worth nothing at all.
How had Arannan come to this? When men hear that a beggar has killed and robbed, they are instantly incensed and howl for his life. But when these same paragons of righteousness hear about even worse crimes committed by a lofty official, they do not react at all. Cawdour had told me that such passivity was not the result of mere fear. People are flawed creatures. They have difficulty imagining that those who hold the levers of power, who are charged with punishing crime themselves, could, or even should, be held subject to that same law. The higher men of government stood, the less the people wanted to hold them accountable.
The mighty are, in fact, looked upon as if they were gods, and gods can do no wrong. If persons of rectitude think this way, imagine the cynicism of those who have never been aught but scoundrels, rascals who benefit handsomely from a lawless regime. Such persons -- Sir Fultur being one -- were willing to sacrifice any number of other peoples' lives in order to keep their benefactors in power.
It is an age-old concern. When those who govern do evil, who can hope to punish them? Who but a daring assassin as any hope at all to exact justice against the fortress of their power? King Cathmor, a mere cipher, would never act against his over-mighty servant, and, in fact, he lacked any real authority to do so. It would have been certain doom for him to make some vain gesture in the cause of decency, which is an undervalued thing. So, Harouck's life was safe.
Sir Fultur alone could be made to account for his deeds. Ceann asked for my dagger, but I knew that killing a man changed a person, and I did not want my bandit girl to be changed, not by one wit. So I did her a knightly service. Some men slain by me I have deemed to have honored my blade. But running Fultur through was like dispatching a rat; his blood did naught but befoul it.
Ceann was not much cheered. What did it matter that some small beast had been hunted to the kill if the great beast still prospered? But what was more immediately important to me was that Ceann should not go back to thievery. For that reason, I supported her as best I could, which was an uneven and spotty venture. Sometimes I was spent down to the very lint in my purse, and I worried that poverty would drive my lady to do something unwise. About that time, our leader's death brought about my election to the captaincy.
Rank has it privileges, but I did choose to bring the maid into the Fyana at once. I had to show the band that their captain had a brain, not just emotion. I got them used to Ceann by letting her accompany me when I gathered with rebel friends. After I accepted the lass's offers to spy for the Fyana in places where a man could not easily go, she proved her worth. Little by little, Ceann affirmed to one and all that she was not like the women whom the stalwarts of the Fyana hand known before. She reminded them of the adventurous goddesses of myth.
At last, before I even realized it, my beloved had become as much a part of the band as any man in it. When she started attending the gatherings, we wisely refrained from sharing a bed. We were already known to be lovers, but we respected the moment when important matters needed to be discussed. Flaunting my mistress would have affronted my comrades, who would themselves have liked to keep their women with them.
In those days, Ceann and I took daft chances and survived. It seemed as though our companionship was blessed. It was a magic time and I thought that naught but the death of one of us could end our happiness. I was wrong. All too soon, time would teach me that, just like there are many types of love, there are many types of death.
At Bronell's inn, the crisis had come and, apart from the obvious, I didn't know why. If a maid can love a prince bewitched to be a forest cat, as might happen in the old stories, why couldn't Ceann love me now?
On the other hand, what else should I expect? Who could stay with such a creature as myself? Stories are stories and life is life. When I stand back and take a look at myself, I have to ask what can I possibly offer to anyone? I see in the mirror a misfit, one that can scarcely hope to love or be loved again. It seems that all that is left to me, before the book of my life closes, is the chance to work for vengeance. And if vengeance can only come at the cost of my life, that is something that I am willing to accept.
But I want to go to the Western Isles only after I have arrayed everything that I possibly can in my favor before casting the dice. It is not so much that I want to live, I simply believe that it would be too galling to fail.
* * * * *
The Opposite of Victory
By Christopher Leeson
FROM DYAN'S JOURNAL
My life was changing incrementally; every day I became more aware of my inexorably strengthening link to the world of magic. I had never asked for such a life and having to accept it was a daunting prospect. Did this reversal of fortune bode aught but ill, or did it offer valuable opportunities? During that cold night in Moyarien, I was nowhere ready to answer such a question.
Looking back, I realized that Cawdour had lived long and well by magic, but he ultimately died at the hands of his enemies for having become a magician to be feared.
