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!"

The Spellcaster's Heiress -- Chapter 1

By Christopher Leeson

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The universe of Rodin Oc'Raighne centers in a Europe alternate to the one we know. His homeland, Arannan, occupies that region of France that we call Aquitaine and Rodin's people are descended from the Celtic Gauls. True magic is practiced in this universe and, undoubtedly, it is this peculiarity that has made the history of Rodin's world so substantially different from our own.

In the land we shall explore, those people who correspond to the Italians never became great. Without Rome, Rodin's world never knew a Jesus. In a world so altered, no Mohammed ever rose to lead the desert people. The many gods of paganism continued to be revered, just as mankind continues to fear the demons of darkness.

The decisive departure in the history of our two worlds must have come sometime in the First Millennium B.C., for the farther back we look, the fewer discrepancies we discover.  For example, while Christianity and Islam do not exist, older faiths do (though, admittedly, with changes), such as Buddhism and Hinduism.

The discrepancies are most strongly noticed in the younger nations.  The West eventually filled with kingdoms that developed from the institutions of the early Celtic race.  Meanwhile, an alternate Greek (Helleg) civilization, much like the one in our own history, flourished.  Having no Roman Empire and, later, no Arab Empire to overwhelm it, the ancient Hellegi produced an empire that still endures in its successor states.  

Where the Roman Empire never was, there is Etrue, a region of city states based on the Etruscan civilization.  The Etruean region has had many conquerors, but as latter fade away, the ancient vigor of the Etruscans has always made its resurgence.   In regions where Etruean settlement has been historically weak, as in the south of the peninsula, Helleg kingdoms have held the land, skillfully avoiding subjugation by of their eastern kin and by the Punics to the south.  The strongest of these Helleg states is Achaea, which we would call Sicily.



Among the greatest of states during our time of study, ruling the south Balkans and Asia Minor, is Megarion.  Hellenic culture has become the standard of the East, almost as far as India.  Greece and Iran (called Persi) have fought many wars with varying fortunes and influenced on another greatly.  From the Iranians the Hellegi have taken away autocratic rule and centralization.  But their long contact with the Hellegi has allowed Iran to grow heavily Hellenized, though Mica remains their national god.  The Iranians, held at bay in the West, have fared better against the Hindu and Buddhist kingdoms of Asia, and they have also made great inroads into the lands of those superb horsemen, the Togarma people of the northern steppes.

Elsewhere, the German race, blocked in the West by the Celts, have turned their virile power upon Central Europe.  The southern Germans, though, have been checked at the boundaries of Greek power.  Their borders with the Slavs is almost never at peace.  Meanwhile, the Northmen have long posed a menace to the coasts in both the West and the East, sometimes mounting daring land invasions, also.  Yet the strength of their would-be victims has prevented them from laying long-term claim to little except some Atlantic and Baltic islands, the greatest of these being Thorland, which we call Iceland. 

The resultant federation of German states has kept the Slavs from settling in Central Europe and the latter have turned toward the sunrise, doing battle with the Russians (Zemlyans). Faced with so many opponents, the Zemlyans have managed to form no monolithic empire, but only an amalgam of semi-autonomous duchies, united in theory by an almost powerless Great King patterned after the autocrats of the Hellegi.  Intercine war between the duchies has prevented the Zemlyan domain from reaching the Urals.  As they have been harsh masters wherever they conquer, that is probably for the best. 

Farther East, the Turkish (Togarma) horsemen have remained powerful. The Mongols (Buryats) of the Far East have not yet ceased their own internal quarrels long enough to unite, but the day may be coming when their potent threat shall be realized. The ways of China (Ser) of this world would be recognizable to historians, and Seran sorcery is very advanced, but it is chained in place by the weight of a bureaucracy that is excessively large, unimaginative, and unadventurous.  An emperor who endeavors to change the ossified ways of Ser's mandarins is apt to alienate his department chiefs and be assassinated.

With magic to draw upon, science -- both East and West -- has lagged.  No one has invented those evil fixtures of modern battle, explosives, and so the sword shall probably remain the weapon of choice for a long time to come.

