Thanks All (Especially Christopher)

While not exactly a rousing success, I'd say this blog's been pretty successful for how little content there is for it. 

Hopefully things will change in the coming year. 

Heh, I made a TF pun!

Special thanks go to Christopher Leeson for keeping it going during the lean months. 

The Spellcaster's Heiress -- Chapter 6

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

The Spellcaster's Heiress -- Chapter Five

  
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

The Spellcaster's Heiress -- Chapter Four

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

Sleep TG by Nymic-TF

Holy shit, finally something new!

The Spellcaster's Heiress, Chapter 3

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….

The Spellcaster's Heiress, Chapter 2

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!"