Should I have pitied the man for his being cursed with magical skill? Without magic, he would have died at least a century before I had ever come to know him. And I had to ask myself, what would his life have been if he were born into to an ordinary life? I could, perhaps, see Cawdour as an officeholder of some sort, possibly a magistrate striving for fairness and justice, or, even more likely , a pedagog at an academy, fashioning the young minds that were destined to inherit the future.
What would Cawdour have taught? Alchemy? Perhaps; I understood that most alchemists were not wizards, but scholars of well-schooled intellect. Or, more likely still, Cawdour would have excelled as a philospher. Everything that he cast his gaze upon, he seemed to see deeply, more than the visible surface showed. I envied him for his acumen and wished that I could, one day, discipline myself do the same.
“Are magic and alchemy brothers,” I suddenly asked my patron one afternoon as we lunched in the roofless court at the heart of the ministerial palace. “Or are the two studies entirely different?”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Ahh, my boy. That is an interesting question. I would gauge that the difference between alchemy and magic is even greater than the difference between magic and sorcery.”
I blinked in surprise, but held steady. He was playing with me, trying to make me ask, “What are the differences between magic and sorcery?” He had, time and again, admonished me to focus, like an archer concentrating on a target, and thereby avoid irrelevancies. Even so, the possibility that sorcery and magic were not the same fascinated me. I wished to please my patron, however, and so refused to take the bait.
“Then the difference is small?” I ventured.
“No, not small. I would say it is fundamental,” the mage replied. “Think of magic as the application of a diverse body of knowledge that the best minds have compiled, knowledge regarding the forces that energize the world. Alchemy, on the other hand, is a philosophy which focuses primarily on the properties of materials and how to change them into nobler substances. It is, by comparison with magic, quite a much young discipline.”
He paused, as if expecting some sort of a response. “In other words alchemy has grown from its origins as a subset of magic?” I offered.
“Not precisely. Magic and alchemy together seek all wisdom. But neither can discover it all. One study goes where the other does not, and so both are needed in order to understand the entire working of the spheres.”
“Then you say they are compliments? How do they comprise the whole?”
“Understand that two forces rule the universe –- what is chaotic, and what is orderly. Man's spirit is an ember of the gods' spirit, and his will is like the will of a god, though on a diminutive scale. The willful spirit is, by its very nature, chaotic. It tries to channel the free energy, the original creative force, to is own end. But while the gods at the beginning of the world sought for order, they used the power of chaos to achieve it, and whim follows no set rules. What you must remember is that the primordial creative essence still exists and that the magician seeks to channel it, like the gods once did, to bend reality to his own desire.
“This is to say, though the gods created order, they did so by disorderly means. Paradoxically, the world they forged could not exist unless it existed on the basis of established rules. Rules were needed because the workings of the world is vast and the gods did not want to be bound to it, forced to create every new horse, or pig, or insect by a new act of will. They instead established a dictum for how the world and the creatures in it would develop and interact. That is, how animals would breed, how plants would grow, germinate, and flourish.
"They made rules governing how the weather and the other elements would come together, like the working parts of a finely crafted machine. The interacting properties of the world produce wonders, but they are wonders that follow an established pattern. They operate so predictably that mankind has come to call them Nature and overlooks how wonderful the patterns is. He considers Nature a given and sees no marvel in it. It is the alchemist who knows better and studies all his life to ascertain what the rules of the world are, and he strives to bend these rules to his own ingenious ends –- for example, how to plate base metals with copper.”
“So the magician works by understanding chaos, and the alchemist by understanding order?”
“Approximately. But any scholar, however learned, is doomed to go adrift if he obsessively embraces his own field of endeavor and ignores –- or, worse, derides –- the other field. Both are valid, both have much to teach us, and together they comprise the team that pulls the cart of intellectual discovery.”
* * * * *
Custin the Magician
By Christopher Leeson
FROM DYAN'S JOURNAL
The old struggle continues; I see no end to it. All that has changed is the manner of the fight. Over the last few months, I've had to learn to use different weapons, and I'm still learning.