Meanwhile, farther west, the Slavic states have been influenced by their German and the Greek adversaries and trading partners, but their aristocracies have long cast an admiring eye at the more distant Celts.  This trend shows strongly in the learning they prize and their artistic tastes. A cultured Slav is proud to communicate in fluent Celtic.

In Spain, the early mix of Celts and Iberians has generally maintained itself and has formed up into regional kingdoms.  The most important of these is Herzeloyde.  But in the south of the country, the Celts and Iberians have been for almost two millennia a part of the cultural orbit of Punic North Africa.  The latter has largely Phonenicianized the Berber natives north of the desert.  The altars of Moloch are well attended from Libya to the Atlantic.  From a capital city built near to the site of our historical Carthage, this robust race holds sway from the edge of Egypt to the Atlantic, and has colonized most of the great islands of that sea.  Some say they have found lands on the other side of the ocean, but they are very secretive about such explorations.

Following its ancient glories, Egypt had for a long while lost its liberty and languished under Greek-born dynasties. The latter found Egyptian ways congenial and reigned there as traditional pharaohs.  In time, enfeebling decadence afflicted the Hellenic pharaohs and a popular revolt brought forth another native dynasty.  This revived Egypt has restored its standing as a beacon of culture and a bastion of military might.  Hemmed in on the east and west by rival kingdoms, it has sent its power south, into what they call Kush, beyond the deserts. There it competes with the Punics in acquiring precious resources, and also in bringing enlightenment to the natives (when not bringing them north as slaves).

At the time of our story, a rich material culture holds dominance across an alternate Western Europe. This civilization, despite many small differences, exists at about the level of our own fourteenth century France. However, few of the familiar names that are found in our history books will appear on the map laid out before us.

*****

From Dyan's Journal

I have fought tyranny under the name of Dyan, but I was born Rodin Oc'Raighne.  My clan came to prominence as successful traders and bankers.  In our generation my parents wanted more for their children, which meant finding them appointments in the royal service.  My father had many friends at court and, through their influence, I won a favorable placement.  I was to be schooled in the King's Guard, not as a man of the ranks, but a knight-in-training -- something that had been my dream since early childhood.

Strongly driven, I strove to achieve a mastery of arms commensurate with my years.  Having passed the preliminaries, my studies were increasingly directed toward preparation for leadership and command.  These were the best times of my life and the attainment of my family's hopes for me seemed to lie in the offing.  Alas, when I was still but a junior officer, the old king died of a wasting disease, one like none had ever seen before, and his son, Cathmor, came to the throne.

The heir was nothing like his sire.  He had spent but little time about the court thus far; and he arrived for the funeral with a train of favorites. These were a mixed lot. Some already possessed scandalous reputations, others appeared to be nothing more than untried mediocrities.

But, good or bad, the new men began to crowd out the old king's aides and ministers, individuals who had served the kingdom long and well. Cathmor had a strong ally in court already, the sorcerer named Harouck.  He had been a rising star int he bureaucracy for some years.  But he attained the post of First Secretary to the chancellorship shortly before the old king had grown ill.  Cathmor patronized him, and when a scandal tarnished the old chancellor's reputation only days after Cathmor's arrival, Harouck succeeded to the coveted post.

A naturally lazy man, King Cathmor allowed himself to be treated as a figurehead.  Very quickly, Harouck's personal power was felt; his shadow grew heavy and dark across the land.  He interfered in everything.  Only cadets who were ostentatious in their admiration for the chancellor prospered. My own rise in the King's Guard slowed to a halt. I began to suspect that I was not trusted by my new superiors, creatures that had been appointed under Harouck's system of political patronage. 

 

Perhaps I was too outspoken in my opinions regarding the deteriorating state of affairs.  I believe that Harouck's minions were testing me when they put me to odious tasks, none of which could not be carried out with honor.  One of these was threatening and beating yeomen who were late with their taxes.

 

I was grew increasingly discontented under the state of affairs, but in the years since I have had time for reflection.  The evil in our governance had come about because Harouck preferred to surround himself with criminals.  The thieving extortionists on whom his power depended were vulnerable to his blackmail and, hence, completely in his thrall.  Because I refused to be compromised, the regime had no such tool to use against me.  It marked me as a man who could not be trusted by the regime.