There was a time when I lived in a different kind of world, when the Fyana would start upon a raid with no more than a kit of bread and a skin of wine. After the first night, we very well might be dependent on the generously of supporters along the way for even our most basic provender. Sometimes we had no recourse but to tighten our belts and chew a plug of bitterroot to slay the gnaw of our appetites, trusting that our excitement would give sufficient strength to our limbs at the crucial hour.
We experienced misery and fear in great quantity, but the most fearful in the land were not the Fyana but its supporters. The loyal, generous people who opened their hearts and homes to us did so at an awful risk. Too often we would learn that a yeoman's family had been massacred by a militia patrol for having given us aid.
Occasionally, the peril would come down on their heads even while the warrior was lodged with them. More than one Fyana swordsman had laid down his life on the very threshold of his host. And when the victorious militia tramped over his dying body, the family sheltering behind him would be put to the sword...
*****
The Speaker in the Shadows
By Christopher Leeson
FROM DYAN'S JOURNAL
Once I asked Cawdour why he supposed that the chancellor had been able to seize so much power with so little effort.
"The secret of Harouck's success," Cawdour told me, "is a thing that goes beyond his command of sorcery. He is a consummate politician. Sorcery combined with worldly self-interest weaves a dangerous spell.
"Most magicians are impractical dreamers. Try as they might, few of them amount to anything, as men rate achievement. The stories of accomplished spellcasters living meanly in forest huts are sometimes true. But while most wizards scorn the tedium of bureaucratic labor, Harouck thrived on it. He put both his political savvy and his sorcery to work for the fulfillment of his ambitions.
"Before long, those who stood in his way were being dismissed on charges of corruption, or were taking ill and retiring before their time. Whenever he confronted a more skilled politician, he relied on sorcery; when confronted by a superior wizard, he used political trickery.
“Harouck eventually rose to First Secretary to the chancellor. Hardly had the old king died before his superior was being confronted by accusations. Nothing was proven, but Harouck had a pivotal ally in Prince Cathmor, the heir apparent.
"For years, he had been flattering the youth for his devotion to a dissolute lifestyle and, whenever he could, enabled it. The old chancellor too much reminded the prince of his own stern father. He was only too ready to advance a crony whom he supposed would continue on as a servile underling.
"Harouck wasted no time in putting his own minions into power, so that the whole government soon became naught but an echo of one upstart's iron will. Only a strong king could have checked him, but I do fear that had King Cathmor become Harouck's opponent, he would have fared no better than any other enemy of the new chancellor. But the young king is absolutely surpassed in the politics of power. The sad truth is that he has always lusted for the empty pomp of kingship, not its taxing duties.
"Harouck reigns as a virtual regent while the king dwells in a countryside palace. Instead of consulting with his ministers, Cathmor is surrounded by mistresses and sporting companions. No doubt Harouck has selected the king's bodyguards and watches him with spies that report his every word and deed.
“A usurper craves popularity until his power is unchallengeable, and never doubt that Harouck is popular. He has robbed the exchequer to buy favor with the landless masses, men without shops or trades. The more wastrel they are, the more likely they will be to cheer the munificent statesman for the dole he bestows. He is beloved by the drunkard, the gambler, and the thief in the streets.
"The military distrusted him from the first day, of course, but the chancellor has used bribery and blackmail to retire the most troublesome of the commanders. Every year he has further reduced the size of the army. Its last units now languish in scattered barracks, while militiamen, many of them foreign hirelings, have been empowered to secure the internal order.
"They carry out orders that knights of the realm, men of the people, would not have countenanced. Harouck's sorry militia could not win a war, of course, but they are effective enough in keeping down an unarmed population.
“Remember this, Rodin: a nation is rarely brought low by invaders from without. Foreign oppression, in fact, unites a people in resistance, forges their love of country into a mighty weapon, leading to popular revolt and a robust revival.
"But native-born despotism is a demoralizing thing; it puts each subject at the throat of every other. Each one clambers over one another to snatch for the oppressor's handouts. The allure of gain is ever corrosive to the love of country. Harouck has won over many who should have known better. It is not just the wastrel, but also many a person of rank and office, who will welcome in a tyranny for no more than the promise of a few favors.”
*****
The Liar's Smile
By Christopher Leeson
FROM DYAN'S JOURNAL
During my first days in the Fyana, I found the men living by the maxim "to the bold goes the crown." It validated what I knew intuitively and I stood by the rule after I was voted to the leadership. By that same rule, I fought and died. So did many of our comrades. Boldness has its downside.
So does leadership.
The tactics of the Fyana could not mimic those of the standing army. We lacked the weight of numbers to prevail in large-scale actions. Likewise our scanty resources ruled out extended operations. Instead, the Fyana made sudden thrusts against the enemy and then vanished before their reactive blow could be struck. Our warfare became more like assassinations than set-piece battles. Courtliness fell by the wayside. One the the earliest lesson that a new recruit learned was to stop being a gentleman and to fight as a scoundrel fights -- with ambushes and strikes from behind. We told ourselves that anyone who would serve the usurper deserved it; that had to justify the harsh manner in which we fought them.
Fortunately, the Fyana didn't have to build its tactics from the ground up; the basics of such war-craft came from the occasional deserter with specialized skills, especially the Royal Rangers. This was an elite troop that specialized in scouting, skirmishing, leading the enemy astray, and in covering retreats.
Our favorite opponent was the mercenary dastard who ran when the first arrows flew. Our band didn't have the luxury of paying curtsey to a valiant chancellor's man. If he survived, he could become a rallying point for fainter hearts, thereby increasing our casualties. Whenever possible, we marked the stouthearted warriors for death, trying to drive home the lesson that only those who fled or surrendered lived.
If an opposition hero fell into our hands, our idea of mercy was to send him back to Harouck in humiliation, so that he would become a laughing stock instead of a leader. Sometimes that ploy wasn't feasible, so we would instead offer a brave fighter the choice of losing his right hand or losing his head. Some of best of them chose to lose their heads. It was an ugly war and it turned warrior's hearts ugly, too.
Between gatherings, each man had to be his own commander, dependent upon his own ingenuity. To stay together in a cohort would have depleted the poor march lands that we inhabited . Worse, a multitude, either in camp or on the move, would have left behind so much spoor that even a mediocre tracker could have followed us. For safety’s sake, men separated after each foray.
We foraged for our own supplies and lived by our wits. Fugitive life damaged the character of many a man, but it also made him watchful, alert, and self-reliant. Such a one seldom lost his head and was usually equal to any emergency. How easy it would have been to desert the Fyana between gatherings. How surprisingly few men we actually lost in that way.
Still, we had taken casualties. Too many of them. When a fighting men shares one's own cause, when men live so interdependently, it is easy to regard a comrade-in-arms as a brother. And it was our lot to mourn fellow warriors as dead brothers.
*****
Bannog Tower
By Christopher Leeson
FROM DYAN'S JOURNAL
"How long does your family have?" Elekta had asked me during our flight north.
"Until the eve of Cernunog's feast day, Lady," I answered gloomily.
"Cernunnog's Eve? Are you certain?"
"All I know is rumor. May the gods grant that that we have at least that much time."
She was frowning off into the distance. "It is strange. People call Cernunog's Eve the 'Dark of the Demons.'"
"It's an unlucky night," I agreed.
She nodded. "The god allows the spirits of the Netherworld to roam free on that date. Wise people keep to their homes from dusk to dawn."
I knew that to be true. I sometimes wondered why a deity so honored by men would choose to plague the human race once each year.
Cawdour had once explained it this way: Cernunnog is the warden who keeps the evil of the Netherworld at bay. But because mankind is forgetful of its blessings whenever he deceives himself that these blessings are just the natural order of things, the god withholds his protection in order to teach them otherwise. In that way, Men were informed that the gods are real and their role as Man's protectors is pivotal. Wretched would be mankind’s lot if the gods ever forsook them.
Lady Elekta was speaking again. "You’re saying that Harouck has marked hundreds -- men, women, and children alike -- to die upon the most evil night of the year?"
"That is so, my lady. It does seem ominous."
"I have talked to priests and sorcerers. "Some have suspected that Harouck's sorcery is of the vilest kind. If his real intention is to turn a political execution into a holocaust to the Ancient Gods, the Fumorau, the world is far more out of order than we have supposed. With such a sacrifice, a dark wizard might even strike a bargain with Brys, the Dark-Robed Man, or another demon of his ilk."