If I had been a more experienced courtier, I might have conducted myself with subtlety and hidden my disgust.  That way, I might have remained close to the seat of power. I would have been able to wear my dagger nearer to the black heart of the tyrant, should the opportunity to use it suddenly arise.

Even before I left the Guard, it had crossed my mind that it would be a noble thing to put an end to the unbearable state of affairs, even at the cost of my life.

But I did not get that chance.  My life took a different course.

****
 
Cherry Blossoms and Nightingales

Carnivale Dreams: Spirit of the Festival by Mistress Simone

Simone and I have been acquaintances for a long time now and the other day, she gave me a story of hers to read over and enjoy.  I did and now that she's officially published it on her blog, I'm uploading it here as well.

Hope you guys enjoy Simone as much as I do!

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Carnivale Dreams: Spirit of the Festival


A Bella & Honey Fantasy written by Miss Simone


Chapter 1


You sit on your balcony, listening to the rhythm of the drums as people dance in the streets. The thump of the music is hypnotic, forcing you to sway, even when you aren't in the thick of it yourself. All your life you've dreamed of Carnivale and you have finally make the pilgrimage to enjoy the warm weather and bawdy sights.  You've only been in your hotel an hour, but excitement and curiosity are urging you to get out and explore. The music and party atmosphere down below your balcony tugs at your soul despite your exhaustion - And nothing tugs greater than the glorious Carnivale queens who strut down the streets like painted goddesses for all the world to see.


Finally, the watching and listening become too much.  You grab your camera and head downstairs into the streets to get a closer look of the beautiful creatures and their fantastically elaborate costumes. 


The dancers strut to the beat of the make-shift bands, calypso music like an infectious indulgence. One of them walks by you, favoring you with a wink as you snap her picture, then blowing you a kiss as she dances away with the parade.  You laugh and wave, entranced by her lust for life and joy of the celebration. After snapping a few more pictures you walk along to catch some of the sights, your steps in time to the beat of the heavy drums thundering away. Your favorite dancers have expressions of rapture on their face, clad in gold and silver jewelry as well as bright peacock-like feathers.  They even seem to have the proud posture of the alluring birds, always ready to receive the attention of onlookers.


Many people pass by you and they are decked out in costumes as well.  They wave at you and you wave back, enjoying the spectacle.  Most of the vendors are also in costume and the exotic scents of their foods lure you to sample the local edibles.  The trinkets and other wares are just as rich and exotic as the foods to you, all of it becoming a kaleidoscope of culture you’ve never experienced before.


A little girl smiles at you as she walks by, motioning for you to come closer.  When you bend to her level, she bestows a shiny novelty necklace upon your neck. The symbol on the pendant looks like some sort of glyph you don’t recognize but you thank her by giving her a few coins for candy.  As she skips off down the street, you glance down at the glyph pendant again.  It is a stylized B that you assume stands for Brazil.  Despite feeling cheap, the look of the detail in the design shows some true artistic work.  The dazzling emerald color twinkles in the light of the setting sun. 


You decide to hunt around and find out more about it - perhaps it is a symbol of Carnivale you aren’t familiar with.  As you continue walking around, you fail to see it on any banners, yet someone grips it and turns you to them as you stumble around the market.


 "Ah, so you've come to Carnivale," an older woman says as she inspects your necklace. The glyph on your pendant is tattooed upon the rich creamy caramel skin of her lower arm.  Age has given her laugh lines around her eyes and mouth and her hazel eyes twinkle with good humor. Behind her confident smile, light wrinkles and eyes full of wisdom, you can see glimpses of a young beauty who once haunted men's dreams.  You glance at the sign above her little table and see the third eye symbol.  She is obviously some sort of medium.


 "Oh yes!" You tell her enthusiastically. "The dancing and music are very beautiful!”


“Carnivale is a magical time,” she whispers to you, eyes glancing sideways as if she’s sharing a fabulous secret.  “It brings out everyone’s true self and unshackles fantasies so they can be made real.”  Her words hang heavy in the air like the notes of the music of the parade a few streets away.

The Crimson and the Black by CBlack

http://jericho75.deviantart.com/  Yeah, check it out;)