I looked askance. "Are you serious, Lady?"
"Very serious, Sir Knight. If that man is truly courting the favor of the greater demons, our civilization might not survive to his downfall! His true war might be aimed at the gods themselves."
*****
The Standing Stones
By Christopher Leeson
FROM DYAN'S JOURNAL
Once we had entered the kingdom of Sulidir, it occurred to me to ask the Lady Elekta about Cawdour's medallion -- the one that he had swallowed before my astonished eyes.
"Did he ever talk to you about it?" she inquired.
"Only that it focused his magic, and also that he preferred it to a wand because it left his hands free. He said I was to have it; he wanted me to claim it once he was dead."
The lady nodded. "Yes, you will need Cawdour's mandala or something like it. An item of such power will resist any claimant who has not received it by gift from its former owner. You should get possession of it as soon as possible."
I stared into her still-handsome face. "It must have been buried with him!"
"I'm very sorry."
I realized what she was suggesting. I revolted at the thought of robbing a grave, especially that of a man whom I had honored on a level with my own father.
"It is ironic," Elekta added.
"What?"
"That the medallion should be emblazoned with the sun on one side and the moon on the other. One symbolizes the energies of the male, while the other acknowledges the energies of the female. He told me that the mandala could serve either a man or a woman, but I now wonder how it will perform when the user is both…."
She then frowned thoughtfully. "I wonder whether it is only accidental, this dual sexuality of both you and the medallion. Fate may have placed the thing into Cawdour's hands only that he should be its caretaker, abiding the time when...another would come into her own. An item so powerful will always seek out the spellcaster most worthy of it."
*****
A Name for the Goddess
By Christopher Leeson
FROM DYAN'S JOURNAL
For
us to hold thirty to forty hunted men together as an organization
required some lively riding. To stay in one place too long was to court
death. Even more than the usual knightly troop, we depended on our
horses. Our Fyana mounts came by way of surreptitious purchases and by
theft. In the latter case, we made an effort to steal only
from the enemy and his avowed friends. Some horse breeders, wishing
that they could have joined us, occasionally offered the gift of a good
steed. Once we had the animals, we did all we could to preserve them
in health and vigor. They were our mobility, and mobility was our
survival.
We kept as many spare horses as we dared and
distributed them amongst pastures that were held by trusted yeomen. Alas,
there was an inherent risk in creating such ties. Even a man who wished
our cause well might, in time, be forced to betray us if he fell under
suspicion and was subjected to coercion. Those with wives and children
were especially vulnerable.
But even when the arrangement worked well,
it meant that our replacement horseflesh was usually far away from the
man who needed it most. In almost every way, it was hard to compete
with the militias, rowdy outfits that they were. Harouck had the wealth
and the armories; his men had the best of everything lavished upon
them.
Too often, our only respite from the saddle might be a
blanket on the ground. Fifty miles a day was no unusual journey for
us. Our new men, even some experienced equestrians, developed saddle sores from
the continuous riding. In fact, one could hardly consider himself a
real member of the Fyana until his crotch had turned to leather.
We
used unpredictable movement to magnify our apparent numbers. The same
party that had prowled with Cromm, burning a militia camp at, say,
Trafford one night, could be galloping with Tadgh and pillaging enemy
supply depots in the Serchus Valley before two more suns rose.
It
sometimes amazed even ourselves how less than fifty men could do so much to soil the chancellor's public image. His political strength greatly
depended on an illusion of complete control and invincibility. We did
our best to showcase his lack of control and make him look incompetent.
We were forever dreaming of the day when there were not just fifty of us
fighting for Arannan's liberty, but fifty thousand. From tiny seeds,
great forests grew.
But were we a good stock of seeds? That
doubt was an unruly hound that we kept on leash in the backs of our
minds. Alas, every time we paid the butcher's bill, it would awake to bay at us.
*****
The Blossoming Orchard
By Christopher Leeson
FROM DYAN'S JOURNAL
I was accustomed to forests. I had learned much in military training, and even more by two years of dwelling in the wildwood. We of the Fyana
kept no long-term camps and boarded wheresoever we might. If
friends were near to hand, the best accommodations were to be found at
farmhouses and cottages.
Oftentimes, though, we considered ourselves
lucky if we found some abandoned hut or forest cabin to sleep in.
Lacking that, one might have to make do nestled behind a rocky break or out of the wind under a
stone fence. How we hated the rain and the snow on nights like that.
I can recall a
fair number of camps passed shivering on the lee side of
a boulder, or beneath a peasant's hayrick, with the snow sifting upon our shoulders
between the boards. In the worst circumstances, even a fire might be denied us, for a campfire would have guided in bands of patrolling
militia. In such circumstances, a blanket is easily worth more than a diamond.
I
think what makes privation endurable is ultimately not blankets or fire, but camaraderie. There is warmth of another
kind in a sharing community. During my ride through the forest in Ava's body, it
was the lack of companionship that I most sorely missed. But I actually didn't lack for significant companionship. Fear was my faithful companion.
But fear was nothing new to me. As a soldier and a rebel, I had had to learn wariness. Is fear something a fighting man should try to ignore or banish? Of course not, for fear is a great protector of life. Men who are readying themselves for combat do not ignore their apprehension. Beware the companion who seems to possess no fear. It is the same as having no wits.
Understand that I do not speak in praise of cowardice. Such a quality is not the same as healthy fear. In truth, a man who frightens too easily poses a greater danger to his companions than does the reckless bravo, and he will suffer for it. Unfortunately, others may suffer, too. A coward's death is usually a small loss to his warrior band, but the troubles that it may bring on others is the thing that is tragic.
It is disconcerting to become a stranger to oneself, as I had done. I hoped that becoming a woman had not made me a fainthearted. Yet, why should I fear this? I knew full well the courage shown by many women -- especially Ceann, whom I held most dear. I think what bothered me most during my solitary ride was that I had not been tested in my new guise and didn't know how I would fare. My first instinct -- to pit strength against strength and skill against skill -- might be, I realized, entirely inappropriate. But, given that, what exactly was appropriate?
*****
Ruelm's Tavern
By Christopher Leeson
From Dyan's Journal
Crawdour had told me this:
There once was a tribe that legend calls the Mighty. The gods had breathed life into the substance of their creations and for long centuries the Mighty bestrode the world like giants. And they were giants, in their spirits at least, and sometimes in actual stature -- a race of sorcerers. They were much like the gods who had called them into being, but these beings had been created to enjoy the material earth. Their mission was to fill it with a progeny that was all but divine.
The bodies of the Mighty could channel the gods' own power, the cumhacht draiochta, and their minds could fashion this magic flow as they pleased. They were supreme over Creation and, consequently, laid claim to whatsoever they pleased. The gods, being satisfied, made lesser beings, in the image of the Mighty, to serve their senior children.
For long ages, the Mighty held sway over the young race of Men, but at last fell from grace. There offense was this: They had mixed their Spirit and their Blood with the baser material of their servant kind. Such unions, despised of the gods, gave rise to half-mortal sons and daughters, but though these were exulted among their own kind, they were less than their Mighty fathers.
The gods were incensed that the order decreed by them had been flouted. They swept the Mighty from the face of the earth and bound them in a realm of woeful tribulation. They were condemned to suffer until ten thousand years should pass. No one alive knows the day, or even the century, that the gods have set for the release of their errant children. But all agree that the Mighty were bound a very long time ago….
By Christopher Leeson
FROM DYAN'S JOURNAL
Meeting Cawdour as a cadet became a turning point in my life. At first I considered myself merely fortunate. But now I have to admit that I did not in the least suspect how radically my life would change because the master spellcaster had cast a favorable eye on me.
As was the custom, young candidates -- squires -- were taken into fosterage by some noble patron, typically a courtier of good standing. We anticipated that one of my father's friends would volunteer to fulfill the role for me, but, as it turned out, it was to be Cawdour Gaedael, a magician and counselor close to the king who stepped forward. He had been paying careful attention to the new boys in guard training for the past several years, but had not as yet interviewed one that suited him.
Cawdour didn't question the candidates about their families' standing or their personal ambitions, but instead probed the odd details of their lives, such as the time and place of birth. These were facts that would allow him to ascertain which stars governed each youth's destiny. Apparently, it was for no reason better than the chance configurations of my natal signs that he selected me from amongst all those others, scores of whom had had better connections than the Oc'Raighnes.
Although the usual court fosterage is often an aloof and formal affair, Cawdour became like another father to me. I wondered at my good fortune at having such a prominent and genial master. I would put many questions to him and he would obligingly answer them as fully as he could. For instance, I had asked him what he had seen in the configuration of my birth planets that caused him to sponsor me. On that occasion, though, he was determined to be ambiguous. He would only say, "Men who depend on destiny often grow complacent. Study hard and learn all you are taught. Portents are but one part of each man's destiny. Without hard work, a trust in fate may lead to careless choices. A man who depends upon the capricious rolls of Fortune's dice tends to choose the wrong path and attains much less than he might have done by logical application."
But I was young and self-assured; I did not consult with my patron on half of the things that I should have. With the ascendency of Harouck much changed and I should have taken more frequent counsel with my patron in regard as to how a wise man navigates such treacherous shoals.
Alas, when I became troubled, I tended to speak with the wise counselor less instead of more. On my own, I tried to stir up discontent against the chancellor among my friends and fellow soldiers. I should have instead learned to practice the arts of intrigue. When a suspicious eye was cast on me, when I seemed blocked at every turn and saw no decent future in the Royal Guard, I acted with speed, but without insufficient reflection. That was why, with profound regret, I turned my back upon what had been a promising career and rode away into the wild country as an anonymous rebel in arms.
My foster father must have been surprised when he learned that I had left the barracks and failed to return.
*****
Chapter 2
The River of No Return
The reverberations of a deep voice brought me out of blackness: "My lad, can you feel this?"
"Who --?"
The speaker was kneeling beside me; I recognized the sandy bearded speaker, Cawdour, the spellcaster. He was holding a sewing needle. "See this, Rodin?" he asked. "Tell me if you feel the slightest pain."
He pushed the sharp point into my upper arm. It might as well have been the limb of another man.
"I had pain between my shoulders --" I volunteered.
"So your lady told me. We have to take the bolt out before it poisons you. Sleep a little, my son, because the pain will be very great."
He touched my brow and I dropped off. When I later awoke I heard Cawdour talking on the other side of the room.
"The wound is becoming morbid," I heard him say. "I can overcome that, I think, but his spine is severed. Such a wound can never knit correctly. From the paralysis there can be no real improvement."
"If I were him, I'd let the poison take me," suggested Scaith.
Cawdour shook his head.
"We can't lose Rodin," pleaded Ceann. "This cannot be what the gods have writ!"
The conversation became a low mutter. Cawdour suddenly returned to my bedside.
"Rodin..." he began haltingly.
"It's…bad, isn't it?" I asked.
The wizard nodded. "You'll die unless I treat the source of the exudation. But if you live, you'll probably remain as you are. I'm sorry, boy. There are better healers than me, but I don't believe that anyone alive could make you the man that you were."
A lump came to my throat and my mouth felt parched.
"I won't beg for death," I whispered finally, "but…I think as Scaith thinks. Let the gods take me, or spare me. I care not."
"I'm so sorry, my young friend."
"Let my parents know that I died well."
"Yes, I shall."
It was strange to be thinking that the next time I slept I might awaken to a life not upon this earth. And at that moment, I think, I preferred that I would not.
"Fate is a strange thing," whispered Cawdour, but whether he spoke to himself or to me wasn't clear.
"My lord?"
"I mean, if you had possessed the Blood, as you possess the rich and vibrant Spirit, you would have been a formidable sorcerer, and not need to risk your fragile life against edged weapons."
"What do you mean?"
"Your stars have told me that you have the most important element you need for channeling magical forces. But, alas, Spirit is not enough."
"I'm glad that I was a soldier," I told him, swallowing hard. "I hope to be remembered as a good one."
Cawdour nodded; his was the face was that of a parent waiting for his child to die.
Suddenly, Cawdour's old steward burst into the room.
"Lord!" he cried. "You are betrayed!